Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Jack Mitchell, back on his feet, brushed grass and apricot bits from his suit jacket, somehow still looking like a Brooks Brothers ad. Brows furrowed, he gave me a long look. Perhaps out of concern for his personal safety, he was keeping his distance. Or maybe he’d never come across a walking, talking toxic dump before. But then, I wasn’t used to tripping over FBI agents in my garden, certainly not a specimen as camera-ready as this one. I took in the closely cropped hair, the even features, and recalled the smell of apricot on his breath.

  Still watching me, he gripped the gate, rocking it slightly. “You’re Mrs. Stephens?”

  I nodded, gritting my teeth at the sqrawk-sqrawk sound. I laid a hand on the gate, stopping it from sawing back and forth.

  “You said he’s here?”

  “Sid?”

  “Is that who you meant? I thought I heard you say—” He cocked his head, as though having trouble hearing me. Wasn’t I making sense?

  “You mean—Mr. Stephens?” Panicked, I struggled to remember my husband’s first name. How could I forget his first name? “No, I mean—of course he’s not here. Don’t be stupid! He’s—Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Mrs. Stephens?” His voice, crisp and cool, reached me through a muffled roar pounding in my ears. Three days of fear and frustration boiled inside me. “Mrs. Stephens? Are you all right?”

  Stephens, of course. But what’s his first name? Was I concussed, about to black out?

  “Sorry. I’m okay,” I mumbled. His spanking white shirt hurt my eyes, made them water. He pressed a handkerchief into my hand, one so soft, clean, and neatly folded that I couldn’t bear to use it. But neither did I want to give it back. Why was he mixing me up?

  I ached to rest my head on his sober gray shoulder, to be forgiven for not remembering my husband’s name. But if Jack Mitchell could read my mind, he wasn’t letting on.

  Sid appeared at my side, still rumpled and sweaty. “Jack, thanks for getting here so fast. Meg says Paul, himself, called Tuesday night.”

  The mention of Paul’s name brought me back to the real world. “I’m going inside. The phone could ring—”

  I hurried into the kitchen, Jack and Sid on my heels. Within minutes, two other FBI agents arrived. I was introduced to Andrea Olsen, a pale blonde wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and Leroy Chen, broad-shouldered and compact, each carrying metal suitcases. They quickly took over the dining room, setting up laptops and monitoring equipment.

  I started losing my grip again when Jack Mitchell took my elbow and steered me into the den. His sleeve brushed my bare arm. I leaned into him, feeling light-headed.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Stephens?”

  “Sure. Just glad you’re here.” Did that sound like a come-on? I glanced at him anxiously.

  “We’re setting up a trap-and-trace, but it’s a waiting game until we get a lead. Is there anything you might know that could help us?” He squeezed my shoulder. Or was he just guiding me to the couch?

  “Ask me anything, whatever—” I glanced at Sid, who’d stationed himself at the door, his arms crossed like a sentry. He looked angry. With me? What had I done wrong?

  Jack pulled up a straight-back chair, positioning himself directly in front of me, his arms resting on his knees. His eyes were warm, a dark caramel with flecks of gold.

  “Mrs. Stephens?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I was saying that maybe you could tell me what happened, starting from the beginning.” He leaned forward. I leaned back, wishing I could sprint to the bathroom to brush my teeth and change my clothes before being interviewed by these strangers. “When did you hear that your husband had been kidnapped?”

  “Tuesday night. The phone rang just as I got home from the airport.” I took heart that my voice sounded normal, that crazy thoughts weren’t spilling from my mouth. “Actually I hadn’t seen Paul in three weeks. I’d been filming in Wilmington, North Carolina. He was in Mexico on business. I’d barely opened the door when I got his call.”

  “What did he say?”

  “His first words were ‘Baby, listen to me. I’m okay, but I’ve been kidnapped.’”

  “Did you get the feeling he was making the call on his own?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t think about it. He sounded scared, his voice sort of muffled, like he was cupping his hand around the phone. He said bandits ran him off the road. He thought they’d take his money and the car and leave him stranded. Instead they shoved him into the backseat and—”

  “Did he know where they were taking him?”

  I was so tired. If only I could slide down on the couch and close my eyes. I glanced at Sid, his hands still tucked into his armpits, his face glowering.

  “Do you remember anything else?” Jack’s voice was softer now, barely a whisper. “Think back—”

  “I am thinking—you know that part about the bandits and the backseat? I think I made that up. I’m sorry, but I’ve been trying to picture what happened, and—”

  “That’s okay. Go on—” “

  We didn’t talk long. Paul said not to call the police. Or get in touch with Sid.”

  “Sid? He specifically mentioned Sid?”

  I nodded. I heard Sid grunt, but didn’t dare look at him.

  “Paul said he knew someone else I should call who could help me put together the money to meet the ransom. I would find the man’s name and number on a scrap of paper in the desk drawer. This man would accept jewelry, whatever. Sounded like some sort of pawnbroker with a foreign name.”

  “Anything else?”

  I began to fade. My head ached. I knew I’d made the call, but was I now mixing up Paul’s kidnapping with the kidnapping of Winston Sykes, which Jinx wrapped up quite nicely? Wasn’t there a pawnbroker involved? Wait, what was the question? Whose turn was it to answer?

  “Mrs. Stephens?”

  “Paul said I could trust this man.”

  “That’s all?”

  I nodded, my eyes watering again. I wasn’t going to tell him about Paul’s voice breaking. Please, baby. I’m counting on you. I love you—“The telephone went dead. It was the last time I talked to him.”

  “So you called this guy, the one Paul told you to call?” Sid interrupted, his voice sounding strangled.

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Sid, but—”

  “Sure was thoughtful of him. How many people leave contingency plans in case they get kidnapped?” His eyes were hard. I’d never seen Sid so angry. He exchanged a look with Jack, then turned away.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe it was a mistake, but Paul knew the guy—”

  “Mrs. Stephens, would you happen to have that scrap of paper?” Jack asked, his voice low, unhurried.

  “Yes.” I reached into the pocket of my sweatpants and produced the piece of lined notepaper I’d found in the drawer. Jack barely glanced at the note before passing it on to Agent Chen.

  “What did this man look like?”

  “Like I said, I never saw him. I called and mentioned Paul’s name. The guy told me to put jewelry and all the cash that was in the safe into a grocery bag and leave it on the front step. He’d take care of the rest.”

  Sid turned and gaped at me. “The front step? Meg, for chrissake, he robbed you!”

  A terrible thought hit me. “If it never even got to the kidnappers, maybe that’s why I haven’t heard—”

  “Oh, no,” Sid cut in, his voice rising again. “I’m positive the loot got to the kidnappers.”

  “Then they’ll let Paul go, right?” I asked, pleading for assurance.

  “Unless he knows them,” Sid said, “and it was a setup. Chances are, your bank accounts are already cleaned out. Have you checked?”

  “Sid, this isn’t helpful. I need to hear about the abduction from Mrs. Stephens.”

  “She’s my client. We need to know what we’re dealing with here, Jack. You really think there was a kidnapping? C’mon—”

  I looked to Jack, an even more terrible thought springing to mind
. “No! Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “We know very little, Mrs. Stephens. We’re looking into everything.”

  My breath stopped. “You’re wrong! Paul wouldn’t do that to me!”

  “Do what? Tell me what you know—”

  “Damn it, find him! Bring him back!” I screamed, jumping up. “You’re not doing anything! Find him!”

  Blinded by tears, I stumbled out of the den. Agent Olsen came to my rescue, guiding me to the bathroom. I knew I was out of control. I stood over the toilet, my stomach an empty, sour pit, convulsing in dry heaves. Agent Olsen handed me a towel.

  Looking up into the mirror, I saw an old lady’s face, hollow-eyed and sagging. Salty tracks creased my cheeks. My hair was dirty, stringy. Slowly I peeled off the stained T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

  Agent Olsen turned on the shower, then left me alone in the bathroom. Steam clouded the mirror, obscuring my face. If only I could completely evaporate, as though I’d never existed.

  Before stepping into the shower, I reached to push the bathroom window open wider, then stopped when I heard noises in the garden. First a sharp thud, like someone kicking the door frame, then Sid’s voice.

  “You could’ve warned me. How was anyone to know, damn it! You have any idea what it took for me to find out?”

  “That’s how it works. I couldn’t pull him in, Sid. We needed more to go on first.”

  “You’re telling me he gets away with this? Not on your life! I’ll blow this wide open. Believe me, I’m not keeping quiet on this.”

  “Keep your voice down. I never said he was getting away with anything. But you have to keep what you know to yourself, understand?”

  “So now what do I do?”

  “Just work with us, Sid. Come on, I want to check out the garage.”

  Keep what you know to yourself. A chill settled over me, shaking me to the core. Just work with us, Sid. Now who could I trust?

  I arrive early at the coffee shop and settle in at a corner table. The lunch crowd has vanished, and I have Le Petit Ferme virtually to myself. I call Sid’s secretary, who tells me he’s finishing up a conference call. The server, a lithe young woman barely out of her teens, comes by to take my order: tarte aux pommes and a large café au lait.

  Not for the first time I wonder why a coffee shop in a sleek, towering office block would dress itself up as a trés rustique boulangerie. Pine trestle tables, artfully rough-hewn, rest on wide plank flooring, with shabby-chic cushions strewn on wooden benches. Belle Epoque posters advertising pain and chocolat line the creamy yellow walls. The décor contrasts sharply with the traffic-clogged, palm tree–lined boulevard visible through sheer café curtains.

  Observing people is second nature to an actor. But these days, when I fantasize about being inside other people’s skins, I find myself wondering if I could hold down their jobs, too. How long would it take me to master an espresso machine and make thick, foamy milk? When I order coffee from a waitress in down-market Du-par’s (if I’m paying, Starbucks is way beyond my means), I mentally try on her starchy uniform, imagining myself scurrying around with a Silex pot.

  I watch a saleswoman working behind a handbag counter and wonder how much she earns. At my age, with no experience, could I even get a job as a checker in a supermarket? Do I have the stamina for an eight-hour shift? I’m lucky to have a job lined up; roles get a little thin after a certain age—just ask Melanie Griffith. I’m not complaining. It’s a fact of life. If I were a champion pole-vaulter or a Victoria’s Secret runway model, I would have hit the wall a whole lot sooner.

  But I find myself unexpectedly caught without a nest egg in that awkward, in-between stage—post-livelihood/pre-death. Too young to collect a pension, too old to count on steady employment. I’m back to looking for a bread-and-butter job just to keep myself warm, dry, and fed. Luxuries such as dental floss and skin cream aren’t even on the priority list.

  I’m already sipping my coffee and working my way through the tarte before Sid, immaculate in a dark pinstripe suit, breezes through the door, a newspaper rolled under his arm. His cheeks look freshly buffed, his hair slicked in place. I catch the familiar scent of vetiver before he’s halfway to my table.

  He flashes his best smile at the young woman behind the counter. “Just the house regular for me, Gina, and put everything on my tab.” Then he points his finger at me, his voice booming in the empty restaurant. “Megsie, my girl, congratulations. Way to go!”

  “Thanks, Sid.” I stand and give him a kiss on both cheeks. “It’s just a guest star in the pilot, but a terrific bad-guy role.”

  “Hey, you’re back. You’re on your way again, that’s what counts.” He settles himself on the bench across from me and unbuttons his suit coat. Gina delivers his coffee and hovers at the table. “Meg, you want anything else?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t know how you can put away the sweets and stay so trim,” he says.

  “Thanks to Carol, I get to work out every day.” I wait until Gina is at a safe distance before I lean in to Sid and whisper, “Okay, don’t leave me hanging. What’s up?”

  He laughs. “Probably nothing, but you never know. A coincidence, maybe.”

  “This has to do with Paul?”

  “Maybe. I was talking to Jack this morning. He told me they’re checking a burned-out hull beached on the far side of Catalina. There was a body, pretty decomposed, washed up on the rocks, and—Hey, you okay?”

  “Hang on—” I put my cup down, my stomach churning. “Paul? Not Paul, is it?”

  “No, no, Meg. Not Paul. But the thing is, this sailboat was once registered to P. C. Findlay. How about that?”

  “When? How long ago?”

  “The transfer dates back nearly five years.” He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “It was just funny, the name surfacing like that. Sounds like one of the names Paul went by, you know? It makes you wonder.”

  “Five years, Sid. That’s before I even knew him. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Like I said—”

  “And Jack mentioned this to you? Why not me?”

  “I happened to be talking to him, and it came up. Thought I’d pass it along. Look, if you hear anything—”

  “Like what? Sounds like you and Jack still think I’m hiding something.”

  “Easy, Meg. The guy’s a fugitive. Dead or alive, Paul’s going to turn up one day.” He folds his hand over mine. “Not so hard on Jack, okay? It’s a question of making connections. You never know where the leads are. I’d like to see the son of a bitch caught. Wouldn’t you?”

  I nod. “If he turns up on my doorstep, I’ll give a holler.”

  Sid slides his coffee cup away and rests his elbows on the table. “You know, if Paul does surface, you’ll probably hear from him first.”

  “Why? What for? He’s already taken all there is to take.”

  “Then maybe it’ll be someone else who thinks you know where he is.” He gives my hand a squeeze and says softly, “Trust me, Meg. You always want to go it alone, but you can’t play around with this, okay? Don’t do the Jinx thing, know what I mean?”

  “What?” My shock must be obvious, because Sid’s face reddens.

  “Sorry, Megs. When you went off, disappearing for months without saying anything, I figured you were trying to track him down on your own. I can’t say I’d blame you, but—just keep me in the loop, okay? I have a vested interest, too.”

  “Of course, Sid.” I try to wriggle free of his grip, but he hangs on. I smile, relax my hands, and manage to slide my fingers from his grasp. “I told you I’d give you a holler.”

  “That’s my girl.” He takes the newspaper from his lap and lays it on the table. “Anyway, there was an item this morning. I didn’t want you to get upset seeing the Findlay name.”

  “I appreciate it, Sid. And thanks for the tarte and coffee.”

  “Anytime.” He stands up and buttons his suit jacket, his face glossy with go
odwill. “Look, you want anything else, put it on the tab. I gotta get back to the office. See you Friday night, huh?”

  “Looking forward to it.” Then, because I owe it to him, because I sense he feels he hasn’t yet closed the deal, I stand up and give him a hug. “You’ve been great, Sid. I really appreciate it. I promise you, anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s all I need to hear.” He pats my shoulders and gives me a kiss that grazes my ear, then leaves by the side door.

  I settle back in my chair and pick up the paper, folded to an inner page with a two-column story under a photograph of the beached hull. I scan the caption, fixing on the name of the boat. The Coop II.

  I freeze, hearing the husky voice again: Where’s the Coop?

  My eyes drop down the text to a two-inch, one-column photo, a shot of a dark-haired man in an open-neck shirt. I stare at the picture, then at the name in the caption: Ricardo Aquino. I’m sure I’ve seen him before. Where? When?

  For long minutes, I gaze at the charred remains of The Coop II. I can’t get past my surprise at the reaction I had when Sid told me a body washed ashore—and thinking it was Paul’s. But does anything connect Paul to the victim?

  Then it comes to me, a glint of diamond. I glance back at the picture of Ricardo Aquino, recalling an evening in Catalina shortly before Paul and I married. A swarthy man with hair slicked back in a ponytail, wearing a leather jacket and an abundance of jewelry, appeared on the dock while we were having drinks aboard the WindStar. Paul brought him aboard, introducing him as Rick. The man took off his wrap-around shades and smiled, the late-afternoon sun glancing off a diamond stud earring. I offered him a margarita and was relieved that he declined. He was affable, but clearly in business mode. We exchanged a few words, then he and Paul strolled down the dock to talk privately.

  At some point, two other men joined them. I watched for a few minutes, uneasy about the unexpected visit. By the time Paul returned to the WindStar, alone and unusually subdued, the sun had gone down and I’d put on a sweater. The following week, Paul made the first of many trips to Mexico.