Gypped

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Regan pulled the sheets under her chin. I’ll help Zelda as much as I can. I certainly hope that financial adviser is doing well by her. He wasn’t slick, but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. Maybe I should ask Zelda a few questions about her business affairs when I see her today. She’s worried enough about her father to have his new wife checked out, but I wonder what she knows about the people working for her. I’m also interested to hear about her coaching.

  Suddenly Regan sat up. I hope the hotel staff doesn’t do a security check and open the trunk of the car! When the attendant drove off with it, the knife completely slipped my mind. I should have just dropped it off at the police station. I’ll do that on the way back to Zelda’s. I don’t have to wait for Jack. By the time he gets back here we’ll want to start our weekend. Besides, I’ve been in the police stations around here before. I did work in this town.

  Feeling restless, Regan brought her laptop over to the bed. She leaned against the headboard and started to research the Scrumps estate. Nothing came up. Is it owned by a trust? she wondered. If they’re not using it, why don’t they sell it? They have that whole block to themselves. There’s so much privacy. Maybe too much! The lingering question in the back of her mind surfaced again. What was someone doing in those woods with a knife like that?

  Her cell phone rang. It was her mother, Nora.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Regan, hi. Just thought I’d see how your trip was going so far.”

  “Well, it’s been a little unusual.”

  “Oh? I’m all ears.”

  “Remember when I was on that game show?” Regan began.

  “Of course I do. You missed out on the big money. Your consolation prizes, which provided you little consolation, were electric curlers you never used, and a dozen boxes of macaroni noodles.”

  “You have the memory of an elephant.”

  “It helps with my writing. So what about the game show?”

  “Someone I got friendly with those few days at the studio, her name is Zelda. . . .”

  “Wait, wasn’t she on after you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember. Don’t forget, we’ve played that tape more than once over the years.”

  “I know you love to embarrass me,” Regan said, her tone amused.

  “No, I don’t. The expression on your face when you lost was priceless. You looked like you wanted to strangle the woman who gave you that bad clue.”

  “I did want to strangle her. Anyway, I ran into Zelda yesterday.”

  Nora listened as Regan recounted the tale, interrupting only occasionally. “Eight million dollars? Not bad.”

  “Can you believe it?” Regan asked without waiting for an answer. She finished the story, leaving out the juicy bit about discovering a butcher knife in the woods.

  “Her father got married in the back of a taxi at a drive-through wedding chapel?” Nora blurted. Clearly she found this to be the most astonishing piece of news.

  “Yes!”

  “Wow. My word.” Nora paused, then asked quietly, “Regan, can you just picture your father?”

  “I thought the same thing! Can you see Daddy, with a flower in the lapel of one of his black suits, sitting in the back of a beat-up cab, waiting on line at the drive-up window?”

  “Not with the meter running.”

  Regan lowered her voice. “I’ll have fries with that.”

  They both started to laugh. Their beloved Luke was so dignified.

  “I’m sorry,” Nora finally said, trying to contain her laughter. “I’m not making fun of Zelda’s troubles. And the only way your father would ever end up in that situation would be over my dead body, so I’m laughing at myself, too.”

  “I know, Mom. Zelda was actually trying to joke about it herself, quoting lines from songs about how love can make you do crazy things. But it’s not as funny for her because she’s not imagining it.”

  “The poor dear,” Nora replied. “Regan, I don’t envy you. I sincerely hope you find nothing scandalous about this woman and Zelda learns to like her. But if that’s not the case, I hope whatever you find is bad enough that Zelda’s father will want to get out fast. Anything in between could be very sticky.”

  “I have the feeling Zelda wants me to find something truly awful.”

  “Well, do you think you’ll head up to wine country tomorrow?” Nora asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s funny. The other day I signed several books for fundraisers. You know me with my map on the wall. I love to see where the books are going. One of the requests was from a town north of Los Angeles. The letter struck me as being a little odd, but I sent the book anyway. I figured I may as well since my new assistant had already addressed the envelope.”

  “Why did it seem odd?”

  “It just. . . .”

  There was a loud knock at Regan’s door. “Room service!”

  Regan put her hand over the phone. “Coming,” she called. “Mom, I have to go. My breakfast is here.”

  Three more knocks, even louder. “ROOM SERVICE!”

  “COMING!” Regan yelled.

  “Regan, let me know what happens.”

  “I will.”

  When Regan pulled open the door, a waiter was smiling from ear to ear, a sense of peace and calm emanating from his being. “Good morning, Mrs. Reilly. Are you having a good day so far?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “May I come in with your breakfast?”

  No, I’ll eat it in the hallway, Regan wanted to answer. Instead, she smiled back at him. “Of course, please come in. I’ll hold the door.”

  Two seconds later, her cell phone began to ring.

  The waiter slowly pushed the breakfast table forward, but the wheels got stuck on the threshold. “Oops,” he said, as the glass and silverware jiggled. “Let’s try again.” He slowly backed up the table, then shoved it forward.

  “Got it?” Regan asked, then ran for her phone. Before she reached it, the ringing stopped. She checked the number—Jack had called! She dialed right back but it went to voice mail. He hadn’t left a message. He probably made a quick call when he had a minute, then shut off his phone. She wanted so much to talk to him.

  “Mrs. Reilly, may I pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “No!” Regan wanted to tell him, trying to calm her frustration. Then she almost laughed. I bet I have the same batty expression on my face as when I lost on that game show. There’s no doubt about it—love and money can make you crazy.

  13

  After Regan left, Zelda left messages for her clients, then fell asleep again. An hour later she was up, heading to the bathroom, feeling very dizzy. I’ll have to go right back to bed, she thought. Norman wasn’t surprised to find her there when he returned to the room.

  “I can’t stand up for long.”

  “I told you,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re not going to be back on your feet until tomorrow.”

  Zelda’s arms were crossed, covering her eyes. “What could have caused this?”

  “I don’t think food poisoning strikes right away, so it probably wasn’t anything you ate at the party. But if we start getting phone calls from sick party guests, you’d better check your insurance policy. What did you eat yesterday?”

  “Nothing for breakfast. When I was out shopping, I had a cheesesteak sandwich. Last night I was so busy I only had a couple hors d’oeuvres and a small piece of ham.”

  “Don’t you advocate the importance of a healthy diet to your clients?”

  “At times, I stray.”

  “Do you want me to cancel lunch with Regan?”

  “No! I have to talk to her about Bobby Jo. Regan won’t mind having a sandwich up here. I certainly won’t feel like eating.”

  “What about Rich?”

  “He’s only stopping by for a little while. He can come up here and speak to me.”

  “I’ll run to the store and pick up sandwich makings and a sal
ad. I don’t think we should offer Regan leftovers. Especially if they cause food poisoning. I’d better throw everything out.”

  Zelda nodded. “Get me some of the chicken noodle soup we love. Hopefully I’ll be able to have that later.”

  “Okay. Don’t worry, Zelda, you’ll feel better soon.”

  “I hope so. Norman, do you think someone could have spiked my drink?”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your friends wouldn’t do that. The help wouldn’t have any reason to do it. Rich and Heather and Gladys certainly want you to stay healthy, that’s for sure. If you die, they won’t be handling your money.” He chuckled. “Bobby Jo will.”

  “Norman, why are you tormenting me?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was a stupid joke.”

  “If you must know, you’re in my will, but that could change because I plan to amend it.”

  “What? Zelda, you’re my friend. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Listen, would you?” Zelda interrupted.

  “Okay.”

  “I left generous gifts to you and a couple of other close friends. Everything else goes to my father. But I don’t want that woman to get her hands on it. I don’t know everything about trusts but I know enough to know that I’d like to set one up for my father. If I die he can take money from the trust until he dies. Then it will revert back to my estate and go to you and my other friends. You should be grateful to Bobby Jo. If she hadn’t come along I wouldn’t be making these changes. Most of my money would go straight to my father. It would never end up back with you.”

  Norman had been pointing in the air with his index finger, making an imaginary trail of the money. “Zelda,” he stammered, “I’d be desolate if something happened to you! All jokes aside, I’d rather have you in my life than your money in my bank account. I mean it!”

  “I know that, Norman. I really do. That’s why I trust you, and I only want the best for you. You haven’t seemed happy lately.”

  Norman flopped in the chair. “It’s hard not knowing which way my life is going. I love working for you, but it’s not a career and I need more.”

  “What would you really like to do?”

  Norman looked at the ground. He tapped his fingers against the chair. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. It’s the question I ask everyone I coach. What would you really like to do?”

  “Sing,” Norman said in a tiny voice.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Sing,” Norman said a little bit louder.

  “What did you say?”

  “SING,” Norman shouted.

  “There you go! You want to sing?”

  “YES! I feel alive when I sing! There’s nothing like hearing the applause.”

  “Applause? When do you hear applause?”

  “Late at night in karaoke bars.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “It is! And I’m taking singing lessons, but I can barely afford them.”

  “What do I always tell my students?”

  “Go for your dream.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But sometimes going for your dream is a little tough on the pocketbook.”

  “I’ll pay for your lessons.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes. If you must know, I don’t charge some of my students. And I help them with certain expenses.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Only the ones who really need it. I won’t do it forever. They all say they’ll pay me back. We’ll see.”

  “You’re always working so hard with your coaching. It’s not as if you need the money.”

  “I enjoy it. Like you with your singing. It makes me feel good to help people build their confidence. Then all they need is a little push.”

  “And a little dough.”

  “Norman!”

  “Sorry.”

  “At least I don’t have to worry about you being nice to me for my money.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Zelda laughed. “I’ve always felt that you’ve been glad for me about the money. Not many people are. It’s human nature. There’s a lot of jealousy.”

  “I never begrudged you a nickel. And . . . and . . . and . . . I’ve stayed out of your financial matters.”

  “That’s true, you have. You know what, Norman?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes having this much money is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “I’d like a shot at it.”

  “I’m serious. Take, for example, the fundraiser I went to that had the auction for this house. I didn’t know anyone there. I don’t even know how they got my address or phone number.”

  “You get on a list. Then you’re toast.”

  “I always buy tickets to these events. And then I feel guilty if I don’t spend more money when I’m there. That’s why we’re sitting in this house now.”

  “It’s an experience.”

  “That it is. Listen, why don’t you run into town and get the shopping done? I’d also like you to stop at my apartment. Whatever information I have about the charity, and the paperwork for this house, is on the desk in my office. I’d like Regan to take a look at it.”

  “Good idea. This place is a dump.”

  “It’s not that bad. I think I’ll try and get some sleep now.”

  “Okay. I love you, Zelda.”

  “I love you too, Norman.” She smiled. “If you ever keep anything from me like my father did, I’ll kill you.”

  Norman howled as he left the room.

  14

  The morning after Maggie worked at the Scrumps estate, she slept until 9:00. Her studio apartment was in a nice-enough complex on Kings Road in West Hollywood, but her unit was below ground. As a result, it was often difficult to discern what the weather was like, or even the time of day. Sliding glass doors ran the length of the small room, and opened onto a narrow patio that faced a cement wall. At the top of the wall security bars were welded to the building. The only natural light that reached Maggie’s apartment passed through those bars.

  Coffee, Maggie thought, I need coffee. She pulled on a pair of sweats, grabbed her keys, and slipped a ten dollar bill in her pocket as she left the apartment. She double locked both cylinders, then sauntered down the hall to a metal door that led outside. She pushed it open, ascended a small staircase, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “The world is still here,” she mumbled as she breathed in fresh air and started up the block. It’s hard to tell what’s going on when I’m down in that cell. She had made the space as homey as she could, but it still felt so confining. Maggie liked to get up and out first thing in the morning and pick up a cup of coffee. It was an expense, but a necessary one. She did it for her sanity. Besides, Gelson’s Market was only a block away and their coffee was the best. Today I might even treat myself to a banana muffin, Maggie mused. One of the best things about being a character actress was not having to agonize over every morsel of food you put in your mouth.

  On the street she passed several people out walking their dogs. Most of them nodded and smiled. My apartment might not be the greatest, but I love this neighborhood.

  She could have gotten a better apartment if she was willing to live with a roommate, but one bad experience had put her off that forever. Before she left a suburb of Chicago for Los Angeles, she’d found an apartment online. A middle-aged woman who lived in a modern two-bedroom on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood wanted a roommate to help cover expenses. She turned out to be a weirdo who stayed up all night with the television blaring while she drank pitchers of margaritas. Within a week she stormed into Maggie’s room at 2:00 A.M., waving a pair of scissors and accusing Maggie of stealing her organic limes.

  Maggie was terrified. She would never close her eyes in that apartment again. When the woman retreated, Maggie locked her door, packed her bags, and waited. The wacko finally went out “to me
et a client” at noon. At 12:01 Maggie hightailed it out of there. She never looked back. She never looked for another roommate, either.

  Inside Gelson’s, Maggie headed straight to the bakery section. The fresh breads and pastries smelled great. I may as well indulge, she decided, ordering a muffin with her coffee. I worked hard last night.

  Walking back down the block, she thought about the previous evening. That older woman Gladys was a hoot. She came into the kitchen three different times to say hello and see if any of her favorite hors d’oeuvres were left. When she found out the help were all aspiring actors, she told them she had wanted to be an actress but her parents wouldn’t let her. Instead, they sent her to secretarial school to learn bookkeeping.

  “I never should have listened,” she said as she popped a scallop wrapped with bacon into her mouth.

  “I read an article about several older women who went into acting later in life and really did well,” Maggie had told her. “It’s never too late. Especially if you’re funny.”

  The two of them exchanged numbers.

  Back in the abyss, one of several nicknames Maggie had given her apartment, she sat at her computer, took the lid off her coffee, and started perusing the latest audition notices. Like most young actors, she was doing as much as she could to find work on her own. She had an agent who couldn’t get her arrested, which was especially irksome considering her living conditions. Maggie didn’t have her Screen Actors Guild card which made things even more difficult. She couldn’t get a union job because she wasn’t in SAG, but she couldn’t get into SAG until she had a union job.

  Non-union projects were good for gaining experience and building a reel. But because those projects weren’t subject to strict rules and regulations, you never knew what you were getting into.

  Maggie sipped her coffee and scrolled down the page. Why wasn’t I born gorgeous? she wondered as she took a bite of her muffin. Well, I know I can do comedy. She jotted down the contact information on several roles she thought she’d be right for. Nothing that’s going to win me an Academy Award, she thought, but work is work. It’s also about making connections for future jobs.