Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1)

by Christy Barritt

  I muddled through dying someone’s hair at Beach Combers. She was a talkative, fifty-something woman with short hair, who asked a lot of questions about what it was like to be famous. I mostly entertained her with stories, touched up her roots, and gave her a trim.

  And when I was finished, I realized I hadn’t done that bad of a job.

  And that was good because I’d been preoccupied the whole time with Simon. Well, I’d been preoccupied with both Simon and the Christmas music Dizzy had decided to play on the overhead, for some reason. She’d said she was in the mood, and when a menopausal woman said that, you let her do what she wanted.

  As soon as my client left, I scrounged around and found a piece of paper. It was actually the back side of a shampoo invoice, but it would work. In the background, between the Christmas carols, Dizzy chattered. Not about traffic today but about the city council’s approval to build a new hotel in the area, as well as an upcoming seafood fest and a motorcycle rally this weekend.

  As she lamented, I sat in the twirly chair, paper in my lap, and began jotting notes.

  I knew, based on what Lily had told me, that Simon left Atlanta on Sunday. He’d arrived in this area on Monday. Lily had seen that Simon was at Willie’s on Tuesday. She’d arrived on Wednesday, and I’d found Simon dead on Wednesday as well.

  So what had happened during these blank days?

  “What are you doing?” Dizzy asked.

  “Just trying to sort out my thoughts.”

  “On what?”

  I hadn’t planned on telling her exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t going to hide it either. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to Simon and Lily.”

  She squealed with delight. “Oh, I was hoping you’d take on the case. This is going to be so much fun. Wait until I tell Maxine.”

  I wouldn’t exactly call it fun. Having my life on the line, or the lives of other people whom I didn’t even know, really didn’t seem entertaining.

  “Dizzy, do you mind if I use your computer real fast?” I asked.

  “Not at all, darling. Go right ahead. The password is QueenDizzy. Capital Q and D.”

  I hurried to the back office and pulled up the Internet. I typed in Simon’s name, along with Atlanta, Georgia.

  His face popped up on the web page for his law office, and I stared at the image a moment. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but in his own way he could turn heads. I read his bio and discovered he’d graduated from UVA with honors and enjoyed charity work, as well as golf.

  This page told me nothing about why someone would have killed him.

  I went back to Google and searched out any news articles about him. A few of his cases were mentioned, but nothing that struck me.

  “What are you doing? Something fun?” Dizzy leaned over my shoulder.

  I jumped. I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t heard her approaching. No one ever snuck up on Raven.

  “Why would Simon have come here?” I leaned back in the creaky, old desk chair that looked about as pretty as the twirly chairs out front. This one did have duct tape on the rips, at least. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I know why I would have: to escape from that girlfriend of his.”

  “Possibly.” Lily did seem like she could be overbearing. “But why not just break up with her? Why run away? It’s not very manly.”

  “Her dad was a judge. Maybe Simon feared losing his practice.”

  “If he feared losing his practice, he wouldn’t run. He’d stay and fight for it. He’d have an affair and hope not to get caught. Maybe he’d even kill Lily. But he wouldn’t run.” I knew enough about human nature to know that.

  “What if he came here to investigate something for a case for one of his clients at the law firm?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Most law firms have investigators for that. I think. I’m not certain though.” I seemed to recall meeting one of those in an episode of Relentless.

  “Maybe he’s running from a crime he committed.” She snapped her fingers, and her whole body righted with excitement. “That makes sense, yes?”

  I considered it a moment. It wasn’t a terrible theory, which meant one thing: Dizzy was better at this detective thing than I was. “Maybe.”

  Actually, it was the best theory I’d heard yet.

  I turned back to the computer and found an Atlanta newspaper. I searched the various crimes that had occurred last week. There were plenty to choose from. But why would Simon be involved in any of them?

  I sighed and leaned back. I was no good at this. No good at all. And I had no idea what to do next.

  I needed to find where Simon was staying, but how? Since Dizzy seemed so good at this, I turned to her. “How would I locate where Simon was staying?”

  She waved her hand in the air like it was a no-brainer. “Easy. Your friend Zane. He’s a Realtor. He has connections. Ask him.”

  I picked up Zane an hour later when my work was done.

  “I am at your disposal. How can I be of service?” He dramatically offered a slight bow—as much of a bow as the six-footer could offer in my little Miata.

  “I need to figure out if Simon rented a house here in town. How would I do that?” I stayed in the driveway, occasionally catching glimpses of the waves beyond the dunes today. They looked angry.

  “Easy. You could call the realty companies.”

  “I thought of that—but I think he paid with cash.” At least I’d thought that one through.

  He twisted his lips down in a frown. “Well, most of them won’t take cash. So . . . maybe he had a private rental through a homeowner?”

  “Exactly. But how would I track that down?” It seemed like a no-win quest to me. And if I emphasized that one more time, I was going to smack myself.

  Zane leaned back and tapped his lip in thought. “There are a few guys I know who do maintenance work for private homeowners. We could ask them. If they were at the house to fix something or cut grass, they may have seen someone.”

  “You’re brilliant, Zane.” I almost kissed his cheek. But I didn’t. Because that would be weird.

  He beamed in response. Which was sweet.

  Then he flexed his muscle and kissed it. Which was overboard.

  “Where can we find these guys?” I asked.

  “I’d be happy to show you, my dear.”

  I noticed he called me “my dear” instead of Joey, and I wondered again if it was because he’d forgotten my name and didn’t want to call me the wrong name.

  The first two maintenance guys we talked to had seen nothing and no one. One man wasn’t working today, nor was he at home. But we caught a fourth one as he was fixing a fence at one of the rentals.

  His name was Herbert, and he had a shaggy mustache that covered most of his upper lip. And the man was a talker, which potentially made him the perfect one to help.

  “I’m trying to track down someone.” Why? Why was I trying to track down someone? I crossed my arms in thought. “Because . . . he left his credit card at Beach Combers, and I need to return it.”

  Apparently credit cards were the only excuse I could think of. I really should have some more ideas on backup. Maybe Publisher’s Clearing House or a missing dog or a killer clown on the loose.

  He paused from hammering. “Now that’s the kind of customer service I like. He didn’t come back to get it?”

  I shook my head and grabbed a picket to hand to Herbert. I’d helped my dad build a fence once, and this was bringing back all kinds of good memories.

  When I was younger, I’d loved to help Dad out in his woodshop. He’d built tables and shelves and even a grandfather clock. I’d been his little helper and handed him whatever he needed.

  The memories were almost too much for me.

  I remembered Herbert’s question about the credit card. “No, he hasn’t come back for his credit card. Maybe he hasn’t realized he left it yet? I’m not sure. Either way, I’d like to find him because it’s bugging me to be res
ponsible for it, you know?”

  “I know. Someone stole my card a few months ago, and my credit still isn’t back to what it should be. Anyway, who’s this guy you’re looking for?”

  I pulled up his picture on my phone, the same one from the website of his law firm. “His name is Simon Philips.”

  He stared at the picture a moment before nodding slowly. “You know, I think I did see him. I was fixing a broken window over at a house on Barnacle Bay. The owner has two properties side by side. There was a guy who looked like this at the house next door. I hardly saw him at all, but he did walk out to his car and go somewhere.”

  “When was that?”

  “On Monday.”

  “Was he alone?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he was alone. But his gaze was shifty. In fact, I may not have paid attention, but he was acting so uptight that he seemed out of place. Most people look relaxed when they come here.”

  “Address on Barnacle?” Zane asked.

  “Not sure the exact address. The house is named Dune Our Thing, and it’s got turquoise shutters. Can’t miss it.”

  Twelve

  Zane and I decided to swing by Dune Our Thing next. It was easy to find with its brightly painted hurricane shutters that were currently closed for the winter.

  Interestingly enough, this house wasn’t far from the property Lily was renting.

  Did Lily know that?

  I had no way of finding out now.

  I did know that there was no car out front, the trash cans were tucked neatly beneath the house, and the screens had been removed from the porch on the second floor. The house was winterized, which usually meant no one would use it until warmer weather.

  That was what Zane told me, at least.

  “If we find the bad guy, will you do your baloney move?” Zane wagged his eyebrows as he sat beside me in the passenger seat.

  I turned toward him, and that was when I realized just how small my car was. Because Zane was close, and it wasn’t because he was trying to be close. It was because my car was so tiny. I wasn’t necessarily complaining, but I did scoot back ever so slightly.

  “Baloney was actually my idea, you know.”

  “Really? Pray tell.”

  “My dad taught me that move when I was little. One of those stranger danger kinds of things. What do you do if a bad guy comes for you? Yell baloney! And then kick him below the knee. I was telling the producer about that, and he loved it and decided to include it as my signature move.”

  “That is fascinating.” He made karate hands, as if he was imagining himself doing it. “As are you, Joey Darling. And that’s not baloney.”

  I laughed, despite myself. I mean, how could I not laugh at that? Zane was simply adorable and cute, and I just wanted to squeeze his cheeks and send his character sketch to Ron Howard.

  Or pull him into my arms and kiss him.

  Of course, neither of those options would be happening.

  But Zane had used my real name, so at least he’d remembered that.

  “Ready?”

  “Does the sun rise in the east?” Zane widened his eyes dramatically. “I say we check the doors first.”

  Before I could object—which I wasn’t going to necessarily do—Zane hopped out and tugged on the first outside door he came to. It was locked.

  He did the same thing for the five other doors—including the sliding glass ones—but each was the same: locked.

  “I guess there goes that lead.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the car, halfway relieved. I didn’t want to add jail time to my list of failures.

  “Where’s your fighting spirit?” Zane asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Joey I know wouldn’t let things go this easily.”

  “But you hardly know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Well, what would the Joey you know do?” I was very curious to hear his answer.

  “She’d look for a key. These doors don’t have the keypads that some of the nicer houses do. Those places can be unlocked electronically if the renter accidentally locks himself out. These places have spare keys hidden sometimes.”

  I glanced around. “Okay . . . but where?”

  Zane walked beneath the house. “If I owned this house, I’d put it in the outdoor shower.”

  He walked over to the door, flicked the cheap latch off the eye hook, and pulled the wooden door open. He scrounged around a few minutes before finally saying, “Aha!”

  Had he actually found something? It could not possibly be that easy.

  He reappeared holding something up. A key.

  “Have I mentioned that you’re brilliant?”

  He chuckled. “Words I can’t hear enough of. Now what do you say we check out the inside of the place?”

  “Isn’t that breaking and entering?”

  “We have a key.”

  “But . . .” I had a million reasons why we shouldn’t do this, but none of them popped into my mind.

  Besides, Raven would go inside.

  Also, besides, my life was on the line right now. I needed to do whatever possible to stay alive, even if it meant jail time and more bad press about how I was becoming unhinged.

  “Look, we go inside and see if there’s anything to check. If there is, we call the police. If there’s not, we don’t waste their time. After all, we don’t want to get on their bad side. Okay?”

  His words surprisingly made sense, so I nodded. I just hoped I didn’t regret this.

  The inside of the rental was nice. Really nice. I mean, at least it was as far as I could tell using the flashlight on my phone. Turning the lights on would be too risky.

  But so far, there was very little evidence that Simon had ever been here. There was a cup in the sink. I checked the trash can and saw some discards from restaurants in the area. None of them were branded with a logo though, just simply white Styrofoam containers and paper bags. They told me nothing.

  “I’ll check the bedrooms at this end of the hall, if you want to check down there.” Zane pointed down the corridor with his flashlight.

  I stared at the dark hallway, and my throat went dry. Sticking together seemed like a much better plan, but I had to learn to stand on my own two feet. That meant doing things on my own and not with someone by my side. I could do this. This house was empty. Zane was just down the hall if I needed him.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  My heart pounded in my ears as I walked solo toward the doorway in front of me. What if I found someone else dead?

  The image of Simon’s body flashed back to me.

  Just pretend this is a movie, I told myself. Pretend none of this is real.

  That seemed like the most decent plan I’d had yet.

  I shoved the door open with my foot and swept my flashlight over the space. Nothing appeared out of place. And I didn’t spot any dead bodies.

  Score one for that, at least.

  A duffel bag on the bed caught my eye. I hurried toward it and unzipped the top. Only a few items of clothing were inside. It was almost like someone packed quickly or packed not knowing how long he would be gone.

  I was careful about what I touched. I didn’t want to leave fingerprints or disturb any potential evidence that the police could later find.

  But I needed to confirm that Simon had been here. And I really wanted to find some kind of clue as to why he’d been here.

  Pulling my sleeve over my hand, I opened one of the dresser drawers. I wouldn’t be making the same mistakes here that I’d made at that hotel room.

  That was when I hit pay dirt.

  There were items in here.

  I had no idea what they meant, but I knew they meant something.

  I leaned closer.

  There was a card with the name Giselle Daniels written on it. Was that the woman Simon had met up with?

  There were also pictures of Giselle. It looked like they’d been taken under surveillance. She appeared unaware in each of
them.

  Just then I heard movement in the house. I shoved the drawer closed and started to dart to the closet to hide. Before I could, men flooded into the room. With guns drawn.

  “Put your hands up!” one of them shouted.

  I looked at my chest. Red lights were aimed at my heart.

  One pull of the trigger and I’d be a goner. Just like that.

  Without ever talking to my dad again.

  I stared at the men around me. These weren’t Jackson’s men. No. I had no idea who they were.

  But I did know this was bad. Very bad.

  Thirteen

  I raised my hands in the air just as one of the men hit the light switch. I squinted against the brightness and then recognized it was probably better if I didn’t see what was in front of me.

  These men looked scarier in person because they weren’t wearing police gear. No, they wore suits. Suits? What sense did that make?

  But nothing looked as scary as the laser lights on my chest.

  “US marshals,” said the man at the front of the pack, flashing a badge. “State your name.”

  This was one of those times I really wanted to use an alias. Could I possibly go from has-been actress to wanted criminal in such a short time? The media would really eat this up. Sadly enough, it would probably only increase how well my new movie did. Rewarding bad behavior? Hollywood was all about that.

  “Joey Darling,” I said.

  Another man nudged Zane into the room. He joined me, hands raised but not looking nearly as stressed. In fact, he looked almost entertained, like he’d be able to mark yet one more thing off his bucket list: being caught breaking and entering.

  “Zane Oakley,” he said.

  “What are you doing in this house?” asked the man who seemed to be in charge. His assault rifle was still raised toward me.

  “We’re looking for Simon Philips,” I started. “I mean, he’s dead. I know that. I found him, for that matter. But we’re trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lily Livingston hired me. She is—was—his girlfriend. But now she’s in the hospital.”

  “Are you a PI?”