Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

“I won’t, you know. I’m scripted to go down for life.” Still feeling like a dancing bear with a stubbed toe, I try again, dipping into my standby Barbara Walters grab bag. “Okay, here’s the question,” I say. “If you were to choose your last meal before going to jail, what would it be?”

  Sid bites. “Easy, pastrami on rye. Cheesecake, what the hell.”

  “Oh, God, a smorgasbord,” Carol says. “Do they let you send out? French fries, sundaes, pecan pancakes, chocolate, the works. What about you, Jack?”

  “I’m a meat–and-potatoes kind of guy. I’d go for a pepper steak from Chez Jay.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “With the banana home fries, right?”

  “Right. There’s nothing better.” His eyes crinkle, and my heart leaps.

  We go in to dinner then, served at a small round table in the library, candlelit and fragrant with logs burning in the fireplace. On the menu is roast lamb with wine from the renowned Baskin cellar.

  Sid and Jack share an interest in music, jazz in particular. Much of the evening is given over to playing selections from Sid’s collection of vintage LPs. We move out onto the patio, where the two men swap jazz lore over coffee and cigars. I settle back, breathing in the night-blooming jasmine, feeling more content than I have in a long time.

  Jack, too, looks relaxed, his legs stretched out, his head tilted back as he puffs on a cigar. We both hear the distant chime of the mantel clock. He turns to me, putting his hand on mine. “I’m about ready to call it an evening. How about you?”

  I nod. “Me, too.” We linger a few minutes at the door, thanking Carol and Sid. Jack walks me to my car, newly washed and no longer bearing signs of residency. Even though I’m parked behind electronic gates, I automatically scan the windshield, looking for unwelcome calling cards.

  “Well, that was fun,” I say, opening the door and slinging my bag onto the passenger seat. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Of course. But I’m sorry you were put on the grill for a while.”

  “It happens. But they’re good friends, and Carol means well. It was all for your benefit, if you hadn’t guessed. She figures the business with Paul is over, so I should be able to put it behind me. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  “I know.” Jack looks as though he’s about to say more. His hand rests on the open car door, his face close. Heat rises to my cheeks. If he leaned closer, I’d meet him halfway. His hand drops to my shoulder, releasing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

  “Look,” he says, his grip on my shoulder tightening, “it’s not all over and done with. You know that, don’t you?” I nod, butterflies dropping like ball bearings. “This business is not finished. If there’s anything you know, anything that’s worrying you, call me. Will you do that?”

  I flash on the green sedan. The note left on my car. Hell, I could even mention my call to West Virginia. Does he know about Frank Cooper? If he does, he hasn’t shared it with me. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him lead me along again. Does he still think of me as a suspect? Is that what all these dinners are about?

  He raises his other hand. There’s a business card in it, which he slides into the pocket of my jacket. I nod again, my cheeks burning. What was I thinking? “Of course, I’ll call. Promise.”

  He steps back and smiles. “Anytime, okay? And maybe after the verdict is in, I can buy you steak at Chez Jay.”

  “Verdict?”

  “You’re still shooting, right?”

  “Sorry, of course. Sounds good.”

  I slide behind the wheel, my knees weak, and pull the door closed. Jack steps a few feet away. I fumble to get the car started, then back up to turn around in the driveway. I hate that he’s watching me. It would be just my luck to ram my fender into a planter or to barrel through the fountain. I manage some sort of wave as I squeal over the pavers and head for the security gates. Please God, let them open!

  Jack.

  He’s got access to a whole bulging file on me, while the little dope I have on him comes via inference and deduction based on few facts. He and Sid met in law school. The two worked together in the same firm until Jack joined the Bureau and Sid opened his own office. Jack’s wife died. Children? Who knows? He may or may not be into a career change. His business card still has him working out of the Federal Building. He looks good in white shirts, and he drives a late-model Beemer. He drinks martinis. I suspect his hair looks better than mine straight out of bed in the morning. With some annoyance I realize that a part of my brain I apparently have no control over is entirely libidinous, despite the fact that in my present circumstances dating is out of the question.

  Jack’s also into jazz. He and Sid played in some band while in law school. Between them, they managed to rattle off the names of every player in Benny Goodman’s 1938 Carnegie Hall concert. Even Carol’s eyes glazed, and she’s used to Sid sounding like he’s reading liner notes. What in the world do Jack and I have in common, aside from sharing a taste for Chez Jay’s steak au poivre? Do I really want to see this guy again?

  Yes.

  I come to that conclusion after mulling the question since awakening at dawn. While morning sun bounds into my room in golden leaps, I loll in bed listening to Donna sweep the patio and water the pots below my window.

  I turn over, my hand floating through a puddle of sunshine lapping at my pillow, my fingers soaking up the warmth. What luxury to lie in on a Saturday morning, breathing in the sweet smells of early spring. Thanks to Donna, there’s no need to rouse myself from the backseat of Mrs. Singleton’s Bentley, or hide from the curious stares of early-morning joggers in Holmby Park.

  Eventually the garage door grinds open, and Donna leaves to play golf. I have the house to myself. If I wanted to, I could lie in bed all morning, doing nothing more than watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Or daydream about Jack, remembering the weight of his hand on my shoulder, the musky smell of his suede jacket.

  Had he kissed me last night—what then? My lovely fantasy skids to a full stop.

  Nothing. There isn’t space in the narrow confines of my life these days to accommodate anyone else. I must be an idiot to imagine ever again lying naked in some man’s arms, especially someone like Jack, with whom I share little other than a preoccupation with my fugitive, not-dead husband.

  Maybe I should have confided in Jack last night, another question I’ve mulled since daybreak. If I’d mentioned the note and the threatening cell phone call to him, maybe I would’ve learned something about “Coop.” Or confirmed a connection between Paul and Frank Cooper.

  From the night table, I pick up the photo of the jug-eared kid and look at the name penciled on the back. How could I ask Jack about Frankie Cooper without telling him I’ve found this picture? I don’t want to turn it over to him. Nor do I want to reveal what I know about Cooper’s family if it will somehow lead me to Paul. I want the satisfaction of meeting him face-to-face again, but on my own terms, not the FBI’s.

  A snatch of the edgy exchange between Sid and Carol comes to mind. I’d have done well to ignore Carol’s probing, especially concerning Jack. Even in jest, I can’t afford to make comments that lead to personal questions such as “By the way, where are you living these days?” At least I know Carol’s not the one having me followed, or she’d know by now that I’m squatting in the house of a relative stranger.

  And that brings me to another sobering issue: I can’t bunk in Donna’s house forever. As it is, I feel like I’m only a step away from “Honey, I’m home. What’s for dinner?” I barely crunch to the top of her gravel driveway before she swings the front door open, bouncing up and down on her Dearfoams like an exuberant spaniel. I know a frosty glass of white wine awaits me in her sunroom, and I’ve come to look forward to it.

  There were decades of my life when I lived a mi casa es su casa lifestyle, too. I always had a spare room for any New York actor buddy making the annual pilgrimage for pilot season. On one occasion it came as something of a surprise to realize that a frie
nd had remained in the guest quarters over my garage throughout one whole season of his TV series. He made great margaritas and always tended the grill, which counts for something. That the tables have now turned, and I’m the guest who doesn’t want to leave, can perhaps be justified on some karmic level. I’m just grateful to be on the receiving end, as long as it lasts.

  Early makeup calls have spared me from having breakfast with Donna, although she never fails to set Mr. Coffee’s automatic timer for me. There are always fresh berries in a cling-wrapped bowl in the fridge, a pre-sliced bagel on a plate next to the toaster. We’ve had dinner together every evening but one, and I know Donna puts herself out. Women who live alone usually end up standing over the kitchen sink eating something out of a skillet, or forking salad out of a plastic container from the grocery store. I’ve certainly done it, but Donna seems not to have succumbed. I always find a linen napkin, bone china, and a bud vase on my wicker tray. I’ll miss her home cooking, as well as her hospitality, when I decamp and am back to eating takeout with a plastic fork.

  But I’ll miss Donna, herself, most of all—even though she’s now outed herself as a full-fledged Holiday fan. After gorging on her hand-churned prune Armagnac ice cream and recklessly telling her I would do anything for another scoop, Donna demanded, “Teach me how to throw the hat.”

  “The hat?” I said. “Sorry, but I’m afraid Jinx’s top hat went to prop heaven years ago. I have no idea where it is.”

  “I do,” Donna said, going to the mahogany credenza she claimed was a Garbo castoff. Reaching into the top drawer, she handed me a thin cardboard box that I recognized immediately.

  “No, I don’t believe it!” I gasped, flipping open the lid. Inside, wrapped carefully in tissue, was a hard, black satin disk. “My hat! Where’d you get it?”

  “I won it in a church charity auction nearly twenty years ago,” Donna said, her face beaming. “Go on—pop it!”

  I snapped the brim with a well-practiced flourish, and Jinx’s collapsible magician’s hat popped open. With both of us peering into the hall mirror, I settled the top hat on my head, cocked to one side just as Jinx always wore it.

  “It still fits,” I joked. “Thank God they weren’t auctioning off the satin shorts and jacket.”

  “You fishing for compliments?” Donna laughed. “Okay, show me how it works.”

  I took the hat off and collapsed it, then sailed it to her over the bust of John Barrymore. Donna put her hands out to catch the whirling disc but got whacked in the shoulder. “Watch it—that thing is lethal!” she yelped.

  “That’s the whole idea. How do you think Jinx knocked out the bad guys?”

  Donna tried to Frisbee it back to me, but the disc nosedived to the floor. “Damn, what’s wrong with me?”

  “It takes years at Actors Studio to learn this stuff, Donna. That’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

  I showed off a few of Jinx’s signature moves, even managing to twirl and do a fancy backhand. There was a time when I could sling the disc while managing a one-hand cartwheel, too. But that was then.

  After a few more practice throws, I showed Donna how to place her fingers on the edge of the brim to get the right spin. Finally, both of us exhausted, I autographed the inside of the hat before Donna gave it the place of honor atop John Barrymore’s head on the mahogany credenza. It was hard work, but worth it for the extra scoop of prune Armagnac ice cream.

  Over the past week, I’ve acquired quite a head for trivia and luxury goods, thanks to a steady diet of Jeopardy and The Price Is Right. Occasionally, when I’ve arrived home a bit late, we’ve dined with one or another team of Barbie and Ken look-alikes hosting Hollywood celebrity shows. Who are these squealing, plastic-faced, terminally adolescent people? Since taking up enforced outdoor encampment I’ve watched little television. To my astonishment, the young actor with the killer grin playing the prosecuting attorney in the pilot I’m shooting appeared in a red-carpet segment.

  “Donna, that actor there—I know him. We did a scene together yesterday.”

  “He’s in your pilot? Lucky you—”

  “Well, more like I’m in his pilot. You like him?”

  “Not bad,” Donna said airily. “A sort of young Brad Pitt meets Colin Farrell. Cute, but a bad boy. He was in a series that got picked up mid-season. Didn’t catch on. Terrible time period. How come you never show up at these things? You should, you know.”

  “Because I’m not invited.”

  “You’d better get your PR person on it,” she said, with raised eyebrow. “You need this kind of exposure to let people know you’re still around. You need to get on the list.”

  “What list? I don’t have a PR person.”

  “You should. If this pilot gets picked up, there’ll be a ton of press. Have you ever considered doing one of those infomercials? Or a game show? Maybe you could write a diet book. That would get you on the morning shows.”

  “You’re scaring me, Donna. How do you know all this stuff?”

  “Are you kidding?” She waved at the television set. “They feed you all the inside news. Who’s hot, who’s not. You have to stay relevant. You should have your own series again. You’re a star. You can’t let yourself slide off the radar.”

  “I’ve slid, Donna. Believe me, I’m not on anyone’s radar anymore. I’m lucky to be working.” I picked up my tray and stacked her empty Villeroy & Boch plate on mine. “Anything I can get you in the kitchen?”

  She looked at me, lips pursed, eyes in lockdown. “I just hate to see you give up.”

  “I’m working, Donna! I’ve hardly given up.”

  It was as good an exit line as I could muster, and it carried me safely into the kitchen without further comment from Donna. The exchange had gotten under my skin, though. Industry jargon is loathsome enough without having to hear it spew from the mouth of a civilian. My God, is nothing sacred anymore? Would I volunteer career advice to a doctor, a schoolteacher—or Donna herself, for that matter? Have I told her that sleeping in a doll museum can’t be good for her psyche? Or nagged her about staying “relevant”? What red carpet is she walking down? What disease has she cured? I dumped the tray on the counter and ran water in the sink. Why would anyone think I’d given up? And what business is it of Donna’s, or anyone else? Even if I could afford it, the last thing I’d do is hire a PR person to drum up publicity for me. I’ve had a belly full of it!

  I washed our dinner plates and returned to the sunroom, bearing a bowl of grapes and feeling calmer. There’s no reason to bite the hand feeding me. I already feel like a moocher, having contributed nothing more than a quart of milk and a box of plain-wrap oatmeal to her larder, while she’s supplied me with room and board for more than a week. I even have my own key to her house. How long can I keep up the pretense that my house is still being repainted without Donna suggesting I sue the contractor?

  “Sorry, Donna. I didn’t mean to overreact.” I offered her some grapes and put the bowl on the side table. “I’m just a little touchy these days. You know, work.”

  “And your house is torn apart. I completely understand. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not you, really.” I stood in the doorway, feeling awkward. Donna means well, just as Carol does. Neither one could possibly guess my circumstances, unless I’m wearing a subliminal sign flashing on my forehead: ON THE SKIDS. PLEASE RESCUE. “I think I’ll just go up and study my lines. Good night.”

  “Sure, good night. If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, I’m here. Okay?”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  How could I ever confide in Donna? What would she think if I told her I didn’t have a house, that I’d been lying to her? Once shooting wraps and I no longer have early calls, I’m going to have to clear out. Which brings me back to the issue of the day: a room of my own. Also, unless I’m out of the house soon, I will be running into Donna returning from golf. With that prospect in mind, I hurl myself out of bed.

  Just as I�
��ve done every morning, I peek out the dormer window to see if a green sedan, a white van, or a fried-looking convertible might be idling behind the eucalyptus. All clear. Will whoever it is follow me to a cheap motel, too? Maybe it’s time I take the lead. The idea takes hold as I head for the shower.

  Even with the clock ticking, I linger, appreciating Donna’s taste in French milled lavender soap and high-end hardware. I wrap myself in a thick bath sheet, aware that I’m only days away from skimpy towels and wrapped soap patties.

  I pull on blue jeans and a T-shirt, then hurriedly jot a note to Donna and leave it on the kitchen counter: “CHECKING ON MY HOUSE. SEE YOU LATER. CHEERS, MEG.”

  The sun is high and hot—not a cloud in the sky. I turn onto Avenue of the Stars and whiz through Century City’s canyon of high-rise office buildings. I’m reminded of my earliest days in Hollywood, and picture the old 20th Century Fox studios with the Hello, Dolly! sets fronting the production offices. Now, yet another gleaming tower is under construction on what used to be the back lot where I filmed episodes of a hospital series.

  I round the corner onto Pico Boulevard, passing the studio’s front gate, then swing into the far left-turn lane. I have something even more pressing on my mind than checking out cheap motels. I turn off Motor Avenue and cruise through Cheviot Hills on my way to see Dougie Haliburton. I glide down a dip in the road that curves onto a picture-book street of prewar bungalows, then pull up in front of a gray-shingled Cape Cod, two houses from the corner.

  The question of whether it’s okay to drop in on Dougie and Evie unannounced is answered almost immediately. I barely turn off the ignition when I spot Doug rounding the corner, dragging a leash collared to his golden Lab, now slump-backed and moving even more slowly than his master. I watch the two shuffle up the street. When Doug is alongside my car, I open the door and climb out.

  “Hey, Dougie. I thought that was you I passed. Good morning!”

  “G’morning yourself.” He pushes his cap back on his head. “What are you doing around here? Did you get that job you were up for?”