16 Millimeters Page 4

  A sign pointed me toward "The Woodland Villas." My feet and I gladdened and together we set off to find number six. Most of the villas' tenants were out, golf carts gone. I could hear the drone of a lawn mower somewhere on the resort, but in this area, birds chirped, squirrels scampered, and the spindly loblolly pines swayed in the breeze, making a rushing sound reminiscent of the California beaches I missed.

  The peace broke at the approach of villa six. Music pumped inside. I didn't hear it so much as felt the whomping bass. Despite the sunny day, lights glowed in the windows. Yet the golf cart was gone from its spot under the overhang. I slipped on my sandals, yanked the tissues out from under my arms, and did a quick clothing malfunction check (necessary when wearing a V-neck cami). My heels pattered on the slate stones leading to the villa's porch. A big basket lay askew on the top step. I recognized the basket as the resort's continental breakfast drop-off. Someone must have set it out recently because the resort wouldn't have dallied in picking it up. I righted the basket, noting the pretty checked cloth tucked around the edges had kept the pastries from rolling down the steps.

  Feeling like the big bad wolf, I peeked inside the Red Riding Hood basket. Cam-Cam hadn't eaten her muffins. Of course. For a starring role in a big budget, carbs were more evil than controlled substances. And if Leonard Shackleton was producing, Cambria's part would require a mega-intense fitness regime. Her trainer would be worse — in a better way — than my old trainer. Jerry wouldn't even let me smell muffins, let alone eat them.

  That thought had me reaching for a lemon poppy seed. Good old Jerry seemed long ago and far away. Plus, Cambria couldn't eat lemon poppy seed for fear of mucking up her drug test. I crammed a chunk of muffin in my mouth, knocked on villa number six's door, and fast-chewed. Pressed the bell twice, but still no answer.

  Two picture windows framed the wood-paneled door. I shifted right. The drapes had been parted to display an empty living room. I angled for a glimpse inside, shading my eyes and squinting. Built-in bookshelves held matching bound books and a massive flat screen. Craftsman-styled furnishings and accessories completed the room, including the kitchen barely visible in the corner. Open bags and cases with camera equipment lay on the thick oriental rug covering the wooden floor.

  Music continued to thump through the porch's floorboards. I rang, then hammered on the door again, tried the knob, and wondered what Cambria was doing with videographer kits. Maybe they were doing pre-release documentary footage for marketing and the final DVD extras. Or she had another job before Leonard's movie started.

  I tore off another muffin hunk, popped it in my mouth, and thought about leaving. I glanced behind me to the long, long, long path back to the club. Wiggled my pained toes. Considered sitting on the porch to wait. With the basket of muffins. Noted the recent tightness of my jeans. Then traipsed to the right-side window to see what Cambria was doing.

  Light gleamed between the curtains and shone on a California King with rumpled sheets and a spread that had half-slid off the bed. Satin-cased pillows had been piled in the middle. Other paraphernalia had been scattered across the sheets. My lemon poppy seed chewing slowed, and I felt heat suffuse my cheeks.

  I didn't want to know what kind of filming Cambria had been doing. Or not doing. I backed away from the window, turned toward the stairs, and stopped.

  The filming Cam-Cam might have been doing was the exact kind of "shitting up his movie," Leonard Shackleton had been talking about. Cambria could be blowing her chance for this epic part if she and her boyfriend were getting frisky in front of a camera. A professional camera, by the look of the kit.

  Why would they make a "home movie" with what looked like the type of camera a documentary director would carry? This wasn't a GoPro box or a camcorder. My heart thudded and blood heated to shoot up the back of my neck.

  Shizzles, Cambria was going to blow her shot, and my shot, and Nash's shot all in one idiotic, depraved video.

  Unless I stopped her.

  I spun around and pounded on the door. After waiting another beat, I tromped off the porch and circled the villa to the bedroom side window. A slope made the window too high for easy peeking, but the blinds were up, and no curtains barred the view. I tiptoed around to the back of the villa. At the far end, a screen door swung out to reveal a locked, windowed door leading to the tiny kitchenette. The bathroom window revealed nothing except Cambria had a crap ton of makeup.

  I stepped away and spied a pile of logs. Found a sturdy looking piece cut evenly on both ends, hefted it against my satin blouse, and walked back to the bedroom window. Dropped the heavy log, missing my toes by an inch, positioned it below the window, and attempted to pull the splinters from my off-the-shoulder ruffles. Gave up on the splinters. Climbed on the log, rose to my toes, and peered in the window.

  Saw the body on the floor.

  And fell off the log.

  Four

  #PeepingTomasina #BrushwithNash

  Lying in the pine straw, staring up at the loblollies, I listened to the soft whooshing of their breezy undulations. With my eyes closed, it had sounded like the far away murmur of waves crashing on the beach. I could imagine myself in Malibu, lying in my bed with the window open and listening to that hypnotic, successive crescendo.

  I wished I were in that beach house. But no, I was lying on my back on the hard Georgia clay, cushioned by prickly pine straw. Beneath me, a sweetgum ball had lodged into my back.

  And a few feet away, Cambria dead's body lay on the floor of her villa bedroom.

  Tears welled in my eyes, and I pinched the skin between my thumb and index finger to stop the flow. Then I asked Cambria's angel for forgiveness for cursing her when I thought she was making a home porno. Then I rolled over and gagged, realizing I'd have to report this to Leonard Shackleton.

  After a few seconds of wishing, crying, and gagging, I launched to my feet, righted the log, and climbed again to look in the window. I banged on the glass, screaming at Cambria to wake. Portable light stands stood by the front window, their LED blazing on the bed, casting a dark shadow across Cambria's legs. She lay face down on the spilled bedspread; her head cocked to one side. Her beautiful dark hair had fallen partially across her face and over her shoulder. Her famous lips were parted. Big brown eyes open and glazed. Cambria was also, unfortunately, naked. Unable to look at her face, my eyes riveted to a birth mark shaped like Florida on her left butt cheek.

  Not the last thing I wanted to remember about Cambria, but better than seeing those cold, dead eyes.

  I glanced away, then made myself examine the room again. Besides the photography lights, there was also a tripod standing near the window. No camera. My eyes did a slow tour of the room. Clothes were heaped on a chair in the corner. The dresser was clear, but then I had seen all her makeup in the bathroom.

  Hopping from the log, I scrambled for the porch and unsuccessfully attempted to break in through the big windows. Pulling off the sandals, I ran for the next villa. Their golf cart had been parked in its half-covered gravel space, but no one answered the door. I had never learned the art of hot wiring a golf cart and moved on. Cottage five and seven were also empty and locked. I ran between the tiny houses, screaming and waving my shoes. No people and no other golf carts with keys on hand.

  Giving up, I huffed through the woods and toward the golf cart path. A cart was parked on the links. Two men in plaids and pinks sat in the cart, sipping from thermoses.

  I waved and hollered.

  The cart sped away.

  Tears threatened. I pinched my thumb skin. Gathering my courage and my stamina, I ran, jogged, fast-walked, and finally staggered from the golf cart path to the stone steps of the Cove's patio. I glanced at my watch. Six-thirty. My dinner date was scheduled for eight. Older couples and golfers sat at the Cove's tables, enjoying the pre-sunset cocktail hour. Their open-mouthed response to my chest-heaving stagger onto the patio caused me to pause momentarily. I hauled butt into the restaurant's reception.

 
; "I need a phone," I gasped.

  The hostess's eyes widened. "For…"

  "The police. There's been an accident. Or death. Accidental death. At the villas."

  Her eyes threatened to pop from their sockets. "Let me get my manager."

  "Just a minute." I leaned over, grasped my things, and panted. Righting, I said, "Let me call my boss while you get the resort's manager. I don't think a restaurant manager's going to do the trick."

  "Your boss?"

  "He's sort of like the police. And he'll call the police." Nash would know the right cop to call. My mind had already sped toward the inevitable. Leonard Shackleton would want this hushed. As would Cambria's people. And the resort.

  The hostess handed me the house phone and headed toward the bar to reach the resort manager. I crept toward the bathroom hall to call Nash.

  Before I could get past hello, tears choked my voice and I could only manage a muffled sob.

  "Miss Albright?" said Nash.

  "She's dead. I don't know what happened. I didn't even start and she's already dead."

  The pause was long enough for me to pinch my thumb and draw in a shaky breath.

  "You got it together?"

  "Yes."

  "Start over," said Nash. "Who's dead?"

  "Cambria."

  The second pause threatened to start a fresh bout of tears.

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  He swore. "What happened? Where are you?"

  I explained my pre-dinner unexpected drop-in. And unexpected find.

  Nash swore again. "Hell. Okay, I'll call my buddy on Black Pine PD. He's a detective. We'll meet you there in a few minutes. Just calm down. Nothing you could have done. Sounds like the girl was a mess and these things seem to happen to your kind— happen to these movie people. Tough luck. That director whatever, Shackleton, is going to raise holy hell, I imagine."

  I let his Freudian slip slide past me. "Executive producer. Mr. Shackleton can't blame me, can he?" My lip quivered, and my thoughts began to careen and spill. "He just hired me a few hours ago. I mean, hired us. But, oh God, Leonard Shackleton's very powerful. He's going to lose a lot of money, and the insurance people will lose a lot of money, and the director, Ed Farmer, too… Oh God, this is terrible. Cambria is dead. There's going to be tabloid reporters and paparazzi everywhere in a few hours. I think I'm going to be sick."

  "It's going to be all right, Maizie. We'll keep this quiet. My cop friend won't want reporters messing with the scene. The resort won't want the bad publicity and neither will your producer whatever. Just don't talk to anyone. I'll be there soon."

  I gulped back a fresh sob. "Hurry. Poor, poor Cambria."

  "Go do that thing to your fingers. In the bathroom or something."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't talk to anyone. I mean it."

  I hung up and walked the phone back to the hostess stand.

  Her eyes threatened to swallow her face. "The resort manager is coming over right now. Who died?"

  "I can't say."

  "Did a golfer have a heart attack on the course?"

  I shook my head.

  "Aren't you Maizie Albright? What happened to you? Were you in an accident? You look like you fell into a ravine." She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh my God, was it a golf cart accident? Did you roll a cart?"

  "No, I wasn't involved." I sniffled. "If only I had gotten there sooner."

  The hostess raised her brows. "If it wasn't a golf cart accident, where are they? Shouldn't we send someone out to be with the, you know, body?"

  My head continued a frenzied shake. "No, we should wait on that."

  Her eyebrows climbed closer to her hairline. "Is it someone famous? Is that why you're acting weird?"

  I backed from the stand, my head still shaking.

  "Were you partying together and something happened? The resort manager is going to want to know."

  I spun and ran to the bathrooms. Slammed into a stall and leaned over the toilet. Breathed in toilet cleaner fumes and exited the stall. Looked in the mirror and winced. My pale cheeks were bright red and eyes raccooned with mascara and eyeliner. My eyes glittered like emeralds against my crimson flush. I still clutched my sandals in one hand. My Juan Carlos Obando V-neck sagged open, exposing a piece of pine straw stuck in my cleavage. The satin was smudged with log dirt and covered in splinters. My feet were ridged in black and covered in grass stains. Running a hand up my neck, I patted my hair and pulled out a long piece of pine straw. And a feather.

  I shook my body and hair free of debris, fluffed the ruffles on my top, and turned on the water. After scrubbing my face, I pulled a bag from my carryall and began the soothing process of reapplying makeup. While I re-bronzed and swiped on new mascara, I felt myself calm.

  My mind wandered back to Cambria. The camera equipment, accessories on the bed, and nudity screamed sex tape. Which meant she was missing a partner. Someone had either left her for dead or just before. Who was she seeing?

  Holy shizzilation, was he in one of the golf carts that flew past me? Why didn't I pay attention to the drivers or the cart numbers? What kind of investigator would I make if I didn't pay attention to my surroundings?

  I pinched my thumb skin and applied reason. I hadn't expected to find Cambria dead therefore I hadn't taken note of crazed sex tape partners on golf carts. I'll pay better attention next time.

  If there was a next time.

  Poor Cambria. I took a deep, shuddering death. An overdose. My experience with overdoses were secondhand stories in group therapy. Usually, the victim mixed a deadly cocktail between 'scrips and party drugs, or whatever they took had been laced with something unknown to the user.

  My rehab stints had brought me into fellowship with a group of troubled souls. Performing often drew a personality type that didn't couple well with fame. The rewards can be great, but they came at a cost. A career built on public whims created instability. The emotional channeling required could be grueling. The hours were exhausting. Expectations from fans, family, agents, and managers took an emotional toll. Not to mention the public criticism that heightened all those neuroses. Plus, many of the rehabbers had a genetic disposition toward addiction.

  I'd felt unworthy of my rehab spots. There were so many at a greater disadvantage and more deserving of the posh clinics where Vicki placed me. In group therapy, I had to share, "I grew out of my role's cheer costume, lost my teen star status, and began partying to purposefully miss callbacks because it annoyed my mother." That got me a lot of eyeball rolls.

  My problems were inadequate. Kind of like now.

  Poor, poor Cambria. I squeezed my arms across my chest and bowed my head.

  My chin jerked up. But why the professional equipment for a home sex tape? If that's what she was doing. And was he partying with her? Did he give her the drugs?

  The golf cart was missing. He must have taken it.

  Pushing out the bathroom door, I raced to the hostess stand. "Where can I learn about the resort's golf carts?"

  "Check with Carlos at the valet stand," said the hostess. "But the resort manager is headed here now. Don't you want to wait for her?"

  "Not really." I paused before the door to the foyer. "I mean, tell her I'll be back. Soon. With my boss. And the police. I need to ask somebody about the golf carts."

  Before she could question my logic, I zipped through the Cove's foyer and out the front door. A young man in a Black Pine Club and Resort polo stood behind the valet podium.

  "Carlos?" I trotted over. "I have a question about the resort's guest golf carts. Are specific golf carts registered to the villas? Like, if my friend is staying at the villa and someone takes her golf cart, can we track it down?"

  He nodded. "Which villa is she staying in?"

  "Number six."

  While Carlos radioed the resort, his gaze flicked over me. Placing a hand over the walkie talkie, he smiled. "They're checking on it. Aren't you Maizie Albright?" At my nod, he continue
d, "I watched y'all when you were filming in the restaurant. Are you really working for that detective or is that just part of the show?"

  "I work at Nash Security Solutions. I'm not doing All is Albright anymore. They decided to continue the show without me."

  "But—" He shifted his attention to his earpiece, then thanked the person at the other end. "The golf cart is parked at the resort in the correct spot. If someone borrowed your friend's cart, they left it in the right place. If your friend wants to report the incident, the desk manager said they could send security to the villa. Do you know what they want to do?"

  "Not now. But we may need to check your security footage to see who was driving it. Don’t let anyone touch it. I don’t suppose you have police tape?” The rumble of a truck's engine caught my ear. I glanced behind me. A Silverado pickup turned off the resort's main drive and into the restaurant parking lot. Nash had arrived. A Tahoe followed and pulled in next to the Silverado.

  "Thanks for your help," I said. "One more thing, can anyone use a golf cart or do you have to be a member or staying at the resort?"

  "I'm sure I can wrangle you a golf cart if you need one, Miss Albright."

  Being an ex-star did have its perks. Why didn't I try this when I arrived? I gave him my Maxim smile, a parted-lip pouty smirk accompanied with bedroom eyes. Generally appreciated by those with the XY chromosome pairing. "Thank you, Carlos."

  His smile broadened. "Anytime." The smile disappeared, his shoulders jerked back, and his chin tipped up. "Can I help you, sir?"

  I spun to find Nash standing behind me, glowering at Carlos.