She leaned back in her chair and smiled. "So will we see you on All is Albright next year? I'm helping the producers scout location shots. Between the taxes and beautiful scenery, I think Black Pine could be a big studio draw. I figure AIA is just the beginning."
Dollar signs might as well have flashed in her eyes.
"I've got some advice for you, Jolene," I said. "If you think you've gotten into Vicki's pocket, think again. She doesn't make friends, only business associates. And she only shares personal details if she thinks it will forward her goals. If you use that information in a way that pisses her off, God help you."
I stood and strode to the door. "Blood's thicker than water, even with Vicki. As my manager, she'll do anything to get me back on Albright. But I'm still her daughter. That woman would do anything for me."
Unless it messed with Vicki's production plans, but I wasn't going to tell Jolene that. Vicki really believed there was no such thing as bad publicity, including my butt landing in prison.
I returned to Nash Security Solutions with some reluctance. Truthfully, mostly I returned for the donuts. Jolene's observations had embarrassed me and while I privately enjoyed my costar-crush on Nash, I certainly didn't want anyone else to know about it. Particularly Nash.
However, I was more troubled by what Jolene didn't reveal. She successfully got me out of her office without giving me any information on David Waverly or the sale of Nash Security Solutions. I’d learned that A, Jolene knew all my business, and B, Nash was an irresistible Neanderthal.
Hello, knew B already.
Sweeney Realty had been a big old bust. Although I now had a suspect for my phone booth prank. Little Miss Jolene could've easily spied me at the club while visiting with the Albright gang. Vicki did say she had a meeting at the club.
Unless it wasn't a prank.
As I yanked off my helmet, I spied a tall, black van idling on the opposite side of the street. Tired of the charade, I jogged across the street and knocked on the window.
One tinted window rolled down. Before I could glance inside, a giant lens rose to center my face. The light flashed, the shutter whirred, and the van roared off.
I recognized the snickers behind that camera. Vicki was forcing the Albright camera crew to stalk me.
Maybe not forcing so much as paying the Albright crew to stalk me.
My suspicions confirmed I trudged back across the street to Nash Security. After eating a donut (or three), I hauled myself up the wooden stairs and through the old-timey door of Nash Security Solutions. The front room was empty. The door to the back office closed. I hesitated, then knocked on the glass.
The door swung open. Nash stood in the doorway, shirtless and gripping unbuttoned slacks that threatened to fall off his lean hips. We stood inches apart, gaping at one another for a long, heated moment. The mighty shoulders flexed and he half-turned. I got a shot of rippling back muscles and a sexy Jessica Rabbit tattoo on one powerful deltoid.
Holy Honey-Bunny. Donuts no longer trumped nudity.
Nash snatched the old Armani shirt off his desk and glanced back at me. "Criminy, I thought you were Lamar."
As he shrugged the shirt on, Nash's slacks slipped lower. He wore faded, black Hugo Boss boxer briefs. I wouldn't have known except Hugo Boss puts their name in giant capital letters on the elastic band, which was centered between Nash's bellybutton and No Man's Land. Like a tiny, black and white billboard.
I peeled my eyes off Hugo Boss and centered them on Nash's face.
"We've got to stop meeting like this." Nash forced an embarrassed chuckle and zipped his pants. His scowl reappeared as I continued my idiot gawk from the open doorway. "What's the matter? You've never seen a man in his drawers before? I've not seen you speechless for this long. Don't I measure up to Giulio Whatshisface?"
I was pretty sure Nash measured up to Giulio Whatshisface. Up. Over. Beyond.
"Nothing's wrong. I’m used to naked men. On set." Good Lord, he's going to think I did do porn. "Wardrobe changes. Not that you're naked. You've got on pants. Sort of. I mean, your underwear was right there. Not that I looked. But Hugo Boss is very...boss."
My face heated with what felt like the fire of ten million suns.
He snorted, then turned toward a filing cabinet. Yanking open drawer O-S, he grabbed a pair of jeans, and in the drawer marked H-N, a t-shirt. He tossed the t-shirt and jeans on his desk and slipped out of the Armani before turning back toward me. Where I still stood in the doorway gaping like one of Daddy's wall-mounted trout.
I snapped shut my mouth and backed into the doorframe.
"You're still here? Miss Albright, you're not a sex addict, are you? Is voyeurism one of your many rehab issues?"
"God, no. I mean, I was considered an addiction patient. Treatment covers everything. Drugs, alcohol, food, shopping. Sex. Just in case we swapped addictions. So, like, therapy included a healthy sex class. Not that I needed it. Well, I supposed everyone needs healthy sex. Class."
"Healthy sex?" He quirked an eyebrow.
Oh. My. God. Why could I not shut up? Or leave?
He sauntered to the door and stopped before reaching me. Poised on the edge of what my bodyguard used to call my personal space box. The Paul Newmans studied me for a long second.
I gripped the molding behind me and tried not to squirm. Or talk. Or look at his well-defined pecs.
Placing a big palm on the frame above my head, he leaned in. Spicy aftershave wafted around me, jerking the chain on my libido.
I hiked in a deep breath, hoping to find my center, which had been lost about the time Nash had flashed the Hugo Boss.
As my chest rose, his eyes dropped. He slanted a long look over my figure, paused on the dip of lace in the front of my Tortoise Jeans camisole, and returned to meet my gape. "Rule number three, Miss Albright. Probably not a good idea for me to hear about your sex...treatment classes."
"Right, TMI." I tried to blink but my eyelashes had fused to my upper lids. My mouth was also dry. I ran my tongue over my lips, trying to wet them, and tasted powdered sugar.
Oh, craptastic. Did I have powdered sugar all over my face? He was going to think I was a cokehead.
Nash's eyes flickered again, this time stopping on my sugared lips. He rested there for a beat, considering my mouth or the powdered sugar or the alleged cocaine. The hand above my head clenched the door frame. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Nash opened his eyes. The brilliant blue accosted me. "You smell like donuts."
I opened my mouth to admit my feeding frenzy but stopped when his finger landed on my lips.
"It's okay," he whispered. "It's not a crime to like donuts. Take it easy, kid."
"How did you know—”
His phone rang, breaking the moment. Nash whipped toward the desk, slipping on his t-shirt, and reached for the phone.
I continued to grip the doorframe, trying to prevent my body from slithering down the molding into a puddle on the floor. How could I take it easy when he just said the most romantic line in the history of my life? For years eating donuts WAS a crime in MaizieLand. A crime of passion.
"Are you kidding me?" Nash's voice had gone from polite drawl to enthusiastic. "Where'd they find it?"
I shook off my libido, checked my face for powdered sugar, and sought out a chair in which to slump.
Nash scribbled on a notepad, adding three exclamation marks.
The excitement must indicate the police had found Sarah Waverly's body. Knowing that David Waverly had threatened to sue meant Nash needed to prove his allegations. Hard to prove that David Waverly was a suspect in his wife's murder when she had literally disappeared.
Nash dropped his cell phone on the desk, sat on the edge, and folded his arms. His expression could be described as triumphant. Almost gloating. "That was Lamar. His buddy on Black Pine PD’s keeping him informed.”
"They found Sarah Waverly."
He shook his head. "Found a suitcase with her old clothes in it. Someone had tossed it in
a trashcan in the alley that runs behind Black Pine Boulevard."
"The street that has all those big Victorians? I love those old houses." I stopped, realizing I was about to segue off into a meaningless tangent on period homes.
"Anyway, a homeowner saw it in her garbage can and hauled it out because she doesn't like other folks using her bin. She looked inside the suitcase and saw Sarah's clothes. There's a women's shelter nearby and she was going to take it there but wanted to report the illegal use of her garbage to the police first. A patrol officer showed to take her report and remembered the missing suitcase from the Waverly case."
"Illegal use of her garbage?"
"Dumping trash on her property." Nash waved away my concern. "It's a break. Someone wanted it to look like Sarah Waverly was leaving by packing that suitcase."
"And it couldn't have been Sarah because she wouldn't pack her Goodwill clothes." I glanced at his dated designer shirt, still lying on the desk. "Not that there's anything wrong with Goodwill. It's a great place to find vintage."
"I hope they get that bastard. He had a wife who brought him lunch every day and he treated her like dirt." Nash's focus had turned inward, and I wondered once again if Sarah Waverly had meant more to Nash than a victim.
"I just hope they find Sarah." I couldn't bring myself to say, Sarah's body.
"What did you learn today? Did Bill Dixon know if David was going to rendezvous with anyone on his boat?" Nash stroked his chin. "It's still possible he hid her body that morning. He could have taken her to a cove and dragged her body into one of the marshes."
"Ed Sweeney can't believe Waverly would do anything to Sarah. He reluctantly called Waverly a bully, though."
"I thought you were going to talk to Bill Dixon."
"Mr. Dixon was busy with some number problem at the office, so I hung out with Ed instead."
"You and Ed are getting along real well, aren’t you?" Nash scowled and pushed off the desk. "I'm headed out to see if I can't learn more about the suitcase."
"Do you want me to go with you?" I hopped from my chair.
“Why don't you stay and handle the phone." He waved a hand toward the old IBM office phone that hadn't rung once in my proximity. "Just in case a client calls or something. Lamar showed you how to do the computer stuff?"
I nodded and pinched my thumb skin.
He turned from me, as if embarrassed, and bundled up the Armani. "I've got a stain on this. I'll take it with me."
"Okay." I watched him practically run out the door.
If he had asked me to take care of his dry cleaning, I probably would have cried. And still done it.
God, I was lame when it came to men.
Jolene Sweeney was right. Wyatt Nash did make me stupid.
nineteen
#stupidisastupiddoes #InquityPits
Wyatt Nash might make me stupid, but lucky for me, stupid was nothing new. I checked the little pad where Nash had made his triple exclamation point, underlined note. Besides punctuation, he had also written 620 Black Pine Boulevard. An interesting place to visit, given that all my other clues had taken me to the other side of town.
Black Pine Boulevard was virtually behind the Dixie Kreme building. Virtually meaning six blocks from our little downtown square. Six blocks that I could walk, saving my butt and thighs from Lucky distress.
After a quickie database search for a name to match the address, I swung out the Dixie Kreme door. Six scorching blocks later, I approached the home of Madeline Talmadge. The lavender Queen Anne had a wraparound veranda with pink and purple accents. Adorbs.
Madeline Talmadge also wore lavender with pink and purple accents. Instead of a wraparound veranda, she had wrapped herself in sweaters. Also adorbs. But not helpful in the cooling off department. Particularly after walking a sweltering six blocks while wearing leather pants.
"My dear, you look like you're going to melt," said Madeline after finding out I had heard about her garbage dilemma. "You are just dripping."
"Excuse me, ma'am." I found a tissue in my backpack and dabbed at my face. The paper ripped and glued to my forehead.
Madeline leaned forward to whisper. "You're not going through the change, are you? I remember mine. Positively miserable. I used to stand in a bucket of ice water with the fridge door open."
Now I had a new worry. It seemed my twenty-five years of age could be mistaken for fifty. Afraid Madeline might start quizzing me about my cycles, I segued. "Mrs. Talmadge, I understand the police took the suitcase you found. Did you get a chance to see what was inside?"
"Mercy, yes. Ladies’ clothing. A few suits. Silk. Very nice but one had a stain. Some lovely blouses. Two pairs of cropped slacks. Not my size. A windbreaker with a ripped pocket and boating shoes with a loose sole."
"I see you were thorough."
Madeline's pale cheeks turned rosy. Her glance skittered sideways. "There was also a watch. A nice metal watch. No jewels or anything fancy. Just plain. It had an inscription. I didn't think it was appropriate to throw such a nice, thoughtful gift away."
"Did you keep this watch by chance? And not give it to the police? Can I see it?"
She reached within her fuzzy purple swaddling and pulled out a slim, stainless steel and mother of pearl Michele Watches. No wonder Madeline had sticky fingers. True, no diamonds, but someone had thrown down close to a grand for this watch. I turned it over and squinted at the inscription. "My SS Sarah." Considering Sarah had no recent history of two-timing, this watch must have been from David.
"Apology jewelry," I said, handing back the watch. "And he didn't even get her diamonds. No wonder she tossed it in with the Goodwill."
"Do you know the owner?" Madeline slipped the watch between the folds of her sweaters. "I suppose you should let them know I have it. But if it was meant for Goodwill, maybe she doesn't really want it?"
"Who wants to wear apology jewelry? It's a constant reminder that your husband screws around. There's a reason she tossed it. I say give it to Goodwill."
Madeline wrung her thin hands. "I always give my clothes to the battered women's shelter. It's behind my house, although the location is supposed to be a secret. Don't tell."
“Okay.”
"I suppose I should give the watch to them? Maybe that's where the suitcase was meant to go, but they couldn't find the right house."
Madeline did not want to give up that watch. Who was I to tell her no? It would serve David Waverly right if Madeline kept the thousand dollar watch David had given to the wife he had murdered. Allegedly.
"Maybe you have something else you can give the shelter?" I offered.
With glee, Madeline popped into the house and returned with three garbage bags of mothball-scented items. Not exactly a fair trade, but Madeline was, you know, old. She pointed out the direction of the secret shelter.
I cut through Madeline's drive to the alley where her garbage had been violated, trudged down the alley, and around to the next street. Three houses down stood an unassuming Victorian. No sign it was a secret shelter other than multiple vehicles lined the drive and the shades had been pulled tight on all the windows. I climbed up the porch stairs and rang the bell.
A moment later, a woman peeped out from behind the chain lock. "Do you need help?" she said.
"No, a neighbor wanted to give you these bags of clothes."
The woman glanced at the garbage bags. "Madeline Talmadge?"
I nodded.
"Thank you." Eyes still on the bags, the woman chewed her lip.
"You don't want Madeline's clothes," I said. "I understand. They're kind of old and musty."
"It's really sweet of her..."
"Probably depressing for your ladies to wear vintage polyester. They've already been through a lot. And one bag is crocheted potholders. I guess there's not much you can do with that."
The woman gazed at me in relief. "So you wouldn't mind taking them with you? But tell Madeline we appreciate her thinking of us."
Like a rejected San
ta, I heaved the bags over my shoulder, jogged down the steps, and trudged down the street. In the alley, I dumped the bags on the ground and leaned against a fence.
The sun's heat beat inside my head with a similar intensity to vodka mixed with club music. Sweat had pooled in the cups of my Cosabella bra. My leather pants felt like shrink-wrap and my Golden Goose sneakers squelched when I walked. I thought about carrying the heavy bags six blocks to the Dixie Kreme building. The idea made me light-headed, so I closed my eyes and prayed for a garbage truck.
In the distance, I heard the rumble of a motor idling on the street, then the screech of tires turning into the alley. I opened one eye, squinting into the dazzle of sunlight. An older car pulled into the alley. No garbage truck. I kicked the bags closer and edged against the fence, giving the vehicle plenty of room.
The rusted-out Honda idled for a second, then accelerated into the narrow lane. After slamming into a plastic garbage can, it didn’t slow. The plastic lid sailed over the back fence and trash rained on the gravel drive.
The hells?
I grabbed Madeline's trash bags and ran down the alley. At Madeline's house, I tossed the bags over the gate and reached over to pull back the sliding bolt.
The Honda gunned its motor.
I abandoned the gate and galloped toward the street.
The car plowed into Madeline's metal trash bin with a deafening crash.
Sunlight had masked the driver. Was this one of Madeline's elderly neighbors whose license needed to be revoked? Or—the alternative made me ill, not that getting run over by a leaden foot, glaucoma-impaired driver wasn't bad enough—had David Waverly heard about the suitcase and had seen me asking Madeline questions? Was he looking to cover up his crime with a hit and run?
Holy Friggin’ Shizzolis.
At the corner, I cut a quick left toward Black Pine Boulevard. The side street didn't have a sidewalk. My chest felt like it would implode, but Black Pine Boulevard was only one block away. One long block. I hoofed along the fenced-in yard of a big Greek revival.
15 Minutes Page 18
