Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  With KJAZ playing softly, I also avoid references to Dirck’s YouTube video on talk radio. Flipping through the morning television shows earlier, I was relieved at the newscasters’ restraint. The only brief clip I saw broadcast from his video was prefaced by, “A father’s plea for the safe return of his daughter—” But the news is still breaking, and since it involves a young blond actress and a new television series, the story can only grow. I have no doubt Dirck will stay on top of it.

  I arrive at Donna’s, gratified to see that there are no news crews parked on the street outside the gates. I suspect that will change once Dirck announces he’s leaving the hospital. Perhaps it’s just as well that I’m staying at Jack’s place.

  I’m about to mount the steps to the front door when I glimpse Doug’s car parked near the orchid pavilion. He’s either stayed late or dropped in very early. I’m betting he spent the night. My suspicions are confirmed when I walk into the kitchen. With Ridley curled on the floor between them, Doug and Donna are seated in the breakfast nook, looking cozily connubial. His feet are bare, his shirttails loose. She’s wearing a housecoat, not entirely buttoned. The morning papers are open on the table and there’s a lingering smell of coffee and bacon. They both look as though they’ve swallowed canaries, not pancakes.

  “Morning!” they sing out in cheerful voices.

  Clearly I’m not the only one in post-eros bliss. I ruffle Ridley’s ears and he looks up at me as if to say, Who knew? But if they’re happy, I’m happy. He rests his snout back on his paws with a sigh.

  “You want some coffee?” Donna asks. “Help yourself to a pecan caramel roll. There’s orange juice in the pitcher.”

  “Just coffee, thank you.” I take a cup from the dish drainer and pour from the vacuum carafe on the table. “Jack says hello.”

  “Everything okay?” Dougie asks.

  “Fine, fine. I think I’ll just take my coffee and go upstairs.” Honestly, I feel like I’m intruding. “I have to make some calls and check email.”

  “Good idea,” Doug says. “You’ll probably want to give Ed Ackerman a call. He said he’s been trying to reach you. I already got an earful.”

  I stop in my tracks. “I didn’t even think of him!” I take my cellphone from my shoulder bag and see I’ve left it on vibrate and have a screen full of messages.

  Donna pulls her iPad out from under the newspapers and flips it open. “Dirck’s posted another video. He’s blaming the producers and the network for keeping Chelsea’s disappearance under wraps, which is silly. And it’s been picked up by some of the news outlets.”

  Doug snorts and says, “After talking to Dirck in the hospital this morning, Ed’s blowing a gasket, comparing him to Julian Assange. You can imagine Dirck’s version of all this. This ain’t sitting pretty with Ed or the network. He seems to think you’re the one who can put a lid on the SOB.”

  “So Ed thinks I have some control over a guy I divorced nearly a decade ago? A taste of celebrity is a banquet to Dirck. He’s not going to give this up.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Any ideas?”

  “Tell Ed the only way to shut Dirck up is to offer him a TV series of his own. Who knows? Maybe it’s worth it!”

  “If this media attention helps find Chelsea, I’m all for it,” Donna says. “I don’t know why Dirck’s not pressuring the police more in these videos.”

  “He’s doing that, too, but he’s getting more mileage out of the network angle,” Doug says.

  “Okay, okay. Got it.” I swill the rest of my coffee and leave the cup in the sink. “Let me see what I can do.”

  I hurry out to the garden, punch up Jeremy Sloan’s number on my cellphone and anxiously stab the call button. I pace across the damp lawn toward the pool house, counting the rings. Just as I begin to fear I’ll hear a voicemail greeting, his sleepy voice grunts, “Yeah?”

  “Jeremy, hi. Sounds like I woke you up. Sorry, it’s Meg. Listen, gotta ask you something—why did Dirck get beaten up? They didn’t touch you, right? Just give it to me straight.”

  “Whoa, hey, you musta knocked back more than one Red Bull this morning—”

  “Jeremy, I’m serious. Tell me, why did Dirck get beaten up?”

  “Hang on, I wasn’t even around. They went after Dirck because he dissed Lisa, called her a hooker. They don’t like that.”

  “Wrong terminology? He got beat up over semantics?”

  “She was very unhappy. Look, talking to you just gets me in trouble. I told the cops everything I know and I don’t know much. I just pour drinks, okay? Chelsea’s my girl and I want to find her more than anyone, but I don’t know where to look. I already asked Lisa and she says they’ve got nothing to do with her going missing.”

  Jeremy may be dumber than a bowl of Froot Loops, but the belligerence in his voice warns me to dip my spoon carefully. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cause you any hassle. You’re absolutely positive this guy in the red convertible—”

  “Ernie. His name is Ernie something. I barely know him, but he doesn’t like being called a pimp. So, yeah, he’s got a short temper, but the guy was trying to be helpful to Chelsea, just like Lisa was. People get a little starstruck when it’s the movies, you know? They want to be a part of something.”

  But what I’ve got by the time we hang up is nothing. If there’s anything linking the various incidents of the last few days, I’m not seeing it. I stand at the edge of the pool, staring into its turquoise depths, my thoughts free-floating. There’s not so much as a ripple on the surface, nothing on the smooth concrete bottom, and nothing comes to mind to connect a disappearance, two shootings and a street crime. A cloud passes overhead, shadowing the water but offering no pattern, no clues. Perhaps there’s no connection, but neither can I accept coincidence. How can it all be random?

  I punch up Dirck’s number on my cellphone, still warm in my hand. He answers on the first ring but says, “Hey, hang on, hang on—” I listen as he resumes a conversation with someone in his hospital room. By the gist of it, he’s speaking with a reporter.

  I break in, shouting, “Dirck! Dirck, could I talk to you, please?”

  “Almost done, hang on,” he bellows, then goes back to his other conversation.

  Cellphone pressed to my ear, I walk the length of the pool and back, hearing Dirck call Chelsea “a chip off the old block.” Eventually he comes back on the line with me and says, “You heard all of that? Spreading the word is the only way to find Chelsea. Leads are already coming in, with sightings all over the place. It’s working, Meg!”

  “Still, I’m not sure you should be saying some of these things to the media, especially talking publicly about what happened to Elaine—”

  “Stop right there. Chelsea’s my kid. This is family stuff you wouldn’t understand, okay? Pru’s okay with this, so I don’t care who else gets bent out of shape, I want to find my kid and get justice for Elaine. That’s my mission.”

  “I think it’s what we all want, but this video—”

  “You’re just jealous because I went out front with this. For once, you’re out of the loop and you can’t deal with it. I’ll tell you something, Meg, you sit in your ivory tower thinking you can pull all the strings. Well, you don’t have a clue what it’s like for the rest of us who have to struggle and fight for what’s right.”

  “Dirck, for God’s sake, where is all this coming from? I’m talking about exposing information on YouTube that could be detrimental to Chelsea. Sometimes you say things that get you into trouble. Just use some restraint.”

  “What I do is none of your business anymore. If your buddy Halliburton or Ed Ackerman put you up to making this call, tell ’em to butt out. This is family I’m fighting for and I’ve got the bruises to show for it.”

  “Okay, okay, I won’t say another word. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Look, I gotta take another call. It’s Anderson Cooper.”

  I sometimes wonder if Dirck isn’t the nightmare version of
Clark Kent, longing for glory that comes only with the Superman suit he’s been denied. Who can ever make it right for him? Certainly not me, and I have to stop trying.

  Seeing the time on my cellphone screen, I hurry back into the house. I stop first in the pantry to scoop cookies into a plastic bag, throw a couple bottles of water in my bag, and then run upstairs to my room to grab some forgotten toiletry items before racing off to meet Corky. A part of me is looking forward to spending time with him, if only to take my mind off everything else. Besides, the park area around the Rancho La Brea Tar Pits is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles.

  Located in the Miracle Mile district of museums on Wilshire Boulevard, the tar pits are dark pools of dense oil pushed up by pockets of methane gas that have seeped to the surface for tens of thousands of years. The excavated fossils of prehistoric animals, both predators and prey, that were trapped in the tar are on display in the George C. Page Museum, where I’ve arranged to meet Corky.

  I find metered parking on Sixth Street and walk into the park, struck again by how much it’s changed since I first started coming here. I remember a time when I could walk along wooden planks overlooking an excavation pit where volunteers wielded small brushes and instruments in search of fossil fragments. Now, access is more restricted, perhaps just as well. Very recently, one of the tar pits was the site of a murder investigation, with a police diver plumbing the depths in search of human remains.

  I spot Corky lying on his back in the grass alongside a footpath, focusing his camera on a cloud formation. I can’t resist sneaking up and peering into his lens. “Ready when you are, Mr. DeMille.”

  Corky sits up, grinning. “I saw your shadow. Knew it was you.” He shades his eyes and looks at me more closely. “Wow, what’d you do to your face?”

  “Just a little accident.” I plop down on the grass next to him and exhume the plastic bag of homemade ginger snaps from my shoulder bag. I hand him one and take one myself. “Expect to find chocolate chips in there. Donna can’t resist dumping them into every cookie batter she makes, no matter what the recipe calls for. How’re you doing?”

  “Good, okay.” He nods slowly, as though reconsidering his response, then takes a bite of cookie. He looks down at the grass, chewing slowly. “You’re right. Chocolate chips.”

  “Told ya.” I laugh. “Not bad, though.”

  He nods some more, clearly needing to get something off his chest and working up the courage to do so. Then, in a rush of words, he blurts, “I hope you know I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. It really means a lot. I sometimes can’t believe someone like you would even give me the time of day.” His face reddens and he looks away. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. You’re, like, totally awesome.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.” I wonder if this is presaging a fraught disclosure of just how enamored of me he is. After all, I’m dealing with a boy/man who has tender feelings for Ida Lupino and sees in me her reincarnation.

  I proceed with caution. “Corky, you’re very talented and it’s a pleasure to work with you. Really, I’m learning such a lot from you. But I hope there’s not any sort of misunderstanding between us. Is this why you wanted to see me this morning?”

  “Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you that, but there’s more.” He looks around, growing more uncomfortable. “Could we walk?”

  “Of course.” I hand him another cookie and we get to our feet. “Let’s find someplace in the shade.” We start to amble down a footpath behind the museum. “What else is on your mind?”

  “My family. That’s the real problem.”

  I feel my own face reddening. “Look, I’m sorry. I hope nothing I’ve done caused trouble for you at home. If I can undo any damage, please let me know.”

  “I don’t think you can. Besides, I don’t think it’s your fault. I never thought so. My mother feels the same way. But my dad and uncle, that’s another story.”

  “I was afraid of that. I got the feeling that maybe your mom and Uncle Joe jumped to conclusions. I’m sure they got the impression that something must be going on between us. I’m sorry about that.”

  Corky gives me a startled look. “When? Why would he think that?”

  “No reason, I guess.” I backtrack fast, trying to get a handle on what we’re talking about. “Your Uncle Joe didn’t seem too happy when I arrived. Then later, after we were watching that video you shot in the park, he seemed really upset. I think your mother was okay, but not your uncle.”

  “Yeah, I know. He and my dad really didn’t want you at the house, but my mom said it was okay for you to come. She doesn’t blame you.”

  “For what, exactly? I think we’re talking at cross-purposes, here. I need to know what’s come up that they don’t want me visiting. After all, I’ve been to your house several times before. We’ve been filming in your garage.”

  “But that’s before my uncle knew where you lived. See, we didn’t always live in the house we’re in now. In fact, my parents only rented it about two years ago. We used to live—actually, we had a nice house not too far from where you live, but we lost it. We had to move.”

  “You lost your house?” I feel myself growing very still and realize I’ve stopped walking, almost stopped breathing. “How?”

  “My uncle invested in a big property development deal and got my dad to buy in, too. Then it all went bust.”

  “A development up on Mulholland? The one my former husband Paul was involved with?”

  “Yeah, ’fraid so.”

  “I see.” My scalp tightens and I feel lightheaded. Whatever I may have thought Corky was going to confide, nothing could be worse than hearing this. I move toward a park bench and sit, the impact of what he’s said sinking in. Some of Paul’s investors included a few of my well-heeled friends, who lost small fortunes. That was bad enough. But his slick Ponzi scheme, involving overinflated mortgages in a volatile housing market, cost many more people their life savings and, indeed, their homes—something I can never put right. I lost everything, too, including friends, reputation and all that I owned. The real suffering is knowing how much ruin he caused others—including, it appears, the Shaw family.

  “I’m so sorry, Corky. I don’t know what to say.”

  He sits down next to me, silent for a long moment before saying, “I know.”

  “I’m sure there’s more. You better tell me the rest of it.”

  “It kind of wrecked things for us. My mom had a little money set aside after my grandmother died, but otherwise we lost everything. It was worse for Uncle Joe. He’d pulled money out of his printing company, which wasn’t doing that well anyway, and lost the business. Even my Aunt Linda left him.”

  “What about your parents? How’re they doing?”

  “Sort of okay. My dad still has a job. But it didn’t help that my mom told him not to invest and my uncle roped him in anyway. Uncle Joe is my dad’s younger brother and was always talking big, so it turned into a real mess.”

  “You know, when I read your script, I knew where you got your story from. It was pretty obvious to me, but I should’ve figured out that there was even more behind it. That’s why you wanted me to play Gloria.”

  “Yeah. My mom said writing the script was my way of working things out. The real trouble started when I sent it to you and you said you’d take the role. My parents were shocked. I still can’t believe it!”

  “Why not? It’s a good script.” I manage a smile. “Besides, maybe I needed to work some things out, too.”

  “Okay, good. I feel better.” He reaches for the bag of cookies I’ve left on the bench. “I had to let you know where things stood. I was really embarrassed that my dad and uncle were so rude to you.”

  “Don’t be. I hardly blame them. It must be difficult for them to see me around and be reminded of all they lost because of Paul. But they don’t think I had any involvement in the fraud, do they? They know I was cleared, right?”

  “That’s what my
mom told them, but—” Corky kicks at the grass.

  “I ended up losing everything, too. Absolutely everything I ever earned and owned was taken from me. Do they know that?”

  “Sort of. I mean, it said in the newspapers that you went bankrupt. And, of course, you didn’t go to jail. I think at first they were okay with me knowing you. They went along with it, but then at the park—”

  “With your Uncle Joe? What happened then?”

  “He saw where you lived.”

  My mouth drops open as realization hits. “He thinks that house is mine? It isn’t! I’m only staying there with a friend. Is that why you and your mother drove by that day?”

  He nods. “She wanted to see for herself. On the one hand, she’s really glad for all you’ve done for me, but it’s hard for them to see how you’re living when they lost everything because—”

  “I understand.” I flash on the images Corky recorded of us that afternoon in the park when Chelsea arrived, followed by the montage of us walking, talking and sitting down at the picnic table. Worse, I recall the final images of myself posing with the top hat on my head, laughing and waving into the camera as the gates opened to Donna’s house. “Your uncle must have been livid. I am so sorry.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I told you.”

  “No, of course not. I’m glad you did. I don’t know if it would help, but maybe I could talk to your family and explain.”

  “Can’t happen!” He shakes his head vehemently. “My mom promised my dad I wouldn’t see you anymore. I wanted to let you know that.”

  “So your mother doesn’t know you planned to meet me this morning?”

  He shakes his head, looking miserable. “She just dropped me off. I told her I’d take the bus home when I finished shooting here.”

  “Maybe I could talk to your Uncle Joe. Where does he live?”

  “We don’t know.” Corky shrugs. “He won’t say. He won’t let my mom drive him home, just to the bus stop.”