I picked up the card, checked the security code, and forced myself to forget the four-digit number. “Don’t you want me to try to become successful on my own?”
“Really, Maizie.” A line flickered in her forehead despite the injections. “I’ve seen your successes. As Kate. As Julia. Even on All is Albright. Your Teen Choice Award for Choice TV Actress is sitting in my living room.”
“Not as my manager. That Teen Choice Award is yours as much as it is mine. I meant, as my…you know,” I braced myself not to fumble the words, “my mom.”
She cut her eyes away. “You’re not taking this seriously. This season is locked in. I have to film you.”
Okay, that hurt.
“Then I’ve got no choice.” I doled out Hollywood’s—and Black Pine’s—favorite threat. “I’ll sue you if you try to film me again. Or Nash. Or anything to do with his investigations. No joke.”
“Like you could afford a lawyer,” said Jolene.
“I have friends willing to help me. Support me,” I amended. My new friends couldn’t help me with legal funds. “And considering Vicki’s assets and my celebrity status, I don’t think it’ll be a problem getting a float on the retainer.”
I paused, hoping Vicki would capitulate, realizing our relationship as mother and daughter was at stake. “Is that what you want for us? A legal battle?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But she didn’t move from the door. She waited for something. And stared at my hand. Like she thought I wasn’t cold sober serious.
Glancing at my hand, I saw I still gripped the Black card.
She thought I wasn’t cold sober serious.
“This is for real, Vicki.” With great triumph—and internal remorse—I held the credit card before me and attempted to rip it.
Damn Titanium.
Jolene snickered.
I slammed the card into Nash’s metal bin and kicked the trashcan. Looking up, I narrowed my eyes at Vicki. “In conclusion, I don’t want to sue. But I will.”
“We'll see," she said and sailed out the door, Chanel No. 5 trailing in her wake.
Okay, not the big climatic scene I was hoping for. More like a Mommy Dearest ending.
Small victories.
Jolene stood to follow but turned in the doorway. "I want to know these other backers, Nash, or I'm selling to Vicki Albright."
Nash nodded, watching her fingers skim across her jersey-wrapped hip.
"I can make your life hell if I don't get what I want." Jolene smiled her best malicious smile.
Nash wisely kept his mouth shut, but his eyes remained glued to the fingertip that skimmed the length of her thigh.
"You, too, Maizie," said Jolene. "Your so-called new life? Hell. On. Earth." She spun and slammed the front door.
I jumped and slid off the desk. "Is she for real?"
Of course, she was serious. She had already gotten me in trouble with Judge Ellis. Trouble I could save myself from if Nash would sign the W-4. But if I could stand up to Vicki, I could deal with Jolene.
Hopefully.
Nash collapsed into his chair and pointed at the form on his desk. "'Maizie Marlin Albright.' Marlin? That's your middle name?"
"Family name." Sort of. Daddy had snuck his other favorite hunting rifle on my birth certificate while Vicki enjoyed post-delivery Percocet. "About the job..."
"Are you really going to sue your mother?" Nash heaved his booted leg on his desk and leaned back in his chair. "That took guts to say it to her. Did you mean it?"
I twisted the handle on my Tod's tote. "I can't afford a lawyer and she'll probably countersue or something." I looked up. "But if that's what it takes, then yes."
"You should be proud of yourself."
"I guess," I said. "I'd be prouder if you'd say you'd hire me to train under you."
He smirked, then glanced toward the front office. "What'd you say, Lamar? I'm putting you in charge of hiring."
"I said I'd be a silent partner, Nash." Lamar stepped into the office and leaned against the door. "I have another business to run. One that gets me up before dawn. And actually pays my bills."
"Never known you to be silent about anything, Lamar."
"And never known you to be a tease. Tell the girl she has the job."
I sucked in a breath. My dream had been realized.
Maizie Albright, Adult Detective.
Which sounded a bit like porn. I'd have to work on the title.
I squealed and hugged Lamar. Rounding on Nash, I looped my arms around his neck and squeezed.
"Rule number two, Miss Albright," he gasped. "Investigators don't hug."
"You didn't mind on the boat," I whispered.
"We'll work on the rules," he said and gave me a stunning Paul Newman wink.
Acknowledgements
Ritter Ames, you’re an incredible editor, book guru, and a great friend. Thank you for all the help and support. I bow to your genius and love of spreadsheets. Neither of which I don’t think I’ll ever attain.
The Mystery Minions, know that I’m thinking about y’all while I’m writing. You each represent the reason I burn the midnight oil. Thank you so much for your incredible support and friendship!
To my writing friends at Henery Press, my Georgia colleagues, and especially to Dru Ann Love, Phoebe Fox, Penny Warner, and Debby Guisti, thank you for your friendship and guidance. I love the encouragement and support of the writing community. It’s a wonderful thing.
Claire Bamford, thank you for your wonderful friendship before, during, and after the HHI filming. You’re an inspiration to me. Thanks for your words of TV related advice, answering my questions, and beta reading!
Risa, Robin, and Tomoo-san, thanks for answering all my questions during the HHI shoot. And for being a part of a book marketing campaign.
Thank you to The Killion Group for all their publishing services, particularly my fun cover. It’s incredible to work with you and thanks for all your patience!
To the Funks, Reinharts, and Hoffmans, thanks always for all your love, support, and Facebook shoutouts. Also to my sweet friends (too numerous to name all of you) for your encouragement, especially the Metzler-Concepcions, Witzanys (thank you for letting me borrow Maizie’s name), and the Benders. Love you! And to all the folks in Andover and surrounds, thank you for your hometown support!
Gina, Bill, Hailey, Lily, and Grandma Sally, thank you for beta reading, shipping books, receiving books, and generally putting up with me.
Peachtree City, Georgia, thanks for inviting Hollywood to town and giving me the inspiration for this series. And thanks for being such a wonderful place to live and raise my children.
And to Trey, Lu & So, you have my gratitude and my love always. xoxo
Thank you for reading 15 MINUTES
When I began to imagine Maizie Albright, I was inspired by the for-real tv and movie business growing in and around my hometown in Georgia. The sets for The Walking Dead, Drop Dead Diva, and numerous movies like Sweet Home Alabama plus the US location for Pinewood Studios were all a stone’s throw away. And then my family moved to Nagoya, Japan, and I got to play reality star when we appeared on HGTV’s House Hunters International “Living for the Weekend in Nagoya” episode. There’s my 15 MINUTES of fame! I hope you enjoyed Maizie’s adventures. I had a lot of fun writing them.
Want more Maizie Albright? Her next adventures, 16 MILLIMETERS and NC-17, are coming soon! Read on for previews in the Maizie Albright Star Detective and the Cherry Tucker Mystery series.
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Larissa
16 MILLIMETERS
A Maizie Albright Star Detective Mystery #2
In continuing her career-makeover quest as a for-real detective, ex-teen and reality star Maizie Albright has a big learning curve to overcome. A sleuthing background starring in a TV show— Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective—does not cut the real life mustard. It doesn’t even buy her lunch, let alone extra condiments. Her chosen mentor, Wyatt Nash of Nash Security Solutions, is not a willing teacher. He’d rather stick Maizie with a safe desk job and handle the security solution-ing himself. But Maizie’s got other plans to help Nash. First, win Nash’s trust. Second, his heart.
Wait, not his heart. His respect. His hearty respect.
So when a major movie producer needs a babysitter for his hot mess starlet, Maizie eagerly takes the job. But when her starlet appears dead, and then not dead, Maizie’s got more than an actress to watch and a missing corpse to find. Body doubles, dead bodies, and hot bodies abound when the big screen, small screen, and silent screams collide. Maizie’s on the job, on the skids, and on thin ice, hunting a killer who may be a celebrity stalker. And Maizie just might be the next celebrity who gets snuffed.
PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY
A Cherry Tucker Mystery #1
In Halo, Georgia, folks know Cherry Tucker as big in mouth, small in stature, and able to sketch a portrait faster than buckshot rips from a ten gauge — but commissions are scarce. So when the well-heeled Branson family wants to memorialize their murdered son in a coffin portrait, Cherry scrambles to win their patronage from her small town rival. As the clock ticks toward the deadline, Cherry faces more trouble than just a controversial subject. Between ex-boyfriends, her flaky family, an illegal gambling ring, and outwitting a killer on a spree, Cherry finds herself painted into a corner she’ll be lucky to survive.
* Winner of the Dixie Kane Memorial Award * Nominated for the Daphne du Maurier Award and the Emily Award *
Keep Reading for the Sneak Peek of
Portrait Of A Dead Guy
one
In a small town, there is a thin gray line between personal freedom and public ruin. Everyone knows your business without even trying. Folks act polite all the while remembering every stupid thing you’ve done in your life. Not to mention getting tied to all the dumbass stuff your relations — even those dead or gone — have done. We forgive but don’t forget.
I thought the name Cherry Tucker carried some respectability as an artist in my hometown of Halo. I actually chose to live in rural Georgia. I could have sought a loft apartment in Atlanta where people appreciate your talent to paint nudes in classical poses, but I like my town and most of the three thousand or so people that live in it. Even though most of Halo wouldn’t know a Picasso from a plate of spaghetti. Still, it’s a nice town full of nice people and a lot cheaper to live in than Atlanta.
Halo citizens might buy their living room art from the guy who hawks motel overstock in front of the Winn-Dixie, but they also love personalized mementos. Portraits of their kids and their dogs, architectural photos of their homes and gardens, poster“-size photos of their trips to Daytona and Disney World. God bless them. That’s my specialty, portraits. But at this point, I’d paint the side of a barn to make some money. I’m this close from working the night shift at the Waffle House. And if I had to wear one of those starchy, brown uniforms day after day, a little part of my soul would die.
Actually a big part of my soul would die, because I’d shoot myself first.
When I heard the highfalutin Bransons wanted to commission a portrait of Dustin, their recently deceased thug son, I hightailed it to Cooper’s Funeral Home. I assumed they hadn’t called me for the commission yet because the shock of Dustin’s murder rendered them senseless. After all, what kind of crazy called for a portrait of their murdered boy? But then, important members of a small community could get away with little eccentricities. I was in no position to judge. I needed the money.
After Dustin’s death made the paper three days ago, there’d been a lot of teeth sucking and head shaking in town, but no surprise at Dustin’s untimely demise from questionable circumstances. It was going to be that or the State Pen. Dustin had been a criminal in the making for twenty-seven years.
Not that I’d share my observations with the Bransons. Good customer service is important for starving artists if we want to get over that whole starving thing.
As if to remind me, my stomach responded with a sound similar to a lawnmower hitting a chunk of wood. Luckily, the metallic knocking in the long-suffering Datsun engine of my pickup drowned out the hunger rumblings of my tummy. My poor truck shuddered into Cooper’s Funeral Home parking lot in a flurry of flaking yellow paint, jerking and gasping in what sounded like a death rattle. However, I needed her to hang on. After a couple big commissions, hopefully the Datsun could go to the big junkyard in the sky. My little yellow workhorse deserved to rest in peace.
I entered the Victorian monstrosity that is Cooper’s, leaving my portfolio case in the truck. I made a quick scan of the lobby and headed toward the first viewing room on the right. A sizable group of Bransons huddled in a corner. Sporadic groupings of flower arrangements sat around the narrow room, though the viewing didn’t actually start until tomorrow.
A plump woman in her early fifties, hair colored and highlighted sunshine blonde, spun around in kitten heel mules and pulled me into her considerable soft chest. Wanda Branson, stepmother to the deceased, was a hugger. As a kid, I spent many a Sunday School smothered in Miss Wanda’s loving arms.
“Cherry!” She rocked me into a deeper hug. “What are you doing here? It’s so nice to see you. You can’t believe how hard these past few days have been for us.”
Wanda began sobbing. I continued to rock with her, patting her back while I eased my face out of the ample bosom.
“I’m glad I can help.” The turquoise and salmon print silk top muffled my voice. I extricated myself and patted her arm. “It was a shock to hear about Dustin’s passing. I remember him from high school.”
I remembered him, all right. I remembered hiding from the already notorious Dustin as a freshman and all through high school. Of course, that’s water under the bridge now, since he’s dead and all.
“It’s so sweet of you to come.”
“Now Miss Wanda, why don’t we find you a place to sit? You tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll take notes. How about the lobby? There are some chairs out there. Or outside? It’s a beautiful morning and the fresh air might be nice.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Wanda. “Tell you what I want?”
“For the portrait. Dustin’s portrait.”
“Is there a problem?” An older gentleman in a golf shirt and khaki slacks eyed me while running a hand through his thinning salt and pepper hair. John Branson, locally known as JB, strode to his wife’s side. “You’re Cherry Tucker, Ed Ballard’s granddaughter, right?”
I nodded, whipping out a business card. He glanced at it and looked me over. I had the feeling JB wasn’t expecting this little bitty girl with flyaway blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. My local customers find my appearance disappointing. I think they expected me to return from art school looking as if I walked out of 1920s’ bohemian Paris wearing black, slouchy clothes and a ridiculous beret. I like color and a little bling myself. However, I toned it down for this occasion and chose jeans and a soft orange tee with sequins circling the collar.
“Yes sir,” I said, shaking his hand. “I got here as soon as I could. I’m sorry about Dustin.”
“Why exactly did you come?” JB spoke calmly but with distaste, as if he held something bitter on his ton
gue. Probably the idea of me painting his dead son.
“To do the portrait, of course. I figured the sooner I got here, the sooner I could get started. I am pretty fast. You probably heard about my time in high school as a Six Flags Quick Sketch artist. But time is money, the way I look at it.
You’ll want your painting sooner than later.”
“Cherry, honey, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” Wanda looped her arm around JB’s elbow. “JB’s niece Shawna is doing the painting.”
“Shawna Branson?” I would have keeled over if I hadn’t been at Cooper’s and worried someone might pop me in a coffin. Shawna was a smooth-talking Amazonian poacher who wrestled me for the last piece of cake at a church picnic some fifteen years ago. Although she was three heads taller, my scrappy tenacity and love of sugar helped me win. Shawna marked that day as a challenge to defeat me at every turn. In high school, she stole my leather jacket, slept with my boyfriend, and brown-nosed my teachers. She didn’t even go to my school. And now she was after my commission.
“She’s driving over from Line Creek today,” Wanda said. “You know, she got her degree from Georgia Southern and started a business. She’s very busy, but she thinks she can make the time for us.”
“I’ve seen her work,” I said. “Lots of hearts, polka dots, and those curlicue letters you monogram on everything.”
“Oh yes,” said Wanda, showing her fondness for curlicue letters. “She’s very talented.”
“But ma’am. Can she paint a portrait? I have credentials. I’m a graduate of SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design. I’m formally trained on mixing color, using light, creating perspective, not to mention the hours spent with live models. I can do curlicue. But don’t you want more than curlicue?”
15 Minutes Page 29
