Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “Adriana, is that you?”

  The woman turns, fixes me with hooded hawk eyes, and slowly blinks twice. “Meg, my dear, of course it’s me.” If it’s Tuesday, it must be Neiman’s. She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “You’re looking very well, I must say.”

  “So are you, Adriana. As always.”

  She shifts effortlessly into a languid pose, her tailored gray suit skimming her body just so. Her face, with deep-socket eyes and sculpted cheekbones, is artfully made up and powdered to a smooth matte finish.

  “Thank you, darling. I’m desperate for a decent hand cream. Walk with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I could use some moisturizer myself.”

  A pretty clerk beckons, her smile sweet, her eyes predatory. “We’ve got a special on our three-step cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing treatment. Would you like to give it a try?” Adriana and I step closer, both of us lured by the possibility of a special offer with a free gift. The clerk squeezes a drop of cream on my wrist and smoothes it in little swirls with her middle finger. “See how quickly it absorbs? Feel how soft that is.”

  I nod and brush my fingers across my glistening wrist. “Lovely,” I murmur, “but my skin tends to be sensitive. Would you have a sample I could try at home for a few days?”

  The clerk eyes us both, her lids drooping to half-mast. “Samples? I’m afraid not. But if there’s a problem, you can return the product for a full refund.”

  I smile. “Thanks anyway.” I slide my parking ticket onto the counter for validation before Adriana and I move on down the aisle. Not quite out of earshot, I hear the young woman whisper to another clerk, “Did you hear that? It’s always the rich who want something for nothing.”

  I catch sight of myself in a wall mirror, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, my face in full camera makeup. Beside me, Adriana appears serene and aloof, her alligator handbag dangling on her arm. She glides toward another counter, pumps lotion from a demonstrator bottle onto her hands, and falls back into step beside me.

  Adriana would have me believe she’s in her forties. I know she’s well over seventy because she and Jean Shrimpton were both top models in the ’60s. Adriana went off to Italy for a few years of la dolce vita, appearing in several sandal-and-toga epics and spaghetti Westerns, until an ill-advised marriage sidelined her. A role in an ’80s horror cult-classic rescued her from total obscurity. But these days few people, aside from Robert Osborne, would recognize her on the street.

  We amble down another aisle, each of us spritzing fragrance from display atomizers, before heading for the rear exit. Once outside, we stroll toward a bench near the valet parking station. Adriana settles on one end, her shapely legs neatly crossed at the ankles, her handbag in her lap. She gazes into the middle distance, ready for her close-up.

  “So, what’s new, Adriana?” I reach into my shoulder bag for the bottles of fruit juice I filched from the studio. She selects mango, leaving the passion fruit for me. I rip open a small bag of M&M’s and set it on the bench between us.

  She sighs and brushes a hand across her brow. “I’m a time bomb ticking, ticking,” she says, her voice uninflected. “A walking beacon, transmitting signals. Here, feel this.” She turns her head, holding a lock of hair away from her ear. “You can see it throbbing. My former husband had the transmitter implanted. He controls my every movement, my every thought. His finger is on the remote. Flicking. Flicking. Always flicking.”

  She’s invited me to inspect her neck before, but I’ve never detected any sort of device. I look again now and all I see is gray scum on her collar, unwashed skin, and strands of white hair beneath her wig. Up close, the cuff of her sleeve is frayed, her skirt stained. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible, Adriana.”

  “Diabolical,” she says, slowly blinking twice.

  Her expression is steely, her beady eyes hard. Adriana is completely batty, but she showed me great kindness the first time I parked my Volvo behind her vintage Chevrolet in Holmby Park for the night. Without her, I would never have known how to gain access to the public toilets once the park custodian locked the doors at six p.m. Adriana even showed me a gadget she could plug into her car’s cigarette lighter to heat water for morning tea. She shared her cup with me.

  I hand her the rest of the bags of pretzels and M&M’s stashed in my carryall. “See you in the movies, Adriana. Take care.”

  “I will, my dear. Sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, but everything’s been so frantic. Beastly wardrobe fittings, you know. There’s a role for you in my next picture, of course. You’ll be getting a call shortly.”

  “Wonderful. Look forward to it.”

  I leave Adriana sitting on the bench, no doubt fantasizing about the gowns Edith Head is whipping up for her. I stroll back into Neiman Marcus, selecting a route that skirts the cosmetics counters, and head out the front doors to Wilshire.

  I worry about Adriana. She’s canny, but frailer than ever. How has she managed to survive at all, her smoker’s lungs weathering cold, damp nights in her Chevrolet? Adriana is my cautionary tale, the perfect model of a mentally unstable woman, homeless too long. I don’t believe her husband planted a radio transmitter behind her ear, but who am I to say? When I begin to fear that I really may be going crazy, I have only to spend time with Adriana to feel completely sane.

  Before I know it, I’m strolling past the building where Sid has his offices. I glance through the windows of Le Petit Ferme on the chance he might be there, knowing he wouldn’t mind if I joined him. Sure enough, I spot him at a corner table and push open the plate-glass door, buoyed at the prospect of apple tart and café au lait. With one foot on the threshold, I jolt to a stop. Sid’s tablemate, half-concealed by the serving counter, is the woman I saw in the green sedan. I back away from the door, my brain scrambling to make a connection between her and Sid. Staff? Client? Friend? Private eye? Maybe he’s hired her to keep track of me.

  I continue down Wilshire, trying to find my way through the apprehension clouding my brain. The woman doesn’t look like office help or a friend of Sid’s. Why tail me? Besides, what professional P.I. would go out in flaming red hair and a lime green jacket to spy on someone? Whenever Jinx did surveillance work, I was issued the standard movie garb: dark glasses, wig, and trench coat.

  This woman must be conferring with Sid as a client, someone who can afford to be billed several hundred dollars an hour. But who? Why? For one reckless moment it occurs to me to just barge up to their table and see what happens. I have absolutely no reason to be suspicious of Sid, so why not?

  Instead, I cross at the intersection and slip into a corner shop, still trying to decide what to do. I stand next to a rack of clothing near the window, feeling completely idiotic. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a young salesclerk advancing on me.

  “Just looking,” I sing out, hoping to waylay her.

  She continues unfazed. “Anything special?”

  My eyes take in the rack of age-inappropriate, navel-baring T-shirts and flippy miniskirts. “Just a gift. Something for my niece.”

  “How old?”

  “Young.” My eyes shift back to the windows. “Eleven.”

  “Great. What size?”

  “Uh, this looks about right.” I brush my hand across a minuscule orange top dangling on a hanger, trying to keep my eyes glued on the entrance to Le Petit Ferme. “Just give me a minute to look around, okay?”

  I glance at the rangy brunette with a navel ring and a belly tattoo, who stands, arms crossed, looking miffed. What were the chances of actually encountering gung-ho sales help?

  She nods and moves a few feet behind me. “We have some things on sale in the back.”

  “Thanks.” I shift to another rack to get a better view of the café. “I’ll just look around.” I hold up one hanger after the other without even glancing at the garments.

  I flash back on the note left on my windshield: TELL COOP HE CAN’T HIDE. Obviously the redhead and her companion must be the suspects who
broke into my car. Is she one of Frankie’s old girlfriends? If so, how does Sid figure in?

  The salesgirl works her way back over to me. “Those knit boleros are really hot.”

  “Sorry. It’s hard to decide.”

  She smiles. “Take your time. Let me know if you need help.” She backs off again, but I feel her watching me.

  Maybe Sid thinks that having me followed will lead him to Paul. Even as the thought occurs to me, I push it aside. Why doubt Sid, of all people? No one has done more than Sid to help me through this whole ordeal.

  The door to Le Petit Ferme opens. The redhead steps out, her hair glinting orange in the sunlight. She pauses for a moment and checks her watch before heading down the street. I glance back at the restaurant, but there’s no sign of Sid. He’s probably used the interior side entrance to the lobby and taken the elevator back up to his office.

  “Sorry, nothing that’s quite right,” I say, hurrying toward the door. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Sure, anytime.”

  I move quickly down the street in the direction the woman was heading. At the corner, I stand in the shadow of a canopy, looking up and down the street. There’s no sign of her. I wait a moment, weighing my options, wondering if, in fact, she might be hiding somewhere watching me. I give it another minute, then walk back toward Neiman Marcus to retrieve my Volvo from the self-park structure.

  I hurry through a side lot, moving against the flow of shoppers streaming out the back entrance as the store closes for the day. Long shadows have settled on the forecourt, but I see that Adriana has not relinquished her seat on the bench. She’s as inviolable as a bird of prey, her gaze implacable amid the crush of people flocking around her, valet parking stubs in hand. Despite her composure, though, she has to be feeling the late-afternoon chill.

  I cut through the crowd and drop my hand on her shoulder. “Adriana, can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  “That would be divine, darling. How terribly kind.” If there was a flicker of relief in her unflinching gaze, I missed it. Yet I know her Chevy must be parked blocks away, beyond the streets designated Permit Holders Only. She certainly hasn’t left her car in the parking structure for the day.

  “Not at all. Maybe you’d like to wait here and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Whatever suits you, my dear. Oh, look.” Her icy fingers prod my elbow. “It’s Rhonda Fleming.”

  I turn my head in time to see my flame-haired hanger-on tripping across the sidewalk toward the green sedan pulling up at the curb.

  “Looking like a fruit salad, I might add,” Adriana says witheringly. “Poor Rhonda does herself no favors dressing in last year’s salsa colors.”

  Adriana, of course, would know. She herself is wearing vintage Mainbocher, a Salvation Army find. But with days spent trolling Beverly Hills, she’s as au courant as any trendy fashion editor. It’s a shame she’s got it wrong about Rhonda Fleming, though. If only Adriana could put the real name to the redhead who throws me a hasty look before slamming the car door.

  “She recognizes me,” Adriana says, assuming a haughty tone. “You saw the look Rhonda threw? Errol Flynn always preferred me, and it got her goat.”

  I watch the sedan turn the corner. How long was I being watched—and why?

  “Wait here, Adriana. I won’t be long.”

  I race to my car, relieved to see no messages under the wiper. Perhaps their shift is over for the day. Maybe Holmby Hills Man in his junkyard heap takes over when the Green Sedan Driver and the Redhead go off duty. Am I completely paranoid? I adjust the rearview mirror, and in the dim light of the parking garage I catch a glimpse of my face, strained-looking even under the studio makeup.

  “All in a day’s work,” I mutter, wishing I had the platoon of writers Jinx could count on to send her in the right direction. I pull out of the garage and turn the corner into rush hour traffic. I hang a right at the next corner and pull up to the curb in front of Adriana. She buckles herself in with a studied air of indifference. Oh, to be mad and only have to feign sanity.

  “Where to, kiddo?”

  “I don’t want to put you out. Just drop me on Elevado near Doheny.”

  “You’re sure?” For a fleeting moment I imagine the look on Donna’s face if I were to bring Adriana home with me. It’s tempting. Adriana could use a hot meal, a warm bath, and a clean bed for the night.

  “Absolutely, darling. This is too, too kind.”

  I shift my eyes from the halting flow of vehicles clogging Beverly Drive to the palm trees silhouetted against the setting sun.

  “Tell me, Adriana. Do you actually know where your former husband is?”

  “Of course,” she says, without hesitation. “So do you.”

  “My husband? No, I’ve no idea.”

  “Darling, you only think you don’t know. It’s elemental, really.” She sighs and passes her fingers across her forehead. “So ruthless, so fickle. We’re pawns in their terrible game of domination. Creatures to be toyed with, passed around, then dumped by the roadside with nothing. They watch and gloat. Believe me, one knows—”

  “What?” I laugh uneasily, then glance over. She sounds like Dr. Phil channeling Bette Davis. But Adriana looks straight ahead, her expression immutable.

  “Seriously, Adriana. I don’t know where my husband is. Maybe I should be able to figure it out, but—no, I don’t know where he is. And if I did—”

  “Trust me. You know,” she says, cutting me off, her eyes unblinking, “pain gets you through the night. Anger gets you up in the morning. In between, you know.”

  “Right. I know pain. I know anger. But I don’t know where he is. Believe me.”

  But do I?

  I turn onto Elevado and glance in my rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a flotilla of surveillance vehicles in my wake, the green sedan with Rhonda Fleming in the lead. Is that any crazier than having a metaphysical discussion with a deranged woman?

  “So where do you want me to drop you, Adriana?”

  “A little farther. I’ll tell you when,” she says cagily.

  I know what this is about. Adriana’s found a hassle-free place to park, and while it lasts she’s not going to share the location with anyone. I don’t blame her. Two blocks farther on, she signals me to stop. I pull over, feeling the cold draft as she opens the door and climbs out. I watch her disappear into the shadows, wishing I could send her off with a plate of warm food, an extra blanket.

  But in the time I wait at the curb watching her drift into darkness, it occurs to me that while I don’t actually know where Paul is, I am convinced he’s still alive. With access to my Social Security number and my mother’s maiden name, he’d managed to return to the well one more time. My bankruptcy was still fresh on the books; he would have had to sign me up at an exorbitant interest rate for that credit card, but why would he care? Did anyone care? Somehow I had to put a stop to this, or I would end up as crazy as Adriana bleating about her brain being jammed with a radio transmitter.

  The value of a warm bath and a soft bed really can’t be overestimated. Neither can Donna’s stuffed smoked pork chops with homemade applesauce. The thought has occurred to me, while turning down my coverlet at night or tucking into the dinner always awaiting me when I walk in the door in the evening, that Donna might be open to adopting me. Or maybe she’ll get so used to having me around, she’ll forget I’m the houseguest who never left.

  A week under Donna’s roof and I still wake up in awe of my good luck. I don’t want to spoil it. With some trepidation, I mention to her that I have dinner plans Friday evening. It will mark our first supper apart since last weekend. Has she already planned a menu, laid in food? She’s not what you’d call a slapdash cook.

  “Oh, what a relief,” she says when I finally screw up the courage to tell her. “I was going to leave something in the oven for you. I’m dining with my golf partners at the club and hated to let you down.”

  I’m touched, but taken aback, too. “Thanks, Donna, but you
shouldn’t ever feel you have to go out of your way for me. Really, no need to fuss,” I finish lamely. “I’m fine on my own.”

  The exchange has left me a bit unnerved. Adoption would actually be a terrible idea. Later, as I’m about to set off for the Baskins’, it occurs to me that Donna might wait up for me if she returns home and doesn’t see my car in the driveway. I quickly write a note and leave it on the kitchen table where she’s sure to see it: BE BACK LATE, SO DON’T WAIT UP. SEE YOU IN THE MORNING. THANKS! MEG. Must remember to call about Alex Trebek.

  Carol and Sid Baskin reside in a two-story mock Tudor on three lush acres within a gated development off Mulholland, not far from the site where Paul dreamed of building his luxury estates. The architecture in the neighborhood runs the gamut from Doric Revival and Roman villa to Versailles and Monticello (think plantation-chic). One house appears to be an almost exact replica of the New York City Public Library, with Bryant Park for a backyard. These newly minted relics boast all the features a modern-day Hadrian couldn’t live without: screening room, tennis court, swimming pool, waterfall, koi pond, serenity pavilion, and twelve-car garage.

  The sun is setting as I pull up in front of the vine-covered entrance to what the Baskins like to refer to as their Howards End home. Through the rose-covered arch leading to the back garden, I glimpse the pool house, disguised as Anne Hathaway’s cottage. I once called it home. Shakespeare himself would have loved its fully equipped exercise room and sauna beneath a faux thatched roof. I did.

  I ring the bell. A dark-haired woman with a shy smile opens the door. I realize at once that the Baskins have changed “couples” again. During my month-long stay, I’d grown fond of Grete, an Austrian who made amazing apple pancakes. Sadly, she and her husband, handyman/gardener Oskar, appear to have been replaced.