“Don’t get cute. You didn’t just happen to be in the Eat ’n’ Run. I don’t think it’s your kind of neighborhood.”
“But you’ve been to my neighborhood, haven’t you? Were you there with Paul? The only reason I ask is that you’re wearing my earrings.”
Lucy’s hands fly to her earlobes. “Shit.”
Donna gasps, but my eyes stay fixed on Lucy.
“The last time I saw those earrings, they were part of a ransom I put in a bag on my doorstep. Where’s Paul?”
“Shit.” She slides the earrings off her lobes and into the palm of her hand. “Here. Take ’em.” She slaps them on the bar, her eyes never leaving mine. “You got me wrong. I was just trying to give him a hand. He helped me. I helped him. Same as you would. But I don’t have any idea where he is.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“It’s the truth. I’d tell you if I did.” She leans against the back bar, arms across her chest. “He cleaned out my cash box before he left.” She shrugs. “I told you I owed him, but I’m paid up now.”
Suddenly I believe her. I pick up the earrings and drop them in my jacket pocket. “Thanks.”
“Wait a minute. You wanna tell me how you found me? Seriously, I gotta know.”
“Easy. A friend told me.”
I head for the door, not taking a breath until I’m out on the pavement. I gulp in a lungful of air and hurry back toward the Eat ’n’ Run, Donna trotting to keep up. “Could you start the car? I have to get something.”
I break into a run, slowing only when I reach the door of the café. The waitress looks up from her newspaper, only mildly surprised to see me again. “Sorry, Jeri. Forgot something.” I smile, moving quickly toward the ladies’ room. I yank a brochure off the bulletin board, stuff it into my bag, and race back. “Thanks, found it.” The waitress barely looks up as I whiz through the restaurant and out the door.
Donna has already backed the car out. I slide into the passenger seat, for once grateful for her bank-heist lead foot.
“You still up for lunch at the Del Coronado?” she asks.
“Why not?” I sigh. “And step on it!” I reach into my pocket for the earrings, pulling out a business card along with them.
Donna laughs. “Man, did you have any idea?”
“Not until I saw the earrings.” I turn the card over in my fingers, realizing it’s the one Jack gave me when I saw him at the Baskins’ dinner. I pull out my phone and punch in his number.
The prosecutor’s words cut like a knife.
“You knew your husband had a mistress! You knew, and you couldn’t stand it. You saw your whole world collapsing, everything you’d dreamed of. Everything you’d worked so hard to achieve. So you took your revenge!”
The prosecutor, the kid with the killer grin, isn’t smiling now. He jabs his finger in my direction, his glare steely. I sit at the defense table, wilting under the hot studio lights. But with my eyes on the young actor circling the courtroom, it is Jack’s voice I hear, quiet and uninflected, cutting me to the quick. We finish the scene, but Lenny Bishop calls for another take. While camera adjustments are made, I remain in place, thinking about my call to Jack yesterday after leaving Luck o’ Lucy’s. I replay our conversation, once again feeling the heat of the exchange.
“Meg, if you had reason to believe Paul Stephens was in San Diego, you should have notified me immediately. We might have caught him. Chances are, he’s fled the vicinity by now.”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but what if Dougie had been mistaken? Besides, Paul wasn’t there. Just the woman.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know it! Look, I’m sorry I called you!” I took a deep breath, telling myself to calm down. Shouting at Jack only made Donna’s driving more erratic. “Tell me something, Jack, why are you giving me a hard time? You asked me to call you if I had information. She’s there now, at a place called Luck o’ Lucy’s. Maybe she can tell you more about Paul’s whereabouts.”
“We’re on it. Listen to me. You can’t take matters like this into your own hands. He’s a fugitive. You could have been in danger.”
“Fine. Got it.”
What was he trying to say to me? That I was such a dim-wit I didn’t know how to take care of myself? That I didn’t really know my own husband?
“Patronizing bastard,” I muttered when I hung up.
“Prick,” Donna said, and I laughed. “You’re not going to tell Jack about the rest of it? Your earrings that she had?”
“Hell, no. Let him find out whatever he can on his own.”
“You might’ve mentioned to him that she lets people smoke in that place. He could probably have her arrested.”
“I doubt the FBI follows up on stuff like that, Donna.”
It was an interesting idea, though. What would I give to see Lucy, who’d been hanging out with Paul when I thought he was in the hands of kidnappers, behind bars? Her saloon shut down, her life ruined because she capped ashtrays instead of banning smoking—it was rough justice, but I was all for it.
I look up to see Lenny Bishop standing in front of the defense table. “You okay, Meg?”
“I’m fine.”
“Great. I like that glint of defiance. It works. Keep it,” he says, before turning away. “Okay, guys. Finish touch-ups, then let’s clear the set and go for another take.”
So all I have to do is think of Jack throwing Lucy in the slammer on a smoking violation, and I can ace the scene. Whatever works, use it. I turn my face to Silvia for a dusting of powder and fresh lip gloss.
I dare not imagine Lucy pawing through the paper bag to select a piece of my jewelry. My face would betray murderous inclinations. Why did it take me until the middle of the night to wake up wondering if it was really Paul himself who had retrieved the bag from my doorstep? Had Lucy been with him? Maybe it was someone else entirely who had picked up the loot, but somehow Lucy ended up with my earrings, a favorite pair I bought at an estate auction years ago.
I smile at Silvia and take a look in the hand mirror she holds for me. I look a bit tired, and no wonder. I’d tossed for hours last night, imagining every sort of scenario. I pictured Paul dumping my jewelry on a bed and the two of them picking out the perfect keepsake for Lucy. Did they fence the rest? In a weird waking nightmare, I saw Dirck holding out the bag for Lucy to make a lucky draw. In an endless loop, first Paul, then Dirck, held the earrings behind his back while Lucy had to guess which hand held her bauble. Even a furniture dream was a breeze compared to one featuring two former husbands, a bag of jewelry, and another woman.
It wasn’t until this morning, when I was pouring milk in my coffee, that what Alfred Hitchcock called “refrigerator logic” kicked in. That’s when, hours after you’ve seen a movie, you open the fridge, the light goes on, and you start to rethink the plot. I’d barely placed my hand on the milk carton before I started to wonder why Lucy had bothered to talk to me at all. Why would she acknowledge she knew Paul? What game was she playing?
I regret my call to Jack. I have more questions to ask Lucy, and I wonder if Donna might be game for another trip south. On the other hand, once my Volvo is out of the shop, I can drive to San Diego alone.
The buzzer goes off to signal quiet on the set. True to form, the young star gets another take on his close-up. I suspect it’s because he thinks he can dip his chin and do a better version of his lopsided leer. If this series goes, I predict the editor will pull together a Christmas blooper reel of killer-grin outtakes. As usual, Shelby Stuart, playing my defense attorney, races at the speed of light to clap the young actor on the back and schmooze with Lenny Bishop before the next setup. I leave him to it.
Halfway to my dressing room, I run into Donna, my cell phone in her hand. “Okay, it’s the distributor cap. No problem. My mechanic can fix it. I told him to go ahead and do a complete tune-up. You need new brake pads, too. It’ll be ready tomorrow.”
“Not ’til then? Wait a minute, I can’t afford all
that work.”
“When did you last have an oil change?” She shakes her head, her Brillo Pad hair vibrating with indignation. “You can’t just run a car into the ground. What if I did that with the Mercedes? Where would we be now?”
“Donna, I won’t have money until I finish the shoot. How am I supposed to get to work in the meantime?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you to work. I already called and got myself a replacement for Meals-on-Wheels tomorrow. Also, I think I got everything sorted out with your credit card.”
“How’d you manage that?” I climb the steps to my trailer, Donna on my heels. “You talked to the lady in Mumbai?”
“Yes, hope you don’t mind. Your cell phone rang, so I answered it. She thought I was you. Anyway, you shouldn’t have any more problems with them.” Donna perches on a corner of the dressing table, looking pleased with herself. “I gave the woman my fax number at home, and she’s sending some information.”
“Thanks, Donna. I really appreciate it.” I glance around my coffin-sized space, not quite sure where to put myself. I’d like nothing better than a few minutes of solitude, but that doesn’t loom as a possibility anytime soon.
“No problem. Oh, by the way,” she says, handing me some goldenrod-color pages, “someone dropped off these rewrites for your scene tomorrow. You want me to run lines with you later?”
“Sure, later. That would be fine. Listen, you don’t have to stick around here, you know.”
“I know,” she says, flashing me a smile. “But I’m getting a kick out of it. Everyone’s so nice. Your stand-in is just great.”
Alarm bells sound. “You’ve been talking to my stand-in? What did she want to know?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry. She couldn’t have been more sympathetic. She seemed to know all about everything you went through last year, stuff even I didn’t know. She really felt sorry for you. Anyway, if you don’t mind, she said I could stay with her and watch the rest of the filming this afternoon. Is that okay with you?”
My heart sinks. The last thing I need is Donna becoming pals with a snoopy stand-in who probably feeds stuff to the supermarket tabloids. “Sure, but go easy. I’d rather you didn’t talk to anyone about me, okay? No one. Don’t even nod in agreement. Please.”
The sunshine fades out of Donna’s face. She shakes her head, her mouth tight. “I’m probably getting on your nerves. I’m sorry. I was only trying to be helpful.”
I feel bad, but not bad enough to recant. I try for a smile, but my lips are too stiff. “I really appreciate everything, Donna. It’s just that when I’m working, I try to stay clear of that stuff. Seriously, some people have nothing better to do than gab and make trouble. Wait! I don’t mean you—”
She gets up and moves to the door, her back rigid. “I should leave you alone.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Please stay on the set and watch all you want. You’re my guest. I’ve already cleared it.”
“You mean it?” Her face scrunches. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. Really.” My heart swells when I see her smile again. “Hey, tomorrow, too, if you like.” Wait! Why overdo it?
“Thanks, Meg. You’re terrific.” She leans in to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. I hug her back. “I have to tell you, being here is really a blast.”
She leaves, the door clicking softly behind her. How could I be crappy to someone who’s done so much for me? I still haven’t made arrangements for her to meet Alex Trebek. I sink down on the narrow divan and swing my feet up, knees bent, to fit the space. I can think of no excuse for being so mean to Donna.
Then again, after managing to work decades in the business without a personal assistant, Donna has assumed the role unbidden, unpaid. I’m grateful for the help but appalled at the same time. How can I impose boundaries when I’m living in her house, eating her food, and being chauffeured in her car—to say nothing of risking her life? I can’t accept her largesse, then exclude her. Can I?
I pick up the goldenrod pages, checking to see if I’ve been handed a reprieve, a “not guilty” by reason of some brilliant acting that’s snookered the jury. Maybe I could win an appeal in another episode, and string this into a recurring role. Maybe some network hotshot will see dailies and cry, “Hosanna! She’s it! Sign her to a series!” I can’t imagine having steady employment and a place to call home once again.
A whirring sound, growing louder, catches my ear. It’s my cell phone, throbbing on the dressing table like a small, agitated animal. Before it can burst into full cry, I snatch it up and flip the lid. “UNKNOWN” flashes on the tiny illuminated screen. I hesitate, my instinct warning me not to take the call, but I do anyway.
“Hello?”
“Meg? It’s Jack Mitchell. Am I calling at a bad time?”
My heart pounds at the sound of his voice. I had to answer, didn’t I? “Not exactly, but I have to be back on the set shortly. What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“In person.”
“I can’t. I’m shooting tomorrow.”
“I’m not calling about dinner. This isn’t a date.”
“I realize that.” I hadn’t, of course. Now what? The last thing I need is another confrontation with Jack, especially when his voice is in FBI mode. “Do I need an attorney?”
“No, but I talked to Sid.”
“Oh, great. So you’ve already talked to my attorney. Is this is about the Munsons? I’m sure you heard I gave Denny a bloody nose. Bad manners, but he was about to jump me.”
“Actually, it was a broken nose. But the Munsons are a different matter. They posted bail. They’ve been released, pending a hearing. I doubt they’ll be showing up on your friend’s doorstep again.”
“Good. I’ll tell Donna.”
I detect a faint sound, a brief exhalation that sounds a lot like exasperation. What does he want? I hold my breath. He remains silent. I’ve played this game before, filling in the silences and saying more than I should. I jump in anyway. “So this is about Lucy Delano? Did you talk with her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You didn’t? Why? She saw Paul only weeks ago. She can tell you more than I can.”
“We tried. We couldn’t find her.”
“She’s gone? Wait a minute. She’d just opened the bar when I saw her. Did you check the house across the street?”
There it is again, the soft exhalation. “What time do you finish work today?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to call you.” Then, because it would require too much explanation to ask Donna to drop me off at the Federal Building, I add, “Let’s not meet at your office, okay? My car’s being repaired, so I’ll have to get a lift. Could we meet somewhere else?”
“No problem. Just give me a call later. I’m in San Diego, heading back shortly.”
“Fine. Talk to you later, then.” I shut the phone, conscious of my own exhalation. So that’s what I was hearing, the sound of exertion as Jack walked around Lucy’s stomping ground trying to find her. Of course she’s not there—she’s gone to meet Paul somewhere. It would have taken Jinx less than a commercial break to figure that one out.
What kind of idiot would assume Lucy would tell the truth? Besides me. Maybe Paul did clean out her cash box, but that doesn’t mean Lucy doesn’t know where he is—or doesn’t care. Instead of racing off for lunch at the Del Coronado, I should have taken a page from Jinx’s handbook and hung around to keep watch. Chances are Paul would have shown up, or she would have led me to him. I’d give anything to be on my way back down to the old Luck o’ Lucy’s bar after work. That’s what Jinx would do. But Jinx had a car that worked.
I head back to the set, turning over yesterday’s conversation with Lucy. What else did I miss? I wonder if Jack managed to talk to Jeri, the waitress. Something tells me she doesn’t miss much, even with her face in a newspaper.
I hit my marks behind the defendant’s table, rememberi
ng that I have to find some place to meet Jack. Somewhere public, but with some privacy. Not noisy, but a place where we won’t be overheard. Not a bar, either, though a drink would be welcome. Not a restaurant, since dinner is not part of the bargain. Somewhere open, but indoors—and not a bench in a shopping mall. Where?
By midafternoon I’m wrapped for the day. In a stroke of inspiration, I call Jack to suggest meeting in the Farmers’ Market. Donna is willing to drop me off at the corner of Fairfax and Third, but not without knowing why.
“It’s an interview, that’s all,” I tell her, satisfied when she assumes I’m meeting a writer.
“Great! I knew you’d be asked to do some publicity. You want me to come along? I could pretend to be your press agent.”
“Thanks, Donna, but I can handle this myself.”
“How about getting home again? Just call, and I can swing by to pick you up later.”
“No need. I’ll ask him to drop me off.”
“Okay, but if it’s out of his way—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call. Thanks a lot, Donna.”
I step onto the curb at Fairfax and firmly close the door of the Mercedes. With a wave, I stride quickly toward the barn-like entrance to the market, knowing that Donna will still be idling at the curb watching me. If the Volvo isn’t repaired by tomorrow, I’ll shoot myself.
There’s no sign of Jack near the entrance. I walk around the fruit and vegetable stalls, hoping that if I run into him we can just walk and talk. I don’t want to sit at a table and feel like I’m being grilled again.
I make another circuit, then lean against the plate-glass counter in a fudge shop, transfixed by the huge mixer rotating in a copper vat of thick chocolate. Around and around the paddle goes, sluicing through the molten fudge while my mind runs through a checklist of don’ts: Don’t get defensive. Don’t be sarcastic. Don’t offer information. Don’t let him get you angry. Don’t imagine your naked body, coated in fudge, pressing into his—What’s wrong with me?
I turn back to the courtyard and spot Jack, fully clothed, standing not five feet away in the shadows of a souvenir shop. How many years of training does it take to hide in plain sight? Our eyes meet, and my cheeks burn. “What the hell? How long have you been standing there watching me?”
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 20