Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “Actually, it’s touching. People really cared about her. There were a couple of little bouquets on the counter next to a framed picture of her, a sort of memorial. The waitress working Jeri’s shift tonight kept breaking down. I talked to her for a minute. She told me everyone figured Jeri had been mugged on her way to her car. I doubt anyone knew about that house belonging to her, because there was a little straw basket for donations. According to the guy who runs the restaurant, she was having some financial troubles—a pending bankruptcy, he said. She had to hire a lawyer. She had no savings left, so they were trying to collect enough for her funeral.”

  “Were any police in there?”

  “Not that I could tell. But they’d been around yesterday and today interviewing people. The waitress said they didn’t have a clue who might’ve done it. She figured some junkie killed her.”

  Or one of Proznorov’s mob. Lucy’s probably a target, too, if she knows where Paul is.

  “By the way, there was no brochure about sportfishing on that bulletin board. Why did you want that?”

  “Not important. I grabbed one the other day, and I’m pretty sure I remember what it says. Donna, are you still okay with a trip to Mexico?”

  “I figured that was the plan. But not tonight, okay? Let’s get a fresh start tomorrow.”

  “Suits me.”

  Once on the freeway, we pass a mile or so of car dealerships. Balloons, banners, and American flags flutter in the beams of searchlights fanning the night sky. We also pass warehouse-sized superstores and fast-food outlets. I let Donna navigate and wait for her tell me when to pull into one of the endless parking lots.

  We put off dinner in favor of stocking up on jackets, sweaters, pants, shoes, socks, and a change of underwear. Donna tosses a tube of pursesized toothpaste and a plain-wrap deodorant into the basket, but passes on shampoo and any other toiletries.

  “They’ll have all this stuff free in the motel room,” she says, as though I would have no knowledge of that little cost-saver. I’m in Donna’s hands now, and she controls the cash box.

  “The one thing about chain restaurants is that you know what you’re going to get,” she says a little later, as we cruise down a brightly lit boulevard.

  “Unfortunately,” I say. “You choose.”

  “I’m easy. Anything except a pancake house or sports bar. And no fluorescent lights or video arcade. Not a place with high chairs and strollers stacked at the entrance. Or anything that says SENIORS WELCOME. Also, I’d like some decent wine.”

  “You call that easy?”

  Amid a jumble of neon logos, we spot a squat, brick-fronted building with coachman lamps and a red awning. It’s possibly the only non-chain restaurant in the entire county, certainly the only one dating back to the days when this area was nothing but a vast bean field. I park in a space near the door, and we stroll into the comfort of low lights, red leather banquettes, and the promise of decent steaks.

  Even before our wine arrives, I’ve pulled out the rest of the mail I lifted off Grigori Proznorov. All of the envelopes are open. Greg was probably sorting through the mail while waiting for us to return to the parking lot. Aside from the documents pertaining to the Fenster mortgage, there are also letters to several other parties regarding appraisals and bank loans. But it’s the fat, brown envelope without a postmark that contains the most compelling material: a CD and a computer printout with hundreds of names, addresses and Social Security and bank account numbers. The name printed in marker pen on the CD is Vladimir Ivanovich Proznorov—Grigori’s old man.

  Donna and I have barely grasped the significance of these columns of names and numbers before I see the waiter approaching with our drinks. I slide the CD and printout back into the brown envelope and fold down the metal clasps. Not until we’ve placed our orders and watched the waiter retreat to the kitchen do we allow ourselves to refer to our find, and then only in whispers.

  “It looks like Greg handles a little part-time computer hacking for his dad. Or he’s a go-between.”

  “This is serious, Meg. They know you have this stuff now. We’re way beyond knowing how to handle this. A woman’s been murdered. Your former husband is probably involved. Let someone else track him down.”

  “And miss all the excitement?” Just to be annoying, I tap my wineglass to hers. “Unless I find him first, I’m never going to have my time with him. That’s all I want.”

  “But he’s dangerous!”

  “Could be.” Particularly now that I’ve stolen his cache of Habanas. The thought makes me smile, even as I recall the boiler-room setup. Somehow I can’t picture Paul working the push-button phones with flashing red lights. It’s not his sort of operation.

  “What’s so damn funny now?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I don’t see him murdering anyone. He’s a con man, not a killer.”

  “Right. Like you’ve never been wrong about him before.”

  I stay in the car while Donna uses her credit card to get us a room for the night. It’s not hard to persuade her once I point out that two women with luggage consisting of nothing more than Discount Mart shopping bags, paying cash to register for a room together at well past 10 p.m., might draw some unwelcome speculation.

  “Besides,” I add, “if you use your credit card, you’ll earn double mileage.”

  “Good idea. But I want you to park right in front where I can see you. And don’t go wandering off again.”

  She gives me a look that means business, then trots inside to the brightly lighted front desk to sign for a room. She stands sideways so she has me in her peripheral vision at all times, glancing frequently my way to let me know she’s watching. It doesn’t matter, because I’ve got what I wanted—time to examine the car to see if anything has been taken, or left, by whoever unlocked the door.

  I try the glove compartment first, and find only the envelope with the car rental documents. I flip through them, my eyes lighting on the $25 extra insurance charge we signed up for in case we drove the car south of the border. It had been my idea. Donna, after a slight hesitation, agreed to initial the surcharge. I wonder if whoever broke into the car took time to peruse the rental agreement. If so, they know where we’re heading.

  The space between and under the seats is clear. I wedge my fingers behind the seats and find nothing. I slide my seat forward and check out the back. Nothing. Maybe the intruder also looked around and found nothing. After all, I had my shoulder bag with me. Donna had her handbag and the cash box. We left the photographs, pens, and other signing paraphernalia in the trunk of the Mercedes. What was there to find? Or perhaps whoever broke in and left the door unlocked did so just to let me know he could.

  “Lose something?” Donna opens the door and, always the perfect lady, perches on the seat and swings her legs in as though she’s just stepped off a red carpet.

  “I got us a nice room with single beds. Second floor. Parking in back next to the stairs. Continental breakfast from 6:30 a.m. in the lounge. Probably just orange juice, coffee, and doughnuts, but it’s free.” She hands me an apple. “These were in a bowl on the counter. Free.”

  For a fleeting moment, I imagine what it might be like to take a cross-country road trip with Donna. I dismiss the thought immediately. “Sounds good. I wouldn’t mind getting an early start.”

  I pull the car around the back of the motel and park. As I turn the key in the lock, I take another look at the car door, inspecting it for signs of jimmying, all the clues Jinx would’ve looked for. The only difference is that Jinx would have actually found something. There’d also be a tight close-up of it.

  I unlock the trunk. Donna and I gather up our shopping bags.

  “So, did you find what you were looking for?” “Nope. But it doesn’t matter.”

  She peers through the back window. “What’d you do with my envelope? The one with your picture in it?”

  “Excuse me?” I take a deep breath, my chest tightening. “I didn’t see it. Are you sure you d
idn’t leave it in your Mercedes with the rest of the stuff?”

  “I meant to. But I could swear I had it in my hand when we were driving away from the rental place. I thought I put it on the backseat, but I guess not.”

  As Donna heads up the stairs to the room, I relock the trunk, wondering why I’m bothering. Why didn’t someone just steal the whole damn car instead of a signed photograph of Jinx in a top hat?

  I’m still pondering these questions at two a.m. as I lie in bed listening to Donna’s even breathing. She’s a sound sleeper, even with the cash box tucked under her pillow. Without awakening her, I’ve made several trips to the window to check on our parked car. I made two visits to the bathroom, with side stops at the door to the room to make sure it’s still double-locked and the chain is in place. I’m skittish as a cat at the slightest sound. Every whir, bump, and creak sends my heart racing.

  I roll over, wondering if I should have another look out the window. But who would know we were here? From the time we left Lucy’s, I checked the rearview mirror constantly and saw no sign of anyone following us. Even if Greg managed to retrieve his keys or hotwire his car, I’d recognize that rattletrap instantly. Besides, how would he know where I was going? What am I missing?

  Back in my crime-solving days with Winston Sykes, we dealt with our share of international jewel thieves, political assassins, drug traffickers, and spy rings. But identity theft and computer hacking hadn’t yet been invented. Otherwise I could at least draw on a rudimentary experience cracking high-tech crimes. Instead, I’ve been caught on the wrong side of this new technology. I don’t understand the mechanics of it, only the empty, stomach-churning aftermath of being robbed without even knowing it.

  I roll onto my belly and look down at my cell phone plugged into its charger, the rhythmic blinking a beacon in the dark. When I was playing Jinx, even cell phones didn’t exist. Drowsiness overtakes me, and I close my eyes, lulled by Donna’s steady breaths. Yet I fight sinking into sleep, a nagging thought I’m unable to pin down still eating at me. I somehow feel as though I’m being led as much as followed.

  I shift as quietly as possible and roll over, careful not to awaken Donna. A thought has occurred to me, something I need to act on as soon as possible. My mind drifts as I try to hang on to that fleeting thought…

  “Hey, sleepyhead. You’re the one who wanted an early start.”

  I open my eyes to streams of sunshine and the sight of Donna in her bubble-gum-pink polyester nightie. My own is mint green, both rescued from a 99-cent closeout bin. I sit up in bed, realizing I must have slept for hours.

  “They’re not gonna let us back into Beverly Hills with these nighties, Donna. They’ll confiscate them on the outskirts of town.”

  “You’re showing your true colors, you know. For a homeless person, you’re actually quite a snob.”

  “Just down and out, not trashy. You slept well?”

  “Fine, and I know you did. You were dead to the world. I’ll shower first if you want to loll some more.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The moment Donna closes the bathroom door, I leap out of bed, throw on the new fleece jacket, pants, and sneakers, grab my shoulder bag and run out the door. I take the stairs two at a time, my eyes scanning the parking lot. I fish my penlight and powder compact out of my bag, drop to my knees, and scan the undercarriage of the car just as Jinx once searched the underbelly of a hijacked semitrailer in an episode about a ring of designer-label thieves.

  I crawl around the back end of the car, my penlight in one hand, my compact mirror tilted in the other. Examining the wheel casings on the rear passenger side, I spot the little devil, two inches long and a bit grimy from its travels since Luck o’ Lucy’s. I pry the magnet loose from its mooring, drop the device in a trash bin, and race back to the motel lobby. Donna is already out of the shower, her head wrapped in a towel. Her glower vanishes when she sees I’m carrying two Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee.

  “Is that where you went? How thoughtful. Thank you, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome, welcome. Wait—there’s more.”

  I hand her a cup, then reach into my shoulder bag for the bran muffins. In doing so, I spot the grime on the underside of my sleeve. Fortunately Donna doesn’t notice. As soon as I have the bathroom to myself, I wash the dirt off the jacket and dry it with a blast from the hair dryer. I feel like a hero. The day has barely begun, and I’ve already thwarted evildoers and won over Donna, at least for the time being.

  I quickly shower. Then, fortified with more coffee, orange juice, and bran muffins, we check out of the motel, the pockets of our twin fleece jackets stuffed with apples. I’ve traveled light before, but even homeless, I carried more baggage than this. Donna and I set off for the Mexico border, the tracking device traveling in some other direction with whatever garbage truck picked it up.

  Forty-five minutes later, after stopping to fill the tank, change money, and buy a map and guidebook, we approach the border entrance. We slow down to pass through the glass-and-metal archway spanning the five-lane highway, then loop through the outskirts of Tijuana in sparse Sunday morning traffic.

  Mexican boys wearing plastic milk crates strapped across their shoulders stand near intersections selling dry cell batteries and Chiclets. Graffiti-scarred shacks in carnival colors line the dizzying jumble of streets and alleyways that meander up a hillside to the left. On the right, visible beyond a no-man’s-land of green cement walls crowned with barbed wire, is a glimpse of pristine San Diego Bay and the verdant rolling hills we’re leaving behind.

  “Any idea where we’re going?” Donna sounds apprehensive, which makes me grumpy. The truth is I don’t exactly know, but I’m not willing to admit that to her.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. We’ll dip into the cash box for some lobster and margaritas in Ensenada. Why don’t you check out restaurants in that Triple-A guide?”

  “We’re taking the toll road, I assume?” She curls her legs underneath her and settles back with the guidebook, mollified for the time being. “We’ll be coming up on Rosarito in a half-hour or so.”

  “Right. Just sing out if you see anything we should stop for.”

  I lower the sun visor and squint toward the brown hills to my left, pockmarked with sagging lean-tos and the carcasses of broken machinery. Souvenir stands, thick with terra-cotta pots, garishly painted urns, and wiry figurines, line the roadside, vying for space with weather-beaten food stalls. I see nothing that would inspire me to stop.

  To my right, a vast new entrance gate, with LAS CASAS DEL SOL freshly painted above an ornate arch, leads to scrubland littered with bottles, cans, and loose debris. In the distance, forlorn shells of abandoned construction sit at odd angles along the rocky coastline. Nearer the road, concrete blocks, with rusted rebar poking in all directions, form half-finished walls crumbling in the salt air like broken promises. It’s ugly beyond description, much like the gouged ridgelines ringed in concrete that Paul left behind when the bills for his Big Dream came due.

  “It’s criminal,” I mutter.

  “Well, the place could use a good cleanup. My gardener wouldn’t stand for this,” Donna says, closing the guidebook with a snap, “and he’s Mexican. I don’t understand why people can’t just throw things away. Or finish what they start.”

  She tucks the book between the seats and busies herself counting money from the cash box. “I’m divvying up so I don’t have to carry this thing around anymore. Half goes into my wallet for safekeeping, okay? Where do you want me to put the rest?”

  I glance at the wad of bills she’s clutching. “I feel like a bank robber. Did I remember to say thank you?”

  “You did. We’re still a couple thousand in the clear. You want an expense breakdown?”

  “Nope. But the lobster’s on me. So’s the Day-Glo nightie and everything else. Just zip the cash into the side pocket of my shoulder bag.”

  I stare out to the magnificent expanse of cobalt waters shi
mmering below the rocky cliffs. I roll down the window and breathe in the biting sea air, taste the tang of the ocean. Once again I remind myself to check about Alex Trebek. Donna requires more than a lobster dinner and a glow-in-the-dark nightie as a thank you.

  Traffic is light. The only stops are for toll booths. A little more than an hour later, past a sprawl of hotels, trailer parks, and a hulking fish cannery that fouls the air, the glittering Ensenada harbor comes into view. In the distance, beyond the rusting hulls of fishing trawlers and spanking white pleasure craft, huge cruise ships lie tethered to long docks.

  I snag a parking spot near the harbor. Leaving our fleece jackets behind in the car, we step out into the blaze of midday sun. The streets are jammed with tourists and locals alike. Donna, guidebook in hand, leads the way. We stroll through a narrow corridor near the harbor, lined by a gauntlet of souvenir shops, fish stalls, and open-air restaurants with tables sporting red-and-white checkered cloths. The smell of deep-fried seafood reminds me I’m hungry. I’m about to slide onto a stool at one of the fish stands, but Donna grabs my arm.

  “Margaritas at Hussong’s first. It’s been here since 1892. I’m dying to see it. Have we got time?”

  “Sure.” Why didn’t I think of it? Hussong’s is where Lucy supposedly first encountered Paul a year ago.

  “One margarita,” Donna says, patting her handbag. “Just to celebrate.”

  We head up another crowded street, stopping at a sidewalk cart to watch a woman squirt dough into hot fat to make sugary, caramel-filled churros. I can’t pass it up, nor can Donna. We each get a pastry and eat them on our way down the sidewalk.

  Hussong’s Cantina is choked with teenaged gringos in shorts and tank tops, drinking and flirting beneath clouds of cigarette smoke. The long narrow barroom shakes with the shouts of cruise-ship tourists and the strains of the local mariachi band, moving from table to table. Donna and I squeeze through the door. The tables are filled. It’s three-deep at the bar, but she manages to burrow her way through just as a green bar stool becomes vacant. Having established a beachhead, she orders drinks and beckons me to join her. By the time I reach her, a burly bartender has slopped margaritas into two salt-rimmed stemmed glasses and slid them across the tequila-soaked wood.