Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “I just got here.”

  “And decided to shop for postcards?”

  “I swear.” He grins. “Want some fudge?”

  I knew he was watching. “Hate the stuff,” I say. “Well, I’m hungry. How about a hot dog?”

  “Uncle Sam’s buying?”

  “Sure. He can almost afford it.” He takes my elbow. “C’mon, you want the brat and sauerkraut, the foot-long, or the all-beef?”

  “That’s a tough choice. I’ll go with the brat and a papaya juice. Lots of mustard, no kraut.”

  “Suits me, too. Wanna grab a table while I order?”

  “You bet.” I swivel around and lay claim to a green metal table and two chairs, scrapping my resolve to stay on my feet. I’ve also managed to get defensive, sarcastic, and angry within a breath of seeing him. What’s left? Volunteering information? Standing naked, covered in fudge?

  I watch Jack move up the line and order. Late-afternoon light filters through a red-and-green striped awning, spotlighting his face in gelled color. He tucks his wallet back in his pocket and waits, his stance that of a musician on a bandstand, alert but easy. With a start, I remember he actually is a musician.

  Jack glances my way and catches me staring at him. I start to look away, then brazen it out. I hold his look until the counterman interrupts our chicken match to hand over two red plastic baskets. Jack pumps mustard on the bratwurst, then holds up a plastic container of chopped onions. I nod, and he heaps a spoonful on each bun. By the time he makes his way back to the table, my mouth is watering.

  “A girl after my own heart,” he says, sending mine into a brief flutter. “Lots of onions. I laid on some relish, too.” The metal table wobbles precariously as he sets the tray down. I grab the lurching juice cups before they topple over.

  “Here’s to dinner on the Bureau.” I hand him a cup and raise my own. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers yourself.”

  I hoist the bun to my mouth and tuck in, savoring the first pungent taste of warm, spicy sausage. I mop mustard off my chin and pause before taking another bite.

  “So what instrument do you play? You probably mentioned it the other night, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “Me?” I’ve caught him with a second mouthful and take some pleasure in watching him struggle to chew and swallow before answering. “I’m a reed man. Mostly tenor sax.”

  “Really? Where do you play?”

  “Nowhere these days. I used to play in San Francisco with a little mainstream jazz group. We had a regular Tuesday-night gig at a neighborhood spot, but not anymore.”

  “How come? Too busy?” I sip my papaya juice, enjoying the novelty of doing all the asking rather than the answering. “The Bureau sent you somewhere else, so you had to give it up?”

  “That was part of it.” He slowly mops up the fallen bits of relish and onion in the basket with the last of his bun. “Actually, my wife used to sing with the group, even during the years when she was battling leukemia. When she passed away, I asked the Bureau to reassign me. I felt like I needed a change of scene.”

  His voice is conversational, his gaze steady. I travel a mile or so behind his eyes, my breath caught short. I hear myself saying, “I’m sorry about your wife, Jack. Very sorry.”

  He nods and swipes his mouth with a napkin. “Well, it’s more or less how I ended up down here a year or so ago. I still sit in with the guys whenever I’m in San Francisco, but that’s not often.”

  “I’d like to hear you play some time.”

  “You may get a chance, if Sid has his way. We used to play in a little pickup group years ago, Sid on trombone. That’s how we met. He wants to get something going again.”

  “So that’s it. That’s the business you’re setting up with Sid?” My brat, laden with relish, crumbles in my fingers. I lick up the dribbling mustard and bun, but manage not to drop the conversational ball so firmly in my corner. “Sorry, I got the idea there was something else. Guess I’m wrong.”

  Jack settles back, wipes his fingers, and finishes off his papaya juice. “Actually, there is something else on the table. Nothing definite.”

  “But something you’d leave the FBI for? A business venture? Something with Sid?”

  Jack’s eyes crinkle. “You’re pretty good at this. Yeah, I might be open to something along the lines of a P.I. division in Sid’s law firm when I leave the Bureau.”

  “And that’s why you looked up Sid after so many years? I’ve known him a long time, and he never mentioned you.”

  “I hadn’t seen Sid since law school. I was the one who called him.” Jack glances down at the screen of his cell phone, frowning slightly, but makes no comment. I remain silent, too, turning over in my mind some things that don’t quite add up. Jack catches my eye and smiles. “You look like you could go for another sausage. How about it?”

  I shake my head, managing to swallow the last mouthful before answering. “No, thanks. Please, even if I beg, don’t indulge me. That was perfect.” I slip my empty basket inside his and slide the tray to the side of the table. “So, what about Lucy Delano?”

  “Not a sign of her. She seems to have vanished. The bar was locked up. She wasn’t at home. We checked the neighborhood.”

  “Too bad. Despite what she said, I think she’s in touch with Paul. She’s quite a character, by the way. It would be fun to play someone like her. Ex-showgirl. Barkeep. Big hair, flashy wardrobe. A real babe. And pretty shrewd, too, it seems.”

  “Also, a former croupier on a cruise ship,” Jack says. “Sales rep for a liquor distributor. Broker with an outfit catering to day traders in a mall setup. That was her last job. Drives a leased SUV registered to Lucinda Platt Delano. A single parking violation outstanding, but otherwise a clean record.”

  “Wow.” I can’t help but wonder how far back Jack’s checked me out. “I see why Sid wants to hook up with you as a private investigator. What else have you got?”

  “She doesn’t own Luck o’ Lucy’s, though she holds the lease. The property was registered in the name P. C. Stephens Enterprises, but it’s been flipped several times in the last six months.”

  “So Paul owned it? Why do I have this sick feeling it could be my money that bought the joint?”

  “Could’ve been, but the title is now in Jerilyn Fenster’s name.”

  “Wow again. Tips must be good at the Eat ’n’ Run.”

  “Better be. But I doubt her credit ap mentions waitress.” Jack leans in, his voice low. “I’d like to hear anything else Lucy said about Paul Stephens.”

  “She claims it was through Paul that she got the place. She took up with him a little over a year ago in Ensenada. About the same time he called to say he’d been abducted, he apparently also called Lucy to pick him up in Mexico. She said he was a mess, that someone had beat the hell out of him. At least some parts of his kidnapping story ring true, it’s just that…”

  “What?”

  “What do you think?”

  Jack looks at me with a blank expression. Why is it these things just sail over guy’s heads?

  “Look, he escaped and called her for help. Not me,” I explain impatiently. “All I got was a call to send money. Sorry if I sound pathetic, but it’s no fun finding out about all this stuff.”

  “No, but—” Jack’s eyes shift away. “Am I missing something here? He lied to you. He was stealing from you.”

  Being faced with male-pattern blindness only fuels some idiotic need I have to mortify myself further. “He was beaten up! I can’t help it, okay? If Paul had called me I would have been behind the wheel, tearing down to Mexico the minute I hung up the phone. But I wasn’t the one he called. Instead, he was with Lucy while I was—God, what was I thinking? Stuffing cash and jewelry in a grocery bag. It makes me sick.”

  He studies me, shaking his head slowly. Is that a shake of sympathy—or is it complete bewilderment?

  “Okay, I sort of get it,” Jack says. “I know this can’t be pleasant for you to dredge up, but we have
to talk. Tell me again, how did you happen to come across Lucy?”

  “Out of the blue. An old director friend of mine, Dougie Haliburton, happened to see them together in the Eat ’n’ Run. He recognized Paul. I went down to check it out. Lucy showed up, but without Paul. I wish now I’d stayed longer and pressed her more. Or hung around and kept an eye on where she went.”

  “Leave the detecting to us,” Jack says, his voice sharp.

  “Too late for that. I’m already in it up to my neck. C’mon, Jack, I need some answers, too.”

  Jack reaches across the table and cups my hand with his. It feels strong, comforting. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I don’t want to see anyone—” He pauses, struggling. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. You need someone looking out for you. Trust me, Meg.”

  A thick silence falls between us. I hesitate, my resolve melting with the warmth of his hand on mine. “Anything else you remember?” he asks finally.

  The table rocks gently as I pull away to reach into my shoulder bag. “Lucy may have been part of the scheme all along. When I saw her yesterday, she was wearing these earrings.”

  I open my hand, the antique clips turning over in my palm. “I’d put them in the bag as part of the ransom. Lucy gave them back to me. She knew they were mine.”

  Jack glances at the earrings, then at me. “I’m sorry, Meg. I wish I could make it easier.” The words are like salve on a burn.

  “Thanks, Jack. If she was in on this, I should have strangled her when I had the chance. I’m sure she knows more. Probably where Paul is now.”

  “I can’t argue with that. How about some coffee? Or a cappuccino? Let’s make sure we haven’t forgotten something. I’d like to hear about the rest of your meeting with Ms. Delano.”

  “Great.” I smile, taking note of the we. Fair enough. I don’t mind spilling what I know as long as I’m not treated like a suspect. Or is this a new ploy?

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, getting up, his hand falling lightly on my shoulder.

  I settle back, wondering if his touch was accidental, hoping it wasn’t. I watch him moving through a knot of tourists on his way to the coffee bar. I smile, realizing I’ve just given Jack a reason to consider me a suspect in Lucy’s disappearance. It’s probably not smart to joke with an FBI man about strangling your husband’s mistress.

  I look around and notice a man leaning against a pillar near the entrance. When he sees me, he turns away, slouching with his back to me. I recognize the set of his shoulders, the bulk of his arms. A chill runs up my neck as he turns to glance my way again. He’s the man I saw at Holmby Park—and I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere else. Driving the van?

  In a flash I’m out of my chair, moving as fast as I can among the crowded tables. The man moves quickly, too. In three strides he’s no longer visible. I stop at the entrance, scanning the parking lot. There’s no sign of him.

  I head back, but too late to reclaim our table. Jack returns with our coffees, surprised to find another couple settling into our chairs. I reach him as he’s doing a one-eighty looking for me.

  “Sorry, Jack.” I brush his sleeve. He turns, his face registering relief, then confusion. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

  He hands me a container of foaming coffee, and I take a sip. Racing through my mind is the question of who else, aside from Jack and Donna, knew I’d be here.

  “I’m sorry I lost our table.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There are some benches outside. How’s the cappuccino?”

  “Terrific, thanks.” We head toward the side entrance, my eyes darting around the produce stands on either side. “Did you happen to mention to Sid we were meeting here?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Just wondered.” We settle on a bench, the smells from a nearby caramel-apple stand sweetening the air. “You know he introduced me to Paul?”

  “I know,” Jack says, his distraction apparent. He checks his phone again, then says, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over everything that happened yesterday. I’d also like to hear a little more about Doug. How well did he know Paul?”

  “Dougie? He wasn’t one of Paul’s investors. They barely knew each other.” I take another sip of coffee, wondering if I should bring up Sid again. Meanwhile, with a little prodding from Jack, I tell him all about my trip to San Diego.

  It’s dark and growing cold by the time Jack and I walk to his car. I mention that I’m staying with a friend and give him Donna’s address. Jack opens the door for me, his hand on my arm as I slide into the passenger seat.

  As I watch him walk around the car and climb in, I consider the nagging question of how Jack and Sid met up again. Before putting the key in the ignition, Jack turns to me. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

  I shake my head. “Just trying to put something together, that’s all.”

  Jack touches my chin, turning my face toward his. I look into his eyes, at the charcoal rings encircling the caramel-flecked irises. He leans toward me, pulling me closer, his hand grazing my breast as his lips meet mine. We kiss, and I wrap my arms around his neck. His breath is a warm whisper in my ear. “Meg, I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time—”

  I open my eyes and touch his face. “Me, too.” We kiss again. Then, his arm cradling my neck, we gaze at each other. “So that’s what you wanted to see me about?”

  “Not officially.” He smiles and runs the back of his finger down my face. “But it was on my mind.”

  “The Baskins will be relieved. Carol was getting pretty anxious.” I smile and make a face.

  He laughs and leans back. “Well, I’m not going to hold it against them.”

  “Me neither.” I shift in my seat, tucking my legs under me but keeping my eyes on Jack. “I wonder when it occurred to them.”

  Jack gives me a quizzical look and reaches for his seat belt. “I’m not following—”

  I savor the lingering taste of him on my lips, knowing I’d be better off not saying more. Yet, the suspicion lurking in the back of my mind returns. “What I mean is, the first time we met was hardly a fix-up, was it? Sid called you after I told him Paul had been kidnapped. That’s how we met.”

  “I guess it was.” Jack smiles and turns the key in the ignition. “Lucky we didn’t both end up in the hospital. That was some fall you took.”

  “Sorry about that.” I smile, too, recalling the morning we knocked heads in the garden. I hope Jack isn’t reminded of how awful I looked—or that I jammed my foot in his crotch.

  We back out of the stall and swing around to pull onto Third Street. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I hear myself say, “You had suspicions about me before the so-called kidnapping, right?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Great, freshly kissed and I’m already antagonizing him. Why am I pursuing this? “Even before we met, you figured that I was involved in Paul’s scam, so you made Sid withhold information from me. Tell me, what wasn’t I supposed to know? What is it my own lawyer couldn’t let me in on?”

  There’s the briefest hesitation before Jack says, “Okay, you’re right. There was an open investigation proceeding. Somebody must have tipped off Stephens, and that’s when he disappeared.”

  “Stephens? So that really is his name, not an alias? Nice to know he cared enough to marry me in his own name. But while this investigation was going on, how come I was left in the dark? Nobody let me know what was going on.”

  “Sorry, Meg. There was a lot involved. We were nowhere near bringing him in at that point. He was tipped, and we got caught between the bases.”

  “Too bad for your team. Meanwhile, I was left hanging like a yo-yo on a dead string.”

  “Meg, it’s more complex than you think. I can’t go into it with you.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to grasp it anyway,” I say sarcastically.

  I press the button to lower the window, turning my
face into the rush of cold air.

  Jack stretches his hand toward the vicinity of my knee. I shift away. We ride in silence along the twists of Sunset Boulevard toward Holmby Hills. Still unable to hold back, I vent the thoughts leaping through my mind.

  “Damn it, why didn’t I figure this out sooner? When you arrived at my house that morning, you already knew Paul had a rap sheet. You knew there was no kidnapping. You strung me along. Now I’m supposed to trust you?”

  My words hang in the fresh silence as we swing around the last bend before Donna’s house. I’m already reaching for the door handle as Jack’s BMW pulls into the driveway.

  “Listen, you have to trust me.” Jack leaves the car in gear so the doors remain locked, a neat trick. “At the very least, promise you won’t go checking things out on your own again.”

  “Really? I’m his wife, remember? Someone should have told me about him a long time ago instead of watching me sink with the ship. I lost everything!”

  “I’m sorry, Meg. I can’t tell you more right now.”

  “So leave things to trained professionals? That does me a lot of good. I’m supposed to wait around to be the next person to wash up on a Catalina beach?”

  I have the satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker in Jack’s eyes. “What about Catalina? Tell me.”

  “Rick Aquino. I recognized his photo in the paper. I met him once aboard the WindStar, before Paul and I were married. Tell me, what kind of business would he have with Paul? Drugs? What, for God’s sake?”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I’ve volunteered enough. Your turn now. I want to know about Paul.”

  “He’s not who you think he is. And Stephens isn’t his birth name. We go back a long way with this guy, Meg. Stay clear of him.”

  “Yeah? Now you tell me? A little late, wouldn’t you say? When do I get to hear the rest of it?”

  I lift the side flap of my shoulder bag and hand the digital printout to Jack. “Maybe you can explain these pictures I came across.”