Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “I hope I’m not hurting you,” he says, planting soft kisses on my eyelids and cheeks. His tone is light. “Hey in there, want to look at me?”

  I open my eyes. “I’m here. All yours.” His gaze brims with love. Trust. Jack makes me believe I’m safe, that everything will be okay. He hands me a tissue, then takes another to gently mop my tears.

  Shame and humiliation don’t begin to describe how I feel. I wish I’d never found out! But what happened all those years ago is not something I care to talk about. More than enough sordid details of my life have been exposed for one night.

  I shift gears to the present. “So, enough about me. What about you? How did it go with Immigration?”

  Jack looks at me in surprise. “Seriously? You really want to know?”

  I nod. “I really do.”

  “Not well. There was no official hold, so the passengers were released. By the time I arrived, they were gone. We lost them.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m even sorrier. If I’d been with you this wouldn’t have happened. Someone tried to take your life less than an hour after you dropped me off. Why? Did you have any sense of being followed?”

  “None. There was no one behind me when I made the turn. There was no one in the street.”

  “You drove straight to Donna’s? Did you make any stop on the way?”

  “No. The only thing I recall is pulling to the curb when I got a text message. I thought it might be you, but it was someone else.”

  “You mind telling me about it?” His voice is casual, but I know he’s picked up on my hesitation. “I’m sorry, darling, but we need to talk about this.”

  “I know. You remember I mentioned there was a call girl the bartender introduced to Chelsea? She was doing research for the pilot episode, which is about the murder of girls working for an escort agency. Jinx goes undercover to investigate, and I thought maybe Chelsea took her research too far. I asked the bartender to text me the girl’s name and phone number, that’s all.”

  “And he did.”

  “Yes.” Jack gives me a look, waiting for me to come clean. “Okay, I called the number and left a message. I didn’t say my name, just asked her to call my phone number. That’s all.”

  “Did she call back?”

  “Not before the crash. I haven’t checked since. I don’t even know where my cellphone is.”

  Jack reaches into a plastic bag hanging on the back of my hospital bed and fishes out my phone. “You said the young couple answered your cellphone?”

  “Yes, in fact you spoke to the girl. So did Donna.” He hands me the phone and I quickly check messages. “Nothing here from that number, and the battery is getting low. I’ll have to get Donna to bring me the charger.” I start to turn the cellphone off when I catch Jack’s eye. “What?”

  “Would you mind if I took the number and name?”

  Again he picks up on my hesitancy. “No, of course not. Please, take down whatever you want.”

  Now is not the time to give Jack reason to doubt me. I hand him the cellphone, wondering if we’ll ever manage to get past the cat-and-mouse games that have defined our relationship from the beginning. I look away while he takes down the information, my nonchalance not very convincing.

  “Thank you, Miss Barnes,” he says, handing back my cellphone. “I see you have quite a few admirers. I took the liberty of recording their numbers.”

  “What?” Then I see his laughing eyes and grin. “There’s only one admirer I care about. Call me anytime.” I lean over and give him a kiss. “So, you’re not going to chastise me for following up with a call to that girl?”

  Jack is silent a moment, regarding me solemnly. I’ve opened myself to the very chastisement I’d hoped to avoid. I watch his shirt expand, contract, waiting for the rebuke. I’m ready for it, but I am not about to exacerbate the situation by mentioning that I also have the license plate number of the red convertible that delivered Chelsea to our first meeting. He’ll only wonder how I came up with that information, too.

  “Let’s just say it might have been better to hand the number over to Detective Yarrow.” He gives me a tight smile. “You’re a taxpayer. Use the resources.”

  I let that slide, not wanting to get into how meager my tax contribution currently is. “You know, it was just an instinct. Nothing more.”

  “You could’ve been killed.”

  “There’s no connection. No one knew what I was going to do or where I would be last night any more than I did.”

  Jack sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. I try to read his thoughts, knowing his brain is churning with what I’ve told him. I’m also feeling tired, a wave of drowsiness settling over me.

  “You need to rest now, Meg. Don’t think about this anymore.”

  My eyes close, wetness forming under my eyelids, dampening my lashes. “Sorry, Jack. Maybe I’m not thinking straight, but I just don’t want what I’ve told you to cause problems between us. I’m not trying to play detective, I promise, but—”

  He takes my hand and I feel his warm breath on my cheek. “Please, darling. Sleep now. I’ll be right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I drift off, a pall of gloom descending on me. I hover in a shadowy place, too warm, then too cold, my skin uncomfortably prickly, my limbs heavy, immobile. I try to lift myself up, but I hang in a fearful place, on the verge of falling. I see light but can’t reach it. I want to cry out, but my lips are frozen. Then my mouth seems to melt, my lips feeling cool moisture. I open my eyes to pale light and a face peering down at me.

  “Hi, there. I’m Jean, your night nurse. How are you feeling?” She swabs my lips again.

  “Okay, thanks, Jean.” With a sense of relief, I get my bearings. I look down at the saline lock taped to my hand and the clamp on my index finger taking my temperature.

  The nurse moves aside and I see Jack in the bright light of the hallway, talking to Detective Yarrow, still wearing what appears to be her official ensemble. Idly I wonder if she has a closet full of mismatched navy jackets and black trousers, or if this particular outfit is on continuous recycle. Detective McCauley isn’t much of a fashion plate, either, but at least his khakis and navy windbreaker look like some sort of uniform. I lean on my elbow, trying to sit up, but fall back in the bed, groaning. Jack hurries to my bedside as the nurse adjusts the pillows.

  “Thanks, Jean. I hurt. My shoulders and chest ache. I think somebody sat on me.”

  “It was the seat belt, I’m afraid,” she says. “You’ll be even sorer tomorrow.”

  “Need some help?” Jack asks. “How’re you feeling?”

  I groan again, making a face for his benefit. He smiles and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “I see they’re back. Any news?”

  “No, but when you’re feeling up to it, they’d like to talk with you again—without a roomful of onlookers. Should I have them return in the morning?”

  I smile. “How about now? They don’t have to wait.”

  Jack glances at the nurse. “It’s up to her,” she says. “I’d keep it to a couple of minutes. She’ll drift off soon, anyway.”

  “Besides, I’ll feel worse tomorrow. And I’ll be no prettier.”

  “You’re beautiful.” He leans down, kissing my forehead. “If you don’t mind, the sooner they can talk to you, the better. They’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure. Let’s do it.”

  I sip from the straw in a cup the nurse holds for me. By the time she’s eased pillows under my arms and behind my head, Jack has returned with the two detectives.

  Christine Yarrow looks at me with sheep’s eyes, her embarrassment apparent. I know she’s feeling bad and I may as well deal with her mortification sooner than later.

  “Well, you sure put your foot in it, didn’t you? You must be a hoot with family at Thanksgiving dinners.”

  She blinks, surprised, until she sees me smile. “Miss Barnes, Meg . . . I am so sorry. I did not put it together and I shou
ld have, but he just—”

  “What? Got under your skin? A narcissistic sociopath like Dirck? He enrages me, too, so please don’t feel bad. What’s Horne like? Does he have a first name?”

  “Alec. He’s English, teaches humanities at a junior college. Nice, unassuming man. Says they were married for ten minutes. He barely knew Chelsea since the time she was a toddler, but she looked him up and he spilled the beans. Again, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “That’s okay. It’s done. Anyway, it’s interesting that Chelsea sought him out. If she confronted Elaine with the truth, it would explain their falling out two years ago. That must be when she headed to New York to look up Dirck.”

  “Your instincts are on track. Horne acknowledged that Elaine blew up at him when she heard what he’d told Chelsea.”

  “In any case, Alec Horne doesn’t sound like a sniper.”

  “No, but a sniper may be what we are dealing with—and please don’t credit your ex-husband with that theory. We’re still checking everything out. Jack says you might have something you want to tell me.”

  I look at Jack. “What did you say to them?”

  “I passed along everything, Meg. I can’t withhold information they need to investigate.” His look is steady, trusting me to understand. “They also need to hear about it firsthand from you.”

  “Okay, I accept that.” I shift my gaze to Detective Yarrow. “Elaine and I spoke with Chelsea’s boyfriend the other night. He’s Jeremy Sloan, a bartender working at Gilligan’s over in Westwood.” I go on to explain the call-girl connection and suggest my theory that perhaps Chelsea took the research into her role too far. “The plot was tied in with an escort service. It’s just a hunch I had that maybe she got in over her head with the wrong people, I don’t know.”

  “Thanks, we’ll check it out. So you’re saying you had drinks with Elaine Horne the night she was killed? Before dinner? When exactly was this?”

  “Happy hour, around four thirty or five o’clock. This was a couple of hours after I saw her at Chelsea’s house and a few hours before she turned up at Donna’s.”

  “Did this boyfriend have any idea where Chelsea might be?”

  “No, but I got in touch with him again and he sent a text with the call girl’s name and number. Jack’s already given you that information. On my way home, I called the number and left a message for her. She didn’t get back to me.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, calling her. Did you leave your name and address?”

  “No, just my number.”

  “Any reason why you’re just telling us all this now?”

  “Sorry, I just forgot to mention it yesterday.”

  “You forgot?”

  “It didn’t come up. It only occurred to me later that I hadn’t told you. Anyway, Donna called and I had to hurry back home. Elaine stayed at the bar a while longer and then showed up unexpectedly for dinner later.”

  “That sort of accounts for the missing hours. Anything else you might have overlooked?”

  “That’s it for now. Would you mind letting me know what you find out? Because I really don’t want to get either the bartender or the call girl in trouble.”

  “Right. We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “No, I mean it,” I say, my voice rising. “I’m not accusing either of them of anything, so I’d hate for this to get blown out of proportion. I don’t know that she’s actually a call girl or with an escort service, you know? I only have Jeremy’s word on that.”

  “One more thing. Was Elaine aware of your hunch? Maybe you can tell us more about your actual conversation.”

  “Elaine wasn’t pleased to find me at Gilligan’s. She was already suspicious, so I didn’t mention that I was there to talk with Jeremy, although I’m sure she figured that was the case. I sort of remember what we said.” My words jumble; I’m beginning to fade. As half-remembered observations come to mind, I relate them, but it becomes a struggle to speak.

  When I open my eyes again, sun is streaming through the window of my narrow corner room. Jack emerges from the bathroom. Patting his face dry with a hand towel, he steps into a radiant beam of sunlight, looking like a movie star entering a floodlit soundstage. He’s freshly shaved, and his spanking white shirt, loose at the collar, is blinding. So is his wide grin. He tosses the towel on a chair and heads for the lump of toxic debris on the hospital bed that happens to be me.

  “Hey, there, sunshine, good morning. How’re you feeling?”

  I shrink back into the tangle of bedding as he advances. “No! Stop! Stay away until I’ve been hosed down and fumigated.”

  “You look just fine to me.” Jack laughs, but in a show of chivalry, he stops at the foot of the bed. He reaches under the mound of blankets and grasps my bare feet. “I’m glad you got some sleep.”

  “But you didn’t! How do you manage to look so good after being up all night?”

  “Trade secret. Known only to agents in the Bureau.” He wiggles my toes back and forth, which is somehow sexy and all I happen to be up for at the moment. “Besides, my carry-on bag with a clean shirt was still in the car.”

  “That only explains the window dressing,” I say, hoping he’ll continue romancing my toes.

  “Okay, you want a serious answer? Just sitting here watching you sleep peacefully is all the rest I need. That was a serious incident. I’m worried about you.”

  “I know. I was lucky and I’m very grateful. What about Detective Yarrow? Is she coming back to interview me further?”

  “She didn’t say. You know, your instincts are remarkable. And you’re very observant.”

  “Tricks of the acting trade. But I think I fell asleep in the middle of talking. I don’t even remember what I said.”

  “You did well, and if you think of something else, give me a call.” He tucks my feet back under the blankets.

  “Wait! You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I have to. Besides, if your toes are all the bare skin I’m allowed—”

  “Deal breaker. Sorry, but I’m thinking of you. As much as I would love to do all the things we like doing, it’s not happening. Not until I’m dainty fresh and completely adorable—stop!” I hold up my hands as Jack advances toward me, a comical gleam in his eye.

  “Do you have any idea what it took for me not to climb into bed with you last night?”

  “I’m guessing tubes, blinking monitors, open wounds seeping fluid and a whole lot of public exposure.”

  “True.” He smiles. “There was a lot of foot traffic through here, but I didn’t object to the rest of it.” Still minding his manners, he strokes my blanket-covered feet and keeps his distance. “But we deserve some time together. This wasn’t how I thought our evening would turn out.”

  “As John Lennon said, ‘Life happens when you’re making other plans,’ and I’m afraid it’s the case. When will I see you again?”

  “That’s what cellphones are for. I think they’ll probably spring you later today, so let me know. If I can, I’ll be around to pick you up. How’s that?”

  “Perfect.” I sit up enough to reach across to take one of his hands in mine and squeeze it. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “I will.” He puts on his jacket and unspools the tie he’s retrieved from his pocket. “Whatever happens, promise you’ll let me know. I don’t care what it is, Meg, call me before dealing with it on your own. No more following up on your Jinx-like hunches, okay?” His face is serious. I know he requires assurance.

  “I promise. Besides, I’m not up to dealing with much of anything right now.”

  “All you have to do is take it easy. I’ll see you later.” He picks up his bag and adds, “If you’d like, I’ll take you someplace quiet for dinner.”

  “Quiet and dark!” I laugh. “No restaurant will have me. I’d put everybody off their food.”

  “Just leave it to me.” He smiles and closes the door quietly.

  My cheeriness dissipa
tes the moment Jack leaves. For one thing, I hurt. Every square inch of me is sore and achy. I don’t have the courage to ask for a mirror. Another item of concern is how I’m going to pay for what I know will be a gigantic hospital bill. With luck, my SAG-AFTRA insurance will cover most of it. I recall barely meeting the eligibility minimum last year, earning just enough to continue getting basic medical coverage. I certainly didn’t earn enough to actually live on. I have no savings. And I no longer have a car. A weight settles in my chest. If I do get out of the hospital today—and I can’t afford to stay longer!—I’ll be spending my time sorting out insurance and making the dreaded call to my agent that auditions are out of the question until further notice.

  More than that, Jack and I don’t need an additional obstacle in what is still a fairly new romance. We’re still trying to bridge a trust gap. It would not help matters if he thought that I was continuing to “play detective.” But there’s a red sports car out there somewhere and a license plate number only I know. Some secretive part of me refuses to tip my hand about everything. Where’s the fun in that?

  Chapter Fourteen

  I close my eyes and drift off again, awakening to find a nurse, tall and caramel-skinned, hovering over me. “Good morning, I’m Mirella,” she says in a Caribbean-flavored accent. “Just give me a minute here while I finish up. I see you haven’t touched your breakfast. How’re you feeling?”

  She shoves aside the bed table, on top of which is a breakfast tray that must have been delivered while I was sleeping. The metal lid and cling-wrapped containers look so unappealing I quickly glance away.

  “I’m not feeling too bad, all things considered. When can I go home?”

  “You’ll probably be on your way as soon as the doctor has seen you. Everything’s looking good.” She helps me swing my legs free of the blankets and stand from the bed.

  On my way to the bathroom, I’m stiff but far steadier on my feet than I thought I’d be. I flick on the light and, without thinking, glance in the mirror.

  I gasp, not so much in horror as in surprise. My face is pale in the harsh light, and my hair is matted, but the few stitches on my forehead are not of Frankenstein caliber. My eye is discolored and my cheek scraped raw, but I’m already plotting how to cover the damage with makeup if the need arises. I carefully wash my face, brush my teeth and run dampened fingers through my hair to give it some curl.