15 Minutes

Book 1: Maizie Albright Star Detective

by Larissa Reinhart

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Mystery

Synopsis

For fans of romantic comedy mysteries like Meg Cabot's SIZE 12 IS NOT FAT and Stephanie Bond's BODY MOVERS, The Wall Street Journal bestselling author, Larissa Reinhart, brings her fans the first in the Maizie Albright Star Detective series, Hot Mystery Reviews’ "Top 10 Mysteries for Book Clubs.”

”Child star and hilarious hot mess Maizie Albright trades Hollywood for the backwoods of Georgia and pure delight ensues. Maizie's my new favorite escape from reality.”— Gretchen Archer, USA Today bestselling author of the Davis Way Crime Caper series.

Three Teen Choice Awards, One Emmy Nomination, and several Maxim covers later, Maizie Albright was an ex-teen star, stuck in reality show hell, and standing before a California judge.

She has one chance for a new life: return home to Black Pine, Georgia, and get a job that has nothing to do with show business.

So why not become a private detective—the person she played during the happiest days of her life?

Maybe because…

First: She's got 10 days to get and keep the job.

Second: She has to convince the only private investigator in town to hire her.

Third: She lost the client's wife on the first day. (And the woman may be dead...)

Fourth: She just might be falling in love with her new boss. And she just might have lost him his business.

But what has she got to lose, other than imprisonment, her dignity, and possibly, her life?

Release date: January 24, 2017

Publisher: Past Perfect Press

Print pages: 326

Content advisory: PG-13 language, sexual innuendo, violence innuendo, comic crime

Sample

Chapter 1

#DonutDilemna #B-Lister

Of course, Nash Security Solutions would be housed in a donut shop.

Time and the elements had nearly scrubbed the painted Dixie Kreme ad from the side of the old brick building and I’d almost missed it. But with my Jag’s top down, the confectioned-carb aroma assaulted my senses. I pulled in a long, exhilarating breath, then pretended I couldn’t taste that sweet mouthful of heaven.

My trainer, Jerry, would have accused me of manifesting donut reality through my sheer love of trans-fats. After all my years in LA, delectables like donuts should cause my brain to flash a warning with a similar intensity to the bright red neon “Fresh & Hot” sign hanging in this storefront window. However, my brain’s warning was more of an appetizing apple red. As in Snow White’s “One bite and all your dreams will come true” red.

My therapist had an opinion on that subject, something about denied sugar, both literal and metaphorical. Either way, donuts meant trouble.

I almost buckled to temptation. But I had a mission. I sucked down another mouthful of donut air, placed one Jimmy Choo in front of the other and moved through the front door of the Dixie Kreme Donut building. Then into a dim hall, up the stairs and into a dimmer hall. And stopped before the door with the words "Nash Security Solutions" painted on the frosted glass.

Not a modern glass door that swished when opened. An old wooden door. The whole building had that old-timey feel with the brass knobs and wood and the plaster-over-brick walls. Even the building’s front door had a half moon, stained glass window. Those adorable antiquing couples in Pasadena would have loved the Dixie Kreme building.

For a long minute, I stood before that door inhaling eau de donut and evaluating my wardrobe choices. I wanted to look appropriate. This was my big break. Like a screen test, but better. My stylist might not have agreed on pairing the Jimmy Choos with a white, sleeveless Nina Ricci resort dress and my Chloé Clare bag. Sometimes my stylist went a little overboard. She would have gone with Louboutins and a Birkin. Keeping Up with the Kardashians and whatnot. Literally.

But this was Black Pine, Georgia, where Loubies and Birkins weren’t fundamental. I grabbed the old-timey, brass knob of the Nash Security door and strode through with a "go get 'er" set to my features, ripping off my Barton Perreira Jet-Setters and shoving them into my bag like I was on an episode of Miami Undercover.

"Mr. Nash," I said with great authority. And then dropped my bag. Forgot to close my mouth. And I might have gasped.

From Miami Undercover to I Love Lucy.

Nash Security Solutions consisted of two rooms. The outer room had a battered corduroy recliner, a few metal file cabinets, and a frumpy couch. In this room, all was well, although run down and dusty. Unfortunately, the door to the second room stood open. I was unaware of the condition of that room because Mr. Nash of Nash Security Solutions was naked.

Well, not naked-naked. Half-naked. But he was a big guy. As in tall, solid wall of muscle. Movie star muscle. Like Mr. Nash had a personal trainer who specialized in tone and definition.

Except this was Black Pine, and I doubted Mr. Nash had ever hired a trainer to watch him sweat while screaming about the evils of trans-fats and the virtues of chili pepper colonics. Mr. Nash didn't look the type to put up with anyone yelling at him about anything.

He did seem a little slow, though. At my authoritative "Mr. Nash," he froze. With a t-shirt in one hand. And unbuckled jeans. Giving me time to peel my ogle off all those muscles and the undone buckle and peruse his facial features. His head was shaved and his nose looked broken. A wicked scar curled from his chin to chiseled jaw.

But most astonishing, Mr. Nash’s eyes were Paul Newman blue. Startling, intense, arctic blue.

He countered my ogle for a few long seconds, taking in my hidden curves, the reddish-blonde hair, sea glass green eyes, and a nice pair of legs. I get a lot of ogling. Vicki trained me to take ogles as a compliment. Should it bother me? Ask my therapist. She's got plenty to say on the subject, too.

Behind me, I heard the door open and close while Mr. Nash and I continued our stare-off.

"Didn't know you gave peep shows this early, Nash," said a deep, gravelly voice.

I jerked my eyes off the hard body and onto the older, African-American man dropping into the recliner. He wore a chef's apron over his t-shirt and jeans and smelled of donuts.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry," I said to all listening and glanced into the inner office where Mr. Nash fumbled with his belt buckle.

"Why should you be sorry?" said the man, throwing the lever on the recliner to prop up his feet. "Nash's the only one raised in a barn."

"Morning, Lamar," drawled Nash, then addressed me. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm sorry about this. Forgot to shut the door. And you are?"

I relaxed my face, which felt squinchy. My directors hated that look because it made me look constipated rather than astonished. Taking a deep breath, I said, "I'm Maizie Albright. I mean, Maizie Spayberry. Well, it was Spayberry, and I'm thinking about switching back permanently. Although I do like my other name. It has a better ring, which is why my manager changed it."

Nash nodded and focused on buttoning the shirt he’d slipped on, although he revealed a flash of what I like to call "WTH face."

"Spayberry. Which Spayberry?” said Lamar. “There's a ton around here. Unless you mean Boomer Spayberry? Of DeerNose?"

"Yes, sir. Boomer is my father." DeerNose was big among those that shopped at Bass Pro and other hunting outfitters, but I didn't get recognized as a DeerNose daughter much in LA. It produced a feeling of pride and awkwardness. Among hunters, Daddy's considered the Michael Kors of clothing and accessories. He designs scented hunting apparel. The awkwardness comes with the scent. Deer pee. Big with hunters. Not so much with anyone else.

I glanced at Nash, who was now buttoning a white dress shirt over his muscles. An Armani. A bit old, but still sharp.

"I'm sorry, but aren't you expecting me?" I glanced at my watch. "I was told to come at this time."

"Told by who?" Nash paused the buttoning.

"A Jolene Sweeney. I didn't speak to her, my assistant set up the interview. Maybe our wires got crossed?" I raised my brows at the string of curses Mr. Nash uttered. "I'm sorry. Do I have the time wrong?"

Shooting a look of concern at Lamar, Nash pushed past me to flip the lock on the front door.

"So are you living over at the DeerNose cabin?" Lamar continued. "I heard it's pretty grand. Nice land Boomer's got, too."

"Yes, sir," I said, watching Mr. Nash pace before the locked door. "I haven't been in Black Pine for about six years. As a kid, I spent my summers here. Although I would’ve been better off moving back a long time ago. But you can't change the past. At least that's what Renata says."

"Who's Renata?" asked Lamar.

"Oh, my therapist. The last one." I bit my lip, realizing you shouldn't admit to numerous therapists in an interview. Or what should be an interview. "It's something we do in LA."

"Therapy?" asked Lamar.

"Rehab." Then bit my lip again.

Lamar smiled. He didn't seem to find Nash's pacing at all unnerving. "That's right. Boomer Spayberry's daughter is the TV kid. Maizie Albright. You were on that teen detective show, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective." I grinned. "Before that was Kung Fu Kate. And a few pilots and TV movies. Julia's where my career really took off. And what inspired my new career."

"I don't watch much myself. Nash and I still prefer the radio for the Braves and Bulldogs."

"Because you're too cheap to pay for cable," said Nash.

"Don't need it," said Lamar. "You've got enough equipment, you could probably rig yourself some satellite TV."

"What did Jolene say?" asked Nash.

I looked from Nash to Lamar. He folded his arms behind his head.

"Miss Albright?" Nash's voice grew impatient.

“Me? Like I said, I didn't speak to Jolene. My assistant, Blake, did. Blake's gone now, or I would call her. I had to let all my people go. That was hard."

"The meeting, Miss Albright?"

"I'm sorry. It was about the apprentice position? I need two years training for private investigation and you need—”

"I need nothing." Nash swore using words not altogether familiar to me. And after living in LA, that's surprising. "Can you believe this?"

"Well," I slowed my speech. "I did believe it sounded legitimate. I mean, I haven't been in Black Pine for a while, but I assumed, or at least Blake assumed, everything was aboveboard. I think she checked your agency with Better Business or something—”

"I was talking to Lamar," sighed Nash. "Lamar, what do you make of this?"

"You know my feelings. But you could use help, Nash," said Lamar. "I'd ask about qualifications."

Nash turned from the door to look at me.

"Me?" I said. "I've been studying Criminal Justice at U Cal, Long Beach, while doing the show. But if you don't watch TV, you probably didn't know that. The producers liked the location shots on campus. I had to draw the line at them following me into class, because the professors got upset—”

"What show is that?" said Lamar. "One of them reality shows?"

"All is Albright. It got picked up after the first time I went to rehab. Vicki's idea to capitalize on my notoriety. Awkward, right? I was ready to be done with TV altogether, but it did pay for college. And all the legal fees. And my other bills—”

"Are you for real?" asked Nash. "Is this some kind of prank? Candid Camera type of thing?"

"Candid Camera? Like Betty White's show?” I shook my head. “I am entirely serious. Before I left California, I had Blake research private investigation agencies in Black Pine and yours was all she came up with. Is Jolene Sweeney your partner? Because I'm starting to wonder how Blake made the appointment—”

"Even I'm not old enough to remember Candid Camera, Nash," said Lamar. "I swear, you were born in the wrong century. Although, I'm not much for reality shows. Except Cops, I do like Cops."

"Well, last season was a bit like Cops," I said. "That's when Oliver's non-profit was busted, unfortunately. Which led to my recent predicament. However, my therapist, Renata, and I do agree it all worked out for the best. I wanted out of LA. And this is a better way to fulfill my dream. A healthier alternative."

"Now that sounds interesting," said Lamar. "A bust as a healthier alternative. Not heard that view before."

"I think I've heard enough," said Nash.

The doorknob rattled, and we all hushed. Nash made the finger to the lips sign, and Lamar cut me a "can you believe this guy" type of look.

I wanted to giggle, but then a sharp knock sounded on the frosted glass, and my stomach sank somewhere beneath my knees. The donut smell and nudity should have given me fair warning. Vicki had told me moving here was a bad idea. She said I was too Beverly Hills for Black Pine.

I hoped I had enough Black Pine in me to make this work. Although it did seem, when I thought her wrong, Vicki usually proved me otherwise.

"I know you're in there, Wyatt Nash," said a female voice outside the door. "Open up."

Nash glowered at the door.

Lamar closed his eyes. A smile stretched across his face.

I clutched my Chloé bag to my chest, hoping I hadn't got locked in a room with two crazy men.

On the other hand, if the crazy was outside, I hoped the lock held.

The knocking commenced to pounding. "Very funny. Wyatt, honey. Open the door. I'm late for the meeting."

"I'm not your honey," said Nash. "And there's no meeting."

"Like I meant honey that way. Lord help me, Wyatt, just open the flippin' door."

"Jolene Sweeney, you have three seconds to leave the premises or I'm calling Black Pine PD and reporting a violation of your restraining order. I believe it said one hundred feet." Nash nodded his head and folded his arms.

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline.

Lamar sniggered.

"You dumbshit," said Jolene Sweeney. "I'm the one with the restraining order on you."

I edged toward the inner office door.

"Well then, I suggest you back down the hallway, and I'll just get out of here," said Nash. "I'm not even going to point out the fallacy of your logic in suggesting a meeting within one hundred feet of me."

I reached the inner office and checked that door for a lock.

"Lamar," said Jolene. "Are you in there?"

Lamar's eyelids drifted open. "Yes, ma'am."

"Just tell me this," said Jolene. "Did a girl show up?"

"There's one here now."

"Miss Albright," said Jolene. "Are you in there? I'm so sorry about this."

"Ma'am?" I adopted my father's throatier, slower cadence, rather than my shriller, speedier California tongue. "Actually, my last name is Spayberry. There seems to be a mix-up. Mr. Nash, here, didn't expect me and doesn't need an assistant."

"Spayberry?" Jolene's knocking and rattling quieted.

Lamar and Nash glanced at me. I shrugged.

"I had thought..." Jolene paused. "I'm sorry, Miss Spayberry. Black Pine Group and I are expecting Maizie Albright from the Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective show.”

“So you don’t need an assistant?”

“We thought if we sold to a national chain, Maizie might do endorsements. You know, grown up Julia recommending a real detective agency. Anyway, I think she's just looking to do research for a new show. You can go, Miss Spayberry. And no skin off your nose, Wyatt. When Miss Albright gets here, just let her follow you around for a few days."

Nash glared at the door. "Black Pine Group? That's who you've been talking to? Did you know I have a client there?"

"Wyatt, stop being so unreasonable," yelled Jolene. "I don't know what that local girl is doing there, but don't hire anyone. You can't afford it. We need to keep your overhead low. Get rid of her before Maizie Albright shows up."

"Are you just doing research for a new show?" Lamar asked me.

I shook my head and whispered. "I'm done with TV. I really do want to become a private investigator. I've had experience with them in the past. And I loved playing the part of a detective. That's why I majored in Criminal Justice. And then there's Judge Ellis's requirements. I need a job."

Nash gave the door a toothy smile and his cool blue eyes glinted. "Jolene, I will hire whoever the hell I want. This is still my business." He turned around and beamed the wicked blues on me. "You're hired."

Behind the door, Jolene hammered and swore.

"You're making my new assistant blush, Jolene."

"Please, Wyatt. If Maizie Albright shows up, don't offend her. Lord knows we could use the PR."

"When did I ever seem the type to let some TV personality follow me around? Now leave before I call the police and get myself removed from your presence."

"Go to hell," said Jolene.

"Probably," said Nash. "But later. I'm a little busy at the moment."

The door thudded and shook as if someone kicked it. Heels clicked down the hallway.

“Dammit." Nash punched the file cabinet. The bottom drawer slid open, revealing a mess of electrical cords. He kicked the drawer shut. "The Black Pine Group?"

I backed farther into the inner office, my hand on the doorknob. "What's going on here?"

"Do you know how to do billing?" asked Lamar. "Accounts receivable and payable? How to file receipts? What about surveillance? Due diligence research? Any experience there?"

"You're not really hired," said Nash. "I don't need an assistant."

"You can't live on spite, Nash," said Lamar. "I know for a fact your billings are a mess. You've probably got people who owe you money and you don't have the time to chase them down."

"If I needed an assistant, I would have hired one myself."

"We've all needed someone to give us a break at one time or another," said Lamar. "And need I remind you, who gave you yours?"

"Who?" I said.

"None of your business," said Nash.

"Boomer Spayberry," said Lamar. "When Nash was setting up his office and struggling to make it a go, Boomer hired him to evaluate and recommend the security at DeerNose. Huge job. And it's not like Boomer wouldn't have gotten bids from bigger firms to get the best price."

"True," I said. "Daddy never met a dollar he liked to spend needlessly."

"I wasn't a charity case," said Nash.

"No," said Lamar, "but without a recommendation from someone like Boomer Spayberry, you would have struggled to keep your business from going belly-up. I don't need to remind you what was going on at that point in your life."

"No, you don't," said Nash. "And I rather you keep it to yourself."

"Am I hired?" I squealed. "You don't know how relieved I am. Judge Ellis said I had ten days after reaching Black Pine to secure a job. You see—”

"First rule, Miss Albright," said Nash. "I don't want any details about your celebrity lifestyle."

"I don't mind hearing details," said Lamar.

"Do it on your own time." Nash turned back to me. "You're going to have to prove yourself. Because right now I don't see anything worth hiring. This is a serious business."

"Of course," I said. "I'm a quick learner. My directors all said so. Except one, but it was such a B movie, nobody tried very hard. Straight to video, you know. Even the Syfy channel rejected it."

"Do I need to remind you of rule one already, Miss Albright? Now, I've got some appointments to keep. I need to finish changing, so if you don't mind." Nash waved his hand.

"Time to make sure they're making the donuts downstairs." Lamar popped from his chair, grinning. "This is just what you need, Nash."

"I need this like a hole in the head."

"I'm sure Jolene would love to arrange that for you."

Chapter 2

#WannabeDetective #LALooks

After Lamar left, I waited in the outer office while Nash finished changing. With the door closed, thankfully. I took to fiddling with my sunglasses and wondering if this decision to apprentice Nash wasn't just a tiny bit rash. I've been known to do rash.

As I considered how to get Mr. Nash to write me a W-4 so I could get a copy to Judge Ellis, Nash's door swung open. A polished businessman in gray Armani slacks and Gucci loafers appeared.

I squinted at the Guccis. Perhaps I had been judging Black Pine fashion by DeerNose gear too long.

Nash glanced at his watch then pointedly at me. "I do have a meeting. So, see you."

I nodded, then realized I was doing it again. Letting other people control the situation. Renata had lectured me on this. Although she mainly meant Vicki.

While I thought of a polite way to ask Mr. Nash to allow me in on a client discussion, a knock sounded on his door again. A normal knock this time.

Nash strode past me to usher in a middle-aged man, wearing khakis and a golf shirt.

The golf shirt insignia said "Black Pine Club.” He also had the paunch, sunburned cheeks, and drawl of the Black Pine moneyed class. Mostly old money, although recently there'd been some new money with a resurgence of interest in the old resort town. A century ago, wealthy Georgians founded Black Pine Mountain Resort to escape the summer heat. During the Depression, muckity-mucks finagled a Works Project to dam a nearby river, thereby giving the mountain retreat waterfront property. From there, Black Pine Lake and Black Pine town emerged.

After the man had back-slapped Nash with a hearty "mornin'," he turned toward me for a quick perusal. "Now who's this ray of sunshine brightening your gloomy office, Nash?"

"David Waverly, this is..." Nash paused. He wasn't sure what to call me.

"I know who this is." David Waverly stepped forward to clasp my hand in his. "Maizie Albright. I heard you were in town. Jolene said you needed to follow Nash to research for a movie. This is a good sign."

"Now David," said Nash. "I don't know what you're talking about. This is Maizie Spayberry. She's just leaving. Come into my office so we can chat."

Waverly continued to pump my hand between his meaty paws. "Miss Maizie, I was a Julia Pinkerton fan. It is such an honor to meet you."

"Thank you," I said, unable pull my hand from his. "That's very nice of you to say."

"It was such a shame when Julia left for college and your sister, Amy, took over the detective business. Just wasn't the same. Why did you leave?"

How do I say, "Between seasons, puberty caught me and ended my career in teen television?" My look had gone from girl-next-door to Playboy centerfold overnight. I had spent my entire last season in Julia's cheer uniform, hugging books or hiding behind furniture to keep family-friendly ratings. Of course, that last season we did have a sudden spike in the middle-aged male demographic. Of which, it seemed, David Waverly was one.

I lifted a shoulder. "That's TV for you."

"How about an autograph?"

"I'll need my hand for that." I smiled and yanked my hand from his.

"Autographs later," said Nash and pointed toward the open office door, gesturing for Waverly to enter. "We need to talk, David."

David Waverly ignored Nash. "I suspect my wife is having an affair."

"That's horrible," I said. "Why would you think that?"

"Sarah's been acting differently. She's quit her volunteer work, which doesn't make us look too good in the community. She denied an affair, of course."

"Do you have children?" I asked. "This will be very hard on your children."

Nash cleared his throat. "David, after a month of surveillance, her schedule is fairly routine. Sarah does go to the club every day. But she's not meeting anyone there. Sometimes she takes the boat out."

David Waverly leaned toward me. "We don't have children. She's not being open with me. She never understood me. I thought I should start collecting evidence to break the pre-nup. Just in case."

"Oh, my."

Nash dropped his hand. "Have you noticed anything new? Odd items in your home or car? Receipts? Strange credit card charges? Anything else I can investigate? I'm sorry, David, but I'm not seeing it."

"How long have you been married?" I didn't get a good vibe from David Waverly. Nash seemed eager to be rid of him as a client. Which also felt strange.

Nash’s lips firmed, and he gave me a barely perceptible head shake.

I looked back at David Waverly, who counted on his fingers.

"Eleven years?" said David Waverly. "Sarah's number two."

Nash folded his arms. "Mr. Waverly, in these cases, fifty percent of the time a husband is not correct in his assumptions."

"Fifty percent." I turned to David Waverly. "Those are pretty good odds she isn't cheating. You must be happy to hear that."

David Waverly didn't look happy to hear his odds. "I'm sure I'm right. Why don't you see what Miss Albright can find? She's got experience."

"She played a character on TV," said Nash. "That's not experience. The show wasn't even believable."

"You watched Julia Pinkerton?"

Nash snapped a look at me, then addressed David Waverly. “I don’t feel I can help you, David. Continuing with the investigation is a waste of your money and my time."

"I'm disappointed in you, Nash." A sly smile slid from Waverly's thin lips. "Is this about Black Pine Group selling your business? Don't worry about conflict of interest. Sweeney’s handling it."

Nash's ears pinkened and a muscle flexed in his neck. "I'm not interested in selling. You've been talking to the wrong person. I'm dropping your case because I don't believe there is one, and it feels hinky to keep pursuing your wife while she golfs and shops for her lady things."

Maybe it was the mention of his wife's "lady things," but David Waverly's golf tan deepened in color. "I know my wife, and I know something is going on."

"Again, I'm sorry, David."

Waverly turned to me. "You need to help me. I'm sure you understand. Everyone knows what you went through with your husband. Maybe we need fresh eyes on Sarah. A woman's perspective."

"Oliver wasn't my husband. But I do understand feeling blindsided by someone close." I didn't like Waverly using my tabloid fodder for an appeal to make me discredit my almost-boss. But after all, Waverly must know his own wife better than Nash did. "Maybe Mr. Nash would let me practice surveillance on your wife?"

Too late, I saw Nash's clamped lip, bug-eyed head shake.

"How about just for a week?" I said. "And if I don't see anything odd, then you'll agree to let Mr. Nash drop the case?"

Behind Waverly, Nash rolled his eyes.

Waverly bobbed his head, the angry color fading from his cheeks. "Great idea."

"Alrighty," I said. "See you soon."

David Waverly rocked back on his heels. "I certainly hope so. Come out to the club sometime. I'll take you out on my little boat."

I hadn't been gone from Black Pine so long that I didn’t understand the euphemism. Little boats in Black Pine are not little. Just like Black Pine is not a little lake.

"That sounds lovely.” Which is my euphemism for "not a chance in hell."

After a round of goodbyes and a firm closing of the office door, Nash set his blue laser beams upon me. "What in the hell was that? You can't offer your services to one of my clients. There's something hinky going on and you have no business getting involved. You're not even a real assistant. You're some crazy Hollywood detective wannabe. When you realize how dirty and sick this industry really is, you're going to wish you were back on TV."

"I thought maybe I could help you with an awkward situation? And at the same time, get a little field experience?"

"I tell you what's awkward. Having Maizie Albright in my office. It'll make a great bar story, but I wouldn't choose to have you meet someone like David Waverly."

"Why?"

"Look at the way he was slobbering all over you."

"That doesn't bother me, don't let it bother you. It's very gentlemanly of you, though. Thank you for your concern."

"You misunderstand me. I wasn't concerned for you. I'm sure you're used to men slobbering all over you. I couldn't get Waverly to pay attention because you were here. I need to remove myself from that job so I can focus on other assignments. Sarah Waverly is not having an affair."

"I suppose you do have a point there. I'll work on that."

He walked back to his desk and rooted through the folders stacked on his desk.

"So what's next?"

"What do you need me for?" Nash yanked on a folder and flipped it open. "Sounds like you're rounding up your own cases."

"I need to work under a private investigator. Two years, right? You're board certified with the Georgia Association of Professional Private Investigators. And you need office help."

"Leave GAPPI out of this."

"I just graduated," I pleaded. "I'm educated, Mr. Nash. I know what I need to do. Now it's training. It's only two years."

Nash's eyes flicked from the folder to me. "All right. I'll make you a deal. You successfully deliver this summons to the right person and I'll let you follow Sarah Waverly for a week." Then he cracked a smile.

A brilliant smile. With a dimple. Paired with those gleaming polar eyes, the broken nose and scar seemed to vanish.

I fell a teensy bit in love. But don't worry. I do that all the time. Hearts are made to be broken and so forth. Besides, I had a dream to fulfill. Maybe a naïve dream, but a dream nonetheless. I was on the road to becoming a real Julia Pinkerton.

 

While I was Californicating, Black Pine experienced an explosion of the economic and population variety. Besides the resort, vacation homes and private boat docks had always surrounded the lake. Those servicing the vacationers lived in Black Pine, once a town of about eight thousand. But now in the last twenty years, the town had experienced steady growth. Partly in thanks to DeerNose apparel.

DeerNose had grown. Black Pine had grown. And about the time I got out of my first rehab stint—boom!—Black Pine quadrupled in commerce, population, and tourists. I didn't recognize the town anymore, except for the old square where Wyatt Nash had his donut scented private investigation office. And of course my daddy's land, which he'd protect with his guns and constitutional rights.

These days, Black Pine Mountain has real subdivisions. Gated. With those little security booths. And you can't throw a rock and not hit a strip mall. We're looking more like LA every day. I even found good sushi. In Black Pine, Georgia.

I know, right?

Following Wyatt Nash through town, I passed a Polaris ATV shop and an Audi dealership. A live bait shop and a mega-Cabela's. A parking-lot-smoker-plastic-picnic-tabled barbecue joint next door to a gluten-free-vegan-organic cupcake shop.

You get the picture.

Nash's Silverado pickup hung a sharp right into a strip mall and then pulled before a hair salon. La Hair. Or LA Hair. The sign was in all caps, so hard to tell. I parked the Jag next to Wyatt Nash, hopped out of my car, and scrambled to meet him on the sidewalk.

"You know who we're looking for?"

"Tiffany Griffen." I shivered. From excitement or nerves, I wasn't sure. I'm supposed to inventory my emotions, but I tend to forget.

"I'll ask for her first. Give you an idea of what can happen." Turning on the heel of his Gucci loafer, Nash strode through the door of LA HAIR.

A tinkling bell announced my presence, quickly lost in the pumping rhythm of the top twenty hit playing from the speakers. The layered scent of acetate, ammonia, and Aveda gave me as warm a welcome as the chirping voices coming from the nail and hair stations. Behind a half wall, one stylist had a woman's head covered in foil. A nail girl chatted with a patron. I counted one more beautician, hands full of lather, soaping up a woman leaning back into a sink.

I smiled, wiggled my fingers, and strolled past the glass and metal shelves displaying hair product and junk jewelry. Leaving on my Jet Setters, I grabbed a People and relaxed into a molded plastic chair to watch Wyatt Nash in action.

He stood at the desk, waiting for the reception girl to unplug the phone from her ear. Rigid shoulders and stiff posture gave away his aggravation. Either with me or with standing in LA HAIR. Some guys can't relax in a salon. My daddy, for example. Probably hadn't seen the inside of a salon since he divorced my mother. Unfortunately, he could really use a trim. Particularly his beard.

The reception girl finished her call and gazed up at Nash. "Would you like a cut?"

"Is Tiffany Griffen working?" asked Nash.

Five sets of eyes cut toward the manicurist, then to Nash. Everyone except for the woman bent backward over the sink. She had no idea that a hard-bodied giant with Paul Newman eyes stood in the beauty salon. Her stylist continued to massage shampoo into her scalp, her eyes on Nash.

The nail girl, a thin brunette with a pixie shag ombre dyed in electric blue, shook her head. "She ain't here."

"That's funny," said Nash. "Because when I called a few minutes ago, I was told Tiffany was working today."

"Sorry," said the brunette. "You were told wrong."

"Guess I'll wait until she shows."

"Guess you might be waiting a while, but suit yourself." The brunette turned back to her client and flipped on a small fan attached to the nail table. "Barb, you let those dry before you take off. I don't want to hear about touch ups."

With a scowl, Nash stalked to the line of plastic chairs and chose one near the reception desk, five chairs from me. Picking up a magazine from the table next to him, he glanced at it, looked at me, and threw the tabloid back on the table.

Time for Julia Pinkerton. I tossed the People onto a chair, rose, and strode past Nash to the desk. "I'd like to have my nails done."

"Mani/pedi?" asked the girl. Her dark, curly hair had been straightened and bobbed, setting off a snub nose, mocha skin, and chocolate eyes. Adorbs. Vicki would have told her to lose forty pounds, but I knew Spanx and the right jeans would have done her well enough without starving off the weight.

"Just a file and buff, I think." Pulling off my sunglasses, I slid them into my bag and smiled.

"You're M-m-maizie Albright," the girl stammered.

"What's your name?"

"Rhonda." She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Rhonda. How are you?"

In the salon area, the women had leaned forward, watching Rhonda and me. The stylist at the sink pulled a phone from her pocket.

"Just fine, ma'am." Rhonda still clutched my hand. "How are you?"

"I'm great, Rhonda. I've moved back home to Black Pine for good."

"Oh, that's nice," breathed Rhonda. "The locals will leave y'all alone if you want. We've gotten used to some celebrities coming up here."

"I am glad to hear that, Rhonda. I wasn't happy in Hollywood, you know?"

"You should hear what my husband calls Hollywood," said the foil lady. "Of course you can't be happy out there. This is your real home. It's right for you to come back to your daddy. We know all about what happened. Y'all ran around with the wrong sort."

"Would you sign me an autograph?" asked Rhonda. "And can we do a picture?"

"Sure, Rhonda." I reached over the reception desk, grabbed a pen, and signed my name in big, loopy letters on the schedule book.

Rhonda held out her phone, and I wrapped an arm around her neck and smiled for a selfie. Probably'd go viral, but I couldn't keep my debut in Black Pine under wraps for long. Besides, I felt bad for what was about to happen.

Returning Rhonda's phone, I glanced over my shoulder at Nash. He’d crease his Armani shirt if he didn’t stop crossing his arms so tightly. And that scowl would cause crow’s feet. I grinned at him. He looked at his watch.

"Now," I said, "how about that buff and file?"

“Yes, ma’am.” Rhonda scurried from behind her desk, grasped my arm, and led me to the nail area.

Phones clicked photos as we trooped behind the half wall. I oohed and ahhed over the setup, glancing at the framed certificates in each station as I passed. Jenna. Shelly. Ashley. Ashley had a photo stuck to her mirror. Ashley wasn't working today.

Barb, the tiny woman with wet nails, popped out of her seat. "I'm all done, Miss Albright." Grasping my hand in two of hers, Barb pumped my arm. "I am glad you have put that horrible business behind you. We here in Black Pine would love to welcome you back. As long as you don't do any of that funny stuff anymore."

"Thank you, Barb.”

“Right?” said Rhonda. “They said in Us Weekly, you got a nice judge. He took it easy on you. Gave you probation and rehab and some fines."

I hated rehashing my former life. But I also hated how the tabloids always got the details wrong. It was a choice between allowing people to think the worst or coming off as defensive. A total lose-lose situation, as Vicki would say.

"I got lucky with Judge Ellis. And he agreed that moving to Black Pine and starting over was a healthy solution. I had to finish college and the 'minute I graduated' move back home and get a job. I have ten days to turn in a pay stub. Then another year of checking in to see that I stay on my feet."

"You need to speak at my church, Miss Maizie," said Barb, still pumping my hand.

"Barb, your nails," said the brunette with the blue ends.

Barb pulled her hands off mine and waved them in the air. "They're fine. Miss Albright, you go on and have a seat. I'll just sit over at the dryer table."

I slid into the seat before the brunette and studied the wall over her shoulder. No certificate. Brunette with the blue ombre dye must be Tiffany. When Nash had said her name, they had all shot her a look and Barb had quit talking, at least until I had introduced myself. Simple deduction, just like Julia Pinkerton would have done. My lips curled with excitement.

Leaning toward Barb, I winked. "I heard this was a good place to get a manicure."

Tiffany raised her brows. "People like you usually go to the shops over at the lake."

"Well, maybe I'm different.” I smiled.

Brunette glanced at my Nina Ricci dress and snorted.

Ignoring the snort, I extended my fingers over the towel covered bump on her table. "So, Tiffany, how long have you lived in Black Pine?"

"Long enough."

Nash hopped to his feet. He clutched an envelope in his big hand.

I swiveled back to Tiffany. She narrowed her liquid-lined eyes, half stood, and drew an elbow back. I stared at the elbow, realized it was attached to a fist, and caught Tiffany's focused glare as her knuckle slammed into my nose.

My chair tipped back. My bag flew across the linoleum tiles. The Jimmy Choos shot into the air. And an intense, sharp pain ricocheted through my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut to the sound of more clicking phones.

Chapter 3

#PunchintheDeerNose #ManiPediPow

I loved Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective.

Not because the show gave me international exposure. I worked with some great actors, both my regular cast and the guest stars. Real nice people who genuinely seemed to like me. Excellent crew and sweet craft folks. Treated me like a princess. On a long running show, they say your colleagues become family. That's true. But when a show ends, the family disperses.

And you don't always get a new family. Especially when you've outgrown your cheer uniform, but everyone still thinks of you as a cheerleader. And you weren't that great of an actress anyway.

Even in hindsight, I would have done the show all over again. But not for the reasons you might think. Julia was smart. Really clever, sometimes crafty, but still likable. The other characters underestimated her because she was a teenager, but Julia used it to her advantage. Her teenagerness was her disguise.

She began as a school narc in the first season, working with the local police department. But after falling in love with the high school basketball star/drug dealer—originally a redeemable character, but when his contract wasn't renewed, the writers had to flip him and kill him off—Julia lost confidence in the police and decided to strike out on her own. When you’re a teen detective on TV, you can do that. It worked. For eight seasons.

That's like two millennia in TV years.

Plus, I met real police officers and real security agents. Advisors to the show. They took me for ride-alongs, got me into the Kids Police Academy, and let me hang out with them on set so I could listen to their stories. My agent and Vicki encouraged it, thinking it would help me develop Julia into a more convincing character, even though the advisors were actually hired to assist the writers and director.

Quick-witted and sharp, Julia could make the experts laugh. She asked provocative questions. Detective Earl King—guy with a permanent scowl and no neck—took me for ice cream every Friday.

Detective King said he wished he had a daughter as bright as Julia.

I'll tell you one thing. Julia Pinkerton would never have gotten socked in the nose by a nail esthetician.

I lay on the floor, holding my nose and tearing up. I was no Julia Pinkerton. I wasn't even a very good Maizie Albright. But I had succeeded in flushing out Tiffany for Wyatt Nash. Maybe he would still give me the job.

Mr. Nash handed Tiffany her papers, glanced down at me, and shook his head. “Guess I should have told you she has a record for assault. Didn’t think she’d use it on you. They were all domestic disputes.” After asking if I wanted to call the police, he offered me a hand up, steadied me on my Jimmy Choo wedges, and left.

Tiffany cursed him up one side and down the other as he walked away.

That girl has a mouth.

Blood dripped off the end of my nose and splattered my white dress. Grabbing the towel from the manicure table, I held it over my nose, inhaled acetate and ammonia, and almost blacked out.

“I’m so sorry.” Rhonda righted the chair, grabbed my elbow and guided me to safety. “Thank you for not pressing charges. Tiff has some anger issues. And an itchy trigger fist. But only when it comes to subpoenas.”

Barb, foil head, wet hair, and the two stylists stood watching us. While taking photos. Rhonda rushed back with a clean towel that smelled of Tide instead of OPI.

I gladly switched, handing off the nail towel with two fingers. If I had any blood left in my head, I would have blushed. The cloth looked like a prop from Saw.

Access Hollywood would’ve had a field day.

Tiffany glared at me from across our table. "Why in the hell would you go and give me away to that guy? Do you know what you've done?"

"Helped him serve you a subpoena." With my nose pinched, I sounded like one of Alvin's chipmunk brothers.

"To serve as a witness for my shithead ex-husband in his divorce proceedings to his third wife. You think I want to help that asshole?"

No wonder she was so upset. I tried to say, "Tell the judge you'll be a hostile witness," but it came out "Tedda dunge you'd be a hotel witna."

"You think you can interfere with people here in Black Pine?"

"No," I said. "Iba drying do gedda job ad a dedegib."

"I don't know what in the hell you're saying."

"I dink my node id boken."

Rhonda scurried back with a cup of ice, straw, and a Diet Coke.

"Dank you, Rhadda." I pulled off the clean towel and checked for fresh blood. "At least it stopped bleeding."

“I’ll probably lose my job.” Tiffany leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "And I guess you'll sue me now."

"No." I felt the bridge of my nose. "Does it look swollen to you?"

"Yes. With my luck, you'll probably get two black eyes.” Tiffany pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the drawer, tapped the pack on the table, and shook one out. "Listen, I don’t have any money. Sue me all you want, but there's nothing to get. I rent, my vehicle ain't paid off, and there's nothing saved in the bank.”

I smiled through the pain and accepted a sip of Diet Coke. "You really think I'll have two black eyes?"

Tiffany stuck the unlit cigarette in the corner of her lip. "Prob'ly."

"Oh my stars. You can't have black eyes. You're Maizie Albright." Rhonda slapped ice into the towel and slammed it across my nose. A new trickle of blood ran across the top of my lip.

Wincing, I handed back the Diet Coke so I could hold the new towel between my eyes.

"Honey, you keep ice on it now, then drink lots of coffee and do a mashed banana facial," said Barb. "The caffeine and bananas will make your capillaries shrink."

"I thought you were supposed to use raw steak," said Jenna.

"Not bananas. Pineapples," said Tin Foil.

"Good Lord," said the stylist Shelly to Tin Foil. "Look at the time. I've got to rinse off the solution before your hair falls out."

"Ice now. Warm compress in two days," said Wet Hair. "I was a nurse."

Thanking them, I scooted off my seat to scoop my spilled contents back into my Chloé bag. I examined the bent Jet-Setters and tossed them into Tiffany's trashcan.

Tiffany peered at me through half-slitted lids, her words working around the cigarette. "When can I expect the next subpoena?"

"I'm not going to sue you, Tiffany. I'll prove it to you. Let me buy you a drink tonight. Anywhere you want. In Black Pine," I added, unsure if Tiffany'd try to hustle me into a limo to Atlanta. Or a plane to Paris. That happened to me once before.

Rhonda clapped a hand over her mouth. "You're just like Oprah," she whispered.

"You can come, too, Rhonda," I said.

"Black Pine Resort," drawled Tiffany. "The Cove. How'd you feel about that?"

"That's fine."

"Might see some of your friends there." Tiffany yanked the cigarette out of her mouth. "You think you can handle hanging with me and Rhonda if your friends see us?"

"I don't have any friends in Black Pine. I haven't been home in six years." I made a quick inventory of people I knew in Black Pine who weren't family and weren't Tiffany and Rhonda. Wyatt Nash. David Waverly. Mr. Lamar. "I might ask about a case while I'm there, though. You won't mind, will you?"

"That'd be exciting." With her hands still clasped to her mouth, Rhonda's words were muffled.

I worked Julia Pinkerton's wry smile into her catch phrase. "I'll make it happen."

"Good Lord," said Tiffany. "You better be buying top shelf."

 

I followed the old business highway to Wyatt Nash's office, checking my swollen nose and darkening eyes at each stop light. I looked like Donatella Versace's plastic surgeon had just given me a quickie nose job.

Thank God Vicki was back in Beverly Hills. If she’d seen me, she would have killed me. Just like when a club I’d been partying in was raided and a camera caught me after the sprinkler system went off. Although that soaked Isabel Marant dress did get me the Maxim cover. And the offer from Playboy, which I didn't do. You always do Maxim, if offered.

Really, Vicki should have thanked me. Instead of pointing out the effects of Patrón and Pinkberry on my hips. Easily seen through the wet Isabel Marant dress. But Renata the therapist helped me reconcile all that. No dwelling on the past. Although Patrón remained on the unimbibeable list. No more Patrón for Maizie Albright.

Oddly enough, my real problem was the Pinkberry.

I set that thought away and turned to my old standby: WWJPD, What Would Julia Pinkerton Do? Julia Pinkerton would solve Wyatt Nash's cases for him, thereby making it necessary for him to hire her. Though Wyatt Nash had made it clear he didn’t want to hire Maizie Albright. He’d purposely set me up with a violent nail esthetician. But why wouldn't he want to work with Julia Pinkerton? Julia Pinkerton was a teenage detecting genius.

And Julia Pinkerton never let Patrón get in the way of a case. Mostly because she was underage. But still.

Considerably cheered, I pulled in front of the donut-scented building, next to Nash's Silverado. I sailed through the front door and up the stairs to the Nash Security Solutions door and, remembering my earlier mistake, rapped on the glass.

At Nash's, "Come on in," I grasped the old-timey knob and graced Wyatt Nash with Julia Pinkerton's presence.

Without the cheer ensemble. And I lost the teenage hip-pop, eye-roll attitude. I couldn't pull it off at twenty-five.

Nash looked up from his desk. “What are you doing here?"

"I am here to report my progress. Checking in."

Nash studied my face for a long second, then dropped his eyes to my blood splattered dress. "I suppose you're going to try to sue me, but I will take it to court. You brought this on yourself. I warned you. This is a dangerous business."

"Why does everyone think I'm going to sue them? Tiffany was so worried about it, I offered to buy her drinks tonight at the Cove."

"You. Offered to buy her drinks?" Wyatt Nash squinted at me. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. A little swelling, but I think it's going to be okay.” I patted the skin beneath my eyes. "I don't think they'll blacken, although Tiffany does. So, did I do good? You were able to serve Tiffany's papers pretty quickly. I feel sorry for her, having to testify for her ex-husband. That's got to suck. I called her boss and told her it was an accident. That should help.”

"Are you nuts? She assaulted you. You could have googled her image on your phone in thirty seconds instead of pretending to get your nails done."

"But I helped you."

"Miss Albright," Nash's voice lowered and took on the cadence of one speaking to very young, intellectually challenged children. "Thank you for trying to help me, but just because you played a detective on TV doesn't mean you can be one in real life."

“We made a deal.” I fought feelings of panic and septum pain and sought inner peace through Julia Pinkerton bossiness. “I'm going to start investigating Sarah Waverly tonight."

"Go home, Miss Albright." He slid a cool look over me. "Go put some ice on that precious nose before your pretty face really turns black and blue. Or you might think differently about suing everyone."

Chapter 4

#SueCity #DetectingFail

It seemed Black Pine had turned sue-happy, which I had thought was a California thing. Once Nash knew I didn't blame him for my perhaps-broken nose, I hoped he'd feel differently.

After a cold compress, nap, and change at the DeerNose cabin, I, too, felt differently. Mainly less sore in the face. But also less distracted by the doubts and insecurity my therapist advised me to turn into something positive. "Because negative thinking creates negative actions. And haven't you had enough of those?"

So positive thinking told me buying drinks for Tiffany and Rhonda at the Cove could turn into the positive action of finding information about David Waverly's wife. Then I’d show Wyatt Nash I was more than an ex-teen star and together we could calm David Waverly's fears. I dressed for success and dashed to my little Jag.

Turning off the local highway, I followed the mountain road to Black Pine Yacht and Golf Club and Resort. Positioned between the club and guest buildings, the Cove featured a patio on the lake with docks for yacht members. I hadn't much experience with the Cove or the Club. I did know folks like David Waverly and Mrs. Waverly hung out there. Everybody with money, except Daddy, hung out there.

I left the Jag with the valet and entered the stacked stone and timber building. Very woodsy-resorty with giant walls of glass for lake viewing and French doors open to the patio. A massive stone fireplace divided the restaurant from the bar. I skipped the fireplace bar and headed to the patio, where the guests draped themselves around glass tables and lounge chairs. A handful of cigarette boats and even more cabin cruisers bobbed along the line of docks. Bartenders and servers, dressed in plaid vests, scurried to and fro with bourbons, scotches, and vast quantities of wine.

The Cove seemed more for those on a liquid diet. Hopefully, Black Pine could provide some sort of fatted calf for their prodigal actress. Renata the therapist wouldn't allow me bourbon, scotch, or wine. Veal was okay although she'd be happier if I were vegan.

Casual formal was the dress code for the Cove. Men had their Ralph Laurens and Brooks Brothers rolled to the elbow. Diamonds and designer maxi dresses adorned the women.

Tiffany and Rhonda were easy to spot at the bar. Rhonda in a cotton halter dress. Tiffany's sequined tank matched her blue-tipped hair. Tiffany had also added more eyeliner to her repertoire. Like Rhonda, I also wore a halter dress, but in a shimmery, dotted chiffon, with matching crisscross sash-wrapped jute wedges. Gucci. In honor of Wyatt Nash's loafers.

I hugged Rhonda, who enveloped me in a starchy-cotton, soft-bodied squeeze that left me a little dizzy. Partly because of her hugging strength. Partly because she had bathed in Vanilla Musk.

Rhonda peeled herself off me, rearranged her breasts, and turned to Tiffany. "I told you she'd come."

Tiffany did not hug me, but she unfolded her arms and uncocked her hip. I took it as a welcoming gesture.

"Did you order yet?" I asked.

Tiffany gave me a look that said, "Of course we didn't order. If you didn't show, we’d get stuck with the bill."

"Not yet," said Rhonda. "I'm wondering what to get. Maybe a mai tai. I'm feeling coconutty. You think they can make those?"

"I'll take a Jack and Coke," said Tiffany. "What're you having?"

"Seltzer with lime. And food, I hope." I raised a finger and a plaid vested bartender appeared to take my order. I skimmed the menu and turned back to Tiffany and Rhonda. "They have fried pickles."

Rhonda arched a brow that said, "Of course they have fried pickles." Rhonda and Tiffany spoke a lot without words.

"Your nose don't look too bad," said Rhonda. "But you need to chill on the concealer under your eyes. You come see me tomorrow and I’ll fix you up. I do makeup."

"Thanks," I said. "Do you know anybody here? I need information on a Sarah Waverly."

Between my cold compress nap and shower, I had googled David Waverly. Waverly worked for a firm that bought and sold other firms. Although I didn’t understand his LinkedIn description’s catchphrases. His wife, Sarah, was on Facebook, but other than recipes and forwarded memes, she didn't share much. She had checked married for her relationship status. She and David belonged to the Black Pine Club and Black Pine Methodist Church. She didn’t have photos of her tennis or golf pro. Or the pool boy. Or her pastor. Or any other men, for that matter.

That was about it for Sarah Waverly. If she was having an affair, she was having it offline. And according to Nash, invisibly.

Tiffany and Rhonda also pondered Sarah Waverly for a moment but came up empty. Sarah Waverly did not get her hair or nails done at LA HAIR.

"What do you need to know about her?" Tiffany leaned against the bar, making quick work of the Jack and Coke.

"If she's cheating on her husband.”

Rhonda's brown eyes grew bigger and she refocused on sucking down her mai tai.

"Why do you care if Sarah Waverly is cheating on her husband?" asked Tiffany.

"I'm trying to get a job working for Wyatt Nash, the private investigator. When I quit acting, I went to college for criminal justice. I have a bachelor's degree."

"I thought you starred in that reality show, All is Albright," said Rhonda.

"My contract said it was supposed to be guest appearances. I did that while going to college. And when I graduated, I left."

"Why in the hell would you go to college if you could do reality shows?" Tiffany eyed me over her glass. "Is it because you're no longer an A-lister?"

My face heated. “Because I want to be a private investigator, not a TV personality."

"Like Julia Pinkerton?" asked Rhonda.

"Exactly."

"You do know Julia Pinkerton isn't real?" said Tiffany. "Being a detective ain't going to be anything like Julia Pinkerton. Especially if you work for that ass who busted me today. That's all you'll be doing. Serving papers to ex-wives of dumbasses."

"There's more to it than that. Like finding out if Sarah Waverly is cheating on her husband."

"Even better," muttered Tiffany. "You're crazy, throwing away a perfectly good reality show for some job spying on other people."

"Well, some people deserved to be spied on.” I folded my arms. "And it wasn't a perfectly good reality show. All is Albright struggled in the ratings and was razzed by critics all the time. The word "inane" was used a lot. Besides, some of the nicest people I've ever met are detectives."

"I think being a detective is kind of exciting," said Rhonda. "You'd get the four-one-one on all sorts of juicy stuff. I love the low down. Especially on celebrities. Y'all are messed up worse than real people."

"There's also security," I said, deftly moving away from my celebrity messes. "Security is very important in LA."

"For security 'round here, you buy a deadbolt. Or a pit bull," said Tiffany.

"Not these people." Rhonda cut her eyes to the Cove regulars. "I bet none of these club people have a pit bull. They've got security issue needs. I bet you'd clean up on rich folks' security needs."

"Yep," I said. "And lots of secrets they want to be kept quiet. Believe me, I know. Although it's probably worse in LA than Black Pine. The secrets, I mean."

"If you were smart, don't tell anyone you want to be a detective. Nobody's going to share secrets with a snitch." Tiffany leaned against the bar, dangling her drink from glossy blue nails.

"Use Maizie Albright as a disguise? Good point. That's just what Julia Pinkerton did. Except her disguise was a high school cheer uniform." I turned to the bartender who offered me a square china plate. A handful of fried pickle chips had been arranged into an artful hill next to a squirt of white sauce shaped like Black Pine Lake. I breathed in the salty and tangy goodness, happy my trainer and nutritionist were two thousand miles away.

"That’s the sorriest plate of fried pickles I've ever seen," said Rhonda. "They barely gave you any."

"She's right," said Tiffany. "The Cove is for steak, shrimp, and scotch. You want real food, we'll take you to town."

“I'd love that. But tonight, I need to do some business." I glanced around the patio at the Black Pine hobnobbers. "I figure I have two strategies. One is to speak to the staff privately. I'm sure they know Sarah Waverly, but they might not be allowed to share gossip without getting in trouble. I can also announce my presence as Maizie Albright, meet some club members, and try to pry information from them."

I reached for another pickle. The plate was already empty but for two swipes of sauce. That was the problem with fried pickles. "Okay, who should I try first?"

Tiffany pointed at a collection of servers hovering at the edge of the patio. "They're not doing anything."

I placed my pickle plate on the bar and sauntered to the cluster of servers. Three minutes later I sauntered back.

"What happened?" asked Rhonda.

"No go," I said. "I asked them if they knew Sarah Waverly. They said yes. I asked them if she was here tonight. They said no. Then I asked them if she came to the Cove without her husband. They said sometimes. Then I asked if she ever met anyone here. They said yes. I asked who and they all took off to their tables."

Tiffany shook her head. "You need to ask what they call leading questions. Those are yes/no questions."

"My last question was leading. I asked who Sarah Waverly met at the Cove. They refused to answer."

"Maybe their tables needed another round of drinks," said Rhonda. "They are working, after all."

"Maybe they don't want to say who Sarah Waverly is meeting.”

"Maybe they don't give a shit and wonder why you're being so damn nosy," said Tiffany. "Go ask someone else."

"Make your celebrity status work for you, girl.” The purple orchid from Rhonda’s mai tai was now tucked in her hair. "Make them want to tell you all about Sarah Waverly because you are flippin' Maizie flippin' Albright."

"Okay." I held up a finger.

The bartender materialized in front of me. His brown eyes smiled in appreciation. It was the Gucci. The dress looked like money. Or it was my boobs. The Gucci worked both like that.

"How do you get him to do that?" muttered Tiffany. "It takes a normal person years to get that guy for a refill."

"Hi," I said, using my Julia Pinkerton street-smart voice. "I bet you know Sarah Waverly. David Waverly's wife."

"If they're a member, I know them." The bartender waggled his brows. "But I don't know you. I’m Alex.”

"I'm not a member," I said. “Just moved here."

Alex crossed his arms on the bar and leaned forward. "To Black Pine? You look familiar. Have you lived here before?"

"She's Maizie flippin' Albright," said Rhonda and pushed her empty mai tai glass forward. "We're partying with Maizie Albright. Up in the house."

I shot a look toward Rhonda. She had her hands raised and danced on her stool. She managed a good hip roll for a bar seat. "Cut back on the Bacardi for her," I whispered.

"No kidding?" said Alex. "I mean, you're really Maizie Albright?"

“Yes, but I'd really like to know about Sarah Waverly. I think she's seeing a friend of mine. On the side, you know? Like maybe you've seen her with someone?"

"Can I get your autograph?" He bent beneath the bar and came up with a stack of napkins and a pen. "Could you do a couple? My sister is a huge fan. So's my mom. And my memaw."

I signed three napkins. "Now can you tell me about Sarah Waverly?"

"Sorry." He shrugged. "David Waverly is here all the time. Don't really know her. I'll come back and talk later. I've got to take an order."

"Thanks anyway," I said.

"Damn," said Tiffany. "You sure you want to be a detective? You're too polite."

"I just need to work on my technique. Quickly. So I can impress Mr. Nash."

Tiffany shook her head. "I think you're better off going back on the reality show."

"Excuse me."

We turned from the bar to face a woman rocking an apricot maxi dress that clung to her tall, slender frame. Her sleek, auburn bob brushed her bare shoulders, drawing attention to a diamond pendant at her throat. Tiffany and Rhonda slouched back on their stools, while I felt myself straightening.

"I'm sorry to bother you.” She held out her hand. "I'm Jolene Sweeney. Did I hear y'all say you're Maizie Albright? I'm glad I finally caught you. Sorry I couldn't meet you today. There was some kind of confusion. You're moving back to Black Pine?"

"Nice to meet you in person, Jolene." I winced at her iron grip. I still hadn't figured her for friend or foe, particularly as she wasn't the one who set me up for a sock in the nose. I decided to play it cool, waiting for the right moment to talk to her about the job.

"Are you looking to buy a house?" She pressed a card into my hand.

Sweeney Realty. "I thought you were with Nash Security?”

"Full disclosure. Nash Security is one of my businesses. I don't officially work there, but I'm part-owner."

"Are you related to Mr. Nash?"

"Not related. Just a business relationship." An uneasy smile curled her lips. "Have you talked to Wyatt? Your assistant made it sound like you wanted an actual position. I thought maybe you wanted to do some character research. Or did you need security detail? Wyatt can certainly help you there."

"Actually, Jolene, tonight I'm trying to find Sarah Waverly."

"Sarah Waverly?" Jolene frowned. "David's wife? She doesn't spend much time at the Cove. I thought I saw her car, though. I can introduce you around, if you'd like. Fortunately, I know quite a few people here."

"That'd be really awesome. Maybe Sarah Waverly is here and you missed her." I slid off my stool and turned to Rhonda and Tiffany. "Did you hear that? Sarah's car is here. Are you coming?"

"We'll hang here a bit," said Rhonda.

Jolene tugged on my arm. "Come on, Maizie. Can I call you Maizie?"

"I'll see you girls in a little while?" I kept my eyes on Tiffany and Rhonda.

Tiffany shrugged. "Just don't forget the bill. I doubt Mr. Autograph'll let us leave without paying."

Jolene rolled her eyes. "Like Maizie Albright isn't good for a bar bill. Besides, once the whole crew of All is Albright gets here, they'll probably get a house tab going."

"Wait.” I grabbed Jolene's hand. "What are you talking about? Why would the Albright team come to Black Pine?"

"I assumed everyone would come if they're going to film down here. They wouldn't hire a new crew, would they?" Jolene tucked my hand into her elbow and steered me toward the far side of the patio. "I was talking to Miss Vicki about it. She said the producers are real excited about an alternative location. Something about ratings."

"Vicki is here?" I clutched my Fendi Piccola pochette to my chest. The pickles flared into southern-fried heartburn. "In Black Pine?"

"Not just Black Pine," said Jolene. "At the Cove. I figured y'all were here to meet each other, not Sarah Waverly."

"Oh. My. God." The crowd parted and I locked eyes with the woman leading court. Ironically, she also wore Gucci. Maybe not so ironic. She loved Gucci.

"I'm so excited y'all are doing your show here in Black Pine," squealed Jolene. "Your daddy must be thrilled."

"Oh. My. God." My father would kill me.

"Hello, Maizie," said Vicki, striding forward. One thin, tinted eyebrow quivered. She blasted me with her sea glass green lasers. "What happened to your nose?"

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