ALSO BY KATHRYN LEIGH SCOTT
The Bunny Years: The Surprising Inside Story of the Playboy Clubs: The Women Who Worked as Bunnies, and Where They Are Now
My Scrapbook Memories of Dark Shadows
Dark Shadows Memories
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2013 Kathryn Leigh Scott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611098860
ISBN-10: 1611098866
For Cynthia, my wise agent and truest of friends
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I rang the bell before unlocking the front door, even though I knew Paul wasn’t home. Otherwise he’d have bounded down the walkway as soon as my car pulled up. I would have seen him striding toward me, tanned and grinning, his shirttails flapping over well-worn khakis, eager to sweep me up in his arms. Instead, I was greeted with newspapers yellowing on the front steps. I pulled the key from the lock and stepped inside to dense silence and the mustiness of a house shut up, unoccupied—how long? Three weeks?
Still, I ran up the stairs, calling, “Paul? Darling, I’m home!” I paused on the landing, about to call out again, but my voice was no more than a whispered “Where are you?” Paul should have arrived back from Mexico in the early afternoon and had a bottle of bubbly on ice to celebrate our homecoming. That was the plan.
I quickly walked the length of the hallway, passing the open door to a guest room and the closed door of the upstairs laundry and linen closet. I stopped at the threshold to my office, registering the sun-filled room, its walls hung with film posters and framed photographs. Only a single sheet of my notepaper, pale vanilla with MEG BARNES in red block letters, lay on the blond wood surface of my desk. In haste I’d written, Love you, Paul—see you soon! before leaving for the airport and a flight to North Carolina.
I hurried into our bedroom, a suite of rooms overlooking the garden. My eyes swept the cozy sitting area near the fireplace, fixing briefly on Paul’s favorite camel-colored leather armchair. There was no sign of his Top-Siders, usually kicked off and left by the footstool. Nor was there so much as a pucker in the snowy linen coverlet on the California king, banked with an assortment of plump white and crème pillows. I pushed open the French doors to the balcony, breathing in evening air scented with eucalyptus. My eyes scanned the pool, bathhouse, and outdoor grill area, all as I had left them: the cushions stacked under the awning, everything covered. I glanced again at my cell phone. No messages, nothing from him since the night before.
Then, cutting through the silence, the two-note chime of the doorbell. Paul! I slipped out of my sandals and broke into a run, racing barefoot down the stairs to the front door, relief mixing with a jumble of explanations. Lost his briefcase! Phone! No keys!
I yanked the door open to find the stocky, middle-aged limo driver on my doorstep, a sheen of sweat on his brow, my two bags at his feet. “So sorry, Miss Barnes. Your luggage. The door swing shut before I catch it.” I heard the rush of words in a foreign accent and realized that aside from introductions at the arrivals terminal, we’d barely spoken during the drive from LAX.
“I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Here, just leave them in the entry.”
I stepped back as he set the two suitcases on the floor. “Thank you so much.” I reached into my shoulder bag and handed him a bill from my wallet.
“Thank you very much, Miss Barnes.” He brushed his hand through his dark hair and glanced at the luggage, looking doubtful. “So this is good? I leave here? Is heavy.”
“Yes, yes, fine. Perfect. My husband will take them up.”
Still the driver hesitated, giving me an anxious look. “Really, this is fine,” I assured him. “Thank you.” Then I saw the manila envelope tucked under his arm. “Was there something else?”
“If you don’t mind, Miss Barnes, my wife and I are big fans. I tell her I never do this, but when she hear I drive you, she make me promise.” He whipped a photograph from the envelope and held it up. “Is you, yes?”
I nodded. Indeed, I’d signed copies of this eight-by-ten glossy of a leggy and oh-so-young version of myself—wearing a black swallowtail jacket with satin shorts and a top hat—many, many times before. The driver pulled a Sharpie from his pocket, uncapped it, and presented it to me with a flourish. “Awfully good of you, my dear.”
I smiled at the popular catchphrase from the Holiday series that had become a national fad for a while. “All in a day’s work,” I said, just as my character, Jinx, would have responded to her partner in crime solving, played by Winston Sykes. The two-hour Holiday specials were part of a rotating “wheel” of detective shows that had aired for five seasons. Each production was geared toward a holiday: Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Mother’s Day, even Groundhog Day. Winston Sykes, faking a British accent and sporting a monocle, played a character known as The Magician. I was his assistant, Jinx Fogarty, and together we solved crimes, all holiday-themed, setting the trend for bickering, opposites-attract television sleuths.
I took the Sharpie and placed the photo on the hall table. “It’s Tony, right?”
“You remember! Yes, please, if you could sign it to Tony and Joyce. You big in Italy, too. My whole family watch.”
“Really? Well, there you go.” I handed Tony his signed photo and the Sharpie. “All in a day’s work,” I repeated.
“Thank you. Thank you. My wife, she be thrilled.”
“Happy to do it,” I said with a finality intended to stanch the flow of gratitude. Tony was still grinning as I gently closed the door behind him. I heaved a sigh and looked down at the two heavy suitcases. Where was Paul?
I headed to the kitchen, idly picking up the wall phone as I reached the pantry. The dial tone sounded in my ear, but then I wasn’t expecting to hear the bip-bip-bip indicating voice mail; I’d forwarded all calls to my cell phone. I dialed the code to discontinue the forwarding service, while my eyes roamed the kitchen, breakfast nook, and adjoining dining room. Everything was in order, just as the housekeeper would have left it three days ago. The French doors stuck a bit as I unlocked and pushed them open. I leaned against the doorjamb, hugging my arms against the autumn chill. Even if Paul had lost his keys, wallet, and cell phone, he’d find a way to reach me. Fading sunlight cast mauve shadows on the patio and glinted off the stainless steel cover on the barbecue. A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the pool and sounded the wind chimes.
Abruptly I slammed the French doors closed and turned the l
ock. I was getting annoyed, of course, and didn’t want to give in to it. How could he spoil things like this! It was the first time in our nearly one-year marriage that we’d been apart for any length of time. He knew how anxious I was to see him. Why would he disappoint me? Was it a client? A meeting that ran late, and he missed his flight? I didn’t want to be angry when he finally walked in the door. I’d regret it—and what was the point? It wasn’t like him to be uncaring.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Pinot Grigio, half-empty and at least three weeks old. It would do. I poured a glass and took a long sip, grateful the wine hadn’t gone sour. What to do? Unpack? Go through my mail and wait patiently? Call Sid? No, not even Sid Baskin, our attorney—although he would be the most likely person to know. He was the one who’d introduced me to Paul, and the two had become, more or less, business partners. But he was also married to my best friend, Carol, and I wasn’t about to call and ask if they knew where my husband was. No!
I set my glass down on the granite countertop a bit too sharply and reminded myself to calm down. Paul could walk in any minute with some crazy would-you-believe-what-happened-to-me story that we’d laugh about. So stop worrying! Do something useful.
I settled on taking a long, hot bath. What better place for Paul to find me than up to my chin in scented bubbles? I poured the last of the Pinot Grigio in my glass and headed for the stairs. Midway down the hall, the phone rang. Retrace my steps to the pantry, or race for the phone in the entryway? I grabbed the pantry phone. “Hello? Paul?”
“Baby, you gotta listen.” His voice was low, urgent.
“Paul, where are you?”
“Listen to me. I can’t talk long. I’m okay, but I’ve been kidnapped down here.”
“Kidnapped? C’mon, what happened?” I laughed. “Has your flight been delayed?”
“Meg, this is serious. Whatever you do, don’t call the police. Don’t call anyone. Not even Sid. Just wait. You’ll get a call. They’ll tell you what they want. Just do it!”
“Wait, what are you saying?” My throat tightened at the urgency in his voice. “Who’ll call? What do I have to do?”
“My desk drawer. You’ll find a piece of paper with a name and a phone number. When you know what they want, call that number. He’ll know what you need to do. Gotta go, baby. I’m counting on you. I love you. Love you!”
“I love you, too—wait!” But the line was dead. “Wait, please!” I cried as I checked caller ID. “BLOCKED” flashed on the handset. “Please, please!” I tried to remember the code for last-call return. “No!”
My recollections of the tense, hurried exchange with Paul when he told me he’d been kidnapped come to me in scattered fragments. But I remember that he told me to wait, to call no one, not even Sid. It sounded so sensible at the time. He was counting on me. He trusted me to know what to do: Find the piece of paper in his desk drawer and make the call once I knew what the kidnappers wanted. My fear was real, and so was my icy calm as I waited for his abductors to present their ransom demand. I would follow their instructions and save my husband, just as Jinx had done when Winston Sykes had been kidnapped. That had felt real, too, and earned me my first Emmy nomination.
Hours later, when nothing seemed real anymore, when I was already struggling to remember what Paul had said and wondering if I’d imagined everything, a man with a gruff, heavy accent called. He gave me instructions, and I followed them to the letter. I made the call to Paul’s contact and did as he directed. What else could I do? Any pretense that I was Jinx, or that rational thought guided my actions, vanished. I may have thought I was functioning on all cylinders, but that turns out to be part of the blurry mess I barely remember.
Throughout long nights and days I sat on the edge of our bed—his side, not mine—hugging his pillow and smelling his musky scent. My mind kept going back to the last time I saw Paul. A limo was parked at the curb, its driver waiting to take me to the airport to catch a flight to North Carolina for a three-week location shoot. Still in his bathrobe, hair tousled, Paul stood on the doorstep to kiss me good-bye, promising that if he could close his deal in Mexico, he’d fly out to join me in Wilmington.
“Please try, Paul. We could drive down the coast—”
“I’d love it, baby. I miss you already.” Then he scooped me up and marched across the lawn, his slippers squishing in the dewy grass. I’d laughed, clinging to his neck as he carried me in his burly arms to the waiting limo. After depositing me in the backseat, he closed the door and leaned in the open window to kiss me again. Then, his eyes solemn, he ran his finger down my cheek. “Call me before takeoff, okay? I love you, baby. You take care of yourself.”
“I love you, too. See you soon.”
The driver pulled away. I waved to Paul until the car turned the corner at the end of the street. We spoke together many times after that, but it was the last time I saw him. It seems like yesterday, yet a lifetime ago.
ONE YEAR LATER
My husband and his mistress are dead—offed by a hit man the cops think I hired. I shift in my chair, trying to look calm. My lips stick to my teeth, but I manage to keep smiling as my mind grapples with the inane plotline of the script.
“So you worked with Alan Resnick?” The casting director teeters back and forth in his black leather chair, peering at me with the face of a boy playing at Daddy’s desk. It crosses my mind that he’s swinging his feet because they don’t reach the floor.
Smiling still, I clear my throat and manage to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Who?”
His mouth twitches. He eyes me indulgently as though I’m his addled auntie. My mental Rolodex spins like a slot machine, but I’m out of luck. The name Alan Resnick does not come up—nor, for that matter, does the name of this infant casting director.
With his thumb and index finger, young whatshisname—Todd something?—plucks a corner of my eight-by-ten glossy from his desktop and dangles it before my eyes. I squint—I know it’s my photograph and résumé he’s holding, although I can’t actually see either against the glare of sun blazing through the office window.
It’s January, and this is Southern California at its seasonal best. But weather is only one reason actors migrate to Hollywood for the winter months. Another, not the least of them, is pilot season. Like the rest of the multitude, I need a job—desperately.
“Alan Resnick?” Todd repeats, enunciating clearly and a trifle louder than strictly necessary. “Like, Easy Street?”
“The sitcom? I don’t think…” I’m about to admit I’ve never watched Easy Street, another smutty half-hour of brainless one-liners pickled in canned laughter. Mercifully I keep my mouth shut. But why does he think I worked with Alan Resnick?
I squint at Todd through the haze of white light but can make out only the silhouette of a slim torso, narrow shoulders, and a bobbing head with tufts of hair spiked in some sort of shiny goop. He looks like a newly hatched bird.
A cloud momentarily shades the blinding sun, and I glimpse a furrowed brow as he flips over my photograph to scan my résumé. “It says here… let me see…” Suddenly it all becomes clear.
“You mean Alain Resnais, the French director?” I say with giddy relief. “Yes, I did a film with him in Paris back in…” Don’t say it, Meg. It was before Todd was born.
A look of alarm ripples across Todd’s baby blue eyes. “French?” My résumé flutters from his fingertips onto the desktop. “No, that wouldn’t be him. Never mind. I took it for a typo. Besides, this isn’t comedy.”
I stifle a groan, but just barely. Alain Resnais may not have a sitcom to his credit, but his latest film screened at Cannes not that many years ago. I’m reminded of the tale of multi-Oscar-winning director Fred Zinneman (High Noon, A Man for All Seasons) taking a meeting with a young producer, who asks the elderly filmmaker what he’s done. “You first,” Zinneman says.
Meanwhile Todd flips the script open and swipes his hand across the page as though clearing it of dust. “So, rea
dy to read? Let’s take it from the top of page fourteen.”
“Read?”
“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” He cocks his head, his eyes frozen ponds. “Because I read everyone. No exceptions. You need more time?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Unaccountably intimidated, I’ve now committed myself to reading the scene virtually cold.
“Good. Okay, remember a dead body’s been found, a link to your past. Your husband and his mistress were both killed, and the police now suspect you hired a hit man. I’ll read the detective. Ready?”
Todd plants his elbows on the desk, utters the first line, and stares at me with fixed intensity. Despite his unnerving gaze I manage to respond. He nods encouragingly and, sounding like a robot on auto-speak, says his second line. I’m force-marched through two pages of dialogue while choking down an urge to flee. I have to get this job.
“Very good,” he says. “Very nice. Can I get you back here at three to read for Lenny Bishop, the director?”
Of course, this is a pre-audition. “Sure,” I answer. “Three o’clock. Great.”
Todd is already on his feet, dropping my photo on top of a mound of glossies. Next. I ease myself out of the chair, my eyes falling on my head shot, a relic of the Charlie’s Angels era, with me sporting shoulder pads and Farrah Fawcett hair. Across the bottom my name is printed in block letters: MEG BARNES. My heart sinks. These must be the only head shots my agent has left. At least I still have an agent.
Flustered, I thrust my hand across the desk, dip my chin, and flash a flirty smile that I immediately regret. Judging by the wince on his face, I must strike this kid as a Miss Havisham on the make.
He blinks and brushes my fingertips fleetingly before tucking his hands into the safety of his armpits. “Thanks for coming in, Meg. Great to meet you. Remember, keep it straight and real, and you’ll do fine. See you this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” I say, not trusting myself to call him Todd in case I’ve got his name wrong. I slide the script in my bag and make my way to the reception room. Another actress paces the holding pen waiting for her turn to audition. Pre-audition.
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 1
