Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “Sure did. We wrap the end of next week.” I give him a hug. His safari jacket seems to hang more loosely on him than it did when I saw him in the studio commissary. The skin behind his ears has hollowed. “Hope you don’t mind, but when I saw you I had to stop.”

  “Glad you did. You know, I figured you’d get hired. You’re looking great, kid. You must be paying the devil his price. Remember Ridley?” The Lab eases slowly back on his haunches, his head drooping. “He’s a bit arthritic these days, but who isn’t?”

  I bend down and ruffle Ridley’s ears. “How’re you doing, Doug? How’s Edie?”

  “No complaints. Can you spare time for a cup of coffee? I’d like to show you something I’ve been working on.”

  “You bet.” Ridley scuttles to his feet, and we slowly amble toward a ramp leading to the back door of the house.

  “Maybe you can see Edie later. She’s lying down, having a nap.”

  I pull the screen door open, and we enter the big, sunny kitchen. Doug reaches into the cupboard for a mug and sets it on the counter next to the coffeemaker. “Make yourself at home while I look in on Edie. Back in a minute.”

  While I pour coffee, Ridley laps water from a tin pan, then collapses in a shaggy heap near the back door. Taking my coffee mug with me, I find the cozy den that opens onto the back garden. The long coffee table in front of the fireplace is cluttered with books and scripts, and the pine-paneled walls are hung with framed photos and posters. My eyes fall on a framed old TV Guide cover for the Holiday Christmas episode, featuring Winston Sykes and me in red Santa hats. Christmas-tree balls dangle over our heads, containing our famous catchphrases: “Awfully good of you, my dear” and “All in a day’s work.”

  Below the framed cover is Dougie’s director’s chair with his name stenciled on the back. I feel nostalgic recalling my days on the set with Winnie and Doug. I was given my chair, too, when the series went off the air. I have no idea where it is now. It was auctioned with my other furniture. With that thought, I’m reminded of the packing boxes Dougie stored for me nearly a year ago.

  I push open the door to the garden and head down the walkway, hoping the key to the garage is still hanging on a hook under the eaves. It is. The lock sticks, and I have to slam my hip against the warped door before it swings open. I turn on the dim overhead light and wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. The space behind Doug’s Chrysler is cramped, but I manage to squeeze through to a recessed area in the far corner.

  On a dusty pallet wedged against the wall next to a tool cabinet, Doug’s IRS records are stored in neatly labeled file boxes. Six of my own file boxes are lined up next to his. Behind them is a sagging stack of grocery-store cartons that I also recognize as mine.

  I reach back and pull open the overlapping flaps on one of the cartons, startled to find a plastic bag containing the mildewed remnants of the latex ears I wore in Star Trek. Did I throw nothing away? With a mixture of dread and wonder, I riffle through a batch of publicity stills from half-remembered MOWs and miniseries produced in the days when there were still few VCRs but plenty of shoulder pads and false eyelashes.

  I dump everything back in the carton and heave it on top of the stack of file boxes. The second grocery carton, newer and sturdier, contains photographs and the few mementos I have from my marriage to Paul. I come across a manila envelope stuffed with snapshots and flip through them. A few are from our wedding at an Arizona resort, just the two of us with a justice of the peace. Most are photos taken while sailing on the WindStar. I stop at one of me, smiling and carefree, eating an ice cream cone on the Catalina pier.

  Shuffling through the stack, I come across a digital printout of 25 thumbnails—shots I don’t remember taking. More than half are landscapes, stunning panoramas of ocean and beach that I don’t recognize. However, the steep, scrubby terrain pictured in several group shots is familiar—the Mulholland building site, newly graded, before the retaining walls were constructed. I pick out Paul easily and recognize Rick Aquino on his left, both laughing. I can’t place the third man, heavyset and rumpled, wearing a light-colored suit and straw hat.

  Paul’s right arm is slung across the shoulders of the fourth man, slight and fair with a toothy grin. It’s Nat Wiggens, Erica’s film-producer husband, who was shot during an early-morning carjacking outside their home. These photos were taken only months after I met Paul. I riffle through the box but can’t find prints to match the thumbnails.

  “A heap of old memories, huh?” I turn to find Doug at the door, slippers on his feet.

  I jam the printout and a packet of photos into my shoulder bag. “Afraid so. Sorry, but I dumped more stuff on you than I thought.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Take what you want, and leave the rest.”

  “Thanks. One of these days I’m going to pitch the whole lot in a Dumpster. Don’t know why I hang on to all this junk.” I restack the cartons, then follow Dougie to his editing room above the pool house.

  “You know, it’s a good thing you came by,” he says as we climb the outside stairs. “I was figuring on calling you one of these days. I’ve got to ask a big favor of you, Megs. I don’t think you’ll let me down.”

  I stand back as he unlocks the door and scrapes it open. As the lights flicker on, I look around at the vintage equipment that Dougie has kept in this workroom, a reminder he started out as a film editor. It’s not the first time I’ve been up here. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s spliced together reels of hilarious outtakes to show at wrap parties and Sunday get-togethers.

  “It’s a little something I’ve been working on for the kids, a sort of family history. My mother was a chorus girl when she met my dad, a stunt rider on the old Republic lot. They did a Western together back in the thirties. She played a dance-hall girl. Anyway, I’ve been collecting bits of film on both of ’em, along with some home movies I came across. How would you feel about laying down a voice track for me? You’d sure be better at it than I would. What do you say?”

  “I’m hooked. Let’s do it.” I settle onto a stool next to Doug’s well-worn swivel chair.

  He hands me a yellow legal pad with a handwritten script. “I didn’t get a chance to type it up yet.”

  “No problem. And I’ve got a favor to ask, too. You told me you thought you saw Paul down near San Diego a while back, remember?”

  “I’m sure of it. I know faces.”

  “Could you tell me where you ran into him?”

  “Sure. I passed him as Edie and I were going into a restaurant and he was walking out. I was pushing Edie in the wheelchair, and he held the door for us. I recognized him right away.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No. Something about him kept me from saying anything. Maybe the way he seemed to turn his head away, as if trying not to be recognized. He was with a woman. A bottle-blonde. Sort of hard-looking. I just said ‘thanks,’ and he nodded. That was it. I’m not sure he knew I recognized him.”

  “Did you see him get into a car?”

  “No. No car.” Dougie busies himself turning on equipment. After a moment, he says quietly, “He didn’t have a car. I happened to look out the café window as I helped Edie to the table. He and the blonde walked to the end of the street, then crossed over to a little stucco house sitting off on its own.”

  “A little stucco house? That doesn’t sound like Paul.”

  “No, guess not. The house was a mustardy color, not much to look at. Not a great end of town, either, but Edie needed to stop. She can’t stay cooped up in a car too long.”

  “Where exactly was this?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll go there, won’t you?”

  I nod. “But first I’ll voice the track for you.”

  He smiles. “Fair enough. I’ll write out the directions. But I’m not so sure I want to see you heading down there on your own.”

  I smile back, anxious to get my hands on the directions before Dougie thinks better of it. “Just jot down the route, and let�
��s get busy. I want to see your film.”

  It’s no surprise that Dougie, a master craftsman with a lifetime of experience, has put together a film that’s far more than just a “family thing.” He knows it, too. I narrate The Cowboy and the Chorine, Doug’s short about two Hollywood unknowns starring in the story of their lives together, with everyone from Joan Crawford and Fred Astaire to Hoot Gibson and Johnny Mack Brown playing bit roles.

  The hours roll by. Now and again, Doug goes in to check on Edie. I take a break to make some peanut butter sandwiches. By the time we settle back to watch the film with the soundtrack, the sun is going down.

  Doug walks me back to my car when we’re finished. “I got to thinking it wasn’t such a good idea giving you those directions, you know? I think you’re well rid of that sucker, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I’ll be careful. Besides, you were right. I am curious. I do need to get to the bottom of things.” I climb into my car and turn on the ignition. The headlights splay across the darkened street. “Thanks for everything, Doug. It’s a wonderful film. I’m honored you asked me to narrate it.”

  “Well, it was awfully good of you, my dear.”

  “All in a day’s work. Good night, Dougie.”

  I pull away from the curb and make a U-turn. Doug steps back on the sidewalk and waves. I wave back. A shiver races up my spine, not just because of the evening chill. With Dougie’s directions stuffed in my pocket, I know now that I never doubted it was Paul he’d spotted in that café. That makes Adriana, who’s nuttier than a jar of Skippy, absolutely right. I do know where he is, or at least was—even if it took me a while to admit it.

  Furthermore, the digital printout I found in Dougie’s garage is evidence of the connection between Paul and the owner of The Coop II beached on Catalina. Was Paul responsible for Rick Aquino’s death—or that of poor Nat Wiggens? I shiver again, and glance in my rearview mirror.

  Forgoing my plan to check out motels on Pico, I take a more direct route back to Donna’s. With any luck, I’ll make it back in time for supper. But shortly after the canyon turnoff, the Volvo begins to sputter and knock. I check the gauges. The gas tank is half-full. I grip the steering wheel, urging the car on. Finally, just down the hill from Donna’s driveway, I manage to pull to the curb before the Volvo cruises to a complete halt.

  Damn! There’s not a chance I can get the car repaired on a Sunday. Instead of telling Donna I’m moving out soon, I’ll have to get her to drive me to work. Worse, I have to figure out how I can afford to get my car fixed. I grab a flashlight, climb out, and slam the door. With my bag slung on my shoulder, I lock up and set out on foot.

  As I round the curve, not twenty feet from Donna’s driveway, I stop abruptly. Parked at the curb is a green Pontiac. I click off my flashlight and move slowly, crouching as I approach the passenger side. The interior is dark, with no one inside.

  I glance up the driveway. There’s light in the kitchen window, but nowhere else downstairs. If Donna is home, she would be watching television in the sunroom at the rear of the house. I walk on the grassy verge to avoid the crunch of gravel. Creeping around the side of the house, I see pale light in the upstairs hallway and in Donna’s bedroom. I peer into the garage window and see the Mercedes. I try the kitchen door, but it’s locked. Easing my key into the lock, I quietly let myself in.

  I pause for a long moment, listening to the loud tick of the kitchen clock, smelling the pungent marinara bubbling on the stove. Overhead, there’s a faint creak. Maybe Donna is putting her baby dolls down for the night. Maybe not.

  I creep slowly down the carpeted hallway to the living room. My fingers brush across the mahogany credenza to the bust of John Barrymore. As I reach up and grab Jinx’s top hat off Barrymore’s head, I hear the scrape of a foot against a floorboard.

  A dark form emerges from the dining room and moves toward the landing below the stairs. I hear a sharp intake, then the bulky shape stops abruptly about fifteen feet from where I’m standing. I snap the brim to collapse the top hat, then whirl the disc toward the figure hovering in the archway.

  There’s a scream of pain, then a male voice yelps, “Hey, lady! Watch it!”

  I flip on the lights and look around. Cowering near the staircase is the brawny young driver of the green sedan, his hand cupped over his bleeding nose.

  “What’d you hit me for? You could’ve knocked my eye out!”

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  He looks at me with injured eyes, blood oozing through his fingers and running down his face. He glances at his hand, then glances down at the red splotches staining his fawn-colored jacket.

  “Man, look what you did! Fourteen hundred bucks, lady. This is an Ermenegildo Zegna, okay? You don’t go swinging at people, you know?”

  “Then you shouldn’t be wearing a fancy jacket for breaking and entering, you idiot. You think insurance is going to cover it? Who the hell are you?”

  “None of your damn business. What’d you hit me with?”

  “Who said I hit you with anything?” Out of the corner of my eye I spot Jinx’s top hat, which popped open on impact, tottering on the Victrola where it landed. “Maybe you just walked into a door.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “Does it look like it?” My anger mounting, I grab Donna’s letter opener—a dagger said to have been a Gunga Din prop—off the coffee table, and wave it. “Where’s Donna? Is she hurt?”

  “Ma,” the man bellows. “Ma? Help!”

  A door slams. A voice calls out, “Denny, are you all right?” The red-haired woman rushes onto the landing at the top of the stairs, her eyes fixing on the dagger I’m brandishing.

  “Stop!” she shrieks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Who the hell are you? Or do you want to wait and tell the police?”

  “My God, Denny! You’re bleeding!” she screams. “Leave him alone!” she demands, pointing a finger at me. “Denny, get back—she’s crazy!”

  “She wrecked my jacket, Ma. I didn’t even touch her!”

  “Where’s Donna?” I raise the dagger higher. The woman shrieks again.

  “You gotta do something, Ma!” Denny cowers against the banister, moisture glistening on his pale forehead.

  “I said, where’s Donna?”

  “I’ll get her, I’ll get her. Just leave him alone!” The woman flutters her hands, then hurries off toward Donna’s room, slingback mules slap-slapping against her heels.

  “Ma!” Denny bellows. “Get me a towel!”

  “Denny, you want to tell me what’s going on here? Just what are you and your mother after, anyway? Why’d you break in here?”

  “We just wanted to talk, okay? We didn’t know your friend was here. We weren’t trying to rob the place.” He glances at the top hat on the Victrola with disdain. “Who’d want this junk, anyways?”

  “You’ve been following me. What’s this all about?”

  “My mother just wants to get her money back, that’s all. Your husband swindled her out of almost everything she won in an insurance settlement. Losing her investment’s bad enough, but what your husband did to her—”

  “Look, I don’t know any Coop, okay? You’ve got the wrong person.”

  “Who’s Coop?” He flaps his arms, looking exasperated. “Gimme a break, lady. Who’s Coop?”

  I stop cold. “You broke into my car, right? Left notes for me?”

  “Like hell I did! What’re you trying to accuse me of?” I raise the dagger again, and Denny backs up, his palms raised. “Okay, okay, I left a note. Big deal.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “To get Ma’s money back! Look, in case you don’t know it, he was going to dump you. He’s a liar. A cheat. A shit. How come you’re sticking with him? Just tell me where he is. I’ll take him on with my bare hands—”

  “Denny, give it a break.” The woman reappears at the top of the stairs, tosses a wet hand towel to her son, and disappears again.
Denny grabs the sodden towel with his bloodied hands and presses it to his face.

  “Where’s Donna?” I shout. “What have you done with her?”

  The woman reappears gripping Donna’s elbow. “Okay, happy now? Here’s your friend, safe and sound. Just tell us where Paul is.”

  Barefoot and wearing yet another of her loose-fitting smocks, Donna looks even more diminutive next to the overbearing redhead.

  “Meg, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Are you all right?”

  She nods, her eyes wide. “I was out in the garden. The next thing I know, he’s grabbing me and pulling me into the house—”

  “Whoa! Hey, I didn’t hurt her, okay?” Denny flaps his arms again, his exasperation mounting. “We just put her in the closet. Man, everyone wants to accuse me.”

  “Don’t you get it? You broke into her house. You scared the hell out of her. You can’t do that!”

  “Listen to you!” the woman shouts. “Okay, my son got carried away. You want to know what we’ve been through?” She stomps down the stairs, her breasts jostling like puppies inside her tight leopard-print jersey.

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “My name’s Lorraine Munson.” She stops midway down the stairs, hand on hip. “Of course you don’t know me. That’s how Paul wanted it. But I know all about you, the big TV star. You don’t impress me, okay? Paul wasn’t impressed, either. If everything hadn’t got all screwed up, Paul and I would be together now. I think you got wind of that and pulled a fast one.”

  “Me? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. You and Paul were running off together? Sorry, I think you missed the boat.”

  “Don’t play dumb. Paul got my son into real estate, buying up houses. That’s how I met Paul. And he fell for me, if you want to know. Then he takes me up to those million-dollar homes he was building, right? Well, I know a deal when I see it. So I jump in and invest. Now my money is gone. So’s Paul.”

  “And you want both back, of course.”

  “You’re damn right. Plus my son’s good name back. My boy was promised good money for putting his name on those loans, then they crash—”