Crimes Most Merry and Albright

by Larissa Reinhart

  * * *

  The cavalry arrived in the guise of five large men with Eastern European accents. The smallest one — only six feet — ran up the porch steps, tripped over the lighting, and smacked his head on the wooden porch floor. The other four followed him inside the house, laughing and taking turns at head-splat sounds.

  The banter stopped at the site of our prisoner.

  While Nik dropped to his knees to press his face against his wife's belly, the others surrounded Jay, cracking their knuckles and uttering low, threatening phrases in a foreign language.

  "He should be in police custody," I reminded them. "Anything that happens to him now is not self-defense. You could go to jail."

  They ignored me.

  "Or be sued."

  Grumbling, they grabbed chairs from the kitchen. Circling Jay with their chairs, they continued the foreign threats. But half-heartedly. And while checking their phones.

  "It's Pearl. Sheriff Thompson's on his way over," said Casey, one ear on the phone and a hand around her husband's waist. "Now that y'all are here, he wants you to drive that truck around town, so his deputies don't wreck their cars. He wants a clear path for the patrol cars and ambulances coming for Mrs. Boyes and Luke."

  "How is the deputy?" I asked.

  She hooted. "Sounds like Cherry's defrosting Luke."

  "Smart man," said Nik.

  "Not really. Luke's going to end up with the flu," said Casey. "And then we'll have two eating chicken soup instead of turkey on Christmas day."

  "Turkey." Nik made a face. "We should have goose."

  "Whoever heard of goose for Christmas dinner? I'm going to make hot chocolate for everyone," said Casey. "But first I gotta tee-tee. This baby's dancing on my bladder like she's at a house party. Someone put those lights back on the tree. Cherry's got them strung up in the windows. I guess she was hoping to electrocute the bank robbers."

  "He," said Nik. "It is boy. First born in my family is always the boys."

  "Sorry to disappoint you, but I could tell by the way I held Daddy's shotgun that we're having a girl." Casey stuck her hands on her hips. "The girls in our family have excellent aim. Cody and Grandpa can't hit the side of a barn."

  The Hallmark Channel always used "quirky" to describe small-town characters. Maybe "dangerous" was more appropriate.

  The doorbell rang. The Russian-ish salt truck gang looked up from their phones.

  "Police," I cried. "Finally."

  "Not yet." Nik dropped his hands from Casey's hips. "A truck followed us from highway. It stopped next door. Let me check."

  I moved behind him. "I've got a candy cane shiv if you need it."

  Nik looked through the peephole, then cracked the door. "What you want?"

  "Is Maizie Albright in there?"

  Nash.

  I clapped my hands, closed my eyes, and thanked my Hallmark Channel angel. "I'm here, Nash. Let him in."

  Nik stepped aside, and Wyatt Nash walked through the door. His tall, strapping physique matched those of the salt truck gang, but before a round of alpha chest-beating began, he gave the group a deferential nod. His light blue eyes swept the room, noted Jay on the floor—still tied in Christmas lights—then rested on me. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he squeezed, then patted awkwardly.

  This is what happens when you deny your feelings. Awkward patting.

  As for me, I grinned like an idiot, indulging in the slight touch of the awkward pat.

  "You look…like you've had a long day," said Nash. "I wish I'd been here to help."

  I smiled, knowing my clothes and face were mud-splattered, paint stained my hands, and my chapped skin had turned red. But at least I smelled like candy canes.

  After quick introductions and an even quicker assessment of the situation, he glanced at me. "Miss Albright, we need to talk."

  "Y'all can use the guest bedroom for privacy," said Casey. "Mind the mess from the shotgun blast."

  Nash's eyebrows lifted. Without remarking, he followed me to the bedroom. Seeing the blast hole, he crossed the room, examined the gash, then set an eyeball to it. Rising, he turned toward me. "Did you have anything to do with this hole?"

  "That was Casey. The pregnant sister. She shot through the wall. But Jay shot at me first."

  He took two steps to cross the room. Grabbing my shoulders, he lifted me slightly. Catching himself, he dropped his hands. "Maizie. Miss Albright."

  "He was going to shoot Casey. I had to do something."

  "And what did you do?" His cool blue eyes burned through me.

  "Stabbed him with a candy cane and tied him up."

  "With tree lights?"

  "It was all I had."

  "The police."

  "Came, left, and did nothing."

  "They had their hands full."

  "We had bank robbers, too. And to think, Krystal's grandma is the one who sent us here." I chewed my thumbnail, fighting tears again. "Nash, Jay blames Mrs. Fowler for Krystal's crimes. Krystal drove the getaway car and willingly left a deputy to freeze to death in her trunk. Attacked her great aunt to use her home for a safe house. Then tied up her, an elderly woman, and the neighbor girl sick with the flu, and left them in Martha Mae's bathroom."

  "Are you sure it was Krystal and not Jim Riley who did all that?"

  "He's not much better. Planned on helping her to get rid of the evidence. I don't think he wanted to kill anyone, but he would have to protect his daughter."

  "Jim Riley specifically said Mrs. Fowler directed this?"

  "He said he told Krystal to 'stay away from her.' And said she could talk her way in and out of situations better than Krystal. What kind of grandma encourages behavior like bank robbing?"

  "Mrs. Fowler checks out. Krystal's mother, however, did not. There's good reason to believe she's one of the culprits who robbed the bank. Evidently, they split up after the sheriff arranged their escape. I hope they caught them.”

  "Not the grandmother?" I swallowed hard. "Celia's a good grandma? Her house was full of unwrapped products. I thought they were stolen."

  "Just a home shopping nut." Nash grinned. "She'll probably want to bake you cookies. Once she gets over the fact that her granddaughter's a felon."

  I squeezed my eyes shut, imagining myself bringing Christmas cookies to Mrs. Fowler. Cookies and gumdrops. Remi would like her, too. She could tell us stories about her bank-robbing husband and con-artist daughter and granddaughter.

  Maybe I shouldn't share my adopted grandmother with Remi. She had Carol Lynn's mother, after all.

  "You were right," I sighed. "Krystal wasn't a nun. I hoped she'd turn out differently. I didn’t get Mrs. Fowler’s granddaughter back to her.”

  "Aw, kid." Nash let out a big breath. "I don't like that about myself. It's better that you see the good in people first before you suspect the bad. By the way, you did find the granddaughter. And saved several grandmothers from her in the process.”

  "I kept trying to call you." Tears welled. I pinched the skin on my thumb, knowing good investigators don't cry. Particularly when they're no longer in danger. Except for my toes. Still numb. They were going to take a while to recover. "You said you'd always answer."

  "I'm sorry, kid. Bad reception. I drove through the storm. But I'm here." He held out his arms and dropped them. Again. "I told you to just watch the house. Go to a motel."

  "I couldn't." I sniffled. "Not knowing these people were in danger."

  "That's why I had to come. And got here too late." He rubbed his jaw. Paced a small circle three times. Then stopped in front of me. "Dammit. Come here, Maizie."

  I fell into his arms. Pressed my head against his shoulder. The leather felt cold and hard. Unzipped his bomber jacket and burrowed against his warm, firm chest. And cried.

  Nash stroked my back. Ran his hands through my hair. Then caught my chin in his palm. Gently, he raised my face, meeting my gaze with his. "Please don't cry, Maizie. You're safe. They're safe. That's all that matters."

  "Also, I
'm finally warm," I whispered. "Thank you."

  "Merry Christmas." Nash kissed the tip of my nose. "Let's get you home to Remi. In the morning, we'll follow the salt truck trail home. You've done enough here."

  "Nash," I spoke drowsily. "What did you want to do tomorrow? On Christmas Eve?"

  "This." Cupping my face between his two large palms, he brushed his lips against mine. "Merry Christmas, Maizie."

  Christmas wishes do come true. Thank you, Hallmark Channel angels.

  The End.

  Continue reading for 17.5 CARTRIDGES IN A PEAR TREE, the next in the Maizie Albright Star Detective series.

  On A VIEW TO A CHILL

  Writing a mystery from two points of view with two protagonists was a challenge I enjoyed. I like “upping the ante” when it comes to writing and this Rashomon approach gave me the kind of creative test I relish. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it!

  This tale was originally written for an anthology I did with twelve other cozy mystery writers, THE 12 SLAYS OF CHRISTMAS. The anthology was enormously successful and made the Wall Street Journal’s bestselling ebook list December 14, 2017. But even better, the anthology was created to raise money for pets displaced in Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria. We raised a lot of money for local pet rescue organizations in Texas and Florida, plus gave money to the ASPCA.

  If you haven’t read Cherry Tucker previously, this book lands somewhere after book six. For Maizie, it’s book 4.

  Continue on for Maizie Albright’s “Between Cases” book 5, 17.5 Cartridges in a Pear Tree.

  * * *

  If you’re new to Maizie Albright, grab the first in her series, 15 MINUTES, Maizie Albright Star Detective. Tap here to learn more.

  If Cherry is new to you, grab the first in the series, PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY, A Cherry Tucker Mystery. Tap here to learn more.

  * * *

  Happy Reading!

  Larissa

  17.5 Cartridges in a Pear Tree

  A Maizie Albright Star Detective “Between Cases” Holiday Novella

  A Note to My Readers

  I wasn’t supposed to write this book. I was writing the next Maizie Albright, 18 Caliber, when I took a break to write this one. But in September, I had an idea — and because my brain is a lot like Boomer Spayberry’s Jack Russell terriers, bouncing and barking all over the dang place — I thought I could let myself have some fun. “Just write down some notes, for next year,” I told myself. And found myself feverishly writing this story so I could give it to my readers before Christmas.

  As you read 17-and-a-half (that’s how it sounds in my head), you might notice some resemblances to my favorite movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’ve always been a Marion Ravenwood fan. She’s the only Indy Jones heroine I liked and I wanted to be Marion when I grew up. I even studied archaeology in college (then found out I’d have to learn dead languages and I already had issues with the live ones, so I changed my mind). Let's get this straight. Maizie is no Marion. But they’re both spunky, positive people in love with an adventurous, valiant, no-nonsense guy. And I believe, Maizie’s learning how to become a Marion.

  Maizie’s on a Marion Ravenwood character arc, so to speak.

  There are also The Maltese Falcon references. Maizie often examines her cases in a noir, Sam Spade-ish light (as well as a lot of other movies and TV shows) because she’s an old movie buff and of course, working as a private investigator, what wouldn’t be more natural than Sam Spade? Having a Ms. Wonderly show up to wreak some havoc in Maizie’s new love life seemed like a given.

  I hope you enjoy 17-and-one-half. If you’ve read the other books, 17.5 occurs directly after A VIEW TO A CHILL (a week later). 18 CALIBER will happen directly after 17.5. After a hot summer and fall with 15-17, Black Pine Mountain is cooling off.

  If you haven’t read the other books, no worries. Maizie will catch you up. :)

  Happy Reading & Happy Holidays!

  Larissa

  For fans of Sam Spade & Indiana Jones,

  but particularly for those who wanted to be Marion Ravenwood.

  Like me.

  One

  #NewYearNewMe

  This New Year's Eve in Black Pine, Georgia, was certainly different from my previous twenty-five. At least the ones I could remember. Prior to this year, Vicki — my ex-manager and still-mother — and I would have holidayed at whatever island she'd determined most exclusive and remote (yet still accessible to discerning paparazzi) and flown back in time to attend all the New Year's Eve parties she'd determined most exclusive and remote (yet also accessible to discerning paparazzi). And I would do my best to celebrate stylishly, which for me was less about clothes and people but more about not passing out by midnight (From jet lag.) (Among other things).

  This year I lived with my father's family. Thankfully. (And by a judge's decree). Instead of lounging on white sand, I'd worked at Nash Security Solutions through most of the holidays. Maybe it's just me, but helping grandmas find lost granddaughters and serving subpoenas to deadbeat dads felt a much better way to spread Christmas joy than tipping cabana boys. Plus, I had my ultimate cabana boy in Wyatt Nash, owner of Nash Security Solutions. Wyatt Nash had probably never carried a tray of bellinis in his life, but I think we were at the point in our relationship where he'd offer to rub SPF 80+ on my pale, ginger-cursed skin. Without charge.

  I think.

  You see, Wyatt Nash was above all, a Southern gentleman with a lot of rules about dating and working and how never the twain should meet. Unfortunately, he was still in the red after major medical expenses and a business that had been failing. His eyes might be on me, but his mind was always on the bottom line. Business wasn't forefront for me when my eyes were on him. With his imposing physique, square jaw and its wicked scar, large capable hands, and icy blue penetrating eyes, he looked more mercenary than gentlemanly. Plus he rarely smiled. But when he did? Whoa, Nelly.

  That smile made me want to cover myself in mistletoe with only my sea glass green eyes and come-hither lips showing.

  Actually, I might need to try that.

  We were six months into a two-year agreement of Nash mentoring me until I could apply for my private investigation license. I'd pursued him professionally (and romantically) because I'd needed this opportunity (and was crazy about him) after my Hollywood crash and burn that landed me before a California judge who gave me the option of getting a new career in my father’s North Georgia mountain town. A job that had nothing to do with the industry that had consumed me spiritually, emotionally, and financially.

  Or, said the judge, I could go directly to jail and see how my idiocy played out before a jury.

  I wasn't that much of an idiot. I'd been given the gift of leaving a life I wasn't sure I ever wanted but couldn't leave because of the whole my-mother-is-my-manager situation. Parents can be tricky like that.

  That trickiness continued because not only did Vicki follow me to Black Pine, she'd just bought controlling interest in Nash's business for reasons I couldn't quite fathom and was more than a little afraid to ask. But then for the holidays, she'd flown to Fiji as usual, and I could pretend that my life was my own.

  And so I did. Even though it felt like someone else's life. Like I had chosen a role I'd intended to play and hadn't quite adopted the right character yet. Having lived in a Beverly Hills bubble most of my life, I was still learning “real world” living, as my Black Pine BFFs Tiffany and Rhonda called it.

  Not that I'm complaining. My first Christmas living at Daddy's was pure homespun goodness, worthy of a Hallmark Channel B-roll. An eight-foot pine in the foyer of the DeerNose log cabin (more log than cabin at five thousand square feet). Two other Christmas trees in other parts of the house. Oodles of homemade cookies and treats baked by Daddy's wife, Carol Lynn, easily the best cook in Georgia. Church and carolers and family for dinner. And Santa, of course. My half-sister was six and Remi had somehow managed to stay off his naughty list.

  Evidently, the list had
been made before she crawled into the chimney of Daddy's double-sided stone fireplace to set a trap. Which she claimed wasn't for Santa, but for the Grinch.

  The smell of bungee cords roasting by an open fire had driven us out of the house on Christmas Day.

  "I was trying to protect y'all," Remi had said. "If it weren't for me, the Grinch would'a had the tree, the gifts, and the roast beast."

  "You knew very well we were having turkey," Daddy had said. "Go to your room." He'd snagged her slingshot before she'd darted away. A passel of Jack Russells had barked and bounced around her feet, following their Alpha to her den.

  Remi's door slammed, and Daddy had turned to me. "God Almighty, that girl is going to put me in an early grave. And I thought you were the one who'd do that."

  I couldn't tell if that was a compliment, so I'd kept my mouth shut.

  * * *

  This memory (and many other similar memories of Remi pitting her wits against my father) came rushing back to me on New Year's Eve morning. Early, because Spayberrys were "up with the cock's crow and into bed at sundown" type of people. Luckily, I was used to early call times on set, so no biggie. I'm a morning person. I love sunrises and breakfast and fresh starts and all that jazz.

  But this morning, I was going to need an extra heavy dose of caffeine. My father had just finished telling me some terrible news. Remi's grandmother — Carol Lynn's mother — had fallen. Daddy and Carol Lynn were headed immediately for Brunswick — hours away — for an indeterminable length of time. This was not the terrible news, although, of course, terrible for Carol Lynn's mother and father. She'd sprained her ankle, but as Daddy had said, she'd be "alright but laid up for a bit."

  The terrible news was Daddy and Carol Lynn were putting me in charge of Remi until they returned from helping out her grandparents.