Innocent Little Crimes

by C. S. Lakin

  After picking up their suitcases, Jonathan walked over to the car rental desk.

  Melodie pointed to the Avis sign overhead. “Why are we here? I thought you arranged a limo.”

  “The limo services were all booked for the weekend. Can you believe it?” He adjusted his dark glasses. He wore them all the time, inside or out. He figured somebody, somewhere, might recognize him, and he wanted to travel incognito. But, lately—he admitted to himself—he was lucky if anyone even recognized the shows he did, let alone his own name.

  What the hell was happening in Hollywood? Most of his friends were swamped with offers—and look at Lila, with a hit show. Why, just two years ago he came close to being nominated for an Emmy. Pretty good money for a kid from the lower East Side. A kid who grew up in a schlock neighborhood, engulfed by the abominable smells of rotting garbage and the roar of the Third Avenue El trains that shook his crumbling apartment and drove his family to constant argument. A kid who worked every spare minute in his parents’ deli downstairs, and ate enough corned beef and pastrami to fill the Vatican. He worked his ass off— no thanks to his tight-wad family—and got through college, grad school, and finally in through the studio doors. He shmoozed his way to the top—like everybody did—and look at him now.

  Right after the near-Emmy nomination, he bought his Mercedes, his house in Benedict Canyon, married Vanessa, (a big mistake, but, what did he know then?). He was on top of the world. But within two years, his lofty perch came tumbling down. Vanessa left him for that shmuck cinematographer with the biceps, a kid fresh out of UCLA. Ungrateful tramp. Now his business manager was on him to stop blowing money, warning him he was about to spend himself right out of his last pair of designer jeans. But you couldn’t deal in that town without throwing money around. You had to wine and dine ’em at Campanile, throw lavish parties, wear Bijan’s suits. His manager was a cheap tightwad anyway. Always wanting to meet him for lunch at Solly’s in the valley, when he knew how much he hated deli.

  Melodie barely masked her annoyance, pacing impatiently while Jonathan filled out the forms for the rental. He glared at the agent behind the desk.

  “Can’t you hurry up? We’re not accustomed to waiting.” He figured by now the woman would realize they were important people. But she kept typing at her slow speed. Eventually, she handed him his keys and rental agreement and pointed to the door.

  “Your car will be around momentarily. A white Ford Escort.”

  “A Ford?” he said, slapping the counter with his palm. “I reserved your best car.”

  The woman scanned her computer screen. “All I see on here is ‘economy two-door.’ That’s all we have left and that’s what you get.” She gave him a look which dared him to challenge her.

  Jonathan gritted his teeth. Melodie, standing off at a distance, drank water from the Evian bottle she always carried. It drove him to distraction that she was a health food nut and a vegetarian, which made choosing restaurants a source of aggravation. She always carried a pouch of trail mix, like it was manna from heaven. He couldn’t understand her obsession with resisting impurities since she snorted coke at every opportunity.

  “Come on,” he called over to her as the car stopped at the curb. She hesitated, then followed him out to the street, pulling her luggage behind her. Jonathan loaded the two suitcases in the trunk and got in without a word.

  They drove north. Mount Rainier loomed behind them, its peak buried in storm clouds. After merging onto the Interstate, Jonathan started to relax. The day was certainly not off to the best start, but he’d turn it around. In only a few hours he’d be at Lila Carmichael’s island hideaway.

  He looked over at Melodie, who stared quietly out the window. “Fix your hair, baby.”

  Melodie pulled a compact out of her purse and put everything in place. Jonathan smiled. This one knew who was boss, never an argument or a nasty word. Although sometimes her cold silences drove him crazy with curiosity. What did she really think about him? These days he wondered what everyone was thinking. So often, even with those he considered his closest friends, he found cold eyes behind warm, phony smiles. He couldn’t trust anyone anymore.

  He turned his attention back to the road. It gave him a rush to drive through the familiar terrain of his college days. He hadn’t been back since the year they all graduated—fifteen years already. As they headed north through the Skagit valley, Jonathan noticed the flatlands flooded from recent rain. The four years he spent in Olympia had been unbearably damp and wet. Not as cold as New York, but worse, because you were always wet, through and through. At The Evergreen State College, when he wasn’t inside for rehearsals, he was warming the chill out of his bones in the sauna. He swore he’d never live in a cold climate again.

  And now, looming out the window, was that familiar gray blanket of clouds. He cranked the heater.

  “So,” Melodie said, “tell me about Lila.” She stared out at the passing scenery without comment. “Is she everything they say?”

  “Meaning?”

  “A ball-busting snake with a short fuse.”

  “Well, she’s definitely that. But I find her quite charming at times.”

  Jonathan hadn’t spoken to Lila since college, but Melodie wouldn’t know that. “Whenever I run into Lila, she’s all smiles for me. I directed her first play, you know. She was different back then—you wouldn’t have recognized her. Shy, but smart. Memorized every line of every play we did. No one wanted to give her a chance to act, because she was, well, fat and homely, but I could tell she had talent, big talent. I gave her first break and look at her now.”

  Jonathan smiled, indulging in a little fantasy regarding the manila envelope lying on top of his clothes in his suitcase. He rambled on while Melodie pulled out her compact and reapplied her dark red lipstick. Jonathan reached over and ran his hand up the inside of her thigh.

  “So what was the play?” she said.

  “The play?” He’d already lost his chain of thought. He was heating up.

  “The one you directed Lila in.”

  He pulled back for a moment. “Inge’s ‘Picnic.’ A silly little romance. You know—that corny college stuff. After I did that play, though, I knew I was destined to direct. When the semester ended, I headed for USC film school and as they say, ‘the rest is history.’ ”

  “So, I don’t know that play,” Melodie said, ignoring his roaming hand. “What kind of part was it?”

  “Well, actually, we gave her the lead. Madge.” Jonathan laughed. “Madge is this pretty, naive small-town girl. She gets swept off her feet by some smooth-talking city kid who blows into town. We thought it’d be a kick to give homely Lila the lead.”

  “So, how’d she do? Did she bring down the house or what?”

  Jonathan hesitated. “Well, that’s a story for another time, babe.” He inched his hand further up her thigh.

  “It makes me nervous to do this while you’re driving,” she said.

  Jonathan reached for the zipper of her pantsuit. “There’s nobody on the road. I’ll drive slowly. Come on.”

  Melodie kept her mouth shut while Jonathan unzipped her pants. He slid his hand down. “That’s more like it.”

  Traffic passed them on both sides. Jonathan breathed heavily and rolled his eyes. Melodie broke his reverie with a shout.

  She pointed at the exit sign. “There’s the turnoff.”

  Jonathan caught a glimpse of it as he sped past.

  Melodie laughed. “Nice going, Jonny.”

  “Who’s driving, anyhow?” he said. “You wanna drive?”

  “I don’t like driving, you know that.”

  “Well, if you’re going to complain about my driving, then it’s your turn.” He pulled the Ford abruptly to the edge of the highway and cut the engine. Then he threw the keys in her lap. She sat there, unmoving.

  “I’m not driving, Jonny.”

  “Then you can walk. Or apologize.”

  She looked appraisingly at his face, then tossed the k
eys into his lap.

  “I’ll walk,” she said, then got out of the car. Rain began to splatter the highway. He watched her in the rear view mirror as she opened the trunk and got out her suitcase. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

  “Hey, come on. You’re not going really walk, are you? The ferry’s another fifteen miles.”

  She picked up her bag and started heading the opposite direction.

  “Hey, Mel, what’s your problem, anyway?”

  “I don’t have the problem, hot pants. You do. You’re pathetic, you know?”

  “Mel, you get back in this car!”

  “I’m going back to L.A., Jonny. You can keep your Pacific Knockwurst. Like maybe you could keep it zipped up in your pants.”

  Jonathan, furious, watched her trudge along the shoulder of the highway hefting her small suitcase. The air smelled of steaming asphalt and dust as more rain saturated the highway.

  He craned his neck out the window. “Go to hell, you tramp!”

  She didn’t bother to look back. He gunned the engine and screeched back into the lane, making an illegal U turn, almost sideswiping a motor home.

  “Ungrateful slut.”

  Chapter 9

  Millie pushed the curtains aside and stared out the window.

  Dick tossed a pair of socks at the suitcase that lay open on their bed. His aim was off and the socks tumbled onto the floor. “How many times are you going to check the weather? Turn on CNN, already!” Millie scooped up the socks and placed them neatly in the bag. Then she rearranged everything, refolding and smoothing out their clothes.

  “You’re so compulsive,” he said. “Why can’t you throw your stuff in and leave it alone?”

  Millie shrugged. “I don’t like wrinkles.”

  She stepped back and let Dick finish packing. She hadn’t had much to pack for herself. Two sweat suits, two good black sweaters and one black flair skirt—all too tight. She had refused to buy new clothes until she lost weight, as if that “threat” could make a dent in her eating habits.

  “The storm looks bad, honey. Have you called the ferries? Maybe we should have caught the earlier one.”

  “Look,” Dick said, turning to face his wife, “we’re going whether the ferries are running or not — whether we have to swim to that island, comprende?” Dick wiped the sweat off his brow and smoothed his hair over his bald spot. No matter how cold the weather, he always worked up a sweat. He patted his pocket, no doubt looking for his Rolaids. Millie sulked.

  The doorbell rang. “Your mother’s here,” she said.

  Dick’s eyes lit up. He snapped the latches on the suitcase and bounded down the stairs. Millie heard the sappy words of appreciation her husband lavished on his mother as he let her in. Millie came downstairs to Ida’s familiar ritual—puffing up pillows, straightening pictures, wiping counters. When the girls ran in to greet their grandmother, she gave each of them a perfunctory, empty kiss. It amazed Millie what a changed man Dick became around his mother—so gracious and accommodating, eager to make her comfortable. He treated her like a queen, but Ida paid little attention.

  Dick went over details, informing his mother of the girls’ ballet and piano lessons, Debby’s diet, and instructions for answering the phone. He told her to let the machine pick up, no matter what. His mother scrutinized his face with a scowl, but Millie knew she wouldn’t ask questions.

  Millie was grateful the girls had some family nearby, for what it was worth. She knew she fell short of Ida’s criteria for a daughter-in-law, even though her objections were never voiced. But Ida Ferrol knew how to make her feel unwelcome with just a look and a grunt.

  While Dick was a local boy from Tacoma, Millie came from Brussels, Wisconsin, flat farmland she had gladly left behind. Her father argued with her decision to move to Washington; girls didn’t go to college, just married and raised children. Like most of their neighbors in the county, her family made cheese. The thought of staying with her brothers and sisters curdling milk all day repulsed her. Yet, with a big family she had never been lonely. Now, working full-time at Gottschalks, she could no longer afford visits home. And her busy family had only once made the trip west, when the girls were very small. So Millie had to settle for Ida and her monthly, clockwork-like visits.

  While Dick carried Ida’s bag up to the guest bedroom, Millie fussed over the girls. Dick came down and noticed her face streaming with tears. Debby and Sally clutched their mother.

  “Jeez, we’re only going for three days. What’s with all the tears?”

  Millie wiped her eyes and gave her girls a smile.

  “Oh, I’m gonna miss my honey-bunnies.” She stroked their cheeks. “Be good for grandma.”

  Dick scowled. “Millie, the girls are nearly grown. Why do you always talk to them like they’re babies? Okay, enough already. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The girls hugged their father and went outside to play. Ida came downstairs and started cleaning the kitchen. Millie’s stomach churned. As hard as she tried, she could never get the house clean enough for her mother-in-law—or organize the perpetual clutter. Knick-knacks jammed the shelves, stuffed animals and toys draped the furniture. Walking from room to room was an obstacle nightmare. Millie gave up long ago trying to get the girls to clean up after themselves; they always forgot and she hated to nag them. Holding down a full-time job exhausted her. On top of that, Dick never lifted a hand to help, and he was the sloppiest of all. Millie wondered if he deliberately added to her workload.

  All these years she’d hoped he’d get a real job. She knew his work with the city council was important. He had been the impetus behind many great projects the town implemented—the recycling program, the food bank, the new community center. He also managed her money, made sure all the bills were paid, let her know when they were spending too much. But it irked her that he controlled how she spent her money.

  And now—all this intrigue. She’d heard rumors, bad ones, and when she tried to talk to Dick about them, he shut her out. Critical talk often plagued the city council, and she mostly ignored it. But now— hints of recall, misuse of funds, possible trials. She cringed when she drove past the municipal buildings with all those picketers holding signs. One even said: “Send Dick Ferrol to jail!” She’d never been this scared before. The life she carefully built in Olympia could be falling to pieces and Dick would never tell her.

  Millie pulled her husband aside, out of earshot from Ida, who was washing dishes in the kitchen.

  “Honey, we need to talk. Please tell me what’s going on downtown. Gwen told me this morning—”

  “Gwen? She makes a career out of gossiping. There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll all clear up soon.”

  “I’m worried about you. You’re a wreck. Climbing the walls and snapping at me and the kids. I’m afraid you’re going to have a stroke.”

  “Millie, you’re so neurotic. It’s just political baloney—you should be used to it by now.”

  Millie took Dick’s arm and drew him close. “When we get back from this reunion, let’s take a real vacation. Away from everything, away from the kids. Let it all blow over, whatever this is.”

  Dick pulled out from her entangling arms. “Listen to you talk. You can’t even bear to leave the girls for three days—your whole world falls apart. Besides, running away isn’t going to solve this mess. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

  “Then why are we going to this stupid reunion anyway, right in the middle of all this trouble?” She put her hand to her head and squinted.

  “Don’t tell me—another migraine, right?” He didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Go take your Advil.”

  “It never works.”

  “You always get a migraine when the going gets tough.”

  Millie looked at Dick’s flushed face. She heard the girls laughing in the yard and the sound of water running in the kitchen sink. She felt faint.

  “I’ll go wait in the car,” she said,
leaving Dick standing in the hall.

  Chapter 10

  “Look what the rain dragged in,” Della said as Jon sprinted up the ramp to catch up with them. She let her eyes drift over his expensive wet coat and shoes, then backed away.

  Davis threw an arm around Jon. “Just in time. Hey, good to see you, Jon. You here alone?”

  Jon shook the water out of his curly black hair. He walked alongside Davis as they boarded the boat. Della trailed behind, just within earshot.

  “Yeah, hey—what a crappy time of year for a trip to Washington, huh? Let’s get upstairs. They must have a bar and I desperately need a drink.” He turned his head. “Hi Della.” He made no attempt to mask the irony in his voice. “Looking good, Della.”

  Della glared at him.

  As Jon appraised her with his eyes, Della read his amusement. She could hear him thinking, I told you you’d never amount to anything. No doubt still fuming from the time she showed up two hours late on the set—the one time he gave her a break. But, how dare he fire her on the spot and embarrass her in front of the whole cast?

  Della stopped.“Listen, idiot. I didn’t come here to continue a fight from fifteen years ago, so shove it, okay?” With that, she turned and hurried up to the heated waiting room and found a seat by the window.

  She stared at snow-capped Mount Baker, pasted against the steel-gray backdrop of sky, and watched it shrink in size as the ferry plied west. She felt sick all over. Just what she needed—seeing Davis in love with someone else. Three fun-filled days and nights with Mr. God of Hollywood, the big-shot director. And Lila wasn’t likely to be thrilled with her, either. Nobody from Evergreen really cared about her. The guys had all wanted to screw her in college and the girls had been either jealous or intimidated. But a friend? She never had one. She buried her head in her hands and tried to cry.