Ready to Fumble
The Worst Detective Ever, Book 1
Christy Barritt
Contents
Copyright
Season 1, Episode 1:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Coming Soon
Reign of Error
Reign Of Error
Complete Book List
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2017
Ready to Fumble by Christy Barritt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording—without express written permission by the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed or broadcasted articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or intended to be used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, places, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and beyond the intention of either the authors or the publisher. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Killion Group
Season 1, Episode 1:
The case of the has-been actress turns bumbling investigator.
Prologue
My name is Joey Darling. However, most people think of me as Raven Remington. To make matters more confusing, my legal name is Josephine Schermerhorn. But no one could pronounce that, let alone spell it, which does spell one thing in showbiz: failure.
Give it time and my many names will make sense.
I hope.
I’m not a detective, but I played one on TV. In fact, I portrayed a bigger-than-life, totally amazing investigator on the hit show Relentless.
In reality, I’m the polar opposite of Raven Remington. My alter ego was an extraordinary marksman, a technological whiz, sharper than cheddar cheese, and mind-bogglingly confident. However, the real Joey Schermerhorn—let’s just stick with Darling—trips over air, forgets every password she’s ever assigned herself online, and past experiences have made her self-confidence precarious at best.
You see, my life was normal. Then it was bigger than I could have ever imagined. Then it was horrible. Then my father disappeared. So now I’m back to normal, recovering from horrible, and trying to forget the bigger than I could have ever imagined.
Confused? Just keep reading. Please. Because maybe you can make sense of this mess I’ve made.
One
“It was just a nightmare, Joey. A nightmare, I tell you!”
Dizzy Jenkins cooled her face with what she called an “oriental” fan she’d picked up from the souvenir shop next door. Every time she used it, I wondered why a beach store sold a paper fan with cherry blossoms on it. Dizzy didn’t care. All she cared about was getting her hot flashes in check.
She went on and on about a traffic jam she’d been stuck behind on her way to work. In January. On the Outer Banks of North Carolina!
“It sounds terrible, Dizzy,” I said, searching the shelf for a cutting cape to wrap around my client’s neck. Not in a murderous way. In a protect-his-shoulders-from-falling-hair-clippings way.
Dizzy was my aunt by marriage, but I didn’t know her well. She’d married my uncle, my father’s brother, only five years ago. He’d died of a heart attack two years ago. For most of their marriage, I’d lived in California, so I hadn’t spent a lot of time with her.
“Even Beach Road was backed up,” Dizzy continued, fanning herself even harder.
The very idea of traffic in January was obviously appalling to Dizzy. She was also my new boss and the proud owner of Beach Combers, a shop that boasted itself as not just a salon but an experience in pampering.
For the brief amount of time I’d been in town, I’d thought the title was a little overdone. I mean, the place was an old beach house with at least eight cedar shingles missing out front. Even the bright-pink paint covering them didn’t disguise the much-needed upkeep the building yearned for. It was as obvious as a bald Brittany Spears.
Added to that, the peel-and-stick checkered vinyl floor, the columns covered in wallpaper to look Greek, and aqua-colored glittery chairs accented with rips, and patrons definitely got an experience.
But I digress. January in the Outer Banks of North Carolina was supposed to be traffic-free since all the tourists had gone home to hibernate in their cubicles, living for the next moment they could return. It was the time of year for locals to reinvigorate in preparation for the next rash of visitors who would swell the population of Nags Head from five thousand to fifty thousand for three whole months during the summer.
“Traffic was slow because of the 5K taking place in town,” the man in my chair said, his voice nonchalant and halfway amused.
I had the distinct feeling he couldn’t take Dizzy’s incessant talking anymore.
“A 5K? In January?” Dizzy said. “Who wants to run in this cold weather? And why would people pay to do that? It makes no sense.”
Dizzy wouldn’t understand. She wore a kimono and her signature vivid-blue eyeshadow that stretched all the way to her brows. Overweight by probably forty pounds, she wasn’t exactly athletically inclined. But what she lacked in physical prowess, she made up for in personality.
I grabbed a cape—purple with cheerful yellow stars on it—and wrapped it around my client’s neck. Even though Beach Combers screamed feminine with its abundance of pink accessories, it was also the only salon open for ten miles during the off-season. That meant that anyone who wanted to get their hair cut either had to do it themselves, travel out of town, or go to Beach Combers.
A rush of nerves swept through me as I snapped the cape in place. Not only was this man my first client, he was also tall, broad, and ruggedly handsome. Well-maintained scruff shadowed his face, giving him a Chris Pratt vibe. Chris Pratt from Jurassic World, not the geeky Chris Pratt from Parks and Recreation.
Pratt had looked really good in that movie.
I should have never turned down that audition, but I’d been sure that movie was going to be a flop. There were a lot of things I should have done differently, but I hadn’t, so here I was.
Back to that scruff. I’d always loved scruff. And ruggedly handsome men. However, I had no desire to date. Maybe not ever again. Men had gotten me in trouble one too many times.
The man seated in my chair had me curious with his assessing gaze and silent demeanor. I couldn’t tell if he screamed danger or discernment, but something about him made my nerves burst like fireworks when I rested my hand on his shoulder.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, still unable to believe that I was back to cutting hair. This lifestyle seemed so far away from the glamorous life I’d once lived.
However, I had no choice but to come her
e. My father had disappeared, and someone in this town knew something. I was determined to figure out who, and no one was off my suspect list. No one.
Not even Dizzy.
“Just a trim, please.” My client’s voice sounded deep and low, lending an even more mysterious air about him.
“Of course.” I pulled out the clippers, hating the fact that I felt so rusty at doing this. Truth was, even though I was a trained cosmetologist, it had been years since I’d practiced. Years.
Dizzy didn’t seem to mind. She told me I would do a great job. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.
I hoped that was true. At least my first cut was easy. I could have gotten someone who wanted highlights, lowlights, and a long bob with an undercut. Just yesterday, an eighteen-year-old had come in and had Dizzy dye her hair gray.
Gray? I was all about trends, but that was one that needed to go away.
I carefully ran the blade over the sides of the man’s head, following the lines of his skull. Easy peasy, right? As I leaned closer, I got a whiff of his spicy aftershave. The scent was pleasant—very pleasant.
“You’re new here.” His green eyes stared at me in the mirror, watching my every move like a hawk surveying the area for danger.
I swallowed hard, trying to concentrate. “I sure am. Only been in town for a few days.”
Just long enough to find a place to stay and unpack. Dizzy had given me this job. Her connections had also helped me find a temporary residence, which was all I needed. As soon as I found my father, I was leaving.
“You picked the worst time to come, some would say,” my client continued. “It’s awfully slow around here in the winter.”
I shrugged. “I kind of like the quiet.”
“Some people think of the area as a graveyard,” Dizzy added, moving on from fanning her face to filing her nails. “All the empty houses are like empty tombs, devoid of the life they once held.”
The imagery did something to me. It took me back in time and reminded me of just how hollow my soul felt. Maybe I’d be right at home here in the winter because I felt like an empty vessel of someone who had once been full of life.
“That sounds so . . . morbid.” I adjusted the clipper guard for the top of the man’s head. So far, so good.
“Morbid? No, it’s spot on,” Dizzy said. “Jackson, you haven’t met Joey yet, have you?”
His gaze flickered back up to mine. “I have not.”
“Well, I’m so sorry.” Dizzy snorted. “I just assumed everyone knew her. Joey, this is Jackson. And Jackson, Joey. Jackson is one of our town’s poli—”
Before Dizzy could finish, the wind caught the front door and slammed it into the wall. A painfully thin woman stepped inside and stared at all of us. Her eyes looked crazy as she gulped in deep breaths of air. Teri Hatcher, I decided. That was who she looked like.
I quickly observed her, noticing a few things that seemed out of place. Starting with her tailored dress suit and leopard-print heels. Not very beachy. Her short black hair was too hair-sprayed for the beach also. There was no way it could survive the wind this time of year.
That meant she probably wasn’t from around here.
She fought the door before finally managing to close it. Then she smoothed her suit, flung her leather purse over her shoulder, and cocked her head.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” she announced.
I looked at Jackson, assuming this woman was his crazy ex-wife or something. I braced myself for a conversation about alimony at best, full of accusations, at worst.
To my surprise, the woman tap tap tapped over to me and paused. A grin stretched across her face, and she shook her head slowly, as if we were long-lost friends.
“Raven Remington. I heard you were in town, and I was hoping I might find you here.”
Two problems. First, she thought I was Raven. Second, she’d found me when I was trying to remain off the radar.
“How in the world did you track me down?” I hadn’t been able to decide which question to address first, but that one seemed the most pressing.
“I didn’t know where to start once I got here, so I stopped by this wonderful salvage store. Utter Clutter—you know the one?”
I nodded. I wanted to berate her for her tangent, but the store truly was wonderful. I’d only gone in there once, and it had made me wish I’d accepted the job hosting that new show on HGTV. But it was too late for that.
“Go on.”
“I was telling the woman behind the desk about why I’d come to this area. She mentioned that you were working at Beach Combers and you’d know exactly what to do.”
I blanched. “Really?”
She nodded like an overeager puppy. “Well, of course.”
How in the world had someone at Utter Clutter known I was in town? Then I realized the truth. Dizzy’s friend Maxine worked at the shop, and she must have been running her mouth.
It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Maxine was a die-hard fan. Die-hard fans were the ones who’d kept the show in syndication, which offered me a small paycheck until I could get back on my feet.
“I hate to break this to you, but I’m not really Raven—” I started.
The woman stepped closer. “I want to hire you.”
I cut a sharp glance at her. “You want a haircut?”
“A haircut?” She snorted and waved a hand in the air like Ms. America . . . on drugs. “I heard you were doing some research for a new role. You’re one of those actresses. I read about it in People.”
“No,” I started, not wanting to explain the life situation that had led me to this point. “Actually, I’m not doing any resea—”
Like a talent scout fixed on finding her next million-dollar act, her gaze zeroed in on me. “My boyfriend is missing, and I want you to find him.”
Her words caught me by surprise. She was serious. Dead serious. Had she mistaken my on-air persona with the real me? I had to correct this.
Before I could, Jackson spoke up.
“Ma’am, did you report it to the police?” Jackson looked at ease yet observant, even with that ridiculous cape across his shoulders.
“Well, of course not.” The woman placed her hands on her hips, palm side out. “There’s no crime in it. He just left me and came here. But I need to find him.”
“What if he doesn’t want to be found?” The corner of Jackson’s eyes wrinkled studiously.
Why was he intruding in on my conversation and acting like a pro, at that?
“Who are you? The police?” The woman sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Actually, I am. Detective Sullivan.”
The blood drained from my face. My first client was a detective? This wasn’t good. No one was off the table as a suspect. No one. Besides, I had my suspicions that somehow the police were involved with my father’s disappearance.
The woman’s face flushed. “I see. Well, I’m here to talk to Raven.”
I raised my index finger, ready to interject. “My name is actually—”
“What do you say, Raven? Will you help me find him? I don’t trust those po-lice.” She said the word police with two long southernized syllables, each marked with disgust. “You’re one of the greats. You and Columbo, Monk, and Sherlock.”
I sighed, so tired of being interrupted. The woman wouldn’t even let me explain myself. And her lines between reality and fiction were seriously blurred.
It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered this. One time a man got upset because my character started dating someone on the show. This superfan thought I was destined to be with him. I’d ended up with a restraining order while he got over his delusions.
“I’m not taking on any cases,” I finally said, turning so I could continue to cut Jackson’s hair. Jackson, the detective. A man who could be my friend or foe.
Speaking as if I were Raven was the only way I could get through to her. If I continued to speak as Joey, she would ignore me. If I spoke as tough-as-nails Raven
, maybe she would listen.
“You take cases?” Jackson stared at me in the mirror as I raised the clippers.
I ignored him.
“You’re the only one who can find him,” the woman continued. “You always get your guy. Sometimes it’s the bad guy. Sometimes it’s the hot guy.”
I’d heard that before. A lot. It was one of the taglines of the show.
“Before you say anything else—”
As if she would let me say anything else.
She pulled something from her purse and set it on the counter by my station. “Here’s my contact information and a check to get you started. Call me.”
And with that, she breezed toward the door. She slipped some change into the tip jar, opened the door, and exited Beach Combers with just as much drama as she’d entered.
I glanced at Dizzy, wishing I could disappear. Or maybe even yell out “Line!” so I could know what to say next.
My sort-of aunt offered a wide, curious smile. “Your life here just got interesting, sweetie,” she crooned.
“I don’t want interesting. I want boring.”
“Anyone want to explain to me what’s going on?” Jackson’s gaze darted back and forth between the two of us. “I feel like I’ve just stepped into a different dimension.”
“You really don’t know her?” Dizzy pointed at me and raised her pencil-thin eyebrows.
“Know her? I just met her today,” Jackson said. “What am I missing?”
Dizzy giggled. “Oh, you’re in for a real treat!”
Jackson’s gaze went back on me, and I felt like the principal had caught me making out underneath the bleachers.
I opened my mouth, wondering exactly how to explain that I was a has-been actress who’d been left with little choice other than to return to her roots. And I meant that in both hair color and background.
Just then, the phone rang. Dizzy answered and said, “It’s your landlord, Joey. He sounds like he wants to talk to you. Now.”
Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1) Page 1
