Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Jack flips on the interior light and examines the images on the glossy printout. “Where did you find these?”

  “In a box I’d stored with Dougie. I’m sure you recognize the man standing between Rick Aquino and Paul, right? He’s Nat Wiggens, the film producer killed in a carjacking. Nat was one of Paul’s investors, and we attended his memorial service. Now his widow is dead. Do you know who this man is—the one wearing the straw hat?”

  There’s the briefest pause before Jack mutters, “Vladimir Proznorov, head of a Russian syndicate that’s moved into the Mexican drug trade.”

  A chill runs through me. Erica was right! If I’d believed her, given her some support, would she still be alive?

  “So Paul’s mixed up with Russian mafia—and drugs? I thought he was just an ordinary swindler.”

  “I told you, Meg—”

  “What? You told me nothing! Most of it I’ve figured out for myself. Proznorov is the name of the guy Paul had me call about the ransom. I thought he was just some sort of pawnbroker. You couldn’t tell me who he was when I gave you that piece of paper? And what about Sid? Is he involved with Proznorov, too?”

  “Sid? No—”

  “But Nat Wiggens was?”

  “Wiggens brought Proznorov in—”

  “Then got caught holding the bag when some money disappeared, right?”

  “Something like that. I can’t tell you more, Meg.”

  “Thanks. Keep the printout, if you want. Now, if I’m not under arrest, open the damn door and let me out.”

  Jack shifts into PARK. The door locks release. I get out.

  “Good night, Jack. Thanks for the brat and cappuccino.”

  The last words I hear before I slam the door are, “Stay safe, Meg. Call if you…”

  He may have said more, but by then I was already slamming the front door.

  I hoped, even as the judge rapped her gavel and I rose to hear the verdict, that the jury would come in with a surprise “not guilty.” It was not in the script, of course, but that glimmer of hope certainly aided my performance. I caught the look of triumph on my son’s face and felt a surge of anguish that he would never understand I’d only wanted to protect him. I held my arm out to him, pleading for some sign of forgiveness, only to be pulled away, sobbing, as he turned his back.

  Shelby Stuart delivered a rousing summation in my defense that would have swayed any jury other than ours, a panel of bored extras holed up on Stage 9 checking cell phones. With their “martini” shot glimmering on the horizon, their minds were focused on little else than securing their next gig. Not that anything would have made a difference. In prime time, the glove always fits. The guilty pay no matter how persuasive the attorney.

  The real justice is the possibility that, if the pilot is picked up, Stuart will win himself a recurring role as a defense attorney. He certainly deserves the chance, not only for his terrific work in front of the camera but his arduous sucking up off camera. He makes a beeline to schmooze with the executive producer the moment Lenny Bishop says, “Cut. Check the gate.”

  The buzzer sounds, and I head for my dressing room. Despite Donna’s best efforts, I’ve managed to retain custody of my cell phone. On the way to my trailer, I flip it open to check messages. Jack’s number comes up three times, but he’s left only one voice message: “Meg, call me. Please.”

  My knees go weak at the sound of his voice. I replay the message, my reaction shifting from relief to longing, with more than a twinge of irritation thrown in. It’s about time I heard from him. Just because I slammed his car door the other night doesn’t mean he can’t stay in touch. My anger is genuine and thoroughly justified, but I regret that show of temper. Aside from coldcocking a romance before it had a chance to take hold, I effectively shut myself out of the loop regarding Lucy. Jinx would not have been so stupid.

  Figuring Donna is ensconced in my dressing room, I detour around another soundstage while replaying the message. “Meg, call me. Please.” I hover in the shade of an awning and punch in his number.

  He answers almost immediately. “Meg? Where are you?”

  “You first. Why haven’t you called?” The words I hadn’t intended to speak recoil like a blast from a shotgun.

  “Sorry, I believe I did.” His tone is even, but the irony is unmistakable.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come off like that. How’s it going?”

  “I’m in San Diego. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Jerilyn Fenster’s dead.”

  “What! How?”

  “Her body was found in a Dumpster this morning.”

  “Killed?” As my brain grapples with the word, I see flashes of the skinny, sallow-faced woman bent over her newspaper. “Why in the world—? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “When you saw her in the restaurant that day, she connected you with Paul, right?”

  “Of course. Lucy showed up, and I mentioned I knew Paul. Oh—”

  “What?”

  “It dawned on me afterward. When Jeri recognized me as Meg Barnes, she probably remembered reading about Paul and me in the papers. She would’ve put it together.”

  “She probably did.”

  I wait, expecting a follow-up question. Instead, Jack says, “Thanks, Meg. Look, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I just want you to promise me again you’ll call if anything comes up. Just call, okay?”

  “I promise. Jack? Listen, about the other night—”

  “I know. I don’t blame you. I wish I could tell you more.” His voice grows husky, and I hear the hesitation. “Now’s not a good time, but we’ll talk later. Just take care of yourself—and call.”

  “And call. Yeah, I will.” I think about all the times in the past several days when I wanted to do just that. I’m about to ask Jack how Jeri was killed, when I realize we’re disconnected. I also meant to ask if he’d found out where those panoramic shots of beach and mountains were taken—certainly not on Catalina Island. I consider calling back but decide to wait. I’ll have many more questions once I’ve had a chance to think. I return my phone to my pocket and look around.

  Donna emerges from my trailer, spotting me just as I see her. Two thoughts collide: No need to tell Donna and What would Donna make of this? I decide the news flash can wait. I head toward the trailer, meeting her halfway.

  “Hey, Meg, they went ahead and picked up some other scenes, so you’re wrapped for the day. I got your call sheet for tomorrow. We don’t have to be here until eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Even though I finally have my Volvo back, Donna insists on driving me to the studio and spending the day on the set. I mount the steps, unbuttoning my suit jacket on the way. “Give me five minutes to change, okay?”

  “You got it,” she says cheerfully. I don’t know which of us will miss the studio more when this pilot is wrapped. But I’d bet on Donna.

  With a good chunk of the afternoon to myself, aching to be alone, I make no more than a pit stop at Donna’s. After promising her I’ll be back for dinner, I throw my gym bag in the Volvo and head down the canyon toward the health club.

  Crossing the flats of Beverly Hills, approaching Santa Monica Boulevard, I see a ragtag band of people in shabby, mismatched clothing streaming out of a church courtyard. I slow down and pull to the curb, looking for Adriana. According to her, the Episcopal church serves the best “homeless” meal of the week. It’s her favorite place to dine. Food donations come from the best restaurants. The prayer service is optional.

  She arrives early to get a good parking spot, and serves as a volunteer, usually dispensing beverages. Besides providing her with the pretense of feeling like staff, working as a volunteer permits her to eat her meal before the doors open to the unwashed masses lining up in the courtyard. She also gets first crack at rummaging through the reading bin for donated back issues of Atlantic Monthly and The New Yorker.

  After Adriana gave me the whole rundown, she invited me to join her in serving beverages. My stomach turned at th
e thought of it. I never consider myself that kind of homeless. Of course, Adriana doesn’t think she’s that kind of homeless, either, which is why she serves as a volunteer. She has her Chevrolet, just as I have my Volvo. Besides, according to her, some of the diners who show up here aren’t really homeless at all—they just run out of money before the end of the month, and enjoy the food and conviviality.

  Volunteering for Meals–on-Wheels and having a bite to eat with the rest of the staff before hitting the delivery circuit is a far cry from joining a breadline in a church hall with people who spend their days pushing grocery carts containing all their earthly possessions.

  Even Adriana seems to understand that, and knows she’s crossed over. She calls it “the grip” and taps her forehead so I know what she means. “Can’t lose the grip,” she says in her saner moments, when she’s not fretting about the homing device she claims her husband implanted in her skull.

  I idle at the curb watching two hulking transvestites in filthy leatherette miniskirts and pink tank tops trudge toward Santa Monica Boulevard. They’ll join other transients waiting in clots at bus stops on opposite sides of the street for either a trip east to Hollywood or west to Santa Monica. No one ventures across the boulevard toward the Gucci, Prada, and Cartier shops on Rodeo. Adriana herself usually stays on to help with cleanup, then packs up a little bag of leftovers to snack on later in Holmby Park.

  I glance back up the street toward Adriana’s parked car just as an elderly, shabbily dressed man crosses behind the Chevrolet and pulls at the door. I jump out of the Volvo and hurry down the sidewalk, intercepting the man just as he’s settling himself behind the wheel.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” I grab the door as he’s about to close it. “What do you think you’re up to? This is Adriana’s car.”

  “I know.” The man turns rheumy eyes on me, his voice belligerent. He’s wearing a stained tweed jacket the color of his teeth. “I’m lookin’ out for it. She asked me to.” He tries to pull the door closed.

  “Who are you?”

  “Murray, if it’s any of your business. The lady’s a friend of mine.” He juts his chin out. I try to place the accent. English? Australian?

  “Then why don’t we just wait until she gets here.”

  “Hah!” He squints up at me, shaking his head so vigorously that his comb-over slides in a gray streak toward his ear. “That’s all you know. They got her in St. John’s. Ambulance took her a coupla days ago. She collapsed on the esplanade whilst taking in the sea air.”

  “What happened? How is she?”

  “Not so good. They had to operate. Found a brain tumor, wouldn’t ya know.” He swipes a trembling hand up over his ear, pressing his hair back in place. “Ya mind lettin’ go of the door? I’m goin’ out to see her.”

  “You’re driving there? You’ve got a license?”

  “Who says I’m drivin’?” He slaps the steering wheel, agitated once again. “I gotta move this bucket once a day or it gets taken. Soon’s you let me get it back behind the church here, I’m catchin’ a bus. You’re makin’ me miss it.”

  I step back and close the door. It creaks shut and latches with a thump. Murray shakily inserts the key in the ignition and grinds the starter. Slowly, very slowly, the Chevy lumbers toward a space near the rear door of the church and lurches to a stop. Murray climbs out, hitching up his baggy trousers. He’s short, almost gnome-like, with an oversized head and shoulders. Without giving me another look, he heads toward the bus stop, his rubber flip-flops slapping on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Murray. Wait up.” I catch up to him just as we’re passing my car. “No need to take the bus. I want to see her, too. You want to ride along with me?”

  Without a word of acknowledgment, Murray shuffles toward the passenger side of the Volvo. Before I’ve climbed behind the wheel, Murray’s plugged in his seat belt and rolled down the window.

  “Stuffy in here, idn’ it? You know the way?”

  “Sure. Santa Monica, right?”

  “Spot on.” He pulls his jacket around himself and peers out the window. “Take whatever route you fancy. I’m having a kip.”

  “Where are you from? I hear an accent.”

  “I’m Tasmanian, if it’s all the same to you. And I believe you’re the one with the accent, dear.”

  I’m about to ask him more about himself—and Adriana—when I see that’s he’s snuggled against the door and closed his eyes. I suppose a nap after a big lunch is in order. I turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, wondering if Adriana’s homing device was misdiagnosed as a brain tumor—and if she’ll get her grip back now that it’s been surgically removed.

  Shortly after Murray and I enter her draped cubicle, Adriana’s eyes blink open. She looks elegant, even without makeup, her head swathed in a turban of white surgical bunting. One can’t fake good bones, and Adriana has them. Moreover, her pale skin is scrubbed of its grayness, taut with slight swelling, making her look younger, fresher. She’s as ready for a close-up now as she’s ever been since I first met her, filling her water bottle at the drinking fountain in Holmby Park.

  She blinks again. The hooded lids give her the look of a bird of prey sizing up her quarry. Her sharp eyes flick from Murray to me and settle back on Murray. A corner of her mouth lifts in a coquettish smile. The hardness melts from her eyes. “You found me,” she whispers.

  I glance at Murray and see a tear glistening on his ruddy cheek. “Been here every day, love. Held your hand in mine ’til they sent me on my way.” He stretches his grimy hand to hers, locking her little finger around his, jostling it gently against the coverlet.

  I edge back toward the door, feeling like a third wheel. My movement causes Adriana to shift her gaze, her piercing eyes clamping on mine with a startling suddenness.

  “Hey, Adriana. It’s me, Meg. How’re you feeling?”

  “Glorious, my dear. But the shoot was arduous. One must always refresh oneself at a good spa after finishing a picture.”

  “Right. So they’re looking after you well here?”

  “The baths are divine. The waters so soothing.”

  Murray’s face is a mask of reverence as he strokes her hand. “Just what the doctor ordered, my dear,” he says before turning to me. “You’ll stay with her while I use the facilities? I shan’t be long.”

  “Of course, Murray.” I play along, desperate to find my role in this screwball comedy. In doing so, I manage to pick up Murray’s “Tasmanian” accent. “Run along. I shan’t budge ’til your return.”

  “Dear man, do tell them we’ll take our tea service now,” Adriana coos. Murray puckers his lips over his large beige teeth. Not a pretty sight, but it seems to delight Adriana. He runs his fingers across her hand before turning to leave.

  “Dear, dear man,” Adriana breathes as Murray slips out through the curtains encircling the bed.

  “Well, you’re looking pretty good, Adriana. How long do you think you’ll be staying here?”

  Her eyes harden. She blinks twice. “Until that villain sets me free. I’m under lock and key, you know. He’s paid them off.”

  “Who? Murray?”

  “Shhhh. He’s my husband, of course. Cruel. Scheming. He’s seen to it that a new transmitter has been implanted. Far more powerful. I’ll never be free.”

  I whisper, too, the plot having taken a grim new turn. “Forgive me, Adriana. I thought Murray was your friend. You had me completely fooled.”

  Her eyes glint. “Of course, my dear. Nothing is ever what it appears to be. People fool you every chance they get. You must be very clever to stay ahead.” She taps the surgical bunting covering her temple, her voice a hiss. “Stay sharp! You mustn’t let on you know the truth. It will be the end of me.”

  “Of course. Your secret’s safe.”

  “You would do well to learn from me, child. Hold your friends close, your enemies closer.” Her eyelids waver and shutter closed. “That goes for husbands, too, of course. Always a different guise, but perpetually evi
l. Tiring. So tiring.”

  I watch her for a moment, her face growing slack with sleep. She ages with each shallow breath, her skin wilting like a lettuce leaf into a patchwork of soft, fine lines. Behind me, the curtain rings slide open. Murray holds a corner of the cloth, his shoulders sagging in his old tweed jacket.

  “Sleeping. That’s good,” he says.

  “I think I’ll slip out, Murray. Do you need a lift anywhere?”

  “Oh, no. I’ll stay here as long as they let me.”

  “Listen, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but—”

  Murray presses a grubby finger to his lips, his eyes shooting me a warning. “No, we’re not married,” he whispers. “But I had to tell them we were in order to get in to see her. They’re very particular here.”

  “I see. Okay. Well, I’ll be on my way then. Nice to meet you.”

  “And you.” He touches my arm, his voice still a whisper. “You mustn’t mind what she says. She’s completely mad, you know. But I love her. She was so splendid in her day.”

  “Sure, Murray. I know. Take care.” There’s no point, really, in asking him about the homing device. I slip through the drapes and hurry out the door into the hallway.

  I walk along the neighborhood streets, praying each step of the way that my car hasn’t been towed or ticketed because I parked in a “resident permit” zone. But I wasn’t going to pay the extortionist fees charged by the lot—why are hospitals allowed to fleece everyone for parking?

  Murray had been quite put out that he’d been made to walk so far, pointing out that the city bus would have dropped him off only steps from the hospital’s entrance. But then he also grumbled about having to venture all the way into “congested” Beverly Hills to get a good meal when he preferred remaining in Santa Monica for the quality of the “bracing sea air.” I suspect Murray resides on one of the park benches above Pacific Coast Highway. In any case, when I reach the Volvo, I’m relieved to find my windshield devoid of bad news.

  While bucking rush hour on Santa Monica Boulevard, I mull over my crazy visit with Adriana. Of course, her paranoid obsession with a Moriarty is the product of out-of-whack brain chemicals, but still I can’t help wondering if she might have a mean-minded husband lurking somewhere, homing device or not. And nuts or not, maybe she’s right. People will fool you every chance they get.