Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Now, I’m back, and—for whatever reason—Jack Mitchell is back in my life. Sickened by memories still too fresh, too mortifying, I can barely look at myself in the ladies’ room mirror. I have no desire to return to the banquet and make small talk with Jack. I’ve pretty much decided to forgo my free meal and abandon my goody bag at the table, when Carol enters.

  “What’re you doing in here?” she asks, tossing her sparkly Judith Leiber clutch onto the vanity. “You’re missing the salad course. I was afraid you were skipping out on us.”

  “C’mon, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “The hell you wouldn’t.” She gives me a beady look before disappearing into the first stall. I catch her reflection in the mirror, squatting over the toilet, one hand tugging her silk trousers. Her other hand holds the door open, not necessarily to keep an eye on me because she fears I’m going to make a run for it. Carol never closes a bathroom door. I shift out of her eye line just to irritate her.

  “So, is there a problem with Jack?” she asks.

  “It’s not as though he and I don’t have a history, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Just put it behind you, Meg. You had a little breakdown. Who could blame you? The best therapy is to deal squarely with the past. Put it in a little box and throw it over your shoulder.” The toilet flushes. “You gotta just mooooove on.”

  “So that’s what tonight’s all about? Some sort of public therapy session? Look, Jack is not the problem—”

  “Thank you, thank you. I am so glad to hear you say that.” Carol wriggles her hips as she fastens her waistband. “Maybe we’re turning a corner here. Besides, Sid thinks the world of him. Don’t you think he’s kind of cute?”

  “Cute? So this is just a fix-up? Give me a break, Carol. I appreciate the effort, but your pool guy is cute, too. Why not him?”

  “He’s gay. Maybe the only gay pool guy in town.” She shrugs dramatically. “Sorry.”

  I smile. “Leave it to you.”

  “So, could we please go back to the table and finish dinner? C’mon—you don’t need any more lipstick.”

  We head back to the table, Carol riding herd as though I’d hotfoot it out of the ballroom if she wasn’t directly behind me. I’m still tempted, but I’m also hungry. Besides, Carol’s got the advantage on me in height and muscle. She’d think nothing of tackling me.

  “There you are,” Jack says, standing and pulling out my chair for me. “Let me pour you some wine. Where were we?”

  “When?”

  “You were telling me about your new role. Are you all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” I look at the plate of healthy-choice salmon and asparagus that the waiter sets before me. “But only if we get something chocolate for dessert.”

  “If not, I’ll take you out for a sundae,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. He smiles, the warmth back in his eyes. The waiter serves him his dinner. Jack surveys the plate before picking up his knife and fork—obviously not a man who plunges into anything. Or maybe he just doesn’t like fish.

  “Your dinner okay?” he asks. He’s caught me watching him again.

  “Fine,” I say. I try to gain traction on thoughts racing out of control. “So, where did you pick up the tan? Not San Francisco.”

  “Actually, I was in Catalina for a few days last week.” His voice is easy, casual. “Ever been there?”

  “Of course. Paul and I used to sail there. I think you know that.”

  “Right. The WindStar.” Jack lowers his voice, though in this din it’s unlikely we’d be overheard. “I think Sid might’ve mentioned something to you about this business that came up.”

  “Yes, I saw it in the paper. The Coop II, right?”

  He nods curtly, but makes no comment. Nor am I inclined to mention the phone call asking for Coop.

  “You’re still on the case, then?” I ask, as offhandedly as I can manage. “I read that the body on the beach was identified as the owner of the boat?”

  “Aquino, right. His brother was gunned down a couple of months ago. Both were mixed up in a money-laundering racket. Drugs, of course. We’re checking out anything that might turn up a lead. That’s as much as I can tell you right now.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. You can get in touch with me directly, you know. Just call my cell phone.” The words slide out, too late to retrieve. “I mean, you don’t have to go through Sid.”

  “I’ll do that. Same number?”

  “Right.” I busy myself cutting perfect bitefuls of salmon and asparagus, debating whether it’s a good time to mention that I once offered Rick Aquino a margarita aboard the WindStar. There’s a chance the Aquino brothers are the Pancho and Cisco Kid team who were in on Paul’s abduction, but why suggest that to Jack? He never believed Paul was kidnapped in the first place.

  The entrée is followed by chocolate mousse hunkered in a puddle of raspberry purée. Neither of us mention the promise of a sundae. The program, complete with a current TV sitcom star doing bad standup, a singer on the rebound from rehab, and the inevitable charity pitch followed by honorees accepting awards, is none too short. Carol wins both the camera and the weekend in Paris, not surprising considering her hefty bids. Sid looks pleased enough, knowing much of the evening is a write-off. But through it all, my mind is fixated elsewhere. Why has Sid considered it so important to maneuver me back in touch with the man charged with tracking down Paul? Why now?

  The screening of a three-minute wrap-up video lauding medical advances since last year’s fund-raiser is a signal for everyone to paw around in the dark for their goody bags (containing a T-shirt, shampoo, and CD) and beat a hasty retreat to the valet parkers. I bound over to Sid and lean in close.

  “You have some ’splainin’ to do, Lucy. Give me a ring, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” He winks. “You have a good time?”

  “Of course. Nothing beats an inquisition with dinner. Darn it, Sid, I’d still like to know what you’re up to. As for Carol, maybe I can get her to take me with her to Paris.”

  “Why not?” He grins. “Love ya, kid.”

  “I heard that,” Carol says, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t be such a stranger. Come for dinner one night, will you?”

  “I’d love it, but weekdays won’t be good until I finish filming.”

  “Fine, maybe next weekend. I’ll call.”

  I make the rounds of our tablemates, with whom I’ve barely conversed, then turn back to Jack. “It was good to see you again.”

  “Same here.” He takes my arm as I start to wend my way through the crush. “When will your show be on? I’d like to watch it.”

  “I have no idea. The pilot may not even be picked up. You’ll have to check your local listings, as they say.”

  “I’ll look for it.”

  “Take care, Jack,” I say, with as much finality as I can muster. I veer off down a deserted hallway, hoping to slip through a side door and make my way to the dark, tree-lined street where I parked my car. I sense Jack has made a move to follow, but I walk swiftly, cutting around knots of stragglers bidding farewells.

  I’m steps away from a clean getaway when a hand clutches my elbow. It’s Erica, steering me into a recess behind a giant potted ficus, her bony shoulder butting against mine. She swings me around with some force, her eyes glittering even in the shadows.

  “You better know where he is, because they think you do,” she says, her face close, her fingernails biting into my flesh.

  “Who?”

  “F’ chrissake,” she hisses, “they burned the wrong people. I don’t wanna end up like Nat. You gotta come up with something, because I told ’em—” She exhales in a rush, her breath hot. “They want their money back, and Nat sure as hell didn’t leave any behind!”

  “Erica, what’re you talking about?”

  “C’mon, just lead ’em to Paul. They know he’s not dead.”

  “I have no idea where he is.”

  “So where’d you go, then? The
heat’s been on me, like I’m s’posed to know. Nat was killed because Paul told them he was holding the money. They want it back—”

  “They? Paul conned a lot of people—”

  “Right, big time—like Russian mafia types.” She exhales again, her fingers pressing into my elbow. “Look, I got them to believe me. That doesn’t mean I get to stay alive.” She lets go of my arm and backs away. “Same goes for you.”

  She turns and hurries toward the exit, slamming her hands against the metal bar to open the door. I watch her head toward the end of the long parking queue. The thought occurs to me that she can’t be that broke if she can afford valet parking.

  Russian mafia? Carol’s got it right. Erica has to put blame somewhere—but now I’m supposed to be in cahoots with the Russian mafia? What next?

  I look around. The lobby has cleared. I slip out the side door and walk to the corner. It was twilight when I arrived for the banquet. Now, once I cross Wilshire Boulevard, the side streets are pitch black. Few of the stately houses, positioned well back on their lots, have lights in their windows. I hurry across an intersection and turn right, spotting my car among only three parked on the deserted residential avenue. Out of habit, my car key is in hand, my thumb hovering above the red panic button. If I pressed it, would anyone in this neighborhood even bother to respond?

  I quicken my pace, irritated when I see a slip of white paper visible on the driver’s side of my windshield. A parking ticket? I checked the signs carefully. Just as I unlock the door and reach for the paper tucked under the wiper, the headlights of a dark van parked diagonally from mine flash on. I yank the car door open and climb in, locking the doors at once. The interior lights stay on just long enough for me to read the note: TELL COOP HE CAN’T HIDE.

  The van pulls away from the curb and passes by, its broad-shouldered driver hunched over the wheel. He doesn’t look my way. At least it’s not the green sedan with the redhead that’s been dogging me. I jam the note in my handbag and, with shaking fingers, turn the key in the ignition.

  I make a wide U-turn and swing toward Sunset Boulevard, passing familiar streets that look sinister shrouded in darkness. I scan each intersection and check my rearview mirror before moving on. Minutes later I pull into Donna’s driveway and park under the portico. I grab my purse and goody bag and race along the walkway to the front door. Before I can push my key in the lock, the door swings open. Donna, in a flowered caftan, smiles and steps aside.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I waited up for you. Did you have a good time? I thought maybe we could have a cup of tea together.”

  I slip inside, shivering and out of breath. It takes a moment to connect Donna’s greeting with the silver tray gleaming on a low table in front of the fire. The living room, with its eccentric furnishings, looks cozy and inviting. Glimmering votive candles dot the table. I huddle on the landing, still feeling anxious.

  “It’s chilly out,” Donna says. “Come inside. I want to hear all about your evening. Did you see Alex Trebek?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, no. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Heavens, no, but I hear he always goes to these charity events. Now he’s someone I’d really like to meet someday. Such a nice man. I have my supper in there with him almost every evening.”

  She nods toward the sunroom, a glass enclosure just off the living room, given over to vast pots of cymbidium orchids and wicker furniture with faded chintz cushions. I picture Donna curled up on the chaise longue, a tray in her lap, watching Jeopardy as the sun sets.

  “I used to watch him with my mother, until she passed away. We’d play against each other. Come in, come in.”

  I move to the sofa and sink into the plush cushions, feeling the warmth from the fire.

  “Here, let me—” Donna takes my evening purse and goody bag and places them on the coffee table. “That’s better. Do you take milk and sugar?”

  I nod. But the cauldron in my head finally boils over. Hot tears flood down my cheeks. What’s getting to me? Erica? Mafia? The Coop?

  Donna slips a napkin in my hand, a square of sheer batiste with broderie anglaise. It lies in my palm even as tears drip off my chin. Maybe it’s just seeing Jack again.

  “Nothing like a good cry,” she says, mopping my face with her own napkin. She dabs my nose. “Feel better?”

  I nod. “Thank you for being so nice.”

  “Not at all. Let’s have some tea now.”

  “I’m sorry about this. I’m just tired.”

  “Of course you are. Sleep in tomorrow. Get all the rest you need.”

  I sip the strong English tea, listening to the crackle of the fire in the grate. Did this tea service once belong to Dame Mae Whitty? Donna, tiny and bright-eyed, perches on the fender of the fireplace, looking at me with concern. I manage a smile.

  “Thank you, my dear. The tea has restored me,” I say, in my best drawing-room diction. “But seriously, I don’t usually react this way after charity events.”

  She shakes her head, uncertain if I’m joking. “I should hope not.” She takes the cup from my hand and sets it back on the tray. In soothing tones, she says, “Off to bed now. Go on. You need some rest.”

  I give Donna a hug. “Thank you so much. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I mount the stairs and head to my room like a sleepy child sent to bed. I flip the light switch, and the room is bathed in a peachy glow. The coverlet is already turned down, the ruffled pillows plumped up. The memory of lying in the folds of the soft, sweet-smelling linens makes me so drowsy I can barely keep my eyes open. I slip out of my dress and wash my face, too tired to do more. The warm water and plush towel remind me that only days ago I made do with cold water and brown paper towels in a public toilet.

  How can I repay Donna’s hospitality? What treat, what kindness, would fit the bill? As my head sinks into the downy pillow, a solution comes to mind, one so perfect that I sit up in bed, fully awake. I pull on the robe Donna has provided and make my way barefoot down the hall toward the pool of light streaming from the open door of the master bedroom.

  I stop on the threshold, about to call her name, when I hear a sound like the mewling of a hungry kitten. I peer inside and catch my breath. Donna, standing on tiptoe, lifts an antique doll from a glass shelf in a cabinet. Once again I hear the mewling sound as she lays the baby doll on its back.

  “Shhhhush, now. Nighty-night,” Donna coos. She brushes her fingertips across the doll’s eyes, as though flicking out the lights for the night. “Sleep tight.” Then, catching sight of me in the reflection of the glass cabinet, she gasps and turns abruptly.

  “Sorry, Donna! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s all right. I was going to show you, but I thought you were too tired.” She smiles. “Meet my granny’s pride and joy.”

  I look around at an astonishing display of antique dolls, each dressed in ruffled and beribboned finery, complete with hats, boots, and lacy parasols. “They’re beautiful, Donna.”

  “Granny collected dolls all her life, and so did my mother.” She shrugs. “Sorry. Couldn’t you sleep?”

  “I was just about to drop off when I had a thought. You know, maybe I could arrange for you to meet Alex Trebek. Do you want me to try?”

  “Really?” She blinks. “You know him?”

  “No, actually I don’t, but Jinx was once a category. Maybe I could call and see if we could watch his show being taped.”

  “Now that would be fun,” she says, pulling her robe closer and hugging herself. “I’d like that, but I’m afraid I’d be just too nervous to meet him in person. I’m sure he’s tired of women gushing over him.”

  “No, no, I’m sure he’s very nice. Let me see what I can do. ’Night, Donna.”

  “Nighty-night, dear. Sleep tight.”

  “Tell me, do you close the eyes on all those dolls every night?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Donna says wearily. “Only the big baby dolls. Otherwise I’d be up unt
il dawn.”

  I pad down the hallway to my room, knowing Donna has gone back to making her rounds. How long does it take to tuck in the baby dolls every night, and flick their eyes open every morning? I may be a little crazy, but Donna is completely nuts. The thought comforts me.

  Is there an actor alive who hasn’t awakened in a bone-chilling panic, terrified that the alarm hasn’t gone off? That the sun is already up and somewhere a makeup chair sits empty?

  Eventually my brain unscrambles, and I realize it’s Sunday morning. Despite the reprieve, my day will not be quite the same. Monday looms, the first day of the shoot. I’m prepared, but am I prepared enough? I obsess, my role constantly on my mind. I pick up the script to read through yet again, pondering my choices, wondering what I might be overlooking. I want nothing more than to be there, on the set, in front of the camera, fully made up, now. It’s the only cure for first-day jitters.

  To distract myself, after breakfast with Donna, I drive up into the canyon, checking my rearview mirror frequently. I see no sign of the green sedan. Maybe they—surely the man on my cell phone asking about Coop is connected to the redhead and the green sedan—have taken the weekend off?

  I park at the top of Mulholland, open my trunk, and burrow in the recesses for a folder of clippings and documents I haven’t looked at in six months. I settle back in the Volvo to dig into the court filings and newspaper articles, hoping to find clues to the Coop question, if not respite from my preoccupation with filming tomorrow.

  One clipping, already crisp and yellowing, falls into my lap.

  LEGAL BATTLE OVER MORTGAGE DEALS

  MAJOR REAL ESTATE SCAM ALLEGED

  Paul C. Stephens, President, Stephens Property Development, has been indicted on 26 charges of securing loans based on false and fraudulently inflated property appraisals to buy homes, using the excess funds to develop other properties. In a “flipping” scheme using straw buyers, loan application packages were made to appear legitimate, according to investigators, but in fact contained false appraisals, which overvalued the real property, as well as doctored verifications of employment and credit statements. It is further alleged that significant sums of illegally obtained investment scheme funds were used to finance Stephens’ extravagant lifestyle, including lavish travel and dining, expensive automobiles, and a 32-foot sailboat. Stephens, 54, whose assets were frozen and whose Beverly Hills home was seized, is believed to have fled the country, his whereabouts unknown. Stephens’ wife, the actress Meg Barnes, was unavailable for comment.