The Waverly house was no different. A long drive led toward a three-car garage attached to the stone house. Continuing down the street, I looked for an ideal stakeout spot. But the trees had been artfully arranged in the yards, leaving the street exposed. And this neighborhood wasn't one to have cars parked on the road without appearing obvious. No places to hide.
I parked down the street from the Waverly home, fitted myself with a ball cap and a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses, and walked. Two ladies in yoga outfits passed me, waving. I looped the cul-de-sac and walked back. The yoga ladies waved again, chatting as they walked by, not seeming to care I still stalked their street. Reaching my Jag, I turned and retraced my course. If anything, I was going to work off breakfast.
My trainer would be proud.
On my third loop, one garage door lifted, exposing the rear of a yellow Corvette Stingray. Mr. Waverly backed out, turned, and zoomed out the drive. Didn't even notice me.
I checked the time and figured Waverly for a nine-to-fiver. Two minutes later, the second Waverly garage door rose. I hurried back to my car. Sliding inside, I ducked as the silver Porsche Cayenne drove past, a woman at the wheel. Sarah Waverly, I assumed. Or they had help who owned Cayennes.
Exiting the Platinum Ridge gates, I saw the Cayenne in the distance, turning toward town. I followed until the Cayenne turned right, onto a side street. Sarah Waverly pulled into the lot of an office building and parked. With the stone facade, pitched roof and triangular windows, the building reminded me of something you'd see in the Rockies. Like in Sundance.
While I relived memories of Sundance, Sarah Waverly hustled from her car, a small bag in her hand, and entered the glass front doors. I parked and walked to the building. The sign read Black Pine Group. David Waverly's firm. I glanced around the parking lot but didn't see the Corvette.
Why would Sarah Waverly show up at her husband's office when he wasn't here? The bag she carried looked like one of those insulated lunch sacks. Was she bringing her husband lunch? At nine in the morning? Was this the behavior of a woman having an affair?
Maybe she felt guilty.
I strolled into the lobby and the young, pretty receptionist smiled. "Can I help you?"
"Is David Waverly in?" I asked.
She glanced at my chest straining the Stella McCartney Adidas stretch tee. Her upper lip twitched. "Mr. Waverly's not in now. Maybe he'd rather have you stop in later this afternoon?"
When you looked like me, you learned a thing or two about men. And women. And expectations of people who looked like me. The receptionist thought I was David Waverly's current side of fries. And she wanted me gone before Mrs. Waverly walked out of her husband's office and noticed me. That the receptionist seemed unflustered by my presence meant this was not an unprecedented occurrence.
I did not like Mr. Waverly.
But he was Mr. Nash’s client. Sort of. An unwanted client. But a client I could use to impress Mr. Nash.
"Okey-dokey," I said in my best bimbo voice. I leaned forward and whispered, "Did I just see Mrs. Waverly go inside?"
The receptionist lowered her eyes to the appointment book. "Dropping off his lunch. She's in his office now. But David's really not here. Call first?"
"Thanks." I sashayed from the lobby and out to the parking lot.
Five minutes later, Sarah Waverly hurried to her Porsche. She pulled out of the lot and turned right.
At the same time, I realized how stupid it was to drive around with the top down on my Jag. I made for a pretty obvious investigator. Or really dumb side of fries. In the time it took for the cover to latch and the windows to go up, Sarah Waverly had shot away.
So I was still learning.
After driving around, then back to Platinum Ridge where I learned from Hector that Mrs. Waverly had not returned, I remembered Sarah Waverly went to the club most mornings. Nash had said so.
Feeling chock full of rational thinking and wise decision making, I went back to the club. Stopping behind a black Escalade, I sang along to a Top Twenty groove, while the vehicle waited—for no discernible reason—to pull into the drive.
As the song moved from the second stanza to a refrain, my fingers lost time with the bass line and began strumming the steering wheel to a more impatient beat. Luckily, I was in Black Pine. If this was LA, someone would’ve climbed out of their car and pulled a road rage riot on the Escalade.
The Escalade’s back door swung open. A woman—in black workout tights and a matching tank I recognized from the Splits 59 Noir de Sport line—hopped out and strode toward my car.
“Craptastic.” I slid down in my seat.
Her blonde coif had been pulled up in a pert ponytail, but this was no cheerleader headed for pom practice. Any sideline cheers on Vicki’s part required contracted fees against net profit percentages plus opening credit mentions.
In a preemptive strike, I zipped down my window and leaned out. “Can you tell your driver to let me pull in? I don’t have time to talk—”
“This will only take a minute.” Vicki’s ponytail bounced as her slim hips made short work of the distance between the two vehicles.
“We’re blocking the road.”
Her exaggerated glance up and down the street agreed with my earlier assessment of Black Pine traffic. However, that agreement irritated more than consoled.
She stopped at my window. “Good morning, Maizie. I see you kept some good habits from your former career.”
“I—” I clamped down on the words that might have tumbled forth without knowing the habits to which Vicki referred. She could be tricky like that. “What are you doing?”
“Obviously coming back from the gym. The resort is lacking proper equipment and a trainer. I had to get one from Atlanta.”
“You shipped a gym here?”
“Really, Maizie.” The ponytail twitched. “The Jaguar people need some confirmation you’ll be paying them. Would you like their number?”
“I told you I don’t have a phone.” Or a paycheck, but I kept quiet on that one.
“They don’t have a phone at that cabin? Please tell me your father hasn’t resorted to living off the land again. Has he made good on his threat to teach you to hunt and clean your own dinner?”
I felt a shudder at that truism but caught myself before Vicki could see it. “Not recently.”
“You know you can stay at the villa with me.”
“Only if I agree to another season, right?”
“You like your comforts and the Spayberrys never cared about luxury. Speaking of luxury, I have a surprise waiting for you at the resort. It also arrived this morning.”
I wished the surprise to be the title to my car, then repressed that thought. No need to further Vicki’s opinion on my selfishness. “Thank you, but Daddy’s house is just fine.”
“Agreeing to another Albright season would be a nice thing to do for the parent you left behind. I can work things out with that judge if you’d let me.”
Her maternal instinct to inflict guilt knew no bounds. “Judge Ellis was pretty clear about me not working in the industry—”
“This isn’t about probation requirements.” She crossed her arms. “This is about you hiding from your problems. Just like when you didn’t make the cut for that Disney pilot. You ran here. And came right back to me when your father wouldn’t let you audition for local theater. The Sound of Music, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not hiding from problems.” Sort of. “I’m not twelve.” Physically. Although some (Renata) might question my emotional reactions to Vicki. “I am my own person and allowed to make decisions. Even if others disagree with those decisions.”
“Which therapist taught you that?” Vicki arched a brow. “Your grandmother rarely said a kind word to me or anyone else and I never found rehab necessary. Your grandmother also didn’t spend her best years fighting tooth and nail so her daughter could become a star.”
“I didn’t ask to become a star.”
“How original.” Sh
e narrowed her eyes. “Think about that response while you’re with the family who ignored us when we were living in a one bedroom in the Valley. We didn’t work this hard just for you to quit when the going gets tough, Maizie.”
The ponytail whipped around and she stomped back to the Escalade. Three seconds later, it zipped toward the villa entrance.
All I needed was a five-minute conversation with Vicki to doubt my every decision. I didn’t want to be a star. Or did I? Was that why I offered my services to David Waverly even when my would-be boss told me no? For the attention?
“Am I a selfish, spoiled brat who doesn’t deserve second chances?” I spoke aloud, hoping some note in my voice would settle my doubts.
The universe answered. A horn sounded. I turned in my seat to see an elderly man peeking above the wheel of a giant Buick. He shook a fist then accelerated around me.
I followed the Buick into the parking lot. Found a spot near the front door. Parked. Pinched my thumb. Then reminded myself why I was in the Black Pine Golf and Yacht Club parking lot in the first place.
I turned to the mirror where Vicki’s green eyes stared back. Minus the chutzpah. “So Vicki spent her quality years working her tiny ass off to get you in the business. Remember, that was her prerogative. Now you’re an adult. You have an obligation to follow David Waverly’s wife. You can’t chicken out just because Vicki scares you. You gave your word. Let’s get to it.”
Other than blink, I didn’t move.
I tried again. “Would Julia Pinkerton sit in a car, staring at herself? No, she would not. She’d get out, find Sarah Waverly, and continue her surveillance. And still show up in time to cheer at Homecoming.”
The sea glass greens narrowed. This time, Julia Pinkerton stared back at me. A snarky half-smile slid across my face. Reassured, I got out of the car and commenced my Sarah Waverly search.
I did a slow turn, spotted Sarah Waverly's Cayenne, and trotted to the Porsche to peek inside. Placing my forehead against the glass, I shielded my eyes. The front seat didn't have the normal debris my Jag had. Not even one of those little green Starbucks sticks. Even my assistant missed those when she cleaned out my car.
Poor Blake. Destined to clean out Starbucks’ sticks for some other spoiled brat actress.
I circled to peer into the trunk. Saw Sarah Waverly's pink Callaway bag. Golf clubs. And what looked like an orange Prada handbag. I peeled my eyes off the Papaya Prada and thought hard. Sarah Waverly didn’t bring her clubs inside. But why bother lugging clubs if she was meeting her lover? Proving David Waverly's theories correct and Mr. Nash wrong.
Shizzles.
Hang on. Why would you leave your handbag in the car with your clubs? Where would you go and not take your purse? I couldn't think of anywhere I wouldn't take my purse.
Troubled, I headed into the club pro office and toward the young man working the cash register, hoping Sarah was on the links. Without her clubs.
"Hey," I said. "I thought I saw my friend Sarah Waverly come in. She wouldn't mind if I joined her. When's her tee-off?"
The golf pro checked his computer. "She reserved a time starting ten minutes ago. Are you a member?" He cocked his head. "You look familiar, but I can't place you. Where do I know you from?"
I smiled. "I have one of those faces."
"No, not really." He gazed at me for a long second. "You look like somebody on TV."
"I get that a lot. Did Sarah come in here?"
"No, but she probably went in through the front doors. You can get to the locker rooms either way."
I spun toward the door and exited. I followed the sidewalk through the clubhouse front doors. The lobby had a great stone fireplace, a twin to the Cove's, and giant windowed views. A few members lounged on leather sofas and wingback chairs near the fireplace, taking no notice of me. Two halls split off the lobby. I turned right, toward the locker rooms and pro shop.
The locker room opened from the ladies', where an attendant sat on a small stool. She glanced up as I pushed through the door.
"Don't get up," I said, moving forward. "I'm looking for my friend, Sarah Waverly. Did she pass through here an hour or so ago? Short, chestnut brown hair and wearing white capri pants or maybe a golfing outfit?"
"No, ma'am."
"Did anyone pass through here?"
"No, ma'am. Are you a member?" she asked.
I pulled a Vicki and ignored her question, then entered the room. Wood-paneled lockers and cushioned benches lined the room.
No Sarah Waverly.
Two tennis-skirted women slung racket bags over their shoulders and strode to an outside door. I dipped my head into the dressing and shower area.
Empty.
Pushing open the outside door, I glanced out. A flagstone patio ran the length of the clubhouse. At the practice tees, just past the clubhouse, a man and an older couple chipped shots. The tennis ladies strolled off a set of stone steps, leading from the patio to a golf cart path. I followed the cart path to the first, second, and third tees. At the fifth green, I turned and headed back to the clubhouse.
Zipping through the locker room, I took the door leading to the pro shop. At the desk, I smiled at the cashier. "Hey, did Sarah Waverly check in with you? I couldn't catch her."
"No," said the clerk. "She's probably on the second or third hole now, though."
Which she wasn’t.
Sarah Waverly had disappeared.
Fifty yards from where I had been arguing with my mother.
seven
#LostHousewivesofBlackPine #Playbuoys
Sarah Waverly did not materialize in the clubhouse, but her Cayenne hadn't left the parking lot. Because there were two golf courses, lake view and mountain, I checked to see if she had gone to the wrong tee. Then checked the tennis and pool area. And every nook and cranny in the clubhouse. Other than randomly driving around the golf courses, I had explored all the options at the club.
Sucktastic. I’d lost Sarah Waverly.
Or she had lost me.
I stood on the patio and stared at the snack bar counter, longing for an unhealthy morsel or jolt of sugar. Anything that might make me feel better. I forced myself to look at the lake.
Mr. Nash was right. I couldn't be a real detective just because I played one on TV. I couldn't even find a woman on a golf course. My eyes edged back to the snack bar and I pinched my thumb skin hard.
This was why Vicki had returned to Black Pine. She knew I would fail.
Didn’t take me long either.
Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut instead of arguing with Vicki in the middle of the street? I might have seen Sarah Waverly leave her car or go into the club. If she had been picked up, I might have spotted them instead of focusing on Vicki.
Once again, I let my issues get in the way of a job. And this was a job I had fought for. And sort of scammed myself into.
“I’m such a loser.” I had a college degree in Criminal Justice that was limited by my semi-criminal background. My real life skill set was meager. And now I had no money, was about to lose my car, and was restricted in my movements by a judge who found me a benign imbecile.
Maybe I should sign with Vicki, I thought. Let her work her magic with the judge. But I’d be stuck in reality show hell forever.
Once All is Albright lost momentum (because it would), I'd have to go on reality competition shows for B-list stars. I'd move on to the Big Brother-style shows where I'd be crammed into a house and forced to eat bugs with C- and D-list stars. Then I'd have another stint of Celebrity Rehab, followed by a Celebrity Extreme Makeover.
By then, TV might find it cheaper to go back to scripted drama programming, which would disappoint script writers who find reality TV more fun to write (or so I'm told). And reality stars who can't act—like me—would be out of a job.
In five minutes, I’d already talked myself out of two careers.
Vicki was right. When things got bad, I wanted to give up.
But I did follow direction well
. I just needed training. Which meant I would have to fess up to Mr. Nash and beg him to train me.
Starting with, "How to Not Lose A Client's Wife."
It's very hard to find a pay phone. I had to borrow someone's phone to google pay phone locations. Then drive to a gas station to use one of the two pay phones in Black Pine. Ironically, the other pay phone was in the Dixie Kreme Donut shop below Nash Security.
I dialed the Nash Security number while forcing my breaths from shallow to deep. "Mr. Nash, I need your help. I've lost her."
"Ma'am, I can help. Can I get your name?" answered Nash. "And who did you lose?"
"This is Maizie. And I lost Sarah Waverly."
"What?"
"I lost her at the club. She had a tee time. She parked at the club, but then she disappeared." While waiting for Nash to use less explicit words, I decided not to mention my Vicki detour. “I followed her from her home to Black Pine Group where she dropped off Mr. Waverly's lunch."
"Sarah Waverly does that every day. Then she goes to the club. You must have missed her. She's on the third hole, which can be tricky to find."
"No, she isn't." I pinched my thumb skin. "I don't think she kept her tee time. Mr. Nash, I've looked everywhere at the club and on the course. I can't find her."
A deep sigh resounded from the phone. "Did you check the docks? Sometimes she takes out their boat. Sarah's a good sailor. Just a minute." Papers shuffled in the background. "Dock B, slip four. The Playbuoy. It's a cabin cruiser. Stingray."
"Did you say Playboy?"
"Play-boo-ee. It's a pun, Miss Albright."
"Still," I said, "not very appropriate for a married couple, don't you think?"
"This coming from the girl caught on camera hauling off her panties?"
"They weren't panties. They were Spanx and I had been dancing all night and couldn't breathe. I didn't know the limo driver was going to open the door at that moment. Wait, a minute. How did you know that? I thought you weren't interested in celebrity news."
"No-Panties-Albright pictures were plastered over every tabloid cover in the nation for three weeks, Miss Albright. You stand in line to buy a six-pack and can't help but be confronted with your national exposure."
15 Minutes: Maizie Albright Star Detective Page 6
