Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “So you didn’t know there was another woman?”

  I shake my head. “It never crossed my mind.” Infidelity might seem like a minor blow compared to everything else, but my stomach tumbles over at the thought of it.

  “Sorry to have to ask this, Meg.” Donna twirls her fork in her pasta. “You don’t think Paul would show up here, do you?”

  “Why? I’m the last person he wants to have know his whereabouts.”

  “Just a thought,” she says, not sounding convinced. “But if he did, what would you do?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d call the police!”

  Donna smiles and shakes her fork at me. “Okay, but just in case he does, I’ll show you how to trip the silent alarm. Sometimes, like tonight, it can come in handy.”

  I smile back. If Donna’s truth detector is functioning at all, I’ve swung way off her meter. I am not at all sure that Paul, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, won’t track me down. And to come clean on the biggest whopper of all, would I really trip the silent alarm and sic Laurel and Hardy on him?

  Rattling through my brain at the oddest times is his voice, sounding frightened and desperate: Please, baby. I’m counting on you. I love you, baby.

  I wash up the dinner dishes while Donna goes to the sunroom to watch the last hour of a sudsy drama about a woman stalked by her former husband. I hope the plot doesn’t give her further cause for alarm.

  I pour myself the last of the Pinot Noir and walk out into the back garden. A flagstone path, lit with wrought-iron lanterns, winds through an herbaceous border to a grassy knoll with a white frame pavilion. I settle down on a wooden step and sip my wine, looking back across the lawn to Donna’s stone-and-timber house. Bathed in the glow of artful lighting, the house looks like a fairy-tale cottage, secure enough to fend off big bad wolves and wicked stepmothers.

  I know I’m deceiving Donna, but I’m doing a good job of denying the truth to myself, too. What I should be doing is calling Jack, letting him know that someone has been stalking me in search of the mysterious Coop. Denny and Lorraine were reckless, but I can’t believe either of them is actually dangerous. But even though it’s a professional matter, I can’t make myself retrieve Jack’s card and call him. Beyond dealing with questions about my present circumstances, there’s residual anger I still can’t confront.

  I sip wine, running it over my tongue, resolving not to call Jack—yet. With that, I’m suddenly reminded of Sid’s calls—why was he meeting with Lorraine Munson?

  Denny spotted me at the health club and left the note on my car. Has someone else seen me and followed me, too? Otherwise, how do you track someone down who has no fixed abode? I have only a cell phone, an e-mail address, and a post office box. How could anyone find me? I look around.

  Darkness has swallowed up the lawn. Spires of cypress cast long, jagged shadows across the swimming pool. The back of my neck prickles, the silence making me even more aware of my solitude. Am I really alone? I rise quickly, the abrupt movement making me light-headed. I grab the railing, trying to regain my equilibrium. My glass accidentally smashes against the side of the pavilion, raining wine and shards of glass down my arm. I shriek, then gasp, frightened by the shrillness of my own voice in the quiet night.

  I scramble up the steps, turning this way and that, blindly trying to make out the bulky, black shapes of bushes, pots—and what else? The wooden treads creak, and I snap around, crying out, “Who’s there? Damn it, who?”

  The rage I thought I’d smothered months ago grips me once again. Angry at being dumped, sick of feeling sorry for myself—do I really want to live like this? What the hell more do I have to forfeit to get my life back?

  I edge into a wisp of moonlight, cold and gray, looking at my hand holding the stem of the broken glass. Wet, red droplets run down my arm, dripping onto my sandals. I’m ashamed of my weakness, my stupid longings. Why can’t I move on?

  “Damn it!” I scream. “What am I supposed to do, damn it?”

  Tears flood my cheeks. Lorraine frigging Munson! How could that happen? I kick the railings, stubbing my toe, wailing with grief. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  This has to stop! Hiding does not work. I can’t run anymore. I’m tired of being alone and afraid. I’ve got to find Paul, face him down, and take my life back. “Damn it to hell!” I scream. “Damn it!”

  “Meg? What’re you doing?”

  I look over the railing to see Donna peering up at me. Leave it to her in those damn Dearfoams to sneak up on me. She must think I’ve had an attack of Tourette’s—or lost my mind.

  “Nothing. Just running some lines.”

  “Are you all right?” She asks doubtfully, crossing her arms. “You didn’t sound it.”

  “Of course I am. Actors are crazy. This is what we do when no one’s looking.” I hold up the broken glass. “Sorry. I got carried away. I hope this wasn’t one of Charlie Chaplin’s.”

  “You’re in luck. It’s from Ikea. By the way, I just heard on the news that Erica Wiggens was found dead. Did you know her?”

  “Erica?” My stomach takes an elevator ride. “Killed? What happened?”

  “Killed? No, apparently it was suicide. The housekeeper found her in the garage, asphyxiated. Carbon monoxide poisoning—just like Thelma Todd. Didn’t you work with Erica?”

  “Years ago, but I saw her again the other night. I can’t believe it.”

  “You wonder why someone like that would kill herself. She was so beautiful.” Donna hugs her arms, shivering. “You want to come inside? I’ll run lines with you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ve got them down.”

  I follow her up the path toward the house, my brain turning over the news. Mafia? Russians? I replay Erica’s last words to me: That doesn’t mean I get to stay alive. Same goes for you.

  What more do I have to do to reclaim my life? If it’s on the line like Erica’s, it’s time I stopped playing the victim. Thelma Todd’s death was a doubtful suicide.

  “Donna, I was thinking maybe we could take a little Sunday drive tomorrow. You up for it?”

  Donna looks around at me, blinking in surprise. “Great idea. Have you got some place in mind?”

  The year Donna’s baby blue Mercedes-Benz 450SE was born, Nixon was still president. It might be one of the few prize possessions Donna’s grandfather didn’t acquire used from a movie legend.

  “Grandpa was told it would last a lifetime.” Donna says, reaching to tune the Blaupunkt. “Well, it saw him through. I see no reason why it won’t see me through.”

  Barreling down the 405, we’re fast outdistancing the reach of Los Angeles airwaves. Donna twiddles the tuning knob again. With a hiss of static, Mozart morphs into mariachi.

  “Hey, let me get that,” I yelp, as the car swerves sharply to the right.

  It’s a terrific car, and it’s delivered hundreds of Meals-on-Wheels. I only hope that with Donna driving, we’ll make it to San Diego and back without injury or loss of life.

  “Don’t worry. I got it.” Donna redoubles her efforts with the dial, her line of vision sinking even farther below the rim of the steering wheel. I keep my eyes glued to the road, ready to grab the wheel should we drift across the median again. To make matters worse, Donna has a lead foot. To her, an amber light is a cue to accelerate, not brake.

  “I don’t mind driving for a while. You want to pull into a rest stop?”

  “If you need to go, just say so. I’ll find a gas station up ahead.”

  “No, I’m fine. I just thought you might need a break.”

  I’ve offered to drive from the minute we left the house, but Donna won’t hear of it. Her thrill of the day is that she has a passenger and is therefore eligible for the carpool lane. Her exultation in zooming past four lanes of clogged traffic dashes any hope I have of wresting control of the wheel.

  “You know, I wouldn’t mind some coffee, if you’ll pour it.” She flings her hand in a vague gesture toward the backseat.

  I
make a sorry attempt to reach for the thermos. The last thing we need is Donna careening down the 405 juggling a cup of hot decaf. “Let’s wait a bit. We’ll be there soon.”

  “You’re the navigator. Just set the course.”

  I unfold the yellow lined paper with the directions. “Dougie said the restaurant was in a seedy, industrial neighborhood. Sorry it’s not La Jolla or some other place near the water. That would certainly be more in keeping with Paul’s lifestyle.”

  I glance up at an enclave of newly built luxury homes, replete with a private road and gatehouse, perched on the verdant bluffs above the freeway. It’s the sort of development Paul dreamed of building. Why, with all the time he spent meeting with investors and working up plans and proposals, did he go for the con instead of a legitimate project?

  Donna glances at the sprawling development, too, and gives me a look. “It would be pretty amazing if Paul’s been living only hours from LA. What are the chances he’s down here?”

  “It’s probably a wild goose chase, but I can’t resist checking it out. Besides, have you ever been to San Diego?”

  “Of course, many times. My grandparents loved driving down for a weekend. Tell you what, if this turns out to be a fizzle, I’ll take you to lunch at the Hotel del Coronado. Why waste a beautiful day?”

  “Suits me, but I can’t let you buy me lunch, too. I’ll pay you back for the gas and all, but—”

  “Are you kidding? This is fun. I’m glad you suggested it. I certainly wouldn’t be driving down here on my own.”

  “I know, but I should be treating you.”

  “Well, you don’t have the money, do you? But I know how you can make some fast cash—”

  “Sorry, I’m a little long in the tooth to stand on a street corner soliciting—”

  “Shucks, too bad. Okay, I’ve got another idea.”

  “Better be good. And I’m not up for phone sex, either.”

  “This is getting really tough. Anything else you’re too proud to do?”

  “That about covers it.”

  “Good. Leave it to me. You’ll have a few thou in your pocket by this time next week.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Trust me. I’ll set it up. All you have to do is be there.”

  “Donna, you are scaring me. Okay, get out of this lane. Our exit is coming up.”

  “Righty-ho,” she says, and the Mercedes lurches out of the carpool lane. With death-defying speed, we jackrabbit diagonally toward the exit, leaving a trail of honking cars behind us.

  “Easy, Donna! We’ve got another mile to go.” I grip the armrest and press myself against the back of the seat. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I spot a beat-up Chevy several cars back maneuvering just as recklessly. “You’ve set a trend. We’re going to cause a pileup back there.”

  “I’ve got my signal on.” As she pulls into the path toward the exit ramp, my stomach muscles jump. I then realize it’s my cell phone vibrating on my waistband. I flip the lid and see that Sid’s on the line.

  “Hi, Sid. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. It was too late last night, and I didn’t want to wake you on a Sunday morning.”

  “I’ve been up for hours, cookie.” Sid sounds peeved. “I left a couple of messages, you know.”

  “I know. I’m really sorry. How’s Carol?”

  “Carol? She’s fine. She’s off to see her mother again for a couple of days. What about you?”

  “Everything’s great. I wrap the pilot next week. I’ve got only a handful of scenes left.”

  “Yeah, good for you. So, what gives? I hear you got yourself involved in some excitement last night.” There’s no mistaking the edge in his voice.

  “What do you mean?” I tense, wondering how word reached Sid. “Are you talking about the commotion with the police? It was sort of weird. Some people tried to break into a friend’s house. She called security, and they sent the police. That’s all.”

  “That’s all? So who’s the friend? How did you get mixed up in this?”

  “Hang on a second, will you?” I glance at Donna, whose eyes are on me, not on the road. We’re hurtling down the exit ramp, and her foot is not on the brake. I stab my finger in the direction of the red light and signal her to move into the right-turn lane. “Sorry, Sid. I was at my friend Donna’s house, and these people broke in. Actually, I think you might know them?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. The guy’s screaming bloody murder that you bloodied his nose. What the hell were you doing?”

  My scalp prickles. “C’mon, Sid, you’re sticking up for him? What was he doing breaking into my friend’s house? Do you represent these people?”

  Donna abruptly pulls over to the side of the road, causing more honking horns. She turns to look at me, oblivious to the cars slowing down to pass us by. I avert my eyes from the drivers glaring at us.

  “Listen, where are you? What’s all that racket?”

  “Just traffic, Sid. You didn’t answer me. Are you this guy’s lawyer?”

  “No, a colleague of mine used to represent him. As of last night, he’s representing him again. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. It’s not looking good.”

  “For whom? I assume you mean the guy and his mother, right? Did they mention me?”

  “Denny did, yeah. Said he thought you could lead him to Paul. Why would he think that?”

  “You’re asking me? I have no idea. Ask him.” Why isn’t Sid mentioning Lorraine Munson? Why is this all about her son? “You know, he roughed up my friend and locked her in a closet. So that’s assault and unlawful detainment on top of trespassing. And breaking and entering and—what else? You would know the charges.”

  “He messed up, no question. If charges are pressed, it could be serious.”

  “If? That’s up to my friend, not me. But I don’t see why you’re so concerned about him. What else did he say?”

  “Some cockamamie thing that you accused him of breaking into your car, leaving notes. Is that true? Somebody’s been doing that?”

  “He already copped to it, Sid. He’s been following me around leaving threatening notes!”

  “So just where are you living these days? I don’t get it, Meg. Why are you staying with this friend when you can stay with us?”

  Perfect. Just like Sid to answer a question with a question. “I appreciate the offer, Sid. You know I do. It’s just that a friend asked me to stay with her. She’s lonely and likes the company.”

  Donna makes a sad clown face, blinking her eyes at me. I smile. Meanwhile, I hear a deep sigh from Sid.

  “Fine. Whatever suits you, but why the mystery? Carol doesn’t even have an address for you. You want to meet me for brunch later? You can fill me in about last night.”

  “I’ve got other plans today, but thanks. Maybe you ought to spend a little more time talking to Denny. I believe you already know his mother, right?”

  The pause is long enough for me to think we’ve lost the connection, but then I hear Sid’s voice speaking softly, barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I’ve met Lorraine. You know that Denny used to work for Paul, right? I met him a time or two. He’s a slick half-wit, but he’s got it into his head that you know where Paul is. I’m telling you, Meg: If you do know, don’t do anything dumb, okay? You’ve got to tell me what you know. Understand?”

  “I understand, Sid.”

  “Okay. Not that Denny hasn’t been questioned before, but who knows what he’s picked up since. He’s blabbing like crazy, and insists you must have some line on Paul’s whereabouts. I think you should know I put in a call to Jack, too. You’ll probably be hearing from him.”

  I freeze. It’s not just Denny blabbing, but the specter of Jack hearing Lorraine Munson’s diatribe that makes me cringe. The big TV star doesn’t impress me. Paul wasn’t impressed, either.

  “Cookie? You still there? Listen, if there’s anything at all—”

  “I don’t know where he is, Sid.”

  “Okay, kid. I�
��m always here for you. Just know that.”

  “Thanks, Sid. By the way, you heard about Erica?”

  “Yeah, that’s one helluva shame. I guess she just never got over losing Nat.”

  “So it’s definitely suicide then?”

  “What else? She was depressed.”

  “Too bad. Anyway, give my love to Carol when you talk to her.”

  “Okay, I want to know everything,” Donna says when I flip the phone shut, her eyes laser bright. “Who was that?”

  “My attorney. He thinks Denny is right, that I know where Paul is. I don’t, you know.”

  “But aren’t we going looking for him? Your friend Doug saw him down here. Maybe you should’ve told Sid that.”

  “It was just a sighting, Donna.”

  “Got it.” Her lips curl in a lopsided grin, and she slowly nods. “If I’ve figured this right, you don’t want anyone else to get to him first. Is that it?”

  I nod, too, momentarily at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, but it’s hard to explain. I don’t even know what I’d say to him. You’d think he’d be the last person I’d ever want to see, but I need to do it. I just need—to know.”

  “Of course you do. I understand that.” She gives me a reassuring smile, then slams the gear into drive. “Come on, let’s track him down.” She peels away from the curb without a glance in the mirror.

  I hear the squeal of brakes behind us but can’t bear to look. Instead I glance at the directions on the yellow lined paper. “Okay, hang a left at the corner. How about if I take the wheel for a while, Donna?”

  “No, better that you navigate. I could drive this car in my sleep.” I slump back in my seat, shutting my ears to a honking horn.

  We go about a mile before making a right turn into a sleepy residential neighborhood with rows of boxy, postwar bungalows. Eight blocks farther, we make another right turn onto a shabby street lined with used auto parts, hardware, and restaurant supply outfits. Most of the storefronts are closed, their entrances shuttered with graffiti-covered corrugated gates. Few people are on the street.