Blooper Freak (The Worst Detective Ever Book 5) Page 4

  It was worth a shot to see if she was there today. What else did I have to do? I would visit Morty’s home, but apparently he was skipping around and living with different people right now. Zane had told me once that a lot of his friends did that in the summertime, when rental rates skyrocketed.

  I started the thirty-minute drive back up to Nags Head. The trip never felt burdensome because it was along the most gorgeous byway ever. Massive sand dunes stood on one side of the road, and on the other was marshland that faded into the Pamlico Sound.

  At its most narrow portion, only two hundred yards separated me from the water on either side. Surfers parked on the roadside and carried boards on their heads along paths across the dunes. Tourists took pictures. A bulldozer waited on standby to push sand off the road in case a big wind kicked up.

  My thoughts continued to dwell on everything that had happened. It was unbelievable, really, and seemed like a nightmare I should wake up from. I’d like to think that things like this only happened on TV. But that obviously wasn’t the case here.

  My phone rang, and I saw that it was my best friend, Starla, calling. I answered on Bluetooth.

  “Joey! It’s so good to talk to you!”

  Starla’s enthusiastic voice made everything feel bright for a minute.

  “It’s been too long, and you’ve been all the talk in our circles here.”

  “Have I?” Did I even want to know?

  “Your movie premiere there in North Carolina? Carli almost dying? Eric being outed as the loser he really is? Those pictures of you with not one but two men? Girlfriend, we have got to catch up.”

  “You should come out and visit me sometime.”

  “As soon I wrap up this movie, I would love to. You know Ryan and I broke up, right? It hasn’t hit the tabloids yet, but it will.”

  “You always were too good for him,” I said.

  “Oh, Joey, you’re always such a good friend.”

  Her words only increased my resolve to help Zane.

  I hadn’t been able to help my dad, but I didn’t want to let someone else I loved down.

  Eventually, I reached Nags Head, and the traffic in the area thickened considerably. I found Slick Ocean, which was a freestanding building purposefully designed to look like a shack with its fake weathered siding, pretend straw roof, and a sign with colorful arrows that pointed to various beaches and indicated how far away they were.

  Waikiki: 4,945 miles.

  Good to know.

  I prepared myself to go inside.

  I always felt that as soon as I went inside some of the hardcore surf shops, the staff sensed I wasn’t a real surfer. Or that I wasn’t a surfer at all. At least in the past Zane had been with me, and he was like a celebrity in some of these places.

  “If it’s not Joey Darling!” the guy behind the counter said when I walked in. “I recognize you from Zane’s videos.”

  Not from my People’s Choice Award or from the fact that I had the number one movie at the box office for three weeks in a row or from my hit series Relentless.

  But that was okay. It didn’t bother me—more like amused me.

  “What brings you by?” The employee leaned on the counter, looking incredibly bored and like he was thrilled to have an actual customer to chat with.

  He seemed so happy, and that made me think that he hadn’t heard about Zane yet. If he had, wouldn’t he be a little more subdued? I mean, Zane being arrested wasn’t exactly great publicity for Slick Ocean.

  “I’m actually looking for Bianca,” I started.

  “Bianca . . . is . . . not . . . here . . . yet.” He added a weird pause between each word and filled the spaces with awkward head nods.

  I tried to read between the lines—or should I say, the nods? “Is she supposed to be here?”

  “Yes . . . she’s scheduled to work.”

  Okay . . . Again, getting information could be like pulling teeth at times. Without any Novocain and using a pair of rusty pliers. “And it’s unusual that she’s late?”

  “That would be correct.” He smiled, like he was proud of me for reaching the proper conclusion.

  “Is there any way I can get in touch with her?” I batted my eyelashes, not above using my power to look innocent to get answers. “It’s kind of important.”

  His eyes widened, and he dropped his voice. “It’s for Zane, isn’t it?”

  Did he mean, it’s for Zane because he’s locked up, or it’s for Zane because Zane is one of their endorsers? Either way . . . “Yes, it’s for Zane.”

  “That’s what I figured.” He scribbled something. “I’d give you her phone number, but she’s not answering. Here’s her address instead. If you see her, tell her we could really use her help today.”

  Because it was super busy in here? I didn’t even ask.

  I took the paper from him and held it in the air. “I’ll do that.”

  Now I had to go find this girl. Because the fact she wasn’t at work today only raised more red flags. And what did red flags mean here at the beach?

  That danger was on the horizon.

  Before I tried to find Bianca, I stopped at my favorite restaurant, The Fatty Shack, to grab a bite to eat. I was starving.

  But probably not as hungry as Zane was.

  I took my time eating, trying to compose myself and gather my thoughts. With my fish taco salad—minus the tortilla strips—finished, it was time to continue pushing myself forward. Thinking wasn’t going to get me very far at this point. I needed to keep asking questions.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to an RV in one of the area’s campgrounds. I knew these “resort parks,” as many business owners proclaimed them to be, were for more than just vacationers here for a week. Some people made them a permanent home because of the high cost of living in the area. RV living was a cheaper option.

  Bianca’s RV seemed to fit my expectations of her. There were beads outside the front door. Shimmering purple curtains had been draped at the corners of a small six-by-six deck. Large pieces of driftwood sat on another side of the RV, and broken shells had been placed there, as well as a couple of weathered buoys.

  I climbed the steps, moved the strings of beads aside, and knocked at the door. Two tries later, someone answered.

  It wasn’t Bianca.

  No, it was a redhead with bed-head. I decided that should be a new rap song, but I’d have to ponder some catchy lyrics later, as well as brush up on my beatboxing.

  “What do you want?” The woman raked a hand through her hair. I should say, she attempted to rake a hand through her hair. Her fingers got stuck halfway through.

  “I’m looking for Bianca.” I noted the scent of incense floating from inside. In my experience, people used incense for only one thing: to cover up the scent of weed. But I wouldn’t jump to conclusions—not yet, at least.

  She squinted and pursed her lips. “She’s not here.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “I dunno. Last night around nine.” She seemed to wake up a little and stared at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of a friend. I need to talk to her.” Please buy that. Please buy that. Please buy that.

  If I mentally chanted that enough, maybe it would count for something.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, she’s not here. Maybe she spent the night with a friend, and she’s at work now.”

  “I went to Slick Ocean first. She never showed up, and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Hm. That’s weird. I don’t know where she is.” She didn’t sound like she cared, either.

  “Could I ask you a question?”

  “Like what?” An aloof, skeptical look shielded her eyes, as if she realized I might be an enemy.

  “I heard she and Morty broke up. Do you know why?”

  She relaxed, as if she could handle that question. But she’d been preparing for a much more intense inquiry, hadn’t she? I wondered what that might be.

  She shrugged. “I
just assumed it was so she could date that other guy.”

  Maybe we were on to something now. “What other guy?”

  She released a long, exaggerated breath that filled her cheeks and made a flatulent-like sound as the air escaped through her lips. “Zane Oakley, of course.”

  Zane? What in the world was going on here?

  Chapter Seven

  My thoughts turned and turned inside me as I left Bianca’s place. My problem was that I usually either talked to Zane or Jackson when I didn’t know what to do next. In this case, I couldn’t really talk to either because they were pitted against each other.

  I needed someone new, and I had just the person.

  I pulled up at Beach Combers, the salon owned by Dizzy Jenkins and my former place of employment. In the three months I’d worked there, I hadn’t burned anyone’s hair off (not by much, at least), tinted any white-haired senior’s poof any shade of purple, or totally misunderstood any haircut wishes—like accidentally chopping off ten inches instead of two. I was rather proud of myself, especially since I’d been rusty in my beautician skills and rather accident-prone.

  There weren’t a lot of cars in the parking lot outside. Unfortunately for Dizzy, I hoped that meant she wasn’t busy. Which was awfully selfish of me, but I wanted to talk to her alone.

  I walked inside, and the sound of Caribbean-infused Christmas music greeted me. Dizzy loved Christmas music, whatever time of year. And she’d found this new Caribbean mix that she felt justified playing even when we had customers. It sounds like beach music, doesn’t it? It’s perfect for this area.

  I hadn’t had the heart to argue.

  I waved to Winona, one of the new stylists who had been hired for the season. She lived over in Mann’s Harbor but commuted here three days a week. Apparently, she raked in decent money by working in the summer and filing for unemployment on the off-season. I wasn’t really sure about the ins and outs of it, but apparently a lot of people around here did that.

  “Joey Darling, what brings you by? You’re not working today, are you?” She smacked her gum like a champ and wore tiny scarves around her neck, which made me think she should audition for a role in Grease if haircutting didn’t work out.

  “Nope. I’m looking for Dizzy.”

  “She’s in the back. Doing some research.”

  I didn’t even ask if I could go see her. I just did.

  Dizzy was sitting at the table in the office area, humming to herself while she painted her nails and looked at a magazine.

  Dizzy had been married to my uncle for a short time, but he’d passed away two years ago. She was in her fifties and about forty pounds overweight. She dyed her hair a dark brown and piled it high on top of her head. But perhaps it was her blue eyeshadow that got her the most attention. She wore it thick and all the way up to her thinly plucked eyebrows.

  I peered over her shoulder and scowled when I saw what she was reading. The National Instigator. My nemesis.

  “Research?” My voice lilted skeptically with my question.

  She put the magazine down and had the decency to blush, at least. “Hairstyles of the rich and famous?”

  Her upturned intonation made it clear she was fishing for excuses.

  I shrugged, not feeling up to arguing with her. “Sure.”

  She closed the article she was reading on Starla and blew on her nails instead. “What brings you by? Looking for some extra work?”

  “Not today. I need your advice.”

  Her eyes lit. “Advice? I love giving advice.”

  “I thought you might.” I moved some boxes of hair dye that needed to be inventoried and sat down across from her. “So here’s what’s happened.”

  I told her about my day, all the way from finding the body to running into Jackson at Abe’s place and trying to track down Bianca. She listened attentively to my every word and made all the proper facial expressions to show she was paying attention.

  “What a mess. A horrible, horrible mess.” Her eyes lit again. “So what do you need my help with?”

  “I have no idea where to go next.” I still felt flabbergasted, even as I admitted that out loud. Jackson was questioning Abe, Bianca was MIA, and Zane was looking guiltier with every wave that crashed on the Outer Banks.

  “Really?” She folded her hands and nodded slowly, dramatically thoughtful. “Well, let’s see. Abe offered you nothing. Bianca is gone with the wind. Zane claims he’s innocent. And Morty is dead—God rest his soul.”

  “That’s correct.” It was as if she’d just read my thoughts and reiterated them.

  She let out a sigh, looked in the distance, and puckered her lips out, as if in thought.

  “I guess I need to find out more information about Morty,” I said. “But I don’t know how to do that without putting myself in a bad place.”

  “I know exactly what you can do.” Dizzy nodded smugly.

  “You do? I mean, what?”

  “Well, Morty’s best friend is Evan.”

  “Okay.” I had no idea where she was going with this.

  “Evan’s mom is Annette. Annette organizes one of those rock-hiding groups.”

  “Rock-hiding groups?” Why in the world would people hide rocks?

  “That’s right. There are people who paint rocks and hide them all over the town for people to find and enjoy. Anyway, she’s having a rock-painting party tomorrow at that new park down the street from Whalebone Junction. You should go.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  I knew talking to Dizzy would make everything better. And I’d been right.

  Even though I’d told Jackson I’d meet him at his place and then we could ride together to Phoebe’s, I had my doubts that he was even going to be able to go. Despite that, I showed up at his house.

  He wasn’t there.

  Of course.

  Instead of turning around or heading down to Hatteras myself, I decided to wait for a few minutes. I climbed out of my car so I could enjoy some fresh—though hot—air. Why pay for a sauna when you could step outside?

  I crossed my arms and leaned against my red Miata, taking a moment to breathe and gather my thoughts.

  As I closed my eyes, a sound—more like a commotion—caught my ear. “Come back here!”

  I plucked an eye open and saw a woman dashing through the yard, chasing a dog.

  It wasn’t just any dog. It was Ripley.

  Jackson’s dog.

  I stared for a minute before coming to my senses and realizing I should help. I bent over and patted my hands against my thighs. “Come here, Ripley.”

  At once, the Australian shepherd raced toward me. Uh-oh. I braced myself for the impact I knew was coming. It would be like a tidal wave hitting me full force.

  Sure enough, Ripley barreled into me, knocking me into the car. As I lost my balance and sank lower, he attacked me with slobbery doggy kisses.

  “I’m so sorry!” The woman rushed toward me and stopped, standing in front of me breathlessly. She reached for Ripley’s collar, but the dog was determined to make Death by Licking an actual thing.

  “Ripley, leave it!” I said.

  Jackson had taught me that command.

  To my surprise, it worked.

  Finally, I managed to stand up. I wiped away the saliva from my cheeks and grimaced.

  Ripley couldn’t care less. He sat in front of me, wagging his tail and appearing rather pleased with himself. I was pretty sure he’d thought the greeting was welcoming.

  I sighed and rubbed his head. “Hey, boy.”

  “You’re Joey Darling,” the woman said, a touch of awe to her voice.

  I glanced at her for the first time. Earlier she’d been a scramble of limbs and yelling and frantic chasing. But as her features came into focus, I realized this was the new neighbor who was helping Jackson with Ripley on his long workdays.

  And she was pretty.

  Something Jackson had never mentioned.

  Not that he had to. I mean, that w
ould have been awkward to mention to me, right? But still. It felt weird.

  She was a honey blonde with porcelain skin and a thin dancer build.

  I glanced at her hand. And she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  How . . . interesting.

  “I’m Crista.” She extended her hand. “I just moved here from Maryland. I took a teaching job, but it doesn’t start until the fall. I figured I could enjoy the beach until then.”

  “Absolutely. I’m . . . well, you know my name. Joey.” I stood and brushed off my knees, elbows, and butt.

  She studied me another minute. “So you and Jackson are friends? I had no idea. I mean, I heard rumors you were in the area, but I never guessed this . . .”

  I nodded. “We are.”

  I wanted to say that we were more than friends. But we weren’t. Not really. I mean, kind of. It was confusing. Of course, I was a confusable kind of gal.

  “Isn’t he great?” Crista said. “I’ve really enjoyed having him as my neighbor.”

  My throat clenched. Was that . . . jealousy rearing its nasty head inside me? That was ridiculous. I had no reason to feel jealous.

  Yet I did.

  “I’m sure he’s a great neighbor,” I finally choked out.

  “Oh, he is. He’s even shared a hamburger with me a time or two when he was grilling out.”

  The jealousy flared even brighter and bigger.

  This wasn’t good. I didn’t like jealousy. I didn’t like feeling it. I didn’t like the insecurity it brought. And I was nearing thirty, so I should be past this.

  “Well, I think it’s great that you’re helping him with Ripley.”

  “Oh, it’s the least I can do. My dad was a cop, so I know all about that schedule.”

  “Was he?” She and Jackson had something in common. Wasn’t that nice?

  She nodded. “I know what it’s like to live that life. I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier for him.”

  “That’s . . . so kind of you.” My words were sincere, but I could hear an edge of obligation to them. I’d forced myself to speak them aloud.

  But what did Crista mean when she said she’d do whatever she could to make life easier for him? That wasn’t normally the role a neighbor took.