Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1)

by Christy Barritt

  “How long have you guys been dating?”

  He gave me a sharp glance. “Dating? We’re not dating.”

  “But . . .” I remembered him kissing her cheek. The fond way they acted around each other. The warmth in their eyes when they looked at each other. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

  “Phoebe is my sister-in-law. My wife’s sister.”

  My cheeks burned. His wife’s? He was married? I hadn’t seen a ring. Now all of my electric jolts around him really seemed inappropriate.

  “I see.” My throat felt tight as I said the words.

  But then another thought collided into my mind.

  Phoebe had said her sister died of breast cancer. And that her sister’s husband had moved them back here to be closer to the ocean.

  Everything suddenly made sense.

  I must have sucked in a breath without realizing it.

  “She died two years ago,” Jackson explained.

  “I’m so sorry.” Why had I even brought this up? I should have walked the other way when I had the chance.

  “She was a good woman.”

  “I bet. That’s nice that you and Phoebe are so close.”

  “She’s like a sister to me and has helped me keep my sanity.”

  I wondered what that meant, but I didn’t ask. Not yet.

  We walked several more steps with nothing but our thoughts. The Nags Head Pier stretched in the distance, and I remembered Lily. Poor Lily.

  “So do you want to tell me what that was in your closet yet?” Jackson asked.

  Okay, so now it was my turn to be in the hot seat. I deserved this.

  But I had an interesting dilemma. If I continued to deny my closet of clues was anything, that would only raise Jackson’s suspicions. If I told him the truth, then it would alert him that I was investigating, and he could alert the police chief, who was one of my suspects. The man just happened to be out of town right now.

  Was there an in between? I wasn’t sure. But I thought my bets were safer if I went with the truth . . . just maybe not all of it.

  “My father lived here for seven years,” I said, somberness straining my voice. “Two months ago he disappeared.”

  “So you moved here to find him?”

  My throat tightened again. “I need to make amends, but I have to locate him first.”

  “You said disappeared. What do you mean?”

  My mind rushed through the possibilities of what I could say. I finally settled with, “He left a note, and all of his things are gone. But it’s not like him to just pick up and not tell anyone where he’s going. I’m trying to piece together what might have set these events in motion.”

  “You’re thinking foul play?”

  I really wished he would stop asking questions, because I desperately wanted to talk to someone about my father. But Jackson should not be that person. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been sidelined with everything that’s happened with Simon and Lily.”

  “Why didn’t you report anything to the police?”

  Because I can’t trust you. Of course, I didn’t say that. “This isn’t a police matter. It’s a family matter.”

  “I could help, you know.”

  His words did something to me. They warmed me. Made me feel like mush inside.

  But there were some things I needed to do on my own. This was one of them.

  Before I could tell him that, a figure in the distance caught my eye. It was Giselle. She stood by the pier, staring at us.

  I pointed. “Jackson . . .”

  He saw her at the same time I did and thrust the leash into my hands. “Stay here!”

  Then he took off running.

  Seventeen

  Unfortunately, Ripley was determined not to lose his master.

  Also unfortunately, his leash was wrapped around my wrist, so where Ripley went, I went also. My legs would barely keep up as the Australian shepherd bounded after his owner, acting as if this was a game of some sort.

  The good news was that Ripley had allowed Jackson a running start. He was at least one hundred feet in front of us.

  I looked up, and even though everything was blurring by me, I didn’t see Giselle anywhere. Had she run away?

  I had no idea.

  And I had no time to find out. All I could do was hold on for dear life.

  Until I face-planted in a sand dune. Ripley was gracious enough to pause long enough for me to stand, but not patient enough for me to wipe the sand off.

  By the time we’d reached Jackson, he’d paused in the parking lot. A car pulled away in the distance. That must be Giselle . . . or whatever her real name was.

  We obviously had no car and no way of catching up with her. Jackson spoke on the phone with someone, muttering the license plate, make, and model.

  Ripley stopped beside Jackson and sat down. I, on the other hand, panted like I’d never worked out a day in my life. Wagging that tongue like we’d only just begun. It wasn’t so cute when a person embodied my lyrics instead of a dog.

  “She got away,” Jackson said, putting the phone back in his pocket.

  “I gathered that.” I bent over, wondering why the air wouldn’t go into my lungs fast enough.

  “Maybe another officer will catch her before she gets too far.”

  “Maybe.”

  He glanced at me again, a wrinkle forming between his eyes as he took Ripley’s leash back. “You didn’t have to come.”

  “I didn’t. Ripley did. I couldn’t stop him.”

  Ripley looked innocent as he sat in front of Jackson now, wagging his tail with his tongue hanging out.

  Traitor.

  Jackson bent down. “We need to have a talk sometime, boy. That wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Ripley barked and wagged his tail.

  At once I wondered if I should tell Jackson about my text from Eric, the ones claiming that if someone hurt me, Eric would die. Then I decided against it. He’d ask too many questions, questions I didn’t want to answer. Besides, I didn’t want to talk about Eric. I wanted to forget about him.

  I nodded in the distance. “I think I’m going to grab a smoothie. I’m feeling hungry.”

  Jackson twitched his head back in the direction he came. “I’ll keep walking Ripley. I’m hoping to get some of his energy out. Then I want to check in at the station about the car.”

  Part of me felt disappointed he wasn’t coming too. Which was ridiculous.

  I kneeled down, unable to stay mad at the canine who’d just taken me on the ride of my life. “Be a good boy, Ripley, okay?”

  In response, he licked my face.

  I giggled. It was the first real giggle that had escaped my lips in months.

  I stood and glanced at Jackson. He had that weird look in his eyes again. “I’ll talk to you later, Jackson.”

  “Later.”

  For some strange reason, this time when we said goodbye, I didn’t feel like Jackson totally hated me.

  When I walked into Oh Buoy, the first thing I noticed was how packed it was. With motorcyclists here for the rally that Jackson had mentioned earlier.

  I’d always envisioned them to be more meat-and-potatoes type of people, but that was what I got for stereotyping. I earned the privilege of being wrong.

  Despite the crowd, I really wanted a Coquina Crush, so I waited in a long line. Phoebe—Jackson’s sister-in-law—was behind the register.

  Finally, it was my turn to order.

  “Joey, good to see you again.” She peered closer. “You’ve got some sand on your cheek. You been rolling around out there?”

  I touched my face. Sure enough, it was gritty. Must be from where Ripley made me trip.

  “Jackson,” I sighed.

  Thanks for mentioning that, friend.

  “You’ve been rolling around with Jackson?” She raised her eyebrows.

  My cheeks heated. “Oh, no. I had a little encounter with his dog,” I quickly corrected.

  Her eyes spark
led. “Ripley? He’s a handful.”

  “Tell me about it. I just said his name because Jackson saw me but failed to mention my disheveled state.” I had to give an explanation before she got the wrong idea. I glanced around and noted that no one was behind me.

  Phoebe’s hands rested on the register, and her hair was in the same long braid, just like last time. “You’re so pretty, Jackson probably thought it was adorable.”

  I nearly snorted. “I’m pretty certain that there’s nothing about me Jackson finds adorable. I’m more of a nuisance to people like him.”

  And by people like him, I meant people who gave up everything to take care of dying spouses. He was . . . he was honorable. More of a man than Eric could ever dream of being. More of a man than I ever deserved to be with.

  He was too good for me. The legacy I’d left for myself was anything but honorable. It was selfish and stupid and something I wished I could change. But I couldn’t undo the past.

  “You might be surprised,” Phoebe said. “Now, what can I get for you?”

  I ordered and waited for a seat to open up. Just as my smoothie order was ready, I spotted one familiar person sitting in a booth by himself.

  There was really no need for one person to use a booth meant for four, especially when there were no other seats in this place. So I took my smoothie and approached him.

  “Can I sit here?”

  Manson, the US marshal from Simon Philips’s place, looked up. His eyes lit with surprise.

  He had been the one who’d seemed fairly impressed that I was an actress, so maybe he wouldn’t see this as an imposition.

  “Go right ahead.”

  I tried to dredge up everything I could remember about the US marshals. It wasn’t much, and I wasn’t sure how accurate any of it was. Hollywood did take liberties sometimes. But I was pretty sure they chased fugitives, transported prisoners, and protected witnesses.

  I slid across from him, my smoothie in hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “What can I say? Even marshals have breaks sometimes.”

  “I see. I’m kind of surprised you’re still in the area, Deputy Marshal—or is it Marshal Deputy? Maybe just Marshal—”

  “Just call me Ted. And yes, I’m still in the area. We’re still looking for answers.”

  I remembered Leonard’s words from last night. The killer is still here. Were the marshals looking for Simon’s killer, or had they just stuck with the assumption that Lily was guilty? Or were they searching for Giselle because she was in witness protection? And there was the even bigger question: How did Leonard know any of this?

  “I wasn’t aware that marshals investigated. I thought they just protected. And went after counterfeiters.”

  “That’s Secret Service.”

  “Sorry. I always get them mixed up. It’s so confusing.”

  “It is. I agree.” He leaned back, studying me unapologetically. “Didn’t know you were in this area. You’re not filming anything new?”

  I shook my head, realizing that developing a positive rapport with the man was a good idea. “Nope. I’m not. I’m taking a little break from Hollywood.” Probably a permanent break, but I didn’t mention that.

  Should I mention that I’d seen Giselle at the pier? No, I decided. Jackson would tell him. It was his place to reveal that information, not mine.

  “You know, my wife used to always watch your show.”

  “Used to? I guess she’s not into reruns, huh?” So much for making money in syndication.

  “I guess I should say ex-wife. Sorry. She could still be watching, for all I know.”

  “I’m divorced. I get that. And I’m sorry.”

  He frowned. “She left me for a stockbroker. This job didn’t pay enough to support her lifestyle, even though she knew what I did for a living when we got married.”

  “I’m . . . sorry.”

  He sighed and pulled out his cell phone and wallet, plopping them on the table, along with an inhaler. I guessed his pockets were a little too stuffed. As he did so, his wallet flopped open. I spotted his credit cards, along with a picture of him and a woman.

  “Maybe I haven’t gotten over her yet. You caught me.” He quickly closed it.

  “Any closer to finding your witness?” I asked, changing the subject. I kept on unwittingly getting into conversations that seemed way too personal with people I hardly knew. I wasn’t sure why this kept happening, but I needed to stop it.

  “You know I can’t answer that. But I can tell you this: you’re in over your head. This isn’t an episode of Relentless.”

  I swallowed hard. “I know.”

  “We believe Simon was coming to this area to kill Giselle and that he was working with someone.”

  Working with someone? Someone who could still be out there, watching and planning his next move. “I understand.”

  He leaned closer. “Ms. Darling, I’d stay far away from this investigation if I were you.”

  When I pounded up the steps to my house after finishing my smoothie, I heard the door open next door.

  Zane popped his head out. Of course.

  I scowled, feeling very Jackson-esque. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t?” I punched in my key code.

  “Please, Joey. Let me explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear your explanations.” I pushed the door open, ready to escape from the one person I’d thought was my friend.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  That stopped me. “Really? Because I think you were just using me to up your social status or something. But don’t think you’re the first one who’s ever done that. There have been plenty of others. And I don’t speak to any of them anymore either.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  I stepped inside, and Zane appeared in the doorway like an oversized teddy bear sent as an apology gift.

  He truly looked repentant, with a big frown and puppy dog eyes.

  I sighed, hating the fact that I was such a softie. “You have two minutes to explain, and then I’m shutting the door.”

  “I’m doing that bucket list thing as part of my endorsement deal for Slick Ocean,” he blurted.

  “Slick Ocean?”

  “The surf company. They’re national. The endorsement deal is great. I blog for them and take lots of pictures as I do it. I put yours up yesterday. None of them have ever gone viral before. This one did, and it happened so quickly.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

  “It seems weird. I didn’t even think you’d find out about it. Or that anyone would recognize you since the angle was kinda weird. And then there was that guy outside the lighthouse. It seemed to freak you out. It didn’t seem like a good time.”

  My jaw jutted out. “Uh-huh.”

  “Listen, Joey. I asked them to take it down. But by then the Instigator had picked it up. Slick Ocean thought it was great publicity, so they’re not going to take it down. And now here we are.” He raised his hands, palms up, and his eyes were circles of remorse.

  “It’s started a bit of a firestorm in my personal life. Did you ever think about that?” I had to get out of the cold. I nodded for Zane to come all the way in, figuring I would forgive him eventually, and then I shut the door. I deposited my coat on a chair by the front door and then glanced at the house behind me.

  What if Leonard was inside?

  A shiver raked through me. No, that wasn’t Leonard’s MO. At least, it didn’t used to be.

  The thought wasn’t comforting.

  Zane shook his head in response to my question. “Honestly, no. I wasn’t thinking about your personal life. I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking about you at all.”

  “And I wanted to keep my stay here under wraps and not advertise it to the world.” I paced deeper into my house, hoping no one jumped out and grabbed me again.

  At least Zane was here, even if
he was a traitor.

  Zane followed behind me. “I wish I could say more than sorry. But I can’t. Please forgive me, Joey. You’re a cool chick. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Most girls . . . they only love me for my hands—”

  I stopped in my tracks, and my mouth dropped open. “Your hands? What in the—”

  “I’m a licensed massage therapist.”

  “What?”

  He cocked his head. “Why do you think all of those girls always come and go?”

  “Because you’re a player.” I didn’t mince any words.

  “I’m seriously not a player. I give therapeutic massages. From home. Under the table, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean, cash-only tax-evasion types of things?” That wasn’t a pleasant subject with me. Not at all. Especially when considering the IRS was garnishing my wages.

  “Well, I don’t know. Kinda. I mean, I don’t advertise my services, because that would be weird. Who would believe that I’m a Realtor, a professional surfer, and a licensed massage therapist? It diminishes my credibility.”

  I didn’t even know what to say. “All of those women are . . . clients?” The words burned my throat as I realized the double meaning they could have.

  “Yes. Massage clients. Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not . . . what you’re thinking.”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

  “I can imagine. I told you I used to be in sports medicine.”

  “But you gave it up to come here and enjoy the good life?”

  “Yes, exactly. Life is too short to live in a concrete jungle and participate in the rat race.” He stepped closer. “Please, Joey. Say you forgive me.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll start singing at the top of my lungs.”

  “Singing?” That was his threat?

  “Exactly.” He started singing Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” at the top of his lungs.

  I giggled and hushed him. “Okay. I get it. You can be quiet now.”

  “So you forgive me?”

  “This time. Don’t do it again.”

  He grinned and pulled me into a bear hug, shaking me back and forth dramatically. “Thanks, Joey-woey. You’re the best.”

  He was one of those people. The kind who were hard to stay mad at. But he was also the kind I’d been able to speak to honestly and that I felt like I could be myself around.