Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Donna plops down next to me, dropping her hand on my knee. “You know, it meant a lot to Doug to give you Edie’s car, but we both thought twice about letting you drive it home. You’ve been through a terrible trauma. And the fact remains, someone out there tried to kill you. First Elaine, then you—”

  “And didn’t succeed with me. I know what you’re thinking. It’s on my mind, too. Why? And whoever it is, will someone try again? It just makes no sense.”

  “No, and that’s the scary part. So, as much as I love having you here, I think it might be better for you to stay with Jack for a while. He thinks so, too.”

  I sit up, alarmed. “You discussed this with him behind my back? Thanks for planning my life.”

  “His idea, thank you very much. It’s for your own safety. Besides,” she says, batting her eyelids with mock innocence, “it means I’ll have Dirck all to myself.”

  I burst out laughing. “Lucky you!”

  “My secret plan. Little does he know I have a lot of furniture rearranging in mind for him.”

  Moving in with Jack is what I hoped might eventually happen, but under more romantic circumstances. “So, when does this transfer take place?”

  “As soon as the armored car arrives—my God, you’re being silly!” Her exasperation is evident and she gives my knee a quick shove. “Could you possibly look on the bright side? It’s not like you’re being sent off to do hard time!”

  “I’ll miss your cooking.”

  “I know,” she says matter-of-factly. “Anyway, the doctor told me to make sure you rest. Why don’t you take a bath and I’ll bring up some tea. You really ought to nap for a while.”

  “Again, planning my life.”

  “Someone has to.” She gets up and heads for the kitchen. “Go upstairs and take a bath.”

  Given my marching orders, I’m soon lying back in a tub brimming with hot water and aromatic salts, a cup of lemon-ginger tea in hand. My thoughts center on Jack, specifically on how I can manage to pack some essential clothing and grooming items without looking like I’m moving in. I don’t want to arrive at his apartment with a suitcase! I’m estimating how much stuff I can stow in my shoulder bag when Jack calls.

  “Hi, sunshine. How’re you feeling?”

  “Right now, pretty good. I’m up to my chin in bubble bath.”

  “Wish I were there.” There’s a smile in his voice, with a shade of huskiness as he adds, “But tonight’s soon enough. How about dinner?”

  “I’d love it. Want me to pick you up? I’ve got new wheels.”

  “So I heard.” I detect a brief hesitation before he says, “Actually, I was thinking it would be nice to have some time together to make up for Two Bunch Palms. How would you like to stay out at the beach with me for a while?”

  I smile, happy to play along. “Sounds good. I’d like that.”

  “Great. Then why don’t you rest up today and I’ll drop by later. Maybe you can follow me out to the marina.”

  “Really? You think that’s necessary?”

  “If you don’t mind. Just a precaution.”

  “Okay, I understand. But you know I’m not going to just hide myself away.”

  “Stay in today and let’s talk tonight,” he says, a growing urgency in his voice. “I have to go, darling, I’m sorry. I’m about to meet with someone. Just promise you’ll stay in, okay?”

  “Of course.” I stretch my foot to the old-fashioned silver chain attached to the rubber plug in the drain and cross it twice around my big toe. “See you later.”

  “Good. Get some rest. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Bye.”

  I yank the plug and listen to the gurgle of draining bathwater, knowing I’ve probably just lied to a man who has said “love you” to me for the first time. Does “love you” mean “I love you”? I don’t think so. I’ve said “love you” to Donna and any number of other people in the same way I’d say “Ciao.” The difference is that Jack and I have never spoken the word “love” to each other in any context.

  By the time I can make myself move, the tub is drained and I’m shivering. But I know what I have to do.

  I climb out of the tub, wrap myself in a terry-cloth robe and dig my cellphone out of the plastic bag. It’s drained of juice. I plug it in to recharge and sit next to the wall socket to call Detective Yarrow. She’s unavailable. I’m put through to Detective McCauley, who answers his phone in a leaden voice. He perks up considerably when I mention my name.

  “You okay? How ya feeling?”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking. I’ve got some information to pass along. I’m sure it won’t amount to much, but thought you should know that when Chelsea met me in the park, she was dropped off by a guy in a red convertible.”

  “You know who it was?”

  “No, but it wasn’t Jeremy Sloan. He doesn’t drive a red convertible.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “I asked him.” Then hastily add, “But that’s all I did. I just want to assure you that I didn’t try to check this out on my own.”

  “Good. I don’t suppose you might have a license number for the vehicle you saw?”

  “Actually, I do.” I reach into the plastic bag for my wallet and find the scrap of paper. “You ready?” I unfold it and read the numbers.

  “Thanks. Lucky thing you wrote that down. Any particular reason for doing that? Something suspicious about the car?”

  “No, not really. Nice car. Just happened to see the license number.”

  “And then wrote it down and kept the piece of paper.”

  There’s a silence I know better than to fill. I’ve opened another can of worms. If I mention Corky and the filming, I’ll risk putting him through a visit from the police for no good reason. In light of my visit to his house yesterday, I’d like to avoid giving his family any more cause to be apprehensive about me.

  “Okay, we’ll look into it.” McCauley sighs. “Is there anything else you may have forgotten to mention?”

  “That should do it.” Remorse is already lapping at my brain. I stare at the rug, envisioning some guy I’ve never met being grilled in an interrogation room because I pointed a finger at him. I know what that feels like and hate myself for making this call.

  “You know, there really wasn’t anything suspicious, now that I think of it. Chelsea looked happy. There was nothing wrong. Could we just put this down to my overactive imagination and forget I called you?”

  “On a recorded line? I don’t think so.”

  “Damn.”

  “Recorded line.”

  “Okay, sorry. But I’d really like to drop this.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to report a license number that could lead to finding this young woman? There seems to be a pattern here with you.”

  “I don’t like the idea of getting people in trouble with the police, like Lisa and the bartender and now this guy, whoever he is. Just go easy, okay?”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “By the way, were you able to track down Lisa?”

  There’s a pause before he asks, “You’ll be at this number?”

  “It’s my cellphone. Call anytime. And let me know what happens, okay?”

  Before I say anything more to incriminate myself or anyone else, I politely end the conversation. McCauley has left no doubt in my mind that calls made cannot be unmade. What have I done to Jeremy and Lisa—and some guy in a red convertible?

  Fatigue washes over me. I lie down on my bed, listening to the gentle sounds of chirping birds outside my window and the faint swish of cars passing on the street below. My mind, in its sluggish state, mulls over the events of the past few days. Slowly things become clear to me and, whatever the consequences, I have to follow my instincts.

  Eventually, Donna taps on my door and enters. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Good. Just resting. Thanks for the tea.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She picks up the tray on my bedside table. “I�
�m just going out to do some errands. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “Take your time.”

  I wait until I hear her pad down the stairs, then get up and dress. I throw on jeans and a tee shirt, then stand by the window until her car heads down the driveway. I grab my keys and cellphone and hurry out.

  Minutes later, I tap the code to open the gates and walk out onto the street. I glance to my right and see that the memorial to Elaine is still in place, the yellow tape around the red cones fluttering in the soft breeze. Walking quickly, my eyes alert to movement around me, I cross the park and angle toward the curve in the road off the boulevard.

  After replaying the dark, blurry loop in my head again and again, I need to check out the scene myself in daylight. Maybe I can figure out what actually happened to me last night. There’s debris on the embankment where my car flipped, and sparkles of chipped glass in the roadway, but no memorial to me, thank God.

  If my sturdy Volvo took a bullet for me in a last act of vehicular bravery, it’s just one more reason to cherish her. How ironic that she should meet her end on the fringes of Holmby Park. A lump settles in my throat as though I’m grieving a death in the family. After all the nights spent parked at the curb, curled up on her soft, comforting upholstery, I’ll miss her terribly.

  I cross the roadway and see a man with a dog up ahead. It’s Doug and Ridley, both standing stock-still, watching me approach them.

  “You’re out for a long walk. How’s Ridley holding up?”

  “Pretty good. We took a rest in the park and had a hotdog. What are you up to?”

  “Same as you. Find anything?”

  “Just trying to get the lay of the land. I ran into Detective Yarrow out here earlier. She said she’d probably be getting in touch with you.”

  “I already spoke to Detective McCauley.”

  I start walking slowly along the edge of the road, picturing my turn off the boulevard and glass shattering into my lap. “I’m kind of sorry I’ve mentioned anything to them. My gut feeling is that none of it will lead anywhere, except to cause a few people trouble they don’t need.”

  “Spilling everything to Yarrow and McCauley is the wise bet. It’s not for you to figure things out.” Doug and Ridley follow in my wake, both huffing on the incline up to the corner. “In fact, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to even be out walking around here.”

  “You really think the killer is still lurking in the vicinity?” I step back onto the curb as an orange transit bus hurtles past. “I’m guessing whoever it was had to be hovering right around here.”

  I spot the black tread marks in the road where I swerved, then follow an oily path up the ivy-covered embankment to where my Volvo flipped. I shudder and look down at the ground, gazing blindly at a crosshatch pattern in the hard-packed earth.

  “You’re right. But if you’re looking for spent shells, Detective Yarrow already found them.”

  “Really?” I look up at Doug, whose expression is grim. “Then there’s no reason to think it couldn’t have been a crazy sniper, some jerk randomly—”

  “You know better than that. There’s nothing random about this. And Elaine wasn’t the target.”

  “No.” I shake my head slowly, giving voice to my own growing suspicion. “I am. Someone took down my stunt double by mistake.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As if to prove his point that I shouldn’t make an easy target of myself by being out on my own, Doug and Ridley escort me back to Donna’s house. The logic of having these two wheezing along beside me as protection makes little sense, but the gesture is sweet. By the time we reach the gates, dog and master are winded.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come in? I know Donna would love to see you.”

  “Thanks anyway. I don’t need another run-in with Dirck. We’ll just take a breather in the park and head home.”

  I punch in the code and wave to Doug as he and Ridley cross the street to settle on the nearest bench. As I make my way up the driveway, I’m pleased to see that Donna is still out, but not happy to spot Dirck bounding out the front door. He glares at me, arms braced across his chest. My first thought is that Donna has deputized him to keep me from wandering off the plantation. He’s wearing his tough-guy black leather jacket and a scowl that looks like he means business. Leave it to Dirck to dress in an appropriate costume for confrontation.

  “There you are! Where have you been?”

  “Just walking around the yard. I thought I might have a swim.” With luck, he hasn’t seen me enter through the gates.

  “I was looking all over for you. I got some news.”

  “Chelsea?” I stop at the edge of the portico, my body tensing. “She’s been found?”

  “No, but I might have a lead. I had a Skype session with an actor in New York, who informed me Jerry Schlitz and Chelsea hooked up out here. He says they were really hot and heavy, you believe it? I had no idea he’d made a move on her!” Dirck grinds his hands together, cracking his knuckles. “The thought of that creep all over my daughter—man, if he had anything to do with her going missing—”

  “Easy, Dirck. He’s as concerned as we are. He has no idea where she is.”

  “How do you know that? You talked to him?”

  “Of course. You were the one who told me about Jeremy. I’ve already checked him out.”

  “When?”

  “Elaine and I saw him the other night.”

  “You and Elaine?” Dirck gapes at me, arms spread wide in his gimme-a-break pose. “You kidding me? The police know this?”

  “Of course. I already told them.” I speak in a calm tone, taking guilty pleasure in knowing every word I utter is a dagger nicking his flesh.

  “I don’t believe this!” he thunders. “Why the hell am I always the last to know?”

  “Really?” I look at him complacently, waiting for his brain to process the connection. “The last to know?”

  “What? What?” He glowers. “You going to hold that Elaine thing over my head forever? I said I was sorry.”

  “Actually, it’s the call-girl thing. I figured it was worth seeing Jeremy after you told me how you coached Chelsea to prepare for the role.”

  As slow dawning breaks into full-blown panic, Dirck gasps. “I never told her to—wait! Now you’re blaming this on me? Like it’s my fault?”

  “I’m only suggesting she may have gone gung ho with her research.”

  “You told the police that, too? How’s that going to make me look? My daughter, a call girl! You ever think of that?” He runs down the steps, brushing past me on the way to his car. “I wouldn’t put it past that creep to pimp her out!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where the hell you think? Jerry’s the one who set her up. I’d like to hear about it firsthand!”

  I race after him, yanking the passenger door open as he turns the key in the ignition. “Don’t go off half-cocked, Dirck. Let the police deal with it.”

  “Like they’re doing such a great job!” He slams his door shut and throws the car in gear. I slide into the front seat and pull the door closed just as he starts backing up. “What’re you doing?”

  “Coming with. I know where the place is and I don’t want you getting in trouble.” I plug in my seat belt as Dirck burns rubber tearing down the driveway. “Easy! You’re going to plow into the gates.”

  Tires squeal as he slams on the brakes; I smell smoking carbon. Why couldn’t I resist igniting his famously short fuse? I should know better!

  The gates slowly open while Dirck drums his hands on the steering wheel. “What the hell was she doing with a half-assed actor like him? Where’s the future? He woulda just dragged her down. I mean, this guy stiffed me! He didn’t pay me for his acting classes. What kind of person does that?”

  “I know, I know, awful. But don’t do something you’ll regret, okay?”

  “Sure,” he says, squealing out onto the road without looking in either direction. “You k
now, it’ll be kinda fun to confront this guy. He’s sort of a pretty-boy wimp. What she sees in him, I’ll never know!”

  We all have our own ideas of fun. Trapped in a rental compact with my former husband is not my idea of pleasure. Besides, he’s a native New Yorker and drives like a New Yorker, which only works if you are driving in New York City and consider navigating through traffic an elaborate amusement-park ride.

  I learned to drive on a farm tractor and view driving as an occupational skill, not a game of bumper cars. It took me three years of marriage before I could convince Dirck not to drive with one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake pedal. He also likes to gesticulate, sometimes with both hands, fluctuating speed according to his rate of speech. Donna, too, is a terrible driver. The devil in me would like to see them take a road trip together.

  These are my thoughts as I grip my seat in terror while Dirck drifts across lanes without signaling. If purgatory is eternity with people you can’t abide, I’ve encountered my special hell on earth. Driving on meds with a concussion and two broken arms, I could do a better job of getting us to Gilligan’s.

  When traffic on Wilshire Boulevard comes to a standstill, I take a deep breath. Despite the hellish ride, I’m still glad I came along. I have a few more questions to put to Jeremy that I’d prefer to ask in person. If he’s lying, I’ll have a better chance of detecting it. For that matter, I also have a few things to clear up with Dirck.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question? Did Chelsea call you that night after she finished working with me?”

  “She may have. Why?”

  “When we talked the next morning, you knew all about Donna’s house and that I was living there. You even asked if you could stay. It must’ve been Chelsea who told you about it.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. She was pretty impressed.”

  “How impressed?”

  “She told me I shoulda stuck with you and not gone off with Pru.”

  “What? That’s very funny. She knew it wasn’t even my house!”

  “Fine, laugh if you want. I shouldn’t have told you. But she went on and on about the place.”