Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  I dart a look to Chelsea, who mouths, “He’s leaving!”

  I shake my head and whisper, “No, the garage doors are closed.”

  The realization of what he’s doing hits both of us as exhaust fumes rise quickly up the stairs in the small space. Chelsea’s eyes widen in panic. She moves next to me, reaching behind my back with the nail clippers.

  “Cut, but leave them in place,” I whisper. I feel the strip go slack and hold the ends closed with my hand. She tugs the belt up my chest, freeing my arms, but leaves the leather draped around my shoulders.

  We freeze again at the sound of a heavy thud against the wall, then a footfall on the stairs. Chelsea dives back to the air mattress, her movements fluid and silent as she pulls the gray blanket over her body. My head falls forward, my palms holding the loose end of the flexible strip in place around my wrists.

  Each footstep is slow, followed by a metallic thud. The room is darker now as sunlight fades from the grubby window. I pray Joe doesn’t look too closely at my hands bound to the support pole. His arm brushes against my back as he nears the top of the steps and heaves a metal container onto the floor.

  My eyes flick sideways and I see that it’s a red fuel canister. I also see the muzzle of the gun in his hand just inches from my cheek as he moves past me. In the instant it takes me to flash on seizing the gun, the moment passes. My heart thuds with the adrenalin rush. I try to slow my breathing as the exhaust fumes begin to make me lightheaded.

  I watch Joe out of the corner of my eye. He stops next to the cot, panting, and looks at me. “No mistakes this time.”

  “Please, Joe,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s done.”

  He sets the canister on the floor and grunts with the effort of kneeling down next to it. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket, then lays his gun down as he tips the canister onto its side and starts to twist the cap.

  I try to isolate the movement of my hand from my upper arm, still wrapped in the belt, as my fingers inch toward the black disk on the floor near my hip. My action is so quick I barely realize the disk has left my hand until I see it slam into Joe’s throat, knocking him backward. I scrabble across the floor, pitching my body against his, my elbow cutting up under his chin as I grab the gun.

  “The window!” I shout.

  Chelsea grabs the work shoe and hurls it through the window. Glass shatters as she dashes around me, pitching herself onto Joe, kicking and pounding him with her fists. He rolls sideways, his hands clawing at his neck, gasping for breath. Chelsea rocks back on her haunches and I hand her the gun.

  I turn to the window, fill my lungs, then bunch the bandana to my nose and fly down the steps, my feet barely touching the treads. The car door is open. My eyes stinging, my lungs bursting, I reach across the steering wheel to the ignition.

  With the engine turned off, I struggle toward the garage door. It’s latched, the padlock hanging open. I fall against the rough wood, my fingers feeling pudgy and disconnected as I groggily reach for the padlock.

  In the distance I hear sirens, or perhaps it’s just a painful ringing in my ears. The doors give way and I fall to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty

  It turns out Lucille, the bus driver, is the unlikely guardian angel responsible for our dramatic rescue. It’s against the rules for city transit drivers to tweet behind the wheel, although Lucille claims she sent the message at a bus stop, her feet firmly on the pavement—but her tweet saved our hides:

  #JinxFogarty fans: just spotted her @AceTowing on Crenshaw in her yellow Olds. Hey Joe she's looking 4 u. Ur in trouble now!

  In under 140 characters, with a fortuitous hashtag, Lucille’s tweet ricocheted to the right quarters, including Corky, his mother and, oddly enough, Detective Yarrow. Donna, alerted by my text, got in touch with Corky, then the police. But Lucille’s tweet had given Christine Yarrow a good start tracking me down.

  Jack was in the passenger lounge of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport when he received my text. He called Donna, then Detective Yarrow. By the time he boarded his flight, the two were in direct communication and he knew I was safe. As I lay strapped to a gurney, breathing through an oxygen mask, she pressed her cellphone to my ear. Through a woozy fog, I heard Jack’s husky whisper.

  “Thank God you’re okay. I’m so sorry I’m not there with you. How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, but please . . . hurry back.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. We’re about to take off. I love you, darling.”

  Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I love you, too.”

  “It’s what I wanted to hear, Meg. Love you. Bye, see you soon.”

  It’s what I wanted to hear, as well, and this time there was no mistaking what Jack meant. Christine Yarrow pocketed her cellphone, then wiped away my tears.

  “I’m glad you’re safe. We all are.” She smiled and patted my arm. “But I’d rather you stick to playing Jinx onscreen than endangering yourself like this again.”

  “I will,” I said, because I knew it was what she wanted to hear. But then I looked over at Chelsea, strapped to another gurney, an oxygen mask on her face. I’d owed it to her. Had it not been for me, she wouldn’t have been kidnapped and her mother would still be alive.

  After being treated by paramedics, Chelsea and I were transported to a hospital for an overnight stay. For Chelsea, learning that her kidnapper had also killed her mother only compounded the harrowing ordeal. I broke the news to her myself, knowing it couldn’t be kept from her for long. I explained as gently as I could what had happened.

  “Her visit was a surprise. You couldn’t have known about it. Unfortunately, I think Joe mistook her for me that night. I’m so sorry. Dirck was there, too. We’d had dinner together at Donna’s house beforehand, all of us concerned because you were missing.”

  “So stupid, it’s all so stupid,” Chelsea sobbed. I held her close, comforting her. “Mom was upset that Dirck was working as my coach and said terrible things to get me to drop him. If it’s all come out, then you probably know that he’s my father. Did she tell you that?”

  “No, but I found out. Obviously, it was a surprise to Dirck, too.”

  “After all my mother did for me, I should’ve left well enough alone. She didn’t want me to know, but once I did, she couldn’t stop me from looking him up. It really hurt her. I never let on to him who I was, but I didn’t tell her that.”

  Joe Shaw died from cardiac arrest before an ambulance arrived. For the Shaw family, learning of Joe’s crimes was a shocking blow. I felt especially sorry for Corky’s father, who blamed himself for not recognizing how deeply troubled and ill his younger brother was.

  By the time Jack got to the hospital, I was sitting up in bed, nursing a sore wrist and a bad headache. “I know,” I said when I saw his anxious face. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Promise me that, will you?” He hurried to my bedside and kissed me tenderly. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Alive, you mean. I’m sorry, Jack. But I had to find Chelsea.”

  “I know, I understand, but you worry me.”

  “I worry myself sometimes, but I can’t help it. I’m glad you’re back. Is your case wrapped up?”

  “Essentially, yes, it’s up to the prosecutors now. Unfortunately, breaking up one ring won’t be the end of it.”

  “No, of course not. You know, when you go off on a case I worry about you, too.”

  “It’s my job, it’s what I’m trained to do. But Meg, if anything happened to you, I couldn’t—” His voice trailed off. He sat on the edge of the bed holding my hand, his pain evident. “I lost someone I cared for very much. I can’t lose you. How do I keep you safe?”

  Don’t go away, don’t leave me. The words were already forming on my lips, but it wasn’t the right answer. “Trust me, Jack. I’ll trust you. We’re who we are and we’ll always have secrets we don’t share. It’s too late to change that. But trust in each other will help
keep us safe.”

  Two days later, we held a small memorial gathering for Elaine, with Doug rounding up some of her old colleagues to attend. Donna and I put together food and drinks for everyone, and Doug cut together a reel of some of Elaine’s stunt work. Dirck, of course, was present, but subdued. He wasn’t asked to offer remembrances.

  Whatever transpired between Dirck and his daughter was private, although the two appeared to be on cordial terms. After the memorial, they hugged farewell on Donna’s doorstep before Chelsea climbed into Jeremy’s Mustang and waved goodbye. Any doubts I’d had about Jeremy’s suitability as a boyfriend vanished when I saw how lovingly he cared for her.

  The following morning, we took Dirck to the airport in the Olds 98. While waiting for him to finish packing up, Doug sat in the front passenger seat, running his hand across the dashboard. It was a gentle touch, a caress Edie would have cherished. I think she’d also appreciate that I’d laundered the floor mats and gave the interior a good dusting, just as she would have done.

  I told Doug and Donna that I could haul Dirck to the airport myself, but they insisted on accompanying me—perhaps all of us indulging in the perverse pleasure of knowing that Dirck was finally on his way home to New York and didn’t want to leave.

  For one thing, Pru announced she has another bun in the oven. As much as he adores little Priscilla, the idea of having another child fills Dirck with panic. But more importantly, his newly discovered adult daughter and former student decided she no longer needed him as an acting coach. He had not taken the rejection well.

  On the way to the airport, in the back seat with Donna, he said, “It’s like a King Lear thing, you know? ‘How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ I mean, after all I did for her!”

  “It’s not as though you raised Chelsea,” Donna reminded him. “She didn’t really owe you anything.”

  “I gave her free acting classes! I encouraged her. She probably wouldn’t have gotten the role of Jinx without me. It’s not as though I didn’t have the inside track. Nobody knew that role like I did.”

  “Ahem,” I said, as a gentle reminder.

  “You know what I mean, Meg. I was there the whole time, observing everything you did. Besides, when she came to study with me she knew I was her father and never came clean about it. That I can’t forgive!”

  We rode in silence, letting the recriminations fester inside Dirck without comment. His rancor had been building since Ed Ackerman informed him he no longer had a job on the series.

  “And another thing,” Dirck said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Meg, but I’d hate to think you had anything to do with getting me dumped. Just because you got yourself a plum role out of this is no reason to shut me out.”

  “Whoa,” Doug said, turning in his seat to look at Dirck. “Don’t blame Meg. It was Ed Ackerman’s decision. The whole show’s been revamped. After news broke about how Meg tracked down Joe Shaw and rescued Chelsea, the network demanded that she join the cast. It’s promotion you can’t buy. Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, Ellen DeGeneres—even Jon Stewart jumped on board. Who the hell would turn their back on that kind of publicity?”

  “I was part of all that, too, you know, and paid a price. My shoulder will never be the same. Story of my life,” Dirck muttered.

  I pulled up at the curb in front of the departure terminal and popped the trunk.

  “You’ve got the lunch I packed?” Donna asked. “I made smoked salmon sandwiches on the whole-grain bread you like.”

  “Got it,” Dirck said, patting the outside pocket of his carry-on bag. “Thanks a lot, Donna. It makes flying coach tolerable. I’m going to miss your cooking.” He leaned over and gave her a hug. “Maybe one day I’ll bring the family out so you can meet them.”

  “You do that,” Donna said, less heartily than is her customary nature.

  Doug and I got out of the car to help Dirck with his bags.

  I gave him a hug, then reached into my pocket for a small blue velvet box. One of the few mementos I had left from our marriage was a locket Dirck’s mother wore until the day she died. She bequeathed the heart-shaped pendant to me. Dirck was her only child and I’d always meant to give him the gold case that contained his baby photo and strands of silky hair.

  I pressed the box into his hand. “For Pru,” I whispered.

  Dirck glanced at the familiar velvet box, smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Meg. No hard feelings, okay? If you and Chelsea fly in to do The Today Show next week, let’s get together.”

  “Absolutely. I’d like nothing better.”

  Dirck walked toward the terminal, his gait reminiscent of John Wayne.

  “Liar,” Doug said, under his breath.

  “Hey, it’s a long flight home. Let him leave with a smile on his face.”

  At the revolving doors, Dirck turned to wave one last time. We waved back.

  Now, nearly a week after Dirck’s departure, Chelsea and I stand in the pool house, pumped up and ready for our debut. We’ve been practicing together daily, feeling more and more like the team we’ve become.

  The irony is certainly not lost on me that the two of us will be costarring in the newly-newly retitled series, Jinxed, as a mother-and-daughter detective team. After hectic negotiations, a new pilot script has been approved and we start filming in ten days. Needless to say, hat tricks figure prominently.

  I peep out through the drapes drawn across the French doors, concealing us from the partygoers. Donna has indeed served up “Hollywood on a Plate,” dispensing top hats as party favors to every guest. Ed Ackerman has sprung big time for a gala press party, sparing no expense for this night under the stars. Potted palms line the pool, and a Disneyland of twinkling lights illuminates the trees and walkway leading up to the patio, where a platform draped in rhinestone-studded black velvet has been erected.

  I stand back, catching an unexpected glimpse of myself mirrored in the darkened window, not displeased by what I see reflected. I’m wearing a fitted swallowtail jacket that once belonged to Marlene Dietrich, a perfect stand-in for the iconic jacket I once wore as Jinx. Culled from Donna’s costume archive, the only thing that betrays its vintage is the smell of cedar from the closet and a lingering whiff of Dietrich’s Jean Patou.

  My eyes travel to Chelsea standing next to me, wearing a cropped tuxedo jacket from Donna’s collection, hers once worn by Judy Garland in concert. Our outfits don’t match, and that’s the point. We’re mother and daughter, not twins. Besides, Chelsea is wearing shorts and I’m wearing leggings with my ensemble. I don’t do shorts. Period.

  Dougie pokes his head around the door. “You girls ready?”

  “Now or never,” I say.

  Chelsea gives me a sly look. “You think you can handle this?”

  I wink. “Eat my dust, kid.”

  Dougie swings the door wide as a loud thump of music blares. A follow spot picks up the two of us as we strut up the steps to the platform. We turn our backs to the audience, strike a pose and raise our arms—but only I have a black disk in my hand. I snap the brim, flip the top hat into the air as I turn around and catch it on my head, the spotlight full on my face. The applause is thunderous!

  I toss the hat in the air again and twirl in a blaze of hot white light, but before I can catch the hat, Chelsea steps in and flips it onto her head. The gasp from the audience turns into laughter and applause.

  Chelsea does some break-dance moves, flicking the hat from hand to hand, then twirls, tosses the hat, and I catch it on my shoulder. I let it roll down my arm to my fingertips, then flip it in the air, catch it on my head and wink.

  Doing a cocky walk, I sling the hat in the air, twirl twice and prepare to catch the hat as I’ve done before. Suddenly Chelsea bumps my hip and catches the hat on her head. Again the audience roars at the playful rivalry. I extend my hand with a flourish to acknowledge her feat. Chelsea grins triumphantly and twirls away, her turn to showboat. I dance on the fringe of her limelight
, waiting to step back in.

  In a swift move of my own, I slide behind her, pluck the hat from her head and toss it high. She skirts around me, her long arm slicing up to take back the hat. She falters and the hat skitters out of her fingers, tumbling down. I kick my leg up, catching the hat on the tip of my shoe, then kick again and trap the rim between the palms of my hands.

  More laughter as Chelsea dips her head under the hat, reclaiming it as she swings away. The music hits a crescendo of drum rolls, begging for a grand finale. She steps back, slings the hat high, twirls, catches it in her fingertips and holds it aloft for a beat.

  She gives me another sly look, tosses the hat high, does a back flip and catches it on her head—the signature Jinx move I am way past doing. I bow and blow her a kiss, signaling the passing of the torch.

  She tosses the hat high and I dive under it, catching it, then casting it in a double-spin throw with the hat landing on my head, cocked over my right brow. We shoot our arms in the air, striking a pose, and then both bow, drinking in the applause.

  I’m winded but exhilarated. I look out on the crowd, spotting Lucille, the bus driver, standing front and center, clapping her hands and whistling. Beside her is Detective Christine Yarrow. I salute Corky and wave to his parents, who are all standing just to the left of the stage with many of the cast and crew of Jinxed.

  Waiters are busily passing out champagne and top hats to everyone as the follow spot beams across the crowd. Chelsea and I take one last bow, wave to the crowd and hurry down the steps.

  I give Chelsea a hug. “You know, you’re not bad. You could do this for a living. Think about it.”

  She laughs. “I already heard we were taking this baby on the road!”

  I turn and give Ed Ackerman a hug, then look around for Jack.

  He’s easy to spot, standing off by himself near the orchid pavilion, smiling and watching me. The milling crowd passes between us, yet I know he’s there, waiting for me. I savor the moment as we regard one another across the distance, a glimpse at a time, trusting we’ll always be there for each other.