"You guys should get out of here. Go back to the bar. Or get a hotel room. Just go. But stay where there's a crowd. Like, run through the marina park as fast as you can. Zigzag run,” I babbled. “Why didn't we drive over here?"
I didn't want to utter the obvious, but someone with a gun was shooting people in the head. I knew my attacker was packing heat and I let Rhonda and Tiffany talk me into a road trip. How could I be so irresponsible? If Tiffany or Rhonda got hurt, I would never forgive myself. Even Renata the wonder therapist couldn't help me with that one.
"You come with us, Maizie," said Rhonda. "There's a crazy person on the loose."
I shook my head.
"This is not an episode of Julia Pinkerton," said Tiffany. "Call the flippin' cops."
"Right," I drew out the word. "Except Ed Sweeney's in Nash's truck. And Nash is missing. And Nash is a suspect in the Waverly case. So...this looks pretty bad for Nash."
"You're protecting Wyatt Nash?" Tiffany swore. "You're an even bigger idiot than I thought. This is just like what's-his-name all over again."
"This is not like Oliver. Once I knew Oliver was selling Oxy, I told the police everything I knew."
"Because you were arrested as an accessory to a drug dealer."
"Tiffany, this is no longer David Waverly trying to make Nash look incompetent. Someone's trying to frame Nash for murder. Why else would Ed be dead in Nash's truck? Isn't that a little obvious in body placement?"
"Whose body placement are you really worried about? Dead Ed's? Or your boss? On top of you?"
"Calm down," said Rhonda. "Tiffany, you get so ugly when you're stressed."
"I can't help it," snapped Tiffany. "I'm freaking out about the dead guy in the truck."
"You're right. We should call the cops." My voice edged toward Valley. "But could you like do it? Like when you've reached safety? I've got to find Nash. And maybe give me a minute to do that?"
"Lord, help me, but I may kill you myself," said Tiffany. "Maizie, someone at this marina is shooting folks. Just wait for the police like a normal person."
I drew myself up and riveted Tiffany with my best Beverly Hills I'm-a-star-and-you-can-suck-it look. "My partner is in trouble, Tiffany. And he's in trouble because of me. I lost Sarah Waverly. David Waverly is dead. I might’ve gotten Ed Sweeney killed. Now is the not the time for me to act like a normal person."
#
Armed with Tiffany's bejeweled can of pepper spray and a giant wrench from Shithead's box, I headed back to A Little Nauti. Tiffany and Rhonda waited in the marina bar, keeping an eye out for any criminal Black Piners. And Nash. And Jolene Sweeney. Although I found it hard to believe she would shoot her own uncle. But I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt on that one. Sometimes the benefit of the doubt can save your life.
I hoped.
Near the water, the marina dimmed to the fuzzy glow of little brass lanterns. I crept toward the docks, pepper spray in hand, wrench at the ready in the pocket of my Simon Miller jeans.
I had kept a brave face for the girls. In theory, I wanted to help Nash. I did feel responsible. I wanted to save him if he needed saving. But in reality, I felt about as useful as olfactories the day after a rhinoplasty. And scared witless. My plan was to locate Nash, who probably watched Ed's boat, not realizing Ed was actually dead in his truck. Then let Nash handle the crazy person with a gun.
"But why kill Ed?" I thought. The motive had to be tied to the missing money stolen by David Waverly.
By whom? Someone had to have been partnered with David in embezzling BPG's money. Someone who had kidnapped Sarah. And murdered them both. Which meant they had access to David's secret embezzlement bank account.
I wanted to slap myself in the head. Sarah knew her kidnapper. Of course, she had left the Prada in the Porsche. She hadn't realized she'd be going anywhere. Sarah had probably gotten into the kidnapper's vehicle for a quick chat and had been shanghaied. The kidnapper had tossed Sarah's phone in the lake and snatched a suitcase with some handy, already bagged clothes from the house, dumping them along the way. No one would know Sarah was snatched. Just that she had disappeared.
And if the phone and suitcase were found, it would look like David Waverly had done in his own wife. And obviously, David couldn't admit to what had happened to the police unless he also wanted to face embezzlement charges.
Ed Sweeney had to die because he had been at David Waverly's house the night David was murdered. Ed might have seen the killer that night and not even known it. Had David brought anyone else home from work besides Ed?
"Wait a minute," I muttered, "the Stingray doesn't have a backseat. The murderer had either waited for David to get home or arrived later. Either way, they wouldn't have known Ed was visiting since Ed's car was in the shop."
Why didn't I examine all the vehicles entering Platinum Ridge that day? There had been a taxi earlier but I hadn't checked the footage. That was not thorough. That was me trying to get away from skeevy Mark Jacobs and his plot to sell chewed pens.
My stalker was brilliant. They had disguised themselves as David Waverly and driven out of Platinum Ridge the next day, leaving David's car and body at the airport and getting away by renting another car.
Who was it? Jolene? William Dixon? Someone else?
"At least I can cross off Ed Sweeney," I thought miserably.
Fear helped clarify my thoughts. But not make me sharp enough to solidify a good plan to find Nash and escape from our bloodthirsty embezzler.
"Okay, Maizie, time to think like Julia. How many times did she sneak around a marina with a killer on the loose?"
Julia had plenty of experience with wharfs. From human trafficking to underground fight rings, wharfs made for a popular setting with the writers. But marinas? I could only think of one episode, filmed on the Queen Mary for Julia’s prom. That’s where she learned of her basketball star boyfriend's drug habits. She had captured his dealer on the docks. Stabbed him in the carotid with her corsage pin.
And still managed to not get arterial spray on her dress, which meant she could get back to prom and be crowned queen without a cleanup.
Behind me, the party continued in the bar. Down at the docks, the lapping water and creaking boats sounded eerie. A chill broke across my flesh, despite the humidity. I was glad I was not at a wharf. This ritzy marina club was scary enough in the dark.
Where could Nash be? There weren't many places to hide other than the yachts. Could he be on some boat, watching A Little Nauti for Ed Sweeney? I hoped whoever killed Ed was only interested in select murders, not a full-on marina bloodbath.
That thought combined with the salty, dead fish aroma and the vision of Ed Sweeney's body had me leaning over the pier, heaving up road trip snacks.
Something heavy hit the wooden dock with a thump I could feel through my boots. I whipped around, brandishing the wrench and pepper spray. "Nash?"
Near a picnic area at the far end of the boardwalk, stood a man strapped and swaddled in equipment. A telescopic rig rose from a base hooked to his waist with a thick belt and shoulder straps. Curling wires, jutting handles, and small black boxes covered the contraption.
Al with a Steadicam.
From this distance, he looked like a walking Mars probe. Al had knocked into an Adirondack chair. In his defense, it was dark and he had been focusing on the shot of me yakking.
I shoved the wrench back in my pocket and rushed to Al.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered.
Al grinned. "Hey, Maizie. Sorry, but you know how Vicki likes the grisly stuff."
"There's been a serious crime," I said. "You need to leave."
"What kind of crime?" Al's eyes widened and he tightened his grip on the Gimbal control handle. "Did you do it? Or help with it?"
"No. I'm trying to prevent the crimes, not assist in them. There's been a murder."
"Whoa. Cool."
"Not cool, Al. Totally not cool. Pack up your equipment and get back to Black Pine."
"She will when you have to turn over all your film as evidence in a murder case. And no way will you get those reels back for years and years. Maybe never. You know how long felony cases take at trial."
Al's grin fled. "Damn, you're right. I was waiting for Joe and the sound equipment when I saw you. He's grabbing us some beers."
"Have your beers in the bar far away from here. But keep your eye out for anything suspect. If you see Wyatt Nash, the private investigator, tell him I'm looking for him."
"You're really serious about this detective stuff, aren't you?" Al rested his hand on the monitor. "You're really growing up."
I wanted to beam, but I didn't feel grown up. I felt like a bumbling idiot.
"Who got murdered?" asked Al. "Wait, don't tell me. Better not to know anything. I don't want to get involved in a trial."
"You might not have a choice if the cops arrive and find a camera crew." I eyed his monitor and thought about what might be on his camera. "Al, how long have you been filming tonight?"
#
Inside the Sprinter, we used Al's monitor to play back his most recent footage. I watched myself get hauled out of the Nash Security Solutions office on Nash's shoulder—glutes workouts were in my future— sneak out of the DeerNose property, drive through McDonald's on Lucky, and climb into Tiffany's Firebird. The Sprinter Van had a few shots of me crammed in the back seat on the drive to Savannah but with no microphone to pick up our conversation, those scenes were a dud. They picked up again after spying me on the docks, lost me at the bar, and found me again barfing off the side of the boardwalk.
Al had no idea I’d been attacked in the bathroom nor that I was in any danger. The Albright crew didn't know David Waverly had been found in the trunk of his car, let alone that Ed Sweeney had been killed.
Without the facts, I had made for an entertaining Inspector Clouseau. I didn't enlighten Al. Clouseau was better than the alternative, a series spinoff Vicki would likely name Albright Undercover. Giulio would love the costumes. Probably a lot of leather.
"Did you see anyone follow me to the marina? Maybe a rental car?" I focused on the tiny screen, watching the dock footage B-roll and concentrating on the background.
"No." Al peered over my shoulder. "Why would someone be following you?"
I thought for a minute, not wanting to implicate myself with a murderer. "Crazy stalker fan."
"Oh.” Al sounded disappointed by the banality. "No one followed you on the road. I would have noticed because I was looking for anything remotely interesting."
"They must have driven to Savannah after leaving me in the bathroom," I muttered. "I helped Remi dupe Carol Lynn for nothing."
"What?"
"Hang on." I paused the film and rewound. "There's Nash. When was this shot?" The blip showed Nash loping along the boardwalk, checking over his shoulder.
"That investigator doesn't do a whole lot, but Vicki wants some footage of him anyway."
"You mean Nash doesn't act like an idiot on-screen. You better get a good lawyer. Black Pine people are litigation happy and I can guarantee Nash won’t give you permission to show him on a reality show."
"We'll mosaic his face out," Al said, but without confidence. Vicki probably didn’t mention that little fact. "Let's see. This was right after we arrived. I think you girls were in the marina gift shop. I was shooting B-roll."
"Nash looks like he's headed to A Little Nauti. But I didn't see him there earlier. Did you catch him leaving at all?"
"Nope. I took that from the van and stayed put until you disappeared into the bar."
"Nash's got to be on one of those boats."
I just hoped he was still alive.
twenty-seven
#TieMeTapeMe #KneeFetish
I left Al and Joe and snuck toward the dark docks with my wrench and pink pepper spray. I sped past the neighboring vessels toward A Little Nauti. If Nash wasn't on board, I'd have to check the other yachts, one by one. And if that didn't work, I'd run back to the bar to find Tiffany and Rhonda.
No blue lights had flooded the parking lot yet. I didn't know if that meant Tiffany and Rhonda were giving me some lead time to find Nash or if an unmarked car had arrived to investigate Ed's death. Given the exclusivity of the marina, I suspected the local police wouldn't want to advertise their presence. But I figured they'd immediately crime scene tape his boat.
No tape.
I boarded.
Stepping over the stern, I tread across the polished wood deck toward the companionway. "Nash?" I whispered. "Nash are you here? The police are coming."
The last bit I said more loudly. I had not forgotten about the gun toting, kidnapping, murderous embezzler. Who, I hoped, had decided to take a beat somewhere other than the marina.
"So it's important you get off Ed's boat before the police get here. Which will be any second."
I tried the companionway door. It turned easily. Then remembered the rule about fingerprints on dead people's doorknobs. My fingerprints were already in the California law enforcement database. Super easy to trace.
"Frig." I had some wiping to do on my way off the boat.
I stole down the ladder’s short flight of steps and entered a spacious galley, decorated in glossy wood with a lounging area and bitty kitchen. No Nash. But luckily, no crazed shooter either.
At the end of the room was a door. And behind me, next to the stairway, another door.
These door decisions always ended badly in the movies.
I listened for bumps in the night. And for the sound of bullets leaving guns. Proceeded to door number one. The master bedroom in the bow. No Nash. But a lovely queen sized bed and more wood paneling. After checking the head and closets—Ed liked Henri Lloyd, Mauri Pro, and Helly Hanson with the occasional Tommy Bahama—I scooted toward the stern.
Door number two was locked. I jiggled and chewed a thumbnail. Now was not the time to fear the worst—my boss laid out with a bullet in his brain, like the owner of this beautiful sailboat—but I feared the worst. I had to get inside that room.
"Nash," I called through the door. "Are you in there?"
Thumping inside told me Nash was alive.
Thumping above told me someone had just boarded.
The thumping in my chest told me I had better hurry the hell up.
"Nash," I whispered. "Someone's here. Hang on."
The stainless steel latch had a keyhole, one that looked the size of a file cabinet key. Julia Pinkerton had a set of lock picks she kept in her backpack. Maizie Albright didn't come equipped with anything useful other than a wrench and pink pepper spray. I spun toward the little kitchen and jerked open drawers, looking for tiny keys. Ice pick? Fork? Fish knife? I stuck the fish knife in my back pocket where it joined the wrench. Why didn't Ed keep lobster picks? Didn’t they do lobster in Savannah?
The sounds of bumping and scuffling from the deck grew louder.
I flew around the cabin, dithering between my search for lock picking devices and wanting to hide. A teeny map area had been built into a recess near the master bedroom. A small table had inlaid wood to look like a nautical compass, and there were round holes for rolled charts, built-in shelves, and cabinets. I skimmed the cubbies. Radio, books, laptop, and a GPS. Not a paperclip or bobby pin to be found.
More clunking and thudding sounded from above.
Below the table lay three tackle boxes. None had paperclips, but they did have plenty of fishhooks and pliers. Careful of the barbs, I snatched a handful of fishhooks and ran back to the cabin door. My first attempt at lock picking met with failure. The pliers straightened the second hook with precious minutes wasted trying to hold the damn thing down with my boot. I shoved the makeshift pick into the lock.
Julia Pinkerton made lock picking look easy. Lock picking is not easy.
Sweat beaded the nape of my neck. My palms grew sticky. I felt a tiny tumbler give. I wiped my forehea
d with my arm and continued with the wiggling and jiggling.
The boat lurched.
The fishhook flew out of the hole.
My body fell sideways into the wall and I slid to the floor, landing my knee on a fishhook. The barb ripped through five hundred dollar jeans and embedded into my skin. I pulled my entire bottom lip into my mouth, bit down to keep from screaming, and tried, for about twenty agonizing seconds, to rip out the hook. Blinking back tears, I gave my knee over to its new accessory, found my fishhook pick, and jammed it back into the hole.
Tumbler two gave.
I tore a nail pulling on the latch and stumbled into the bedroom, ready to free my costar.
I mean boss.
A bed filled the room. Wall-to-wall. On the bed, facedown, lay Nash. His hands thickly bound in duct tape. Crossed over his nicely shaped bum.
I only noticed because of the duct-taped hands.
He shot me a hard look over a shoulder, showing me duct tape covered his mouth. And more encircled his ankles, knees, and elbows.
This kidnapper really liked duct tape.
I did the finger over the lips sign—unnecessary considering the duct tape—and brandished the fish knife. Then climbed on the bed and reluctantly shut the door.
"Nash," I whispered. "Someone's up there doing something to the boat."
He nodded and jerked his chin up, pushing his mouth toward me.
I grabbed a corner of the duct tape and ripped.
His eyes squeezed shut and he clamped down hard on his bottom lip.
I knew the feeling. Blood still trickled down my leg from the damn fishhook.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered. "Of all the dumbass things to do. I told you to stay at Boomer's."
This was not the reaction I anticipated. I ignored his complaints, grabbed the fish knife, and went to work sawing his feet apart.
"Get my hands," he said. "Hurry it up."
I stopped sawing. "Maybe you don't know this, but Ed Sweeney is dead. I found him shot in the head in your truck."
"Dammit."
"That's all you have to say? Dammit? Ed Sweeney's dead. In your truck."
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