Safety in Blunders
The Worst Detective Ever, Book 3
Christy Barritt
Contents
Season 1, Episode 3:
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
Coming Next:
Also by Christy Barritt:
The Worst Detective Ever:
Squeaky Clean Mysteries:
The Sierra Files:
Holly Anna Paladin Mysteries:
Carolina Moon Series:
Cape Thomas Series:
Standalones:
The Gabby St. Claire Diaries:
Complete Book List:
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Christy Barritt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Season 1, Episode 3:
The case of the desperate and persistent investigator
who just couldn’t catch a break.
Chapter One
Zane Oakley hooked his arm through mine as we walked along the path, and for a moment I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I wondered who that would make Zane. The Cowardly Lion? No, Zane was fearless. The brainless Scarecrow? The heartless Tin Man? None of them seemed to fit my thrill-seeking neighbor.
We walked down a mix of gravel road and walking path through Nags Head Woods, a nature preserve in the Outer Banks, on one of his adventures. He was calling it The Goat Man Project and had chosen to record it using filmography similar to The Blair Witch Project. He wore a GoPro on his forehead, recording everything that happened on our daylong excursion.
“This is Zane Oakley signing on with my friend Joey Darling. We’re here with the GMRO—also known as the Goat Man Researchers Organization. Now, the Goat Man is known to only come out at night,” Zane said, whispering conspiracy-like. “So we probably won’t find him. We’re just looking for evidence of his existence.”
“Hoofprints?” I suggested.
“Yes, like hoofprints. Stray hairs. A strange baaing sound.”
“Or maybe a cashmere sweater or some tasty cheese.” Zane cut me a confused look, and I shrugged. “What? That’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of goats.”
“You sound glib now, my friend, but that will all change soon. The Goat Man is no laughing, cashmere sweater–wearing matter. He likes to chase people through these woods.”
“As long as he doesn’t kill them.”
“He reserves that right for small woodland creatures.” Zane lowered his voice and swung his head my way. “Or so they say.”
I shivered and moved a little closer to Zane as the path narrowed. “Okay, that is a little creepy . . . especially when you say it in that voice. And how long has the Goat Man been said to haunt these woods?”
“Decades, basically. Teens come out here all the time to search for him.”
“Well, it really is pretty here.” I glanced around. With the exception of sand dunes, the Outer Banks was mostly flat. This nature preserve, however, must have been built on top of some centuries-old dunes. I nearly felt like I was in the mountains instead of a little stretch of islands off North Carolina’s coast.
There were eight-foot drops on one side of the road and high hills on the other. In the distance, I could see where the foliage cleared and the Albemarle Sound began. I would have never imagined this area would be out here.
The good news was that it was nice outside today. Unseasonably warm for March. Warm enough that I’d worn a tank top for our hike, and I could feel the promise of summer on its way.
Zane crouched as he walked, reminding me of a character from Scooby Doo with his overblown sneakiness. There was no reason to be sneaky out here. We were the only ones hiking this lonely trail.
“What was that?” Zane froze and grabbed my arm. “Did you hear it?”
I halted, wishing I could say I wasn’t scared. But part of me was. Because it was kind of creepy out here. And something shuffled in the woods not terribly far away.
My shoulders tightened. “A squirrel?”
“Too big to be a squirrel.”
“A deer?”
“Sounded like a human to me. Maybe two of them.”
The noise stopped. Instead of feeling better, the skin on my neck crawled even more. Was that a . . . moan?
No. It was just the breeze. Or a bird.
That was not the Goat Man. It wasn’t. Because he wasn’t real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster weren’t real.
Zane glanced over at me, his expression ultraserious, which didn’t make me feel better. Then a smile cracked his face, and he elbowed me. “Just kidding. It was probably a deer.”
I slapped his well-defined arm. “Not funny.”
He snapped out of his melodrama and pointed to a road in the distance. “My granddad used to have a cabin over there. Hashtag: ohhowtheyearsgoby.”
“People used to live out there?”
He sauntered at a normal pace now, dropping his act for a minute. “There used to be a village here, complete with schools, churches, and a store. Everyone headed out in the forties—probably because of the Goat Man. Then developers tried to turn this into another neighborhood during the boom of the 1970s. Then some conservatory groups purchased it. The people who already had homes here were grandfathered in, however.”
The forest seemed to close in even tighter, branches reaching for my arms. Algae-filled water from the ponds on either side of us crept closer, and roots felt like they were rising up. I’d always had a great imagination, which sometimes worked in my favor (e.g., acting) and sometimes didn’t (e.g., right now).
“I don’t know how I would like living back here,” I said, glancing around for verification that something dangerous lurked close by. “I mean, I realize that we’re not that far away from civilization. Still, it feels so isolated, like I’ve been dropped into the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s what some people like.”
“I guess.”
“The Goat Man likes it.” Zane made a ghastly expression, and he raised his hands all supernatural-like.
“You said your granddad lived out here?”
Zane dropped his act. For now. “Yep. He built a canal from his house all the way out to the sound. When I was little, we’d take the boat out and go fishing.”
I smiled as the image filled my mind. “That sounds really nice.”
“When we weren’t doing that, we sat on the porch and just looked out over the water. I’d drink lemonade and listen to his tales about life as a fisherman in this area. That would last all of fifteen minutes, and then I’d get restless and try to figure out a way to rig a zipline from the house to the water.”
“That sounds like you. A
dventurous and out of the box, even as a young boy.”
“After we got tired of fishing and ziplining, my granddad made up stories about buried treasure here. My brother and I would search everywhere hoping to find it.”
“What little kid wouldn’t?”
“That is, until I ran into the Goat Man.” His voice turned serious. “Then I never came out here to visit my granddad again.”
I turned toward him sharply. “Really?”
A grin cracked his face. “No, of course not.”
I elbowed him. “Zane Oakley, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
In response, he hooked his arm around my neck and pulled me toward him. He planted a friendly kiss on my forehead.
That was right. Friendly. We were friends, even though he’d confessed that he liked me. I wasn’t quite ready to return the sentiment, although at times I was very tempted. When it came to Zane, what was there not to like? He had a lean beach body, curly hair that was neatly trimmed at the sides, a contagious smile, and he was up for anything.
“Oh, Joey,” he muttered. “What did I ever do without you?”
“I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d line up to go on one of these adventures with you.” Plenty of women. I kept that silent. He had a steady stream of admirers.
“But there’s no one like you.”
“Flattery, my dear. I’m not supposed to like it . . . but I do. I really do.”
“I know.” Zane threw me over his shoulder and twirled me around.
I chuckled, feeling nearly giddy. The familiar scent of surfboard wax, saltwater, and coconut oil filled my senses. It was a pleasant combination that always made me want to drink in more.
I hadn’t had this much fun since . . . well, since Zane took me go-carting. Or when he’d made me climb a lighthouse at sunset. Wherever Zane was, there was fun, and lots of it.
He set me down, and our gazes caught. I saw the longing in his eyes. He wanted to kiss me.
I’d seen the look plenty of times before.
And it would be so easy to get lost in Zane. To forget about my problems. To pretend my ex-husband hadn’t crushed my self-worth. To imagine my father hadn’t disappeared, possibly at the hands of an international crime ring. To stop trying to figure out if my future was in Hollywood or somewhere else.
But I couldn’t forget those things. I needed to deal with my issues instead of falling back into my normal MO of covering my pain with the highs of stardom or with romance.
To break the moment, I poked Zane in the stomach and made a funny face. “You’re a troublemaker. You know that, right?”
He shrugged and turned away, acting like our exchange hadn’t affected him. And maybe it hadn’t. I still couldn’t read him at times. Part of me thought he was a womanizer. The other part thought maybe I could be the one to change him.
And that was never a healthy thought.
We began walking again. Searching for the Goat Man was one more thing on Zane’s bucket list. And he was paid to document all his adventures as part of an endorsement deal with Slick Ocean, a surfboard company. He embodied their motto of “Life is an adventure.”
He was living what he called “the good life.” He did a little realty work, a little licensed massage-therapy work, and a little of this and that also. Mostly he grabbed whatever opportunities he could to surf and have fun while still making enough money to live.
“So when does the Castle and Beckett thing start?” he asked.
It could have been my imagination, but tension seemed to stretch in his voice as he asked the question. Which was weird, since the whole Castle/Beckett thing was Zane’s idea. Maybe he’d never thought I’d see it through to fruition or that the mayor would approve it.
I needed an “in” at the police station, and Zane had recommended that I ask the mayor to let me be an unofficial consultant as a part of my acting research. The mayor loved getting publicity for this area, and he used my fame to help him do that as often as possible. This was the one time I’d tried to use the situation to my advantage.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Everything has been done. Background check. Drug check. The mayor may have even looked into my history of fashion faux pas. I’m not sure.”
He chuckled, but it faded quickly. “How often will this consulting be happening?”
“Once a week. I just have to figure out how to balance that and still pay my bills.”
“After your movie comes out, you won’t have to work quite so hard, will you?”
I shrugged. “I think you’re underestimating the amount of debt I have. My life is representative of the house in The Money Pit.”
“Bummer. I loved that scene where the bathtub fell through the floor.”
I kicked a rock off the path and listened as it tumbled down a cliff. “That was a great scene. But speaking of money, I would have to say that it just made me miserable. It started to control my life and make me into someone I didn’t want to be. All I want right now is to find my father.”
I felt Zane’s eyes as he glanced over at me. “No new leads?”
I shook my head, remembering all the events of the past couple months. I’d discovered some answers, but those answers had only led to more questions. “No. Nothing.”
We continued down the wooded path, past little signs identifying wildlife, such as mosquito ferns and a devil’s walking stick.
“What about your stalker fan club?” Zane asked. “Anything else from them?”
“Thank goodness, no.” I’d thought I had only one stalker. Then I realized I had two. Then it came to light that I had a whole fan club of twisted little people who watched my every move.
So far they hadn’t tried to harm me. But they did enjoy manipulating me in their efforts to keep my alter ego, Raven Remington, alive. They couldn’t seem to handle both the fact that my TV show, Relentless, had been canceled and that I wasn’t actually Raven Remington.
“Check out that cemetery over there.” Zane pointed to some tombstones in the distance.
“Let’s go closer,” I told him, thankful to have something new to occupy my thoughts.
We trotted up the edge of the property, and I looked around, remembering for a moment those who had lived here decades and decades earlier. They’d been the true pioneers, living on this weathered sandbar without the ease of the technology we had today. Ease that offered plenty of advance notice for hurricanes that could put this whole place under water or winds that could send houses tumbling into the sea.
I paced around the perimeter, giving my respects. Then I stepped beyond the cemetery toward the stretch of water in the distance. It was like a treasure that we’d stumbled upon—a mostly untouched beach.
Serenity washed over me. Until I saw something I shouldn’t.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
“What is it?” Zane asked.
I pointed at something sticking out from beneath some underbrush. “Is that a . . . mermaid tail?”
I felt silly even asking. I mean, mermaids were just as real as the Goat Man or Bigfoot, right?
We crept closer. It had to be my eyes. I was seeing things.
That couldn’t possibly be a mermaid tail because . . . mermaids weren’t real, I reminded myself again.
But from a distance, it definitely looked like shimmery scales and a luminescent tail hiding beneath the brush. But it also looked empty . . . deflated . . . lifeless. Almost like a snake skin that had been shed.
By a mermaid.
“Zane, you didn’t do this, did you? For ratings?” My voice shook.
“No way. I would have coordinated this better and called it the Mermaid Researchers Organization.”
He had a point.
We stopped beside it, and I held my breath as I took a closer look.
“Whoa . . .” Zane muttered.
It was definitely a mermaid tail . . . and fresh blood was splattered across it.
Chapter Two
Detective Jackson
Sullivan scowled at me, which was nothing new. Nothing new at all.
He stood at the perimeter of what the police considered a crime scene. He’d brought two other officers out here with him, and they were scouring the area for more clues and documenting anything suspicious.
“Did you touch anything?” Detective Sullivan asked me.
I shook my head. “Not this time.”
Unfortunately, there had been a last time. It was a long story, but my heart had been in the right place. I promise.
“Throw up?” he asked.
“Nope.” I’d fought off my nausea this time instead of spilling the contents of my stomach on a dead body. Or, in this case, a mermaid skin.
“Announce this to the press?”
That one got a scowl out of me. “Of course not.”
But his look clearly told me that there was no “of course not” in his mind. Probably because I’d accidentally done that not long ago. But in my defense, it wasn’t totally my fault. I had been ambushed by that reporter.
“Tell me what you do know then,” Jackson said.
As much as he drove me crazy, I had to admit there was something so very attractive about him when he was in detective mode. I mean, he was always handsome. No doubt about it. But he just seemed so strong, in control, and sure of himself in this professional role. It helped that his upper body was super defined, his five o’clock shadow begged to be stroked, and his green eyes reminded me of the ocean on a tempest day.
I remembered his question. Tell me what you do know then. So I did. With Zane’s help, I recounted our walk through the woods leading up to this very unfortunate moment.
Jackson paused halfway through our recount and pointed to Zane’s GoPro. “That thing better be off.”
“Of course it is.” Zane visibly cooled.
“We’re going to want to see your footage, in case there are any clues.”
“No problem.”
“Great. Go on then. Did either of you hear anything unusual?” Jackson asked, still holding his notepad and pen in his hands. Water shimmered behind him, a flock of ducks clacked overhead, and a kiteboarder soared with the wind in the distance.
Safety in Blunders (The Worst Detective Ever Book 3) Page 1
