“Wait, what were you saying to him?”
“Nothing. Just paid. Bye!”
I hurry out of Gilligan’s and almost run down the street toward my car, eager to put distance between Elaine and me. My hope is that Jeremy won’t divulge my note to her. Besides, I doubt guys like to mention it when a woman presses a phone number into their hands.
I only hope he calls—and that I haven’t squandered my precious twenty dollars.
Chapter Seven
As I head up the street to Donna’s front gate, a late-model Ford sedan pulls out of her driveway. I hope it’s a client booking Donna to cater a party. I have to admit, she’s come up with a good idea, as long as she doesn’t get carried away with the design elements involved. Hauling food around is one thing, but constructing elaborate theme meals with vintage props and furniture is quite another.
Knowing I’ll somehow figure into her plans as sous chef or serving wench, possibly both, makes me uneasy, but I owe it to her to do whatever she asks. However, I will draw the line at doing impersonations or serving food while wearing sarongs, kimonos or French maid’s outfits—and I have a feeling such an occasion will present itself.
The kitchen is fragrant with the musky, rich smell of simmering pot roast. Brussels sprouts, washed and trimmed, are on the counter in a colander next to a mound of peeled carrots. I’m beginning to regret chowing down on a chilidog. I hear Donna humming and find her standing on a ladder in the spacious pantry, taking inventory of her china cabinets. She’s wrapped in a long bib apron and wearing white gloves.
“Hey, good timing!” she says, handing me a clipboard. “I need to get to these upper shelves.”
“Let me do the counting.”
“Don’t worry. I can reach.” There’s an edge to her voice, her natural response to any implication that she might be short. She is short, but not giving in to it, which means I have to watch her tottering on her tiptoes at the top of the stepladder.
“Did you get another booking? I saw a car in the driveway.”
“No such luck. It was a detective following up on the theft. He just left.”
“Wait, what theft? Is that why you called me? Were you robbed?”
Donna peers down at me with a look of exasperation. “Yes, remember? The detective said he was following up on Chelsea. Apparently you gave the police a flyer and said you lived here. I assume you’re the one who reported the hat missing, right?”
I shake my head, feeling my hair tighten on my skull. “Donna, I did not report that your hat was stolen. And it’s not the sort of thing they send a detective out to investigate.”
“Then why did he come by? He mentioned Chelsea Horne and asked about your connection to her, so I told him. I said she took the hat when she left and it was the last I saw of her.” Her voice squeaking with indignation, Donna plants her white-gloved hands on her hips. An image of Minnie Mouse comes to mind.
“And me? What did you say about me?” I ask.
“I told him the truth, that you were teaching her hat tricks and then she took off with it. I said you ran after her, but she got away.”
“Donna, could you come down here? We need to talk.”
I’m sure it’s my tone of voice, but Donna hesitates only a moment before climbing down from the ladder. She gives me a worried look. “What is it? What happened?”
“The detective wasn’t here because of a missing hat. It’s Chelsea who’s missing. She didn’t show up at the studio today. I went to her house looking for her and ran into her mother, who turns out to be Elaine Farris, my stunt double on Holiday.”
“You’re kidding. Chelsea’s her daughter?”
“I know, small world and all that. Anyway, to make a long story short, the police showed up.” I lean against the wall for support. “I just don’t need to get mixed up with police. Not ever again.”
“I don’t get it. What did you do to her mother?”
“Nothing! The police were called because she didn’t have keys and broke into Chelsea’s house. It’s nothing to do with me. But now she’s filing a missing persons report, which is probably a good idea. But everyone is going to figure out that apparently I’m the last one to have seen Chelsea. You didn’t happen to mention anything about me getting hurt falling down, did you?”
“Sort of.” A flicker in Donna’s eyes tells me she’s beginning to get it. “I said you were scratched pretty badly, you know, falling down in the garden. I mean, they couldn’t possibly think—what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what anybody’s thinking, but Elaine is a loose cannon. She could be saying anything.”
“But it’s only a hat.”
“Not anymore.” I shake off the bad vibes and look at the clipboard. “Anyway, let’s finish up here. Dougie Halliburton may come for dinner tonight, but I don’t think we need to break out the Limoges.”
Donna brightens. “I thought the Fiesta plates, something casual.” I hold my breath as she climbs back up to the top step and rises to her tiptoes. “Ready? We’ll do the Wedgewood next.” She claps her hands together and the image of Minnie Mouse springs afresh.
With time out to braise Brussels sprouts, add carrots to the pot simmering on the stove and set the dining room table, we manage to count every last cup, soup bowl and piece of cutlery. One three-drawer canteen of silverware alone contains 124 pieces, including an assortment of soup, dessert, tea, coffee, mustard, salt and egg spoons. I’m ready for a break. I check messages and see that Doug has confirmed for dinner.
I take a quick shower and change into pants and a light jersey top before joining Donna in the kitchen for a cup of tea. Looking over her eight pages of inventory, Donna decides high-end catering for dinner parties of up to twelve people would make the most sense.
“There will be breakage,” I warn.
“I know, but I like seeing these things used, not just stored in a dark pantry. Maybe I could do dinner parties in my dining room. What do you think?”
“I think you’d need valet parking and a liquor license, but what do I know? Why don’t you just do rentals until you get the hang of things?”
The intercom for the front gate buzzes, sparing further discussion of a truly terrible idea. “That’ll be Dougie. I’ll let him in.” I press the button on an antiquated panel in the hallway and go to the door to meet him.
The night is surprisingly cool, the rain a novelty for July. A faint mist hangs in the air, shimmering around the fairy lights in the trees. Headlights sweep around the curve of the driveway, shining on the slick, wet panes of the orchid pavilion. I hug myself in the chill, imagining the look on Dougie’s face when he sees the contents of Donna’s living room. But anticipation fades when a dark green sedan pulls up at the side of the portico. It’s Elaine, and there’s no smile on her face.
She climbs out of her car, slams the door and stomps up the steps, each footfall like a clap of thunder. She’s still wearing jeans, boots and a chamois jacket, but her hair is loose under a black cowboy hat, which means she’s made a pit stop at Chelsea’s house before coming here. If she were wearing six-shooters strapped to her waist, she couldn’t look more menacing.
“Hi, Elaine. I wasn’t expecting you.” In fact, I have half a mind to go back inside and shut the door in her face. “What’s up?”
“My daughter’s missing and now you’re accusing her of theft? What’s with you?” She’s standing directly in front of me, but her voice is loud enough to be heard in Holmby Park.
“Take it easy. I made no such accusation.”
“Someone did. I just spoke to the police again.”
“That was me,” Donna says, standing at the open door. “I’m sorry your daughter is missing, but she took my hat. It was right here on the hall table and she walked off with it.”
Elaine glares down at Donna, her mouth trembling. “I don’t believe this. Do you have any idea what I’m going through? You’re worried about your hat when I can’t find my daughter? Is this a joke?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Excuse me, that’s the front gate,” Donna says, turning to go back inside. “I have to open it.”
“I’m sorry, too, Elaine. We’re all concerned about Chelsea.”
She looks at me, her eyes brimming. “Are you? Well, you have no idea how frightening this is for me. If you had children, maybe you’d understand. My daughter has disappeared. I have no idea where she is!”
“Jeremy wasn’t helpful?”
“Are you kidding me? Once you left, he barely said two words to me. Then I go back to Chelsea’s place and get a call from this detective asking me about a hat!”
I stare at her dumbly before it registers that she’s actually crying. Vulnerability is not a trait I’ve ever associated with Elaine.
“Elaine, I’m sorry. We’ll find her.” I move toward her, my hand reaching to touch her arm, but she turns away, wiping her face with the sleeve of her jacket.
“Just leave me alone! I don’t know why I bothered coming up here.”
Headlights fan across the portico as Doug’s Jeep wheels around the fountain and pulls up next to the green sedan. “Elaine, it’s Dougie Halliburton, remember? I invited him for dinner.”
“Omigod, he’s still alive?”
“Yes, very much so. I think he had a lot to do with casting Chelsea.”
I’m walking down the steps to greet Doug, who’s slowly climbing out of his car, when a light-blue compact squeals across the wet pavement and whips around the fountain to park next to Elaine’s sedan. I squint into the headlights before they’re doused and let out a small groan. It’s Dirck. I turn to glare at Donna, who stands holding the front door open.
Seeing my reaction, she shrugs and gives me a helpless look. “Sorry! He buzzed the intercom and said you were expecting him.”
The light mist turns to drizzle, but summer rain isn’t the biggest surprise of the evening. I only hope Donna has enough pot roast to feed the multitudes. I steer Dougie under the portico and up the steps as Dirck bounds toward us.
“Hey, what luck! I was hoping I’d see you, Doug. I thought you’d be at the table read this morning.”
“Hiya, Dirck. I figured I’d sit that one out. How’re you doing?”
“Great! Couldn’t be better. You know, Chelsea Horne is in my acting class. Great talent. I discovered her.”
“Really? You discovered her?” Elaine steps out of the shadow of the portico, her eyes still glistening with a wash of tears. “Good for you, Dirck. But I gave birth to her. What do you think of that?”
The sight of Dirck’s jaw going slack is deeply satisfying.
Dougie shakes with laughter. “You been trumped, pal.”
Dirck, pale in the cool light of the portico, lets out a low whistle. “Can’t top that one.” He shakes his head and looks Elaine up and down with a rueful smile. “Yeah, yeah, I can see it now. There’s definitely a resemblance. Hey, you know, I got a daughter, too.” He whips his wallet from a back pocket and flips it open. “Priscilla. Ten months old and already walking. She’s gonna be a star someday.”
“Well, that’s great, Dirck,” Elaine says. “I’m sure you’ll make a terrific father.”
“Hey, it’s cold outside.” Donna holds the door wide and beckons everyone inside. “How about some cheese and wine?”
“Why not? The gang’s all here.” I put my arm around Doug and squeeze his ribs. “I could go for a drink. How about you, Elaine?”
“A drink? Okay, looks like we have something in common,” she says, giving me a look that for once doesn’t seem unfriendly.
“And I’m hungry,” Doug says. “There was some mention of dinner.”
“Coming up,” Donna says. “Enough for everyone. Elaine, please join us. Dirck, you’re welcome, too.”
Very cozy. Too cozy, I think, as I bring up the rear and close the door. But the gang’s all here and if it eases some tension, what’s wrong with that?
If nothing else, the sight of Donna’s living room is an icebreaker. I stand back, watching Doug, Elaine and Dirck get an eyeful of the vintage treasures. Donna, in her element, takes everyone on her special tour, even unlocking the credenza in the library to show off vintage film scripts and handwritten notes from the likes of Cecil B. DeMille, Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford.
I hang back, listening to them pepper Donna with questions, but mostly observing with amusement the subtle body language and choreography of three people who can’t stand each other trying to be sociable. The trio manages to maintain physical distance, avoid eye contact and dodge any direct communication. None of this is apparent to Donna, who relishes their rapt attention. Dinner should be interesting. I excuse myself to get cheese and wine.
I uncork a bottle of pinot noir, pour myself a glass, and then open the Sauvignon Blanc that Donna has been chilling. I place an assortment of cheeses, including Brie, Roquefort and an aged Gouda, on a board with olives and crackers, hoping my arrangement passes muster with Donna. I carefully lift the lid from the Dutch oven, breathe in the singular aroma of melts-off-the-bone pot roast, and take another sip of wine. With a green salad and a crusty loaf of bread, there’s more than enough food for everyone. Certainly it will be a feast for this motley crew that would otherwise have made do with diner food or leftovers in the fridge. The downside is that they will have to eat their dinner in each other’s company and possibly be forced to exchange a word or two at the table.
I would guess none of them have seen each other since Holiday went off the air, and never desired to. Dirck, who considers himself an authority on almost everything, dropped by the studio daily, hung out in my trailer and had free access to our “closed” set. He became a thorn in everyone’s side, including mine, but in the interest of marital harmony, I put up with his near-constant presence and noisome intrusions. Others were less accommodating.
Elaine loathed Dirck, who never took the hint that she didn’t appreciate having him on the sidelines offering helpful little tips on how she could better “double” me. During one arduous day filming stunt scenes on location, Dirck confided, “I told Elaine she should watch her posture in that fight scene and she took offense. But good posture is the one thing you have going for you, Meg.”
It would not have occurred to Dirck that both Elaine and I would bristle at that comment. His suggestion to Elaine one afternoon that she “might want to suck in her belly” marked the last day Dirck was allowed on the Holiday set. She complained to Doug, who was only too happy to have a reason to ban him from hanging around.
“Man, is she touchy!” Dirck said, back in my trailer. “Look, baby, if her gut hangs out, people will think it’s yours!”
I looked at him aghast. “You didn’t say that to Elaine, did you?”
“Well, yeah. If she’s a pro, she needs to hear the truth.”
“Dirck! No woman wants to hear she has a gut!”
“I’m only thinking about you, baby. Don’t forget, she’s hired to make you look good. Remember that. Her gut is your gut.”
I was pretty sure that particular comment went a long way toward explaining why Elaine despised me. Little wonder she looked for ways to retaliate. Even I was amused the time I came across her giving a hilarious impression of us in bed. “Not bad, Meg,” she mimicked in Dirck’s sonorous voice, “but roll over and try again. We’re going to keep at it until you get it right.” As funny as it was, her mimicry stung, especially when I saw how appreciative her audience was. I smiled, told her she must have been eavesdropping at our bedroom door—earning nervous laughter from everyone—and slid into a makeup chair.
In not-so-public ways, Elaine, who also served as a stunt coordinator, had other means of showing her disdain for me. She’d find a way to end a stunt sequence with her face in the mud or her body wrenched in some grotesque, painful pose—and I would then have to step in and assume the position for my close-up. I once had to stand waist-deep in an icy river, without the benefit of Elaine’s wetsuit gear, waiting to emerge and play a scene fol
lowing a fight sequence. Chilled to the bone, with my teeth chattering so badly I could barely speak, I prayed we’d wrap the scene in a single take.
Doug had his own issues with Elaine. While he appreciated her skill, he wasn’t much enamored of her habit of second-guessing him. She, like Dirck, always came up with a better way of doing things.
“Never met a more contrary woman,” he’d say through gritted teeth.
He offered to replace her before the next season, but I turned him down—I knew there was no one better to take her place. But I also didn’t want her to think she’d gotten the better of me, that I couldn’t handle whatever she dished out.
The last time I saw Elaine was at the final wrap party when Holiday went off the air. She was hoisting a beer, hanging with the stuntmen and doing a good job of ignoring me. She vanished after that, presumably to Indiana in the company of someone named Horne, and gave birth to Chelsea. Dirck and I stuck it out for several more years, largely because I got enough long periods of location work to give us some distance from each other.
“Hey, are you hitting the bottle on your own in there?”
My head snaps around. Dirck is walking down the hall toward the kitchen, followed by Donna. I set the pinot noir back on the counter, uncomfortably aware he’s seen me topping up my glass.
“Don’t worry. Left some for you. Did you enjoy the grand tour?”
“You bet I did. You landed in some swell digs, kid.” He’s doing his best Bogart imitation, and it’s clear he’s out to impress Donna.
“You’re really good!” she says, looking up at him with bright-eyed admiration. To me, she says, “You should hear him do Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. Brilliant!”
I nod. “No one better.”
Elaine and Doug join us in the kitchen, both of them tight-lipped and somber. I suspect Dirck has entertained everyone with samplings of his movie star impressions.
“Let’s stay in the kitchen,” Donna says. “It’s so much cozier.”
I hand out glasses as everyone groups around the butcher-block table where I’ve set out the cheese. “Red or white wine? We have both.”
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