“Good for you! Sounds like it might be serious. Is he in show business, too?”
“No, actually a completely different world from mine. We’re going out to dinner at a place near the beach.” For Joe’s benefit, I add, “You know, Corky really does have a bright future. I’m just paying forward the encouragement people gave me at his age.”
“Thank you so much for saying that!” She throws her arms around me, squeezing hard. “It means everything.” I hug her back, my eyes on Joe, who stares at me coldly. Obviously nothing I’ve said has swayed him.
“You ready?” he asks. “I’m going to miss my bus.” He stalks down the driveway toward the Honda.
“Sure thing, Joe. Coming.” She gives my ribs another squeeze. “Don’t take any of that to heart. Sometimes he and Howard get into it, but he loves Corky like a son. He just wants the best for him. Maybe he’s a little too protective sometimes.”
“I understand. See you soon!” I hurry off down the walkway to my car. By the time I’ve buckled my seat belt, Julia has pulled out of the driveway. She waves as she passes me, but Joe stares straight ahead.
Imagining the pressure Corky is under, I think back to my own youth. At age eighteen, I was so determined to be an actress that I catapulted from my small hometown to New York. Nothing could hold me back, and I had my parents’ blessing. What must it be like to be in Corky’s shoes, with his father and uncle hoping he’ll outgrow his obsession with moviemaking? When it comes to family strife, it’s not my place to get involved. After today, I’ll steer clear of visiting the Shaw home.
I drive to the corner, turn right and park, leaving my Bluetooth active to call Gilligan’s. The hostess answers and puts me through to Jeremy, who finally picks up on the seventh ring. I hear happy hour in full cry in the background.
“Jeremy? Meg Barnes here. You were going to call me.”
“Sorry, listen, this isn’t a good time.”
“I know, but just two questions, okay? I’m sure you heard Chelsea’s mother was killed last night, right?”
“Some friends came in to tell me. Man, I can’t believe this! And I still haven’t heard from Chelsea.”
“Have the police been in touch?”
“No, why would they? I’d just met her mother, like, hours before. Do they know who did it?”
“No, not yet. Did you talk with Elaine much after I left?”
“Not really.” He lowers his voice and I sense he’s cupped his hand over the phone. “Sorry to say this when she’s dead, but she was something else, you know? A steamroller, like Chelsea said. But now I’m getting really worried about where she is. And I can’t reach this girl I put Chelsea in touch with, the one who was filling her in on stuff for the role.”
“That’s who I wanted to ask you about. She’s a call girl, right? How do you happen to know her, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“She’s more of a party girl, like with an escort service. And I don’t actually know her that well. I mean, not like that. I got this gig bartending at some private parties. Pay’s good. That’s how I met her and we got to talking.”
“Was Chelsea still meeting with her?”
“That’s the thing. Chelsea said they were planning to get together again after she worked with you. That’s the last I heard from her.”
“Do you know where they were meeting? Or when?”
“She called me at work right after you guys finished. She said she was waiting to be picked up. I figured it was the girl and they’d go off and gab somewhere and then she’d drop Chelsea off at home. That was the last I heard.”
“What’s the girl’s name?”
Jeremy sighs. “Sorry, I only know her as Lisa. She never gave me her last name and I didn’t ask for it.”
“Do you know where she lives? Anything?”
“These gals tell you only what they want to and that’s it.
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Not on me. Look, I gotta go, okay?”
“Wait, you drive a red convertible, right?”
“Yeah, in my dreams. I’m driving my brother’s old Mustang. Why?”
“Just wondered. Can you get back to me later with the girl’s number? Or send a text?”
“Will do. And if you hear from Chelsea—”
“I’ll let you know. Bye.”
I punch End Call, wondering how I can go about checking the license number of the red convertible.
Chapter Twelve
Jack. Just the thought that I’ll see him soon makes my heart race. With ten minutes to spare before picking him up, I park on a side street in Westwood near the Federal Building. I flip down the sun visor and, before dabbing on lip-gloss, take a moment to size up what I see in the vanity mirror. Thanks to my afternoon swim and walk in the park, my skin has a healthy glow. My hair, bobbed in a chin-length version of the style I wore playing Jinx, catches the copper glints of the lowering sun. The fact that I’ve held up this well under the less than ideal living conditions I’ve endured in the last year is a miracle. Affording decent moisturizer was the least of my problems.
Then, without warning, dark thoughts I’d hoped were buried rise to the surface. I stare into the mirror, trying to find the happy face I saw moments ago. Will I ever come to terms with that terrible period of time? Even now, snapshots flash through my brain in a dizzying loop. The anxiety of nights spent in my car, parked at the curb, trying to sleep under a spread of newspapers. Dealing with the heartbreak of strangers moving into my home and old friends shunning me. Bills. Bankruptcy.
Stop! This won’t do! I can’t meet Jack while in the throes of a post-traumatic flashback.
I breathe, first in short, shallow breaths, then longer, deeper ones as my head clears. My mantra, the silent one I recite when black thoughts overtake me, forms on my lips: There, there, all is well. Those are the words my father spoke when I was a child, quiet and soothing, that comforted whether my feelings were hurt or I’d skinned a knee. Jinx had such a mantra, too, a catchphrase that I took as my own. In response to Winston’s heartfelt, “Awfully good of you, my dear,” I’d say, “All in a day’s work”—words that, to me, meant the task is done, let’s move on. All is forgiven.
I put my car in gear and pull back into traffic. I weave from one lane to another, zip through a light that is technically amber, and spot Jack standing next to a column outside the Federal Building, his eyes on his cellphone. I glide up to the curb and flash my lights, catching a brief sign of irritation as he looks up. I lower the passenger window and lean across the seat. “Sorry it took me so long. Traffic.”
He nods and pockets his cellphone. “I figured as much. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Hop in.”
Instead he walks around the front of the Volvo, his dark suit jacket flapping open. My heart thumps an extra beat seeing him in the headlights, looking trim, with his white shirt open at the neck, his blue tie loosened. I roll down the window and look up at him, his caramel-brown eyes taking me in.
“Why don’t I drive? You mind?”
“Not at all.” The trusty pheromones kick in. I’m already pushing the door open and standing, ready to give him a kiss. “You’ve had a long day,” I murmur, my face nuzzling his neck. “Tired?”
“Not anymore. I’ve been looking forward to this.” We kiss again and he says softly, “More of this later. C’mon, get in.”
I hurry around to the passenger side and climb in, pulling the seat belt across me in one quick movement. Jack slides the seat back, adjusts the mirrors and takes a moment to look at me as he fastens his seat belt.
“How’re you doing? You look great.”
“Thanks! What about you? How was Minneapolis?”
“Muggy. Mosquitoes the size of B-2s—and just as stealthy. Otherwise it’s a great place. I may be going back there.”
“Soon? Not for long, though, right?”
Jack hears the note of apprehension in my voice. He gives me a quick, reassuring smile. “No, probably not
. But Homeland Security tipped us to something we’re following up on.”
“Anything you can talk about? Terrorist cell? Bomb smuggling? Something else to give me nightmares?”
“No, nothing like that, but it’s a dirty business. I’ve been in briefings most of the day. We’re coordinating with HSI and local law enforcement.”
“Sounds like I might see some headlines in the papers soon?”
“If it means we’ve put an end to sex trafficking, I’d like nothing better. But it’s too widespread. Too difficult to effectively prosecute.” He lays his hand on mine, giving it a light squeeze. “Anyway, I’m happy to be back.” With that, he’s signaled an end to any further talk about his work.
“I’m glad to see you again. Stick around a while. No mosquitoes and the weather’s fine.”
Jack laughs. “When is it not? Look at that sky.”
In exuberant response, a burst of coppery light streaks along the railings spanning the overpass on Wilshire Boulevard, fanning the clear blue horizon with a molten glow.
Jack edges into the right lane, merging with the trail of cars entering the on-ramp to the 405 freeway. I settle back, the terrible anxiety I felt only a half hour ago barely a memory. I’m with Jack, the only person I care to be with, and all is well.
“How did it go with the detective this morning? Anything new since we talked?”
“They didn’t give anything away, of course. I’m sure they’re thinking it’s a random drive-by shooting. I watched them scour the grounds, examine the gates and keypad. I can’t imagine anyone was lying in wait for Elaine. Practically no one knew she was in town. I mean, she only arrived here yesterday. Less than twelve hours later, she was killed.”
“What were you able to tell them?”
“Well, now that I think of it, I probably spent more time with her than anyone else. I was already at Chelsea’s house when Elaine arrived, and then we ended up having dinner together at Donna’s. I also bumped into her in the late afternoon, which I forgot to mention to the police, and all of it was unplanned.”
“So no one could’ve known her schedule or where she would be going?”
“Well, not me or anyone else at the dinner last night. I’m sure we’re off the list of suspects. At least I hope so. Besides, she arrived from Indiana without telling Chelsea, so her trip would’ve been a complete surprise. Actually, I told Detective Yarrow that our get-together was serendipitous, which certainly wasn’t how it turned out.”
“Did she fly or drive from Indiana?”
“I assumed she flew and rented a car, but I can’t say for sure.”
“And Chelsea’s father?”
“They asked me, but I know nothing about him. I don’t even know if they’re still married. Or if he’s even alive. But Chelsea’s still missing and that’s really troubling.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes, a bartender. I managed to track him down, but he has no idea where she is, either. That’s something else I need to mention to Detective Yarrow.”
“You spoke to the boyfriend? How did you manage that?”
“He used to be in Dirck Heyward’s acting class, which is how he knew Chelsea, so I just looked the guy up, found out where he worked—”
Jack glances at me, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Wait, you just decided to check him out on your own? And you also went to Chelsea’s house looking for her? What else?”
“C’mon, it’s what anyone would do. This was way before anything happened to Elaine. In fact, she was checking out the boyfriend, too. That’s how I ran into her again. The only concern now is that the guy I saw Chelsea with before she disappeared turns out not to be her boyfriend.”
“And you know this because—?”
“I just called and asked him. Boyfriend doesn’t own a red convertible.”
“I’m not liking the sound of this.”
“Nor am I. I’d like to find out who the guy was that—”
“No, I mean, it makes me uncomfortable that you’re looking into matters that should be handled by the police. You’re better off telling the detective these things, not trying to investigate on your own. You can’t withhold information they need.”
His speech is conversational, but I recognize the shift in tone. Reasoned and cool, it’s the voice of a professional trained in law enforcement. It’s the voice I heard when we first met and Jack was grilling me about Paul’s disappearance, his tone implying that I knew more than I was revealing. That voice, detached and impersonal, held no regard for me, only for the information I might supply.
As Jack deftly changes lanes, I choose my words carefully, resolving to be truthful without denying myself the ability to act on my own instincts. If it means keeping certain things to myself, it’s with the knowledge that he does the same.
“I know what you’re saying. Dougie accused me of doing the Jinx thing, too. On the other hand, it’s just my intuition. Nothing more. I wouldn’t want to go pointing a finger that will cause someone a lot of hassle with the police for no reason.”
“I’m sure the detectives will check out the boyfriend on their own. It would be their first consideration, but you should still inform them of what you know.”
“Again, it’s just intuition, but the reason I wanted to talk to the bartender is that he introduced her to a call girl with some escort service. He thought she could give Chelsea insight for her role in the pilot. I only hope she didn’t take things too far and actually hook up with some guy. Sounds crazy, but you never know, and it’s not something I would want to tell the police.”
Jack clears his throat, making a noise that sounds like exasperation. When he speaks, his tone is even more measured. “You’re right, you never know. So you might want to pass this along to the detective anyway. Your instincts are good, but the police should take it from here, okay?”
“Okay, good advice. As soon as I get home, I’ll look for Detective Yarrow’s number and give her a call.” I look out the side window, grappling for a change of topic to lighten the mood. “By the way, I don’t think I mentioned that Donna’s started a new venture, a catering service. I think she’s already got her first client.”
“Good for her! Tell me about it.” I sense he, too, wants to shift the conversation. Jack turns onto the less congested westbound Santa Monica Freeway. By the time we’ve parked on Ocean Avenue a few minutes later, I’ve filled him in on Hollywood on a Plate and recapped my Phantom of the Opera breakfast, producing more than a few appreciative chuckles.
We climb out of the car, breathing in the heady tang of sun-warmed sand and sea. Jack rolls his tie and stashes it in his jacket pocket before we head toward the walking path along the beach. The air is still warm, but there’s a cool breeze sweeping off the ocean. We fall into step, strolling leisurely, as cyclists whiz past us on the parallel bike path.
I reach into my shoulder bag for one of Donna’s brochures with the banner Dine with the Stars! above photos of some of her treasures. “It’s a great idea, but I don’t think she fully realizes how much work is involved. I have a feeling I’m going to be pressed into service. Here, keep it in case you know someone who wants to dine off Clark Gable’s dinner service.”
“You never know.” Jack takes the brochure and tucks it into his pocket. I laugh and reach for his hand. He pulls me close, kissing me lightly on the lips, then embraces me in a lingering kiss I’d like to have go on forever. Hand in hand, we continue our walk as a ball of red sun slowly dips to the ocean and long shadows drift across the footpath.
I lean into Jack, mentioning there’s a free jazz concert coming up at the Los Angeles County Museum that we might want to attend. “Sounds great,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, warming me against the evening chill. A sense of wellbeing washes over me and I realize how wonderful it is to be making plans with someone again.
“Hungry?” he asks, stopping on the footpath. “I booked a table at Chez Jay for eight o’clock.”
“St
arving!” With my arm wrapped around his waist, we turn back, quickening our strides as darkness falls. Ahead, the Santa Monica Pier gleams with colored lights from the amusement rides. The Ferris wheel makes its slow revolution, reminding me of the starlit night when Jack and I took a ride, necking like two teenagers. I’m about to suggest we ride the Ferris wheel again after dinner, when I see him checking his cellphone.
“Sorry, Meg, I have to take this.” He turns away to speak.
I walk ahead, giving him privacy. Minutes pass and I realize his call must be important to take so long. I look up at the sky, star-filled now, and stroll off the path. The sand is cold, tickling my toes until I reach the damp, hard-packed beach. It’s dark and quiet, except for a gentle lapping of waves along the shore and distant sounds from the pier.
I look over my shoulder and see Jack, his head down, back turned, still talking on his cellphone. This does not bode well for our dinner reservation at Chez Jay. I look at my own cellphone and see that it’s well past eight o’clock. I call the restaurant. Mike Anderson, the owner, answers.
“Hey, Mike! It’s Meg. Sorry, but Jack’s detained and we’re going to be late.”
“That’s okay. How long are you going to be?”
“I’m not sure.” I turn to see Jack approaching, his face solemn. “Just a moment—”
“Sorry about dinner,” Jack says, “but I have to get to the airport.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take you there.” I turn back to my cellphone. “Sorry, it won’t be tonight. Something’s come up and Jack has to catch a flight.”
“That’s okay. Anytime. There’s always a table here for you guys.”
“Thanks, Mike.” I end the call, my eyes on Jack as we walk quickly back toward the footpath. “What’s up?”
“Actually I don’t have to catch a flight, but I need to get to LAX as soon as possible. Sorry about this.”
“No need to apologize. I’m happy with a rain check.”
“I’ll make it up to you, promise.” Jack grabs my hand and we hurry down the street. “I’ll drive, if you don’t mind,” he says, pulling my car keys from his pocket.
Jinxed Page 16