15 Minutes: Maizie Albright Star Detective

by Larissa Reinhart

  Taking courage, I turned to face Vicki. "It doesn't matter because I no longer need to be in front of a camera."

  She zipped a finger across an iPad. A photo of me riding Lucky flashed across the screen. Knees and elbows jutted stork-like. Neck lost within my hunched shoulders. In the wind, the Tortoise Jeans camisole had plastered against my skin, revealing the belly rim squeezed out by the leather pants. The wedge of Lucky's seat betwixt my bubble crack was nothing to admire, either.

  "I'm sorry, dear, but you can't hide from the camera."

  I choked on seltzer. "Is that online or in your photo stream?"

  "What does it matter if you're no longer in front of the camera?"

  "You have Al and his camera crew following me around town, taping me. I’ll press harassment charges."

  "So press." Vicki shrugged. "You don't care about us anymore, so I'm sure you don't care what happens to Al if he has stalking charges on his record. His ex-wife will be thrilled. Something to show the judge when she sues for full custody of his kids."

  Giulio whistled.

  "You are diabolical," I whispered.

  "When are you going to grow up, Maizie? A lot of people are dependent on this show. Not just the cast and crew, but the network. Sponsors are lined up. For God sakes, it's only been a few weeks since we presented the next season proposal at the Lincoln Center upfronts."

  "It's not my fault you agreed to another season without asking me."

  "As your manager, I felt I could answer for you. If you weren't dealing with another legal catastrophe, I would have gotten you to sign that contract earlier." Vicki's eyes narrowed. “Have your identity crisis, but you're not screwing us over. Have you ever heard of a network suing a producer? It's always the other way around."

  "I'm not having an identity crisis." Except for all the Julia Pinkerton channeling. Which meant I might be having an identity crisis.

  "Maizie, you know I don’t play softball. But I made an exception since you are,” she shot a look at Giulio, who had the brains to look away, “my daughter. I gave you several opportunities to sign a new contract. I could have helped you in your latest disaster. No more.”

  There was that Space Mountain star room feeling again.

  “You're going to be on the show whether you like it or not. Belly bulge and all."

  Oh. My. God. The black van was going to follow me everywhere. Nash would never let me out of the office. If there was an office to let me out of.

  "But Vicki, darling," said Giulio. "If Maizie continues to look like this, the media will eat her alive."

  "The sponsors will hate it, but the network will love all the press. Following a girl pretending to be a detective is a lot more interesting than following around a has-been student who dates drug dealers."

  "You are a genius," said Giulio. "What is my part? Maizie will not let me seduce her."

  "I'm considering different roles for you, but don't worry Giulio. Your paycheck is safe."

  “How many times do I have to tell you, I can’t legally work in the industry anymore?” My voice climbed from frustration toward panic.

  Giulio slipped an arm around my waist and raised my hand to his lips. "Don't worry, darling. If the filming is candid, you don't need a contract. The judge can't complain."

  "Which means I'm filmed without getting paid?"

  "Miss Albright." Nash's voice floated over my shoulder. "If you're done schmoozing, the Bournes are waiting."

  I spun around, horrified at what Nash might have heard.

  He stood with his arms folded, that hard-edged look returned.

  "And you are?" said Vicki.

  "Leaving," I said. "You need to leave. We need to leave. Go. Now."

  "Darling," said Giulio. "Introduce us. Is this your private dick? He's so..."

  "Don't," I pleaded.

  "Manly."

  I looked at Nash. I had never seen disgust so plainly visible on a man's face before.

  Giulio flashed a razor-edged smile between his symmetrical dimples. “Dick? Is that not the right word? I'm sorry, my English is not always so good, darling."

  Vicki trailed a long look over Nash, then handed him a card. "We need to talk."

  Nash arched a brow. "Do you have security needs?"

  "Jolene Sweeney has informed me about your predicament. I've come to the conclusion that we can help each other. That one," Vicki flicked a look at me, "needs a salary to keep her out of the California penal system. It'll be cheaper to keep you afloat and Maizie accessible."

  "No," said Nash.

  "Think about it. I've got no interest in your business. Only what Maizie does for it. Or for you, if that's the case." The glance she tossed between us made me want to consume the Cove's entire fried menu, shrivel up, and die. In that order. "Work her how you want, I'll cover the cost and keep you in business."

  "Are you her pimp?" asked Nash.

  During the whole Oliver scandal, when I stood in court and let a judge give me a very public tongue-lashing, I thought I had lost all my pride. But no. This was pretty much it. The pinnacle of my humiliation.

  "Ma'am." Nash nodded and slipped the business card into his shirt pocket. Then he grabbed my arm and marched my Zanottis out of the restaurant.

  By the time we arrived at the Bournes, we still hadn't talked. I spent the entire ride pinching my thumb skin and wondering why Nash had hauled me into his truck instead of leaving me at the Cove. No explanation. No questions. No sarcastic quips. He kept his eyes on the road, his mouth shut, and his expression grim. I knew he regretted his decision to let me help in the investigation. Therefore, for once, I was glad he didn't attempt conversation.

  I kept my mouth shut, too. And I had stuff to tell him. About his ex-wife in particular.

  The Bournes’ ivy-covered brick box and crumbling circular drive screamed mid-century money pit. Nature had taken over the yard service. Oaks and pines yawned over the long ranch's peaked roof.

  Nash stared at the house for a long second, thumped his hand on the steering wheel, and slid out of the truck without comment.

  I scrambled out the passenger door and traipsed across the weedy, cracked cement in my Zanottis, trying not to break an ankle.

  At the door, Nash glanced at me, glared at my shoes, and rang the bell.

  A withered, little man wearing a faded corduroy suit answered the door. Not having any previous experience with swingers, his attire surprised me. Rather than leather sleeve patches, I expected something more along the lines of an ascot and silk robe.

  I've got to stop judging people by their clothes.

  "Mr. Bourne," said Nash. "I'm from Nash Security Solutions. I spoke to your wife on the phone."

  Mr. Bourne raised a hand to his ear. A high pitched whine rent the night air.

  Nash winced.

  Somewhere nearby, a dog howled.

  "Speak up," said Mr. Bourne, then yelled over his shoulder, "Marie, I need you."

  Behind Mr. Bourne, a rhythmic shuffle thump preceded the appearance of a woman in a zippered velour robe, clutching a walker. She blinked behind oversized glasses, lenses thicker than my ankles. "Are you Officer Nash?" she shouted.

  Nash paused, seeming to consider the correction. "Yes, ma'am," he yelled.

  Mr. Bourne stuck his finger in his ear and the sonic screech of his hearing aid pierced the air again.

  "Stop that, Jefferson." Mrs. Bourne swatted his arm. Behind her mega-prescriptions, she blinked and squinted at me. "Come in. We're about to have our dessert. You're here about our dock, aren't you? We have all the boats recorded."

  Nash and I glanced at each other and followed them inside.

  In the foyer, watercolor paintings of yachts covered a large wall, almost hiding the flocked wallpaper. We stopped to examine the paintings, but Mr. Bourne pointed down the hall.

  "This way," he shouted. "She's got more."

  His wife had already disappeared behind the giant wall, the tennis-balled walker whispering across the parquet.
r />   Mr. Bourne held the edge of the wall to step down into the room and I hurried to grab his arm.

  He grinned appreciatively and dug his arm into my ribcage. "Thank you, honey."

  A piece of tape popped. I held my breath to keep my chest from moving. We tread across the matted shag carpet, my steps mincing more to stop the chest avalanche than to meet Mr. Bourne's gait. Mrs. Bourne and Nash had crossed the room to a set of French doors that exited onto a screened porch. With his leather patched elbow slicing across the Fixomull strips, Mr. Bourne and I shuffled toward the door.

  He didn't hear the tear, but judging by his smile, he might have felt it.

  Released from bondage, half of my upper body jiggled in rejoice. I clamped my free arm across my chest and prayed Mrs. Bourne's myopia was catching.

  Inside the porch, I moved toward the screened windows for covert wardrobe malfunction adjustments. Below us, outdoor lighting lit a long wooden dock and adjoining boathouse. A flagstone patio with a vine covered pergola looked romantically inviting. It depressed me to think the club members used the Bournes' retreat for illicit liaisons. It depressed me more to think the Bournes were okay with that. They seemed grandparently.

  Mr. Bourne grabbed a bottle of Jim Bean and splashed bourbon in four glasses. Mrs. Bourne sank on a wrought iron chair and waved her hand at a Wedgwood plate of cookies. Oreos. Nutter Butters. Lorna Doones. Oh, my.

  "Will you join us?" she asked.

  I smiled and reached, felt the slide of skin against crepe, and slapped my arms across my chest. "No, thank you."

  Nash stood before an easel, examining a half-painted watercolor of another yacht. A large magnifying glass had been clamped on the easel, enlarging a photo of the subject. "I take it you paint the boats you see on the lake."

  Mrs. Bourne nodded her head and twisted apart an Oreo. "It's my hobby. But I can't see them anymore, so Jefferson uses the digital thingy to snap a shot and print it. Technology is wonderful."

  I glanced at the Nikon sitting on the table, not too different from the professional camera Al used for stills.

  Mr. Bourne pointed into the living room where a desk held a slick inkjet printer and an Apple Mac Pro desktop. The Bournes might not have updated their house since 1972, but they stayed on top of technological trends better than my hipster friends.

  "How often do you take pictures?" Nash accentuated his words in loud, crisp tones, but I could tell he was getting excited.

  "Every day," said Mrs. Bourne, crunching into a Nutter Butter.

  "Wonderful." Nash's face revealed happy thoughts of crime scenes and evidence bags.

  My face probably revealed happy thoughts of Nutter Butters. I licked my lips. "Do you have a photo from last Friday?"

  Mr. Bourne held out a glass of bourbon to me. "Drink?"

  I shook my head, focusing on Mrs. Bourne, who now attacked a Lorna Doone.

  "Oh, we toss the photos," she said. "What would we do with thousands of pictures of the Black Pine Club yachts? There're so many, we bought a shredder."

  Nash winced at "shredder" and reached for the Jim Bean offered by Mr. Bourne.

  "Did you paint any boats last Friday?" I asked, hoping to cheer Nash. "The Playbuoy might have come out this way. Did you see it? Maybe docked on your landing? With another boat?"

  "Jefferson," shouted Mrs. Bourne. "Take them to the latest wall."

  Mr. Bourne stuck his finger in his ear. The shrill decibel rent our eardrums.

  "Have mercy, Jefferson. Get a new battery. The wall. Friday last," she hollered. Snagging another Oreo, she glanced at us. "I'd take you myself, but I can't see worth a damn. I won't know which painting is which."

  This time, I didn't offer Jefferson my arm, afraid for the damage his sharp elbows might do to my right side. I plodded after Mr. Bourne. Nash plodded after me. Mr. Bourne led us through the living room and down the front hall to a bedroom. I stopped in the doorway. I'm always hesitant about entering strange bedrooms. Especially in rumored swinger abodes.

  Behind me, Nash pressed close and leaned into my ear. I could sense the look he cast over my shoulder, and I squeezed my arms tightly across the V-neck.

  "Miss Albright."

  I waited for the cutting remark about the inappropriateness of my attire. His breath tickled my neck, but the pause ripped at my nerves. "Yes, Mr. Nash?"

  A sigh dusted my shoulders, causing shivers in all sorts of places. "David Waverly is at large. He left the house this morning but didn't show up for work. Never came home. I got a call from my friend after I talked to you on the phone. They have an APB out on him, but no one's seen him today."

  "He ran?" Still clutching my chest, I spun around and teetered in the heels.

  Nash grabbed my elbows until I steadied.

  "Why didn't you tell me in the truck?” I asked.

  "I was thinking."

  "So why'd you agree to come here?"

  "Because it's a good lead."

  A thrill of pride stole through me, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself. "You were disappointed they shredded the photos."

  "The pictures might still be on the memory card. That's evidence. We can get a time record for Friday. Who knows, they might have captured Waverly doing something."

  I grabbed his arms. "Thank you for believing in me."

  He scowled. "It's not about believing in you. You got a good lead. We're following it."

  Embarrassed, I released his arms and found Julia's confidence. "Anyway, I appreciate the chance."

  The scowl melted and his eyes dropped.

  I followed his look to my V-neck.

  Oh. My. God.

  "I appreciate the chance, too," he said, admiringly. "Is that tape?"

  I slapped my arms over my chest.

  His eyes slid up to meet my heated face. "Tape's tricky. You might need help getting it off."

  O.M.G.

  "Baby oil."

  "Baby oil?" I formed the words while lewd images filled my brain. I had spent too much time among the licentious Black Piners. Plus, my time in Hollywood didn't help.

  "Heard it works wonders for getting tape off. Good luck."

  "Thanks." The heat coiling in my nether regions fizzled, cooled, and iced.

  "Anytime."

  I turned and walked into the bedroom. "Huh."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Black Pine decorating habits astound me." The entire room had been wallpapered in psychedelic flowers and covered in boat paintings. Mr. Bourne leaned over a canvas hung at shin height between a closet door and a dressing table with a yellow flounced skirt.

  "What'd you expect? A jungle room? We're not in Hollywood." Nash stood close, speaking in hushed tones that did crazy things to my skin.

  "I believe you're thinking of Graceland." I peeked over my shoulder, wishing my heart would quit with the costar crushing. I strode to the chenille covered twin bed where Mr. Bourne had laid the painting of the boat.

  Actually, a painting of two boats. One behind the other, lined up like toys along the long dock. The birds-eye-view of dappled colors also showed two people on the dock. One appeared to be tying off the second boat. The other person, a redhead in a green bikini, stood with her hands on her hips. A good likeness even with the medium’s mottled, soft-edges.

  "Isn't she talented?" Mr. Bourne eyed his wife's painting with pride.

  "Are you sure that's from last Friday morning?" hollered Nash into Mr. Bourne's ear.

  "Oh, yes." He flipped the painting over, where the time and date had been printed carefully with a sharpie on the back of the canvas. "Marie likes to paint. I like to record. Plus, I couldn't forget that redhead. I took a lot of pictures of that bikini."

  "Shit," said Nash.

  But Mr. Bourne hadn't heard, too caught up in admiring his wife's painting of Jolene's bikini.

  twenty-one

  #Swingshift #BikinisAhoy

  More appropriately dressed, I returned to Nash Security Solutions the next morning. The media had abandoned
their Dixie Kreme recon, but the black van still trolled for pictures.

  I could imagine the new show. They already had tons of footage from college graduation and Oliver's arrest to build onto the next season. Now they'd have shots of me walking into the office. Cut to Giulio and my "sexy neighbor," Bethann, gossiping about the cheating spouse I watched. Cut to me riding Lucky to a surveillance opportunity, edited to catch me falling asleep or scarfing donuts. Cut to Vicki planning the takeover of Nash Security Solutions. Cut to me walking down the side of a highway after falling from a tree. Cut to Nash looking pissed. Then me getting kicked out of Daddy's house.

  Great TV.

  I had three more days to get that W-4 sent to Judge Ellis. Three days to publicly extricate Nash's name from the case and keep his office from folding. Three days to figure out what had happened to Sarah Waverly.

  Essentially three days to save two lives and remake my own.

  No pressure.

  I wondered if Nash would consider letting Vicki buy Jolene's share. Which meant I'd work for Vicki again. What kind of contract would she make me sign as a PI assistant? Would it have weight clauses and nip and tuck stipulations? Would I be released after my two-year apprenticeship?

  Would I end my life in a twin burial plot next to Vicki, too afraid to ever leave her, even in death?

  I’d already tried the typical child star revolt. She used that to launch the Albright show. And here we were again. Vicki prepared to spin my latest disaster into a new story beat for my life’s teledrama.

  And me not strong enough to stop her.

  This was the thought that had brought on the extra helping of Carol Lynn's cheesy bacon tater skillet.

  I don't think that food combination is even legal in California.

  Inside Nash's office, Lamar lounged while Nash paced. I found my place on the couch and joined in the think-fest.

  "Nash gave Black Pine police the painting and the Bourne's memory card," explained Lamar.

  "Did you get in trouble?"

  "An anonymous drop-off,” said Nash. "Although they'll figure it out when they talk to the Bournes. I've got to work quickly. But that's not the problem. They're going to question Jolene."