Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  The voice is casual, the words mocking. I turn to look into the sultry eyes of Erica Wiggens, a former beauty queen and the widow of Nat, a studio executive. Poor Nat, one of Paul’s early investors, was killed in a carjacking outside their Brentwood home. Erica and I go way back. She once guest-starred on Holiday, playing—what else?—a former beauty queen.

  Her lips curl in a half-smile. “Go on. Wouldn’t a little getaway be nice?”

  “Sounds very romantic, Erica, but at the moment—”

  “That’s right. You’re on your own these days, too. Do I have that right?”

  “Erica, I’m so sorry about Nat. He was a great guy.” I edge away, only to find myself blocked by a display of travel posters.

  “Yeah, he was, until he met your husband. We need to talk, Meg. I think you know more than you let on.”

  “Please, Erica. This isn’t the place for this.”

  My face burns. I glance around the silent-auction room to see who’s within earshot. Carol, shimmering in a turquoise silk pants suit, is one table away, bidding on a digital camera.

  “No? One hears so many things,” Erica says, fingering the diamond pendant hovering above the abyss of her cleavage. “And then you were away for a while—”

  “Not long—”

  “Well, of course, we all wondered.” She laughs shrilly, her voice rising. “I mean, it could’ve been like one of those caper movies, you know, where you two meet up in Brazil, or on some tropical island afterward, right?”

  “After what, Erica?”

  “Did I hear tropical island?” Carol sidles up next to me and slips her arm through mine. Her thick blonde mane swings onto her shoulder as she turns to face Erica. “Not Paris?”

  “Whatever. I was just telling Meg she ought to bid on the trip, a little getaway.” Erica’s voice drops its edge, for Carol’s benefit.

  “Good idea. What a blast.” Carol picks up the pen attached to a clipboard that holds a bidding sheet. “You can bid on Botox over there, Erica. Did you see it?”

  “I’ll leave it to those who need it.” Erica smiles blandly and moves away. “Good luck. Hope you win that trip. And the Botox, Carol.”

  Carol swings me around, and we weave our way through the crowd. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. It’s too early to go in to the tables yet.” As tall as I am, Carol towers over me. With her linebacker shoulders and the agility of a seasoned quarterback, she steers us toward the bar area.

  “She thinks I’m in cahoots, Carol. She seems to think I sneaked off to join Paul in Rio.”

  “Is that where he is?”

  “Damn it, Carol!”

  “Sorry, I was trying to be funny. You can’t let her get to you. If Nat hadn’t died, she’d have divorced him. The only problem is, he died broke, and she needs to blame someone. That’s you.”

  “But how could anyone think I was a part of it? I got taken as much as anyone. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing.”

  “They only see you at a party looking good. They don’t know what you went through. Meanwhile, when they see you having a good time, they think of the bundle they lost. You give ’em a place to put the anger.”

  Carol holds up her hand before I can respond, and dives into the scrum around the bar to order drinks. I look around, wondering how many people in this room are whispering about me each time I turn my back.

  She was married to that guy who ran the real estate scam. Claims she knew nothing about it.

  Yeah, right—

  Carol hands me a glass of wine. “Thanks,” I say. “I may need a steady flow of this stuff. Tell me, do people ask you about me? You know what I mean.”

  “Well, they know we’re friends. They know Sid lost money, too—hey, you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just galling that people think I could’ve known about this and done nothing.”

  “Well, put it out of your mind. You look great, kid. Keep smiling. I’m really glad you wore that outfit. It always works. By the way, Sid did the seating, so don’t blame me. And it’s not a fix-up, okay?”

  “Wait, you fixed me up? Who? What does he know about me?”

  “It’s not a fix-up, okay? It was Sid’s idea. You know you can trust Sid, right?”

  She’s been through a lot, poor kid. Husband was a con man, bilked half the town, but don’t bring it up, okay?

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored panels on our way into the banquet room, looking just fine in the “outfit that always works.” How can one go wrong with a well-cut black silk wraparound and decent earrings? Tip: When packing for an extended stay in one’s automobile, always bring along basic black and a pair of strappy high heels.

  Our table is nearly full, a mixed bag of people whom I suspect are mostly Sid’s clients. The noise level in the room is already just short of a Lakers game at Staples Center, so there’ll be little opportunity to talk with anyone. I circle the table, repeating my name, smiling and shaking hands with each of Sid’s guests, none of whom I’ve met before. Obviously I was invited as a dress-extra. I don’t mind in the least.

  I spot Sid, looking freshly waxed, his balding pate gleaming in the candlelight. Next to him, his back to me, is a slim man of medium height in a charcoal suit. My heart stops. It’s Jack Mitchell, and he’s the last person I feel up to seeing. I turn on my heel, but I’m not quick enough.

  “Hiya, toots.” Sid catches my hand and reels me in. I breathe in a lungful of vetiver as he busses me on the cheek. “Meg, you remember Jack? He’s been out of town for quite a while, just got back. Jack, Meg here’s been doing some traveling, too.” Why didn’t he tell me yesterday that he was going to pull this? Sid smiles and claps us both on the shoulders. Damn it, Sid, I could’ve used some warning!

  He catches the look in my eye and says, “Hey, it’s been a long time. I thought you two would like to catch up.”

  Sid holds up his hands, as though giving us benediction, and sidles off to greet another newcomer. I glance at Jack, my mouth parched.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Well, this is quite a surprise. Certainly a nice one. How have you been?”

  “Fine.” All the better for not seeing you, I could add, though that’s not really true. I take in the suntanned face, the warm brown eyes, and return his smile. So Sid sprang this on Jack, too. “You’re looking well. Where’ve you been off to?” I ask, striving to sound casual.

  He holds the chair for me as I sit down. “I’ve been running a case out of San Francisco for a while, overseeing a task force up there. It took longer than expected.” He pulls his chair in and gives me an appraising look. “How about you?”

  “Just traveling around. Here and there.” I return his gaze, taking in the specks of caramel lighting up his eyes. Heat scorches my cheeks, but at least I’m not in the throes of the sort of meltdown I experienced the first time we met. “Just here and there,” I repeat. “I wanted to get away for a bit. Let things calm down.”

  “That’s what I heard. I don’t blame you.” He looks at me steadily, his voice even. “Did you stay in any particular place for long?”

  My pulse settles, but my guard is still up. “I was in Mendocino for a while, then Seattle. I spent some time in Oregon, you know—then the Midwest to visit my mother. Obviously she was concerned about me.”

  “I’m sure she was.” He gazes at me, looking expectant, as though it’s now my turn to respond. I wait it out until he asks, “Did your travels take you anywhere else?”

  “Here and there.”

  “Here and there.” He smiles. “Got it. You don’t give much away, do you?”

  I shake my head. I’ve given enough away. “I didn’t even send postcards.”

  Taking a sip of wine, he eases back in his chair. “I wondered what was happening with you. I thought I might catch you on television or in the movies. Are you doing any acting?”

  “I am. I start work next week on a TV pilot. A mystery series. I play a woman who thought she got away with murdering he
r husband.”

  “Great. Sounds like my kind of show.”

  “Then you may not want to know the ending.”

  “If this is network, I’m guessing she goes down for it.”

  “You got it—but not without a fight.”

  “Good for you.” He laughs. “I’ll watch to see if I can pick up some tips.”

  “You should. It’s a case everyone figured was dead, except for this one investigator who perceives I’m somehow involved. He grills me mercilessly. At least I’m the bad guy, so I deserve it. If I were innocent, it’d be hard to take.”

  “I see.” The warmth fades from his eyes. There’s an edge in my voice, and he’s picked up on it. He takes another sip of wine and says, “Sounds entertaining.”

  “I hope so. It’s good to be working again.” I smile, but it’s not enough to restore the firelight in Jack’s eyes. I reach for water, the moisture on the glass slippery in my fingers. Droplets trickle down my bare arm onto my thigh. Enough silly banter. Why don’t I just ask him about The Coop II? The dead body?

  But even as the words form on my lips, the woman on Jack’s right taps his arm and introduces herself. My heart races, the crowded room closing in. The stage is set for me to have a wide-awake furniture dream. I can already feel myself leapfrogging across tables and chairs to the nearest exit. I glance across our table and catch Carol sizing me up. I look away, avoiding eye contact. This is some fix-up. I could end up having a stroke before the salad is served.

  I gulp more water, trying to breathe normally, hoping I won’t have to ask the waiter for a paper bag to ventilate into. I cast a sidelong glance at Jack, still engaged in conversation. My eyes travel along the curves and hollows of his ear to his close-cropped hair feathering above his shirt collar. As though sensing my gaze, his hand reaches up, coming to rest on the back of his neck. His fingers are tanned. Unadorned. No ring. My heart bolts into a gallop. I pick up my purse and mumble to no one in particular, “Back in a minute.”

  As I steam toward the ladies’ room, I try to sort out this turn of events. What is it about Jack that turns me into a cat in heat? Maybe post-traumatic shock takes strange forms, like craving sex with the nearest FBI man. Maybe it’s just the heady effects of a night out, dressed up. It’s been a long time since I’ve dined by candlelight, looking into the warm brown eyes of—Stop!

  Is Sid out of his mind? Is this supposed to be a date? If so, aren’t we breaking some sort of law enforcement code by socializing? It’s been a good nine months since I last saw Jack. Maybe the FBI officially decided I’m no longer a suspect in my husband’s disappearance. Or maybe this is a setup. Wine and dine her, and maybe she’ll spill what she knows. I may be ripe for seduction, but this isn’t going anywhere. I could hardly have my date, an FBI agent, pick me up at my Volvo for a night on the town. Besides, resentment lingers.

  That morning a year ago, after overhearing Sid and Jack talking in my garden, I, too, became pretty much convinced that Paul had faked his kidnapping. But I was just as upset to know they’d concealed knowledge about my husband. I wanted to die, but pulling off suicide with a houseful of FBI agents watching me didn’t look like a possibility. With nowhere else to turn, I stepped into the shower. But I’d barely soaped up when Agent Olsen banged on the door.

  “The phone is ringing,” she said, her voice taut. She threw a towel over my sudsy hair while I struggled into a robe. “Quick, take it in the bedroom.”

  I raced to my bedside table and snatched the receiver. A voice, harsh and accented, began speaking the moment I lifted the receiver. I made out “bus” and “La Paz,” but before I could say a word, the voice cut off. The line went dead. I looked up to see Sid and Jack in the doorway.

  I shook the receiver, crowing, “Did you hear that? He’s alive! You see! He really was kidnapped!”

  Sid took the receiver and put his arms around me. I sobbed into his shoulder, shaking with relief. Maybe Paul had been injured during his ordeal, but at least he’d be back, alive.

  “I had to do what they told me, Sid. Thank God, I did. He’s safe!”

  “Okay, Meg, okay,” he’d said. “Let’s wait and see.”

  Jack raked his hand through his hair and said nothing. He offered no encouragement, no words of comfort. I kept to myself, refusing to leave the bedroom, sitting by the telephone. Running through my mind was the exchange I’d overheard between Jack and Sid. What didn’t Sid want Paul to get away with? What did Jack want to keep to himself? Mostly, though, I tried to come to terms with my own willingness to believe Paul had betrayed me.

  In the end, there was no sign of Paul at the bus stop on the stretch of road north of La Paz, Mexico, where the kidnapper had said he could be found. But a search team did come across a battered airline bag in a drainage ditch near where Paul was supposed to have been dropped off. Inside was a damaged, scratchy cassette recording stuck in a cheap answering machine. I thought the cassette was a clue, proving that Paul had been kidnapped and was still alive. I was the only one who saw it that way. I begged to hear the tape, then cried when it was played for me over the telephone.

  Recorded on the tape was an almost comical exchange. A gruff voice, perhaps the same one that made the ransom call to me, asked, “Where the hell is he? Stephens. Where’d you take him?”

  An even more heavily accented voice responds in broken English: “He feenish. Si, señor. Muerto. You no say to feenish?”

  “But isn’t there more?” I insisted. “There has to be more. What did they do with him? I have to know!”

  Jack shook his head, his voice cool. “I’m afraid that’s it, Mrs. Stephens. That’s all they could get off the tape. The thing is, I’m surprised we found it.”

  “What do you mean that’s all? I know that voice. Isn’t he the one who called me?”

  “But why would this recording exist? Why would they do that?”

  “It happens. Someone answers a telephone after the machine picks up, and the conversation gets recorded. Thank God it picked up, or we wouldn’t know. I mean, why do I have to tell you this? It’s obvious.”

  “Is it?” Jack folded his arms across his bone-white shirt and leaned against my bedroom door. “The thing is, the airline bag with the tape was found near the bus stop, right where we were told we’d find your husband. That tape could be a plant. We’re supposed to think your husband is dead. Why?”

  I stared at him, infuriated that I had to explain something so simple, so fundamental, to an FBI agent. “You can’t just give up!” I shouted. “That tape will have clues to where he is! Don’t you get it? You can do voice enhancement. Analyze background sounds. Maybe the guy lied and Paul is—”

  “I didn’t say we were giving up.”

  I took my cue, dropping to a vocal register as unemotional as his. I fell into the role of Jinx, the voice of reason, will of iron, telling Winston Sykes we had to try harder.

  “Look, I know it can be done. I know you’ve got the technology. Send it to a lab. Just go over it. It’s all we have. We’ve got to do everything we can.”

  “Mrs. Stephens, we’re following every lead. If your husband is alive, we will find him.”

  “Good. I want to stay with you on this. Don’t leave me out. I want to help, okay?”

  “Okay. That’s good to hear. There are a few things I’d like to review with you. You up to it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tell us once again, what was he doing in Mexico?”

  “Like I said, he’s in property development. He was trying to put together some deal for a coastal resort and hotel complex. I never knew any of the particulars.”

  “What can you tell us about the development he was working on here?”

  “Construction was stalled, awaiting permits. He needed some land-use variances, so he was focusing on this deal in Mexico. Look, could I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you so suspicious of that tape?”

  “Doesn’t it sound like playact
ing to you?”

  I replayed the tape in my head: You no tell me to feenish? The voices suddenly reminded me of Pancho and the Cisco Kid in an old serial. Hey, Cisco, I weesh. Or maybe Cheech and Chong. Feenish? Uh-ohhhhhh. I felt sick to my stomach. It must have showed.

  Jack leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes never leaving mine. “I think we were supposed to find that tape. I don’t believe there ever was a kidnapping.” His voice was cool, uninflected, perfectly calibrated to set me off.

  “Damn it, you believed that from the beginning! Why?”

  The flicker in Jack Mitchell’s eyes was the only indication I might have caught him off guard.

  “We’ve been looking into some property transactions your husband was involved in. Mr. Baskin has been cooperating with our investigation. We had hoped Mr. Stephens would, too. Instead he’s disappeared.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me? Why did you hide the investigation from me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stephens. We did what we had to do.”

  “Sorry? Nowhere near as sorry as I am.”

  If someone had given me a heads-up, maybe I could’ve ducked. Sometime later, when I was mired in debt, bankruptcy, and PR fallout, I met briefly with Jack again. He suggested I “drop by the Federal Building,” which entailed showing ID, negotiating a metal detector, and wearing a visitor’s badge to our rendezvous in a glass-enclosed conference room.

  “Thanks for stopping in,” Jack said, shaking my hand. “You look great. How’re you doing?”

  “You met me at my worst. Anything’s an improvement. Any news?”

  “The case is in the hands of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, White Collar Crime Section. That’s WCC-4.”

  “And Paul?”

  “The judge signed the arrest warrant. No new leads. Sorry, Meg.”

  Sorry? Meanwhile, I was left to deal with a quagmire of lawsuits, bankruptcy filings, and endless media speculation. If I’d stayed to do battle and taken advantage of options available to me rather than abandoning everything, I wouldn’t be in quite the fix I’m in today. I might even still have a roof over my head. But no matter what Jinx might have done, I saw no way to triumph. I left town.