Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1) Read online

  “There’s always off-season when I’m not filming. And Eric is a jerk, and he wants to ruin you from afar because he’s a control freak. And one day, the IRS will be finished taking your money to pay back taxes.”

  A train wreck. I’d been a train wreck.

  And Starla tried to make me feel better, but I knew the truth. The public was eating up the stories of my fall. They loved it. Eric was capitalizing on it. Because of the contract I’d signed when I was young and naïve, the money I was getting for the reruns of my show were paltry, and it would take years to pay the government back.

  At least I wasn’t in jail.

  And Starla . . . my dear friend Starla was flighty. She’d go wherever fame took her and work as hard as necessary. Even if I was in LA still, I’d maybe see her a few times a year, at most. She worked hard and partied harder.

  I’d made my bed, and now I was lying in it, as my dad would say.

  And right now I was lying in a handcrafted bed of nails.

  “By the way, I saw Eric,” Starla said.

  I dropped the bag of coffee, and grounds spilled all over the counter. I mentally growled at myself for being so clumsy. I tried to clean up the mess but only ended up spilling more because my hands were shaking so badly.

  “Oh yeah?” I finally said, trying to keep my voice casual.

  “He’s a snake, Joey.”

  “I know.”

  “He mentioned something about a plan.”

  “Plan? What kind of plan?”

  “I don’t know . . . but it made me nervous. I think he’s trying to get more money.”

  “He should just get a job.”

  “As if anyone would want to hire him!”

  I snickered. That was what best friends were for. Cheering each other up. She’d seen everything Eric and I had gone through.

  When we hung up, something bothered me. Eric was a manipulator. Was he really plotting my demise from all the way in California? I didn’t know.

  I finished making coffee and then walked into the living room. Today was Thursday, which just happened to be my day off. It seemed silly since I’d just started yesterday, but . . .

  I flipped on the TV and stared at the screen. A rerun of last night’s entertainment news was on. And whose life story was playing there?

  Mine, of course.

  I watched as an overzealous reporter rehashed my rise to fame. How I’d been the goofy girl next door who’d become America’s sweetheart. How I’d been on track to be one of Hollywood’s A-list.

  Then things fell apart. There was arguing on the set of Relentless. I’d demanded a bigger paycheck. I’d begun acting irrationally. I’d looked dazed in public. Friends said I’d withdrawn. I’d been pale and gaunt at an awards ceremony, launching rumors that I had an eating disorder. Certainly, they knew everyone in Hollywood had an eating disorder.

  Then there was my auto accident that landed me in the hospital for four days. I’d been charged with reckless driving. A month later, my show was canceled. Eric and I filed for divorce. And then six months after that, I’d disappeared from the public eye.

  If only the public knew the truth about what had happened. But they didn’t. And they wouldn’t. And that was that.

  As the special concluded, a trailer came on, and I sucked in a breath.

  A trailer. For my movie. My movie! That was why the station had been playing a rerun of my life story.

  Jessica Alba and I were starring in a thriller, which featured two sisters who played competing spies without realizing it. I’d heard the trailer should be releasing soon, but I had no idea the time was now. I’d filmed it two years ago, but the release had been pushed back. Family Secrets was now on its way to the big screen. At least that was a positive to my otherwise bad news.

  I walked back into the kitchen and saw that half my coffee spilled over the silver carafe beneath the percolator.

  I’d left some old coffee from last night in it, hadn’t I?

  I sighed, grabbed some napkins, and cleaned up my mess. Then I poured myself a cup, but grounds floated in it. Had I forgotten the filter?

  I sighed again.

  Today I needed to tell Lily about Simon. That was, providing that Detective Sullivan hadn’t already tracked her down. I supposed this case was closed.

  Did that mean I’d solved my first real investigation? She’d hired me to find her boyfriend, after all. Well, I’d found him. Dead.

  And I also needed to track down my father. So far I’d only visited his old place of employment. I was trying to connect with his landlord, but he’d been out of town and was due back today.

  But—first things first—I needed to go get some coffee. Not the smartest thing to buy coffee when I considered my financial situation. But I couldn’t make a soy caramel espresso myself. I couldn’t even make regular coffee.

  I got dressed, pulled my hair back into a high bun, and opened my front door.

  I paused as I started to step out.

  Something was on my stoop.

  Something that didn’t belong.

  Brown dress shoes. And a piece of paper.

  I closed my eyes as I grasped the significance.

  This had happened on Episode 304 also.

  Someone was re-creating the show and determined to pull me into the middle of things.

  Six

  It was just my luck that Jackson Sullivan was the detective on duty again today. He scowled when he saw me. Or was he simply narrowing his eyes? I couldn’t read him yet.

  “Did you touch anything?” The question was obviously pointed, and the sharp end of it hurt.

  I shook my head. “Not this time.”

  I didn’t mention that I had considered it because I was super curious to know what the note said.

  Using gloves, Detective Sullivan picked up the paper and carefully unfolded the white square.

  “It says, ‘We miss you, Raven. Here’s your chance to solve another mystery. Don’t disappoint,’” he said. “What does that mean?”

  Everything spun around me.

  If I hadn’t told Lily I would take this case, would Simon still be alive? Would none of this have happened? Was all of this . . . because of me?

  “Joey?” Detective Sullivan touched my elbow, and a jolt of shock rushed through me.

  His hand dropped back down to the side.

  I must have jerked. I wasn’t sure.

  “Do you need to sit down?” he asked, still peering at me.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Let’s get you seated.” He turned to the officers with him. “Guys, go ahead and take pictures of the scene and then bag these shoes.”

  “Check the soles,” I muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s probably evidence on the bottom of these shoes, evidence that will eventually lead you to figuring out what happened.”

  He tilted his head, his eyes still narrowed, as if he didn’t know what to think or what to do with me.

  “Episode 304,” I croaked.

  “Let’s talk.” He took my arm and led me inside, out of the cold.

  I stopped only when I was close enough to collapse on the navy-blue couch nestled against the wood paneling of the living room. Detective Sullivan didn’t sit. No, he paced. Looked out the window. Paused by the mantel.

  “Is this yours?” he asked.

  I glanced up and nodded. “People’s Choice Award.”

  I’d almost sold it to pay my bills, but it was my one reminder of what I’d done right.

  He paused, his hands on his hips. “I looked you up last night.”

  My cheeks warmed. Had he read the good articles or the bad? Or both? And how did they change his opinion of me? If fame impressed him, then for the better. If bad behavior turned him off, then for the worse.

  “Did you?”

  “You’ve got quite the list of accomplishments.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Why’d you come to the Outer Ban
ks?” he asked.

  I knew he was asking just for professional reasons. He was trying to piece together this case. But the question felt loaded.

  “I was ready for a change.”

  “So you left Hollywood behind and moved here to cut hair?” As he said the words, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  He knew, didn’t he? Knew what a terrible job I’d done yesterday with edging his hairline. As well as at the crime scene. I could turn any happy-ever-after flick into a disaster just by simply stepping onto the set.

  “It’s a long story.”

  He paused. “I have time.”

  I couldn’t tell him the truth, not when I considered the possible involvement of his colleagues or maybe even Detective Sullivan himself. But I was an actress. I could come up with a cover story and sell it.

  “I’m researching for another role,” I finally said. I recalled Lily mentioning the excuse, and it seemed like a good enough reason to me. I pulled a pillow onto my lap, wishing I could transport myself from this situation.

  Something flickered in Detective Sullivan’s gaze. Curiosity? Disappointment? No, certainly not disappointment.

  Guilt instantly pounded at me because of my lie. I hated being lied to. So why was I lying now?

  Because I had no choice. My dad wouldn’t agree. He believed in the truth. Always the truth. My regrets felt like rocks that jostled in my chest.

  “What kind of role?” he pressed, crossing his arms and leaning against the oversized entertainment center.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sworn to silence by contract. It’s a Hollywood thing.”

  He grunted and moved on. “Unless it involves murder, I can assume it doesn’t pertain to this investigation. So let’s get down to business, Joey. You’re telling me that the way Mr. Philips was found, as well as these shoes showing up on your doorstep, both happened on an episode of your show?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re also saying that you had nothing to do with this?”

  “You saw it all unfold yesterday. Lily coming into Beach Combers. Me meeting with Lily at Oh Buoy. I just happened to track down Mr. Philips’s final location at the Oceanfront Inn Express. Everything happened quickly.”

  “This isn’t some kind of marketing stunt, is it? For that new movie you have coming out?”

  I blinked, realizing how it could look. Exactly like that.

  I quickly shook my head. “No, of course not. In fact, I’m trying to remain off the radar. All of this isn’t helping my case.”

  He stared at me again. He was trying to figure me out, I realized. Good luck with that . . .

  “What happened next on that episode?”

  I let out a long breath, trying to recall the details. The truth was, I wasn’t sure. “I really don’t know.”

  He stared.

  I shrugged. “We filmed over one hundred episodes. They all kind of run together in my head.”

  “Where can I find out?”

  I pointed to the TV. “I have all of the seasons right there.”

  He picked up Season 3. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Detective Sullivan sat in an armchair to my left. His elbows were propped up on his legs as he stared at the TV screen.

  I’d made an effort not to watch my show. There were always things I wanted to change, but it was too late to do any of that. I was my own worst critic, I supposed. So watching myself on TV now was strange.

  Raven Remington had jet-black hair, favored all black clothing, and black leather jackets. She was tough as nails, smart, and a trained sharpshooter. Her confidence was unshakable. No one ever walked on her, and yet she had a soft side for the elderly, children, and animals.

  As I watched it now, I recognized that I’d sold the role. I’d convincingly acted like a kick-butt investigator who worked only for the most prestigious of clients. I was a one-woman Charlie’s Angels mixed with modern-day Sherlock.

  Yet I felt so self-conscious watching myself now. It was all otherworldly, like all of this had happened a different lifetime ago.

  I glanced at Detective Sullivan. I couldn’t read his face. Was he enjoying the show? Or was he just watching it purely as part of his job? What did he think of me? And why did I care?

  I tucked my hands beneath my legs and continued watching. Raven had just found the shoes located on her doorstep. The killer was taunting her.

  Just like someone was taunting me now.

  I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

  I gasped when the truth hit me between the eyeballs.

  The victim’s fiancée ended up dead.

  I had to call Lily. Now.

  Seven

  I rushed to my feet. I had to find my purse and get Lily’s number. But I knocked over my bottle of water instead. I grabbed some paper towels to sop up my mess.

  Detective Sullivan took them from me and wiped up the liquid. He didn’t say anything, but somehow he communicated that I should sit down. Which was probably good since my hands were a trembling mess.

  He soaked up the water, took the towels into the kitchen, and then returned. He sat down across from me again.

  “We already tried to call Lily,” Detective Sullivan said.

  I froze. Could he really read me that easily? Apparently so. “And?”

  “She didn’t answer. Do you know where Ms. Livingston is staying?”

  “No, I don’t.” I sank back into the couch. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. “What are we going to do?”

  Detective Sullivan leveled his gaze with me. “We aren’t going to do anything. I’m going to keep looking for her. You’re going to keep researching for your next role. If anything turns up, you’ll let me know.”

  My cheeks heated. He knew I was lying. “Of course.”

  He stood and picked up Season 3. “Do you mind if I take this with me? I’ll watch the rest later.”

  “Of course. I can autograph it for you if—” I stopped myself and shook my head. “Never mind.”

  Autograph it? Really, Joey?

  Old habits died hard.

  He paused near the foyer. “And Joey? What about that note? Did it make sense to you? It wasn’t on the show.”

  I rubbed my throat again. Nervous tick. “I have no idea. But it said ‘we.’ What do you think that means?”

  He frowned. The action was ever so slight. But it was there. The note had bothered him also.

  “I don’t know yet, Joey. But if you need anything, call me.”

  Zane stopped by right after the police left. He had crazy-bad bed head, wore some psychedelic-orange pajama pants, and had been tugging on an undershirt when I came to the door. I’d filled him in, and now he sat next to me at a little corner desk overlooking a magnificent picture window as I tried to call Lily. She didn’t answer my phone calls.

  Which left me with only one question: What would Raven do?

  I knew the answer: somehow, Raven would track Lily down.

  But how?

  I didn’t know what her car looked like, and driving all over town looking for it seemed pointless. There were tons of hotels in Nags Head, and the neighboring towns of Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills had more.

  “I need to try a tactic from Episode 419,” I muttered, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ocean outside.

  “What happened in 419?” Zane asked, slowly dissecting an oversized cinnamon roll and looking absolutely fascinated by it.

  I took a sip of my coffee. Zane had taken my car and picked up some at Sunrise Coffee Co., along with that pastry for himself. I owed him my unending gratitude.

  “You’re about to see,” I said, grabbing my phone.

  “This is all so crazy. But it’s like my bucket list is coming to life before my eyes.” He shoved a gooey bite into his mouth.

  I froze, certain I hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”

  He chewed and swallowed before say
ing, “My bucket list. You know, like the movie with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. You have one, right?”

  “I can’t say I do.”

  “Well, one of the items on my list is to participate in a police investigation.”

  “That’s . . . interesting.” What was it Detective Sullivan had said that made me believe that Zane could possibly have a police record? This wasn’t the time to ask. No need to alienate the one person who had the potential to be my friend.

  “I know, right?” He totally missed my sarcasm and began peeling off another layer of his roll.

  I had one idea, and one idea only, so I really hoped it panned out. I pulled up my computer and Googled Lily’s name. The check she’d given me listed an Atlanta address. Sure enough, I found a phone number listed for her there.

  Gulping in a deep breath, I dialed. I had to do this. It all felt like my fault that any of this had happened, and now I had to make things right before someone else got hurt. Somehow this was connected with me, though I had no idea how.

  “I’m trying to reach Lily Livingston,” I told the woman who answered.

  “She’s not available.” The woman’s voice sounded so prim and proper that I adjusted to the correct posture and took my elbows from the table.

  “I’m actually down here in Nags Head. She left her credit card at a restaurant, and I’d like to return it to her. Do you have any idea how I can get in touch?”

  “I can give you her phone number,” the woman said.

  I had the distinct feeling this woman wasn’t her mother. Maybe that she wasn’t even related. A housekeeper maybe?

  “I actually have that, but she’s not answering. Do you know where she’s staying? I can leave the card at the front desk.”

  “Aren’t you awfully concerned for a waitress?”

  Good point. “I actually lost my own credit card two months ago, and it was a nightmare. If someone had been concerned enough to go out of their way for me, I would have practically owed them my life. I’m just trying to pay it forward.”