Before heading up the canyon, I swing by the post office, making it through the door with only minutes to spare before the entrance for box holders is closed for the day. I stuff the mail into my carryall and sprint for the exit, scanning the street before I unlock my car.
Donna is watching Jeopardy when I arrive home. Must remember to call about Alex Trebek. She waves me into the sunroom and pats the wicker chair next to hers. I sink down and kick off my shoes.
“Dinner’s in the oven. Roast chicken,” Donna says, her eyes on the TV screen. “What is a bloomer girl?” she shouts, clapping her hands like a schoolgirl who knows she’s got it right. She gets the next two answers correct, too.
“You should be a contestant,” I tell her during the commercial break.
“Me? Oh, no, I’d be so nervous I wouldn’t remember my own name.”
“But you should try out. I’ll bet you could do it.”
“With all those people looking at me?” She shudders. “I just think someone like you is so amazing. How do you remember all those words?”
“It’s what I do, just part of the job. But I don’t think I’d be any good on Jeopardy.”
“You would if you watched it every night and got the hang of it. After a while the answers just pop in your head. Wait—Who is Sammy Sosa?” she shouts. Donna gets it right; the contestant doesn’t. She throws up her hands, shakes her head. “How could anyone get that wrong?”
“You need to get out more, Donna.”
She laughs. “Don’t I know it. I wouldn’t mind a little glamour and excitement in my life. But it just doesn’t come my way, if you know what I mean. You want a glass of wine?”
“Sure, but let me get it.”
“No, no. Won’t be a sec.” She pulls herself up from the depths of her armchair and heads for the kitchen, her slippers clip-clopping on the parquet.
I slide my mail out of my carryall and shuffle through the envelopes. No checks. No personal letters. Just junk mail, most of it offering special introductory rates on pre-approved credit cards. Don’t they know?
I’m about to rip up another special offer when I notice an envelope addressed to MARGARET H. STEPHENS, forwarded from my old address. I open the envelope and discover it’s not a special offer but a credit card bill in the amount of $7,218.63. I stare at the figure, numbed. The charges are not mine, and I certainly don’t recognize the account number.
“Here you go,” Donna says, handing me a glass of white wine. “Dinner’s ready. Shall we have it on trays in here?”
“Sorry, I’m just not very hungry tonight.” I stuff the bill in my pocket.
“Well, have something to keep me company. How did it go today? You must be tired.”
I nod. “Very tired.” So tired I just want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I eat a portion of chicken breast and sip my wine while Donna shouts answers to Alex Trebek.
Before heading upstairs, I retrieve the battered old file box from the backseat of my car and haul it to my room. I trudge up the steps, barely making it over the threshold before the bottom of the box gives way, dumping files and papers all over the bedroom floor. I groan and drop to my knees, scooping documents back into file folders. The box itself is beyond repair. I set about flattening it, salvaging only the lid to hold some of the loose papers.
As I do so, I find an old envelope stuck to the underside of one of the bottom flaps of the box. The glue on the envelope crackles as I tug it. I peel it loose more gently when I see the 1969 postmark on the pale green six-cent stamp. The address, penciled in childish script, reads: Mrs. Elvira Cooper, 212 Front Street, Lennox, West Virginia. No return address.
Inside is a square of paper with a gummed edge, the name of a plumbing company printed on top, folded over a black-and-white school photo. The hairs on my neck bunch as I gaze at the picture. Even with the crew cut, skinny shoulders, and rabbity front teeth, I see a resemblance to Paul. I recognize his eyes, his smile, on this kid with the jug ears and freckles.
My eyes go back to the box, trapped flat under my knee. It was Paul’s file box. I found it empty in the garage. I grabbed it to use when I packed up the contents of my filing cabinet shortly before I moved out. This envelope must have been stuck inside the bottom flap, left behind by Paul.
I turn the picture over. My heart sinks. The name penciled on the back is Frankie Cooper. Coop? I take another look at the penciled numbers on the scrap of paper: 5/22/55. A birth date? It’s not Paul’s. Besides, Paul said he grew up in Kentucky. If one could believe anything he said. Could Frankie be a cousin?
I lean back against the bed, stretching my legs across papers strewn on the carpet. I turn the picture over again, staring into those solemn child’s eyes, and fall asleep that way.
I spend most of Friday morning in court, or what passes for it on prime-time TV. My estranged son, Danny, who fingered me for the decades-old crime and caused the case to be reopened, has taken the stand. His testimony, revealing my association with the hit man, spells curtains for me.
Shelby Stuart, playing my defense counsel, is an old buddy from a long-ago acting class in New York and once played my husband in a TV film. I hadn’t run into him in years until he showed up on the set. He’s paunchy now, with thinning hair. I remember when he was a lean leading man never out of work. I watch him being powdered down for a close-up and wonder why he didn’t have a major film career. Not enough edge for the big screen, perhaps. Low danger quotient. While his cohorts went on to careers in features, he went from series to series. Not bad, but not what he wanted. He’s good, though, and the scene crackles. I’m scripted to go down for life, but if this were the real thing, I’m not sure he wouldn’t get me acquitted.
The judge is an old friend, too. We’ve vied for many roles over the years. Only a few of us know she has MS, and that a recurring role as a judge in this series will keep her Screen Actors Guild health benefits going. That’s good enough reason to pray this pilot gets picked up. That, of course, largely hinges on the young actors carrying this show, most of whom play attitude and wardrobe.
The kid with the crooked smile playing the prosecutor is pretty good but shows all the signs of turning into a monster if the show goes to series. He already has a retinue, and they’ll soon be telling him that what he really wants to do is features. He’ll take a fling in the movies the first chance he gets, and then it’s anybody’s guess. For now, the director indulges him with an extra take, and the kid gets another opportunity to flash his killer smile. If he has any sense, he’ll ration that lopsided grin to one per episode.
We set up for the reverse shots. I’m on deck first for my close-up. Lori and Silvia finish touching up my hair and makeup as the actor playing my son takes his place tight against the camera.
On “Action,” he shouts, “She knew my old man was seeing Patty on the side! She knew, and had them killed to make it look like a murder-suicide—”
I half-rise, tears welling: “No, Danny, no!”
The judge pounds her gavel. Shelby shouts, “Objection, Your Honor!” and the scene concludes with me sobbing and sinking into my chair, face in hands. Cut.
As we break for the next setup, Shelby wraps his arm around my shoulders and whispers, “Damn, you’re good, baby.”
“Thanks, Shel.” I run my arm around him, giving him a squeeze. His hand slides to the small of my back, his fingers brushing the bare skin under my jacket. “But then, you always were,” he says, his breath warm in my ear. I freeze. My God, did we sleep together? Possibly. Probably, but for the life of me, when? Back in our days in acting class? Good God, my past is catching up with me, and I can’t even remember it.
“Wait! Am I—?” I grab the back of my skirt before remembering that the battery microphone I’d worn in a previous setup has already been removed.
“Gotcha,” he says, laughing. “I love it, Meg. Still gullible after all these years. But seriously, kid, that was great stuff.”
I smile, still not sure.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore, but how could I forget lying naked in someone’s arms?
“Listen,” he says, wrapping his arm around me again, “how’d you like to have dinner some night? You know, catch up. I heard you were—I mean, you’re not with anyone now, right?”
“Well, I’ve sort of been seeing someone.” I laugh, desperate for some excuse. “An attorney, actually, would you believe—”
“Hey, that’s great. Can’t say I’m surprised. Someone like you doesn’t stay on the loose for long—but hey, if you’re ever free—”
“Absolutely, Shel. Dinner.”
He gives my shoulders a squeeze and whispers, “You’re still hot stuff, babe.” He clicks his tongue and winks. We must’ve slept together. I’d just as soon be spared total recall, but I’d like to think I can still remember whether I shared a bed with someone.
Shelby pushes open the heavy door to the soundstage, and we head out into the bright sunlight to our separate dressing rooms. I turn on my cell phone as I mount the steps to my trailer. A call comes in before I have a chance to check voice mail.
“Meg, there you are. Did you get any of my messages?”
“No, Carol. I’ve been on the set all morning. What’s up?”
“Sid told me Jack said you turned down dinner with him. What’s that all about?”
“I was shooting the next day. I never go out the night before.”
“God, you’re such a stickler. So how’s the big comeback going?”
“Okay. I’m hitting my marks. Improving the script when I can.” I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and pull myself up out of a slouch. “Actually, it just feels damn good to be in front of a camera again.”
“You are just so Debbie Reynolds. Gotta dance, gotta sing—”
“Gotta laugh, gotta cry. So, Sid’s taking a big interest in my love life, huh? He wonders why I’m not going out with Jack? I have to tell you, I didn’t think guys got into that kind of stuff.”
“Hey, look. He cares, okay? We both do. And Sid thinks Jack’s a really great guy. It’s time you started seeing someone again. Especially someone a cut above the last jerk in your life. You know, Sid and I worry about you. He asked me last night if I knew where you were living these days. I had to tell him I don’t know. Now, what’s that all about? Where are you living these days?”
“Same place. Up in Holmby Hills.”
“What same place? Does it have an address?”
“Carol, I have to get back on the set. Can I call you later? Better yet, let’s have lunch over the weekend.”
“Fine. How about dinner here Friday night instead? I’ve left several messages for you, and I’ve already invited Jack. Okay with you? I mean, you can’t be a complete hermit.”
“Okay, sure. That’s great. Gotta run, Carol. Talk to you later.”
Damn. I snap the lid on my phone and flop into a chair. My life is now as small as I can make it, and the world still closes in. I force myself to unclamp my molars. Slumping deeper in my chair, I close my eyes and relax my shoulders. I try to empty my mind, but my brain stubbornly dwells on Carol’s call. Unless she’s sending me a floral arrangement, she doesn’t need my address. And I don’t need to dine with an FBI agent.
Do Sid and Carol have some inkling I spend nights in the Volvo? I doubt it. If they knew, they would have strong-armed me back to their pool house in no time. I’d hate that more than a night spent in a packing crate. I couldn’t bear for anyone to know about the mess I’ve got myself into. Or worse, try to help.
I flick on my cell phone to check voice mail. Two calls from Carol regarding dinner, and one return call from a credit card company. It’s an 800 number, which means a customer service representative in any time zone in the world could answer. When I first called to report the charges I didn’t make on an account I never opened, a female voice, responding in a suspiciously singsongy, plummy accent, said, “Not to worry, Mrs. Stephens. We’ll make inquiries, and a representative will get back to you.”
“Excuse me. You’re not really in Nevada?”
“Oh, dear, no, ma’am. I’m situated in Mumbai.”
“Seriously? I’m glad I’m not paying for the call. What’s the weather like?”
“Quite pleasant, but I’ve not been outside since dinner. It’s 3:18 in the morning.”
“Really? It’s afternoon here. Quite hot for February. The Santa Anas are kicking in.”
“You must be near Hollywood. Do you see Brad Pitt?”
“Regrettably, no. With all the kids, he keeps pretty much to himself. Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Nice talking to you. Cheers!”
I may be bankrupt, but apparently my credit rating is still good enough for someone to rack up more than $7,000 in charges. I head back to the set without returning the call. I much prefer a make-believe confrontation with an enraged son accusing me of murder than dealing with the reality of my miserable financial situation.
After the reverse shots, I’m wrapped for the day. But before I leave the stage, I stop by the crafts services table and stock up on bottles of fruit juice and various other snacks to stow in my shoulder bag. With the rest of the afternoon to myself, I drive over the canyon, intending to go to the health club.
Approaching the summit and turning on to Mulholland, I’m startled by a spokesman on the radio asking, “Are you tired of paying high monthly insurance rates?” I immediately recognize Dirck’s husky burr. “Look no further,” he says. “I’ve got the answer, a trusted name you can rely on—”
I wouldn’t count on Dirck to choose kitty litter, much less pick a reliable insurance carrier, but thanks to his folksy delivery, he can sell almost anything he can manage to pronounce.
“Just call this toll-free number. You’ll be glad you did—”
“What the hell,” I say with a laugh. “Glad you’re getting work, buddy.”
Then, as I hear Dirck’s “Call now” tagline, it occurs to me to give him a ring, congratulate him. The urge subsides before I’ve even picked up my cell phone. Thank God I don’t have his number. I have no desire to rekindle any sort of relationship with Dirck—or Pru. What was I thinking?
Whatever synapse the impulse to call Dirck has formed in my brain, Mumbai springs to mind, and with it, Coop. On impulse, I pull into a lay-by near Benedict Canyon. With the motor still running, I flip open my phone and call information. What are the chances there’s a party named Cooper on Front Street in Lennox, West Virginia?
I hold my breath waiting to find out, then exhale in a rush when the operator says, “Hold for the number, please.”
Heart banging, I wait for the automatic connection. Seven rings later, a quavering female voice drawls, “Hallow?”
“Hello. Could I speak to Frank, please?”
A sharp intake, then, “Come again? You want Frankie?”
“Yes, please. Is he there?”
I hear a clatter as the receiver is put down, then a harsh whisper. “Dorrie, come quick. Someone askin’ for Frankie.”
I press the phone tight against my ear, straining to make out the muffled exchange.
A hoarse female voice mumbles, “F’ chrissake, Ma—”
“Talk to her, Dorrie. Maybe she knows sump’in—”
There’s another clatter, then an irritable voice asks, “You lookin’ for Frankie? Who the hell’s this?”
“Dorrie? Hiya—” The phone throbs in my hand as I plunge into some semblance of her harsh twang. “Jis’ wonderin’ if Frankie’s aroun’. You prob’ly don’ even remember me—”
“Prob’ly not.” She grunts. “Sorry, but it gets kinda hard keepin’ track of y’all. So what d’ya want with Frankie?”
“Jis’ hopin’ to talk to ’im. Know where I could find him?”
“He ha’int been through here in years, an’ he don’t get in touch less’n he’s behind bars, y’know?”
“Sorry to hear that, Dorrie. Where was he, last ya heard?”
“How come ya need to know? W
ho is this, anyway?”
“I was jis’ thinkin’ ’bout ’im. The Coop and I go way back—”
“I’ll bet. You got a lotta company.” Her laugh is bitter, ugly. “Nobody’s seen Frankie in years. Dropped off the face of the Earth, and good riddance. Maybe you wanna save yourself some trouble. Frankie don’t give a damn ’bout nobody. Never did. And while you’re at it, don’t bother callin’ back and gettin’ Ma all rattled again, okay?”
The receiver slams down with a bang. I snap my phone closed. Then wait. If Dorrie has second thoughts about hanging up, can she call me back? I check the call roster. I have Dorrie’s number. If she has caller I.D., she has mine, too—just one more electronic innovation Jinx never had to deal with.
I pull back on Mulholland, running over our exchange. Dorrie didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned the name Coop, and she volunteered that Frankie had been in prison. But since she claims not to be in touch with her brother, there’s not much chance she’ll pass my number on to him.
I maneuver through the canyon’s twists and turns, random thoughts careening through my head. Given my circumstances, a cell phone makes my present life possible, especially with my generous usage deal. I take it for granted that people can reach me anytime, anywhere—but only if I’ve provided my number. How did the man who called about Coop know how to reach me? I’m not listed. If I know the person who called about Coop, why can’t I recognize the voice? By the time I reach the flats of Beverly Hills, paranoia is burning a hole in my brain.
I turn onto Wilshire Boulevard and spot a familiar figure entering Neiman Marcus. I decide to forgo the health club and catch up with Adriana, the one female I can count on to fully appreciate a suspicious state of mind when it comes to troublesome spouses.
I veer into the left turn lane, then swing up the self-parking ramp. Once inside Neiman’s, I head straight for the perfume counters, one of Adriana’s favorite haunts. She’s a woman of unique style, and not hard to find. I see her signature gray felt hat with the spray of feathers bobbing down the aisle ahead of me.
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 12
