Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “How much, Denny?”

  Denny shoots his mother a look. “I got nothing to say.”

  “Thousands?”

  “You kidding me? Yeah. Thousands.”

  “On mortgages, right? For houses valued double their worth?”

  “I don’t know any of the particulars on the loan amounts. I was just doing what I was told—”

  “So you never figured it out? Who’s being dumb now? It was in the newspapers.”

  “Allegations, that’s all. I’ve been hauled in and grilled over and over, but I had nothing to do with all that. You know what I had to pay to my son-of-a-bitch lawyer? I’m handling things on my own now. Your husband could tell them what went down, that I was only doing my job.”

  “Denny, pipe down a sec.” Lorraine shifts her weight, sighing deeply. “Could we just calm down here?” She lays her hand on my shoulder. I shrug her off. “Let’s cut the hostility, okay? I think what happened is you found out about Paul and me and blew the whistle on him. Now he’s having to lay low somewhere, hoping to clear his name. I think you know where he is.”

  “Ma, it doesn’t add up—”

  “Shut up, Denny.” She eyes me shrewdly. “You disappear, like, for months. Then my son spots you in the health club. Where’ve you been all this time? With Paul?”

  There’s a squeal of brakes, then headlights fan across the windows.

  “What the hell—” Denny backs into the living room. “Cops?”

  “Open the door, Meg. It’s the security patrol,” Donna says, her voice triumphant. “I tripped the silent alarm upstairs.”

  “Damn you, when?” Lorraine shouts. “You had no business doing that. This is a complete misunderstanding.”

  Donna darts around Lorraine and hurries down the stairs to the entryway. I swing the door open and spot Laurel and Hardy, my two favorite security guards from Marge Singleton’s garage, climbing out of their car. I ease away from the doorway. Denny and Lorraine race past me toward the kitchen entrance.

  “Hurry, they’re going out the back,” Donna yells to the guards.

  “Don’t worry. We got it covered.”

  I peek out the dining room window to see Hardy strut up the driveway. “The police are on the way. You okay, ma’am?”

  “Yeah,” Donna says. “Just don’t let ’em get to their car—”

  “Right, the Volvo down the street. Recognized it right away. Someone’s lurking around here living out of it. Seems pretty harmless, but you never know.”

  Donna turns, her eyes fixing on mine. “Actually, there are two people. A man and a woman, and they’re not harmless,” she says.

  The police siren grows louder, then abruptly shuts off with a burp. Pulsing red and blue lights flash in the dining room windows.

  Donna looks pointedly at the dagger in my hand. “Douglas Fairbanks Jr. would’ve been proud of you,” she says quietly. “Why don’t you put my letter opener back on the coffee table and make us some tea?”

  “They’ll want to talk to me, too, you know.” A sick feeling claws at my stomach. How long will it take me to vacate the Deanna Durbin Suite?

  “Of course. You’re my houseguest,” she says briskly, moving back to the doorway. “In the meantime, you’d better turn the heat down on the marinara sauce. I’m afraid it’s fried by now.”

  A reprieve hangs in the balance. I take another look out the window. Two squad cars are parked askew in the driveway, doors open. Lorraine and Denny Munson are in the custody of police officers. Hardy, looking important, approaches one of the policemen and gestures toward the road beyond the eucalyptus. If they check out the Volvo, at least they won’t find it crammed like Fibber McGee’s closet.

  I retreat to the dimly lit kitchen, replacing the Gunga Din dagger on my way. As I fill the teakettle, I hear footfalls and a murmur of voices in the front hall, but I’m unable to make out what’s being said. I slide the pot of marinara onto a back burner and turn up the flame under the teakettle. As I move about the kitchen, setting up the tea tray, I expect any moment to see police officers appear in the doorway.

  I’m about to pull the cork on a bottle of red wine when the teakettle begins to whistle. Before the shriek of a full boil takes hold, I swing around, grabbing the handle with my bare hand. Stifling a cry of pain, I manage to set the kettle onto a cold hob without a clatter. I blow on my throbbing fingers, then press them around the cool glass of the wine bottle, my heart pounding.

  How long before I have to face the police? They’ll probably talk to Lorraine Munson first. Paul and I would be together now. In case you don’t know, he was dumping you. Was I completely unconscious? In my wildest nightmare, I couldn’t imagine Paul leaving me for Lorraine—or her big-bucks investment!

  Feet thud up the stairs. Donna must be showing the police the closet where she was held. What will the officers make of all those dolls? I pour myself a glass of wine and tiptoe into the dining room. Red and blue lights streak through the French windows. Police stand guard over Denny, seated in the back of a squad car, the towel pressed to his face. Lorraine sits alone in the back of another car. Did they have time to concoct some plausible story for dropping in on a stranger and shoving her into a closet? Maybe it’s begun to dawn on them how serious the charges will be.

  How could I have brought this down on Donna? There’s no question of my staying on here now. But where do I go? The Volvo won’t get me anywhere anytime soon.

  I hear the faint chiming ring of my cell phone and hurry back into the kitchen, where I’ve left my bag. Before I can answer, the caller has hung up. I check the call records. Sid’s rung three times. I’m about to call back when Donna and a police officer enter the kitchen.

  “Meg, thank you so much for making tea,” she says brightly. “I was just showing Officer Rodriguez and his partner around upstairs. Officer Denham is having a look in the backyard. It doesn’t seem like anything was taken. Officer, would you care for some tea? Anything?”

  The ruddy-faced young policeman stands just inside the doorway, his feet planted a foot apart, looking at me, not Donna. “No, ma’am, nothing at all. I just need to ask your houseguest here a few questions. You’re Mrs. Stephens, ma’am?”

  “Meg Barnes. I don’t know what Donna has already told you—”

  “Just that these people broke in hoping to find your husband,” Donna says, pouring herself tea. “Not that I’ve ever met him—”

  “No,” I say, picking up on her breeziness, “and I haven’t seen my husband in more than a year. I have no idea where he is. This woman and her son seemed to have some business dealings with him that I knew nothing about.”

  “They’re obviously both screwy,” Donna says. “Bonkers. Just lock ’em up. Is it okay if I finish making dinner?”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I just need to get a statement from you, Mrs. Barnes.”

  “Ms. Barnes. She has nothing to do with her former husband.” Donna shoots me a look. “Why don’t you and Officer Rodriguez just settle down at the table there. You can tell him how you walked in and this guy you’ve never seen before jumped you, right?”

  “Right. It was dark—”

  “He was a complete madman. Who knows what would’ve happened if you guys hadn’t shown up so quickly,” Donna says, filling a pot with water for pasta. “Anyway, don’t mind me. Just ask your questions.”

  “Ms. Barnes, maybe you could just fill me in here. You don’t know either of these people?”

  “She never met them before, right, Meg?”

  “Never.”

  “There was no warning at all,” Donna says. Her eyes are bright, her face flushed. “They just barged in here. Unbelievable!”

  I’m grateful for Donna’s intrusiveness. Officer Rodriguez is not. He eyes Donna, then flips his notebook closed. “Ms. Barnes, maybe you could walk me out to the door and just show me what happened.”

  “Be happy to, sure.” I lead Officer Rodriguez along the route I took from the kitchen to the stairway, carefully avertin
g my eyes from the dagger glinting on the coffee table. I show him where Denny Munson accosted me, parsing my answers carefully. Once they interview Denny, I’m bound to be asked about the dagger.

  “By the way, that’s your Volvo parked in the street?”

  I nod. “It is.”

  “Just checking,” he says, making a tick in his notebook.

  Officer Rodriguez surveys the living room. I follow his eyes.

  “Those are Fred Astaire’s tap shoes over there,” I tell him, as I set Jinx’s top hat back on Barrymore’s head.

  “You don’t say,” he says, rocking on his heels.

  If anything, Donna’s eccentric hodgepodge is a conversation stopper. Donna herself bustles in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Is that about it?” she asks cheerfully. “I just wondered if I should cook the pasta.”

  Officer Rodriguez straightens his shoulders and looks down at Donna’s beaming face. “Sure, go ahead. That should wrap it up for now. You’ve got my card if you think of anything else. The excitement should be over for the night.”

  We both stand on the steps watching Officer Rodriguez confer with another policeman. As the squad car carrying Lorraine Munson backs up and swings around, I catch a glimpse of her in the backseat, head down, brushing away tears. Did Paul wipe out her savings and leave her destitute, too? Wait, am I feeling sorry for a woman who might have had an affair with my husband?

  “Are you all right?” Donna asks, pushing the door closed. “You look pale. C’mon, let’s get some food.”

  “I’m fine.” I follow her down the hallway. “But you’re the one who got knocked around. Are you okay?”

  “Just hungry. Why don’t we eat in the kitchen tonight? It might be nice for a change.”

  “Fine. I’ll set the table as soon as I put a note on my car.”

  “Something wrong with your car?” she asks, sliding pasta into the pot of boiling water.

  “It broke down. I just want to make sure it’s safe until I can get it towed somewhere.” I pick up the pad and pencil near the telephone and head for the kitchen door.

  “Nobody’s going to be able to fix it on a Sunday. What time’s your call on Monday? I’ll give you a lift to the studio.”

  “You’re sure? It’s a lot to ask, Donna.”

  “You’re not asking. I offered.” She stirs the marinara and looks at me. “How else would you get to work?”

  “A rental, I guess.” I stand with the note in my hand, my feet pointing toward the back door. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Donna. This all had to do with me, and I can’t apologize enough. You’re sure they didn’t hurt you?”

  “No. But it was scary to turn around and find two strangers in my garden. And that guy, Denny, practically carried me up the stairs. It makes me so mad when people think they can just pick me up and haul me around like that.”

  I refrain from asking how often that sort of thing happens to her. “Believe me, on Monday, as soon as I finish work, I’ll move out. I promise.”

  “Where do you think you’ll go? Back to your car?”

  My heart thumps to a stop. “What?”

  She reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. “I’ve known all along that you’ve been living out of your car, you know.” She tops up my glass on the counter and hands it to me.

  Feeling less than steady, I reach for the glass, holding it in both my hands. “How? How in the world could you know that?”

  “I looked in the windows of your car in the Meals-on-Wheels parking lot. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Nice setup, but pretty obvious. I could tell you weren’t just picking up your dry cleaning.”

  Platoons of ants scuttle under my skin. If Donna figured it out, how many other people know? “C’mon, Donna, you could’ve said something. Why let me go on like that about getting my house painted? It’s embarrassing.”

  “Yeah?” She leans back against the counter and sips her wine. “Why are you getting irritated with me?”

  The pasta boils over, foam sizzling onto the burner. I watch her deftly mop up with one hand, the other still holding the stem of her wineglass. What band of etiquette elves brought her up? “You don’t really plan to move out, do you?” she asks, her voice unnervingly calm.

  “Don’t you think I should? Life with me here could get a little hairy. I’m carrying around a lot more baggage than what’s in my car.”

  “Well, if this is up to me, and I guess it is, I think you should stay. At least until something better comes along.”

  I swallow hard. “It doesn’t get much better than this, Donna. Do you mean it? Because I would be very grateful if I could stay a bit longer.”

  “Good. It’s settled. I’ll get Triple-A to tow your car tomorrow. My mechanic can fix whatever’s wrong with it.”

  “Seriously? Why are you doing all this? I don’t deserve it.”

  “Maybe not, but life’s a heck of a lot more interesting with you around.” She flashes me a smile, enjoying her moment. “Besides, you’re useful. Could you hand me that pasta bowl up on the shelf? I hate having to pull out the stepladder every time I need something.”

  I almost cry. Instead I hand her the bowl, then reach for the colander hanging on an overhead rack. “You could just rearrange your kitchen, you know. Put everything within reach.”

  “Thanks, but that would be giving in.” She stirs the pasta, checking it again. “Anyway, I’ve lived this way a long time, and it suits me. Not that it doesn’t occur to me I could use a bit of a shakeup in my life.”

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  She throws me a look. Inevitably, I’ve opened the door to questions I’d rather avoid. I lay placemats on the kitchen table, feeling her eyes on my back.

  “You know, I just don’t understand how you could lose everything. You had this big career, big house—the works. How could it happen?”

  “I turned a blind eye. By the time I realized—”

  “But everything? Even your house?”

  “As it happened, yes. For the most part, I didn’t have a choice. Then, when I saw the way things were going, it was easier to let it all go than scramble for what was left.” It’s the answer I give myself, and it ought to be good enough for Donna, but she’s not buying it.

  “Okaaaay—” Her unspoken “but” lingers over the steaming pot on the stove.

  “C’mon, you don’t think I miss my old life? I’d grab it back in a flash.” I reach for the Portuguese bowls, their colors vibrant on the pine plate rack, and feel a pang remembering my own vintage Fiesta ware, bought at a flea market when I first arrived in Hollywood. Will I ever stop missing stuff?

  “Frankly, I think you should have scrambled harder. There’s no reward for giving in, but that’s my opinion.”

  “Believe me, Donna, it’s no picnic watching everything you’ve worked for itemized and hauled off. Maybe heading up Highway One was the easy way out, but that’s what I did.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.” She stands at the stove, ladle in hand. “It must be awful.”

  “Let’s forget it.” Tears begin to clog the back of my throat. “It’s the bargain I struck. There’s no point in looking back.”

  “I think I’m going to cry.” She looks at me helplessly, her eyes welling.

  “Don’t! Just stop it! Drain the pasta before it’s overcooked.”

  I grab the colander and slide it into the sink. I’m about to reach for the pot, but Donna’s already lifting it off the stove. I stand back as she tips the heavy lid, sending a cascade of foaming water and rigatoni into the colander.

  “Right,” she says, shaking the pasta into a bowl. “No need to spoil dinner. But I have to know. Where did you go? How did you manage?”

  “I just pointed my car north. My gas tank was full. I still had some money at the time. I kept driving until my joints ached. If I got hungry, I stopped.”

  “Nobody knew where you were?”

  “I didn’t exactly fall
off the map. I kept in touch with a few people. I didn’t want to risk adding missing person to my résumé. Besides, Anne Heche had had her alien encounter somewhere outside Modesto. I was afraid some reporter up there with too much time on his hands might try to run me to ground. I could see the headline: ESTRANGED WIFE OF FUGITIVE, TRACKED DOWN EATING MCNUGGETS IN A MOTEL 6.”

  Donna laughs. “So you just kept on the move the whole time?”

  “Pretty much. Sometimes I’d stay somewhere for a couple of weeks, working off the books in a bed-and-breakfast, waiting tables, doing laundry. In Mendocino, I spent a couple of weeks helping a woman make Christmas wreaths from twigs and pinecones. We sold them at a roadside stand. I slept in her spare room. Over Christmas, I visited family. I really just knocked around, played hooky.”

  In fact, for the first time in memory, I woke up to each new day without plans or appointments. No auditions, no wardrobe fittings. I threw my cell phone in the glove compartment, occasionally taking it out to make a call or two. Somehow I expected Paul would get in touch, and I wondered what would I do if he asked me to meet him somewhere. The call never came, so I didn’t have a chance to find out.

  Donna tosses the salad and sets it on the table. “Well, I’m glad you came back.”

  “Where else would I go? Actors are migrant labor. We return to familiar fields. At least I still have an agent. It’s dangerous to be away from the business too long.”

  I fold napkins and lay silverware beside our plates, breathing in the smell of marinara sauce and bread warming in the oven. I couldn’t bear to move back into my car, or feed on happy hour scraps again. Who in their right mind would give up deluxe accommodations in swanky Holmby Hills? I let out a sigh, the words “not me” falling from my lips.

  “What?” Donna asks. “Did you say something?”

  “Just telling myself how lucky I am.”

  “Some luck,” Donna mutters. She sets the bowl of pasta on the table and hands me the serving tongs. “I don’t mean to pry, but just how much of what that woman was saying do you think is true?”

  “I’m sure Paul did what he had to do to get his hands on her money. Sounds like he used her son, too.”