Jinxed Read online

  JINXED

  A Down and Out in Beverly Heels Novel

  KATHRYN LEIGH SCOTT

  Cumberland Press

  New York

  Contents

  Also by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 Kathryn Leigh Scott

  All rights reserved.

  Jinxed is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious and arise from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9862459-1-6

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-9862459-0-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901010

  Cumberland Press, New York, New York

  For author contact and press inquiries, or to order signed copies, please visit www.kathrynleighscott.com.

  Also by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  FICTION

  Down and Out in Beverly Heels

  Jinxed

  September Girl

  Dark Passages

  NONFICTION

  Now With You, Now Without

  A Welcome Respite

  The Happy Hours

  Last Dance at the Savoy

  The Bunny Years

  Dark Shadows: Return to Collinwood

  Dark Shadows Memories

  Dark Shadows Almanac

  Dark Shadows Companion

  Lobby Cards: The Classic Films

  Lobby Cards: The Classic Comedies

  For Geoff, always and forever

  Chapter One

  “I’ll ask you again,” he says, his voice low. “Your husband’s kidnapping was a hoax. You helped him disappear, right? Where is he?”

  The FBI agent, his blinding white shirt open at the neck, leans in so close I can smell the warm raisin scent of his body. The question echoes in my mind with a dizzying sense of déjà vu. Why can’t I remember anything?

  He glances at the pages in his hand, then back to me, a sly gleam in his eye. “C’mon, you should know this, Meg.”

  Then it comes to me and I blurt, “No! You’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. You have to believe me!” I really do have nothing to hide, but the truth sounds strained even to my ears, especially with a pair of caramel-brown eyes looking intently into mine.

  “I know you were in on it, sweetheart, but that’s okay.” His voice is husky as he pulls me close and whispers, “Because it’s you I’m after, not him.”

  I give him a quick punch in the shoulder and burst into laughter. “I’m reporting you to the Bureau, buster. You’re not getting away with this!”

  Jack drops the script in my lap and grins. “Try me.”

  “Later.” I swing my legs up on the couch and bury my toes under his knees, wriggling them against the soft sun-bleached denim of his blue jeans. “Come on, you’re supposed to run lines with me, not make them up.” I toss the script back in his lap.

  “What’ve you signed on for, anyway?”

  “It’s a webisode, an Internet series. You can watch it on a smartphone. An iPad. Maybe even your fancy Dick Tracy two-way wristwatch.”

  Jack makes a face as he shoves the script onto the coffee table.

  “Hey, don’t look at me like that. These days the phone rings and I say, ‘Yes, where? What time?’ I’ve gone from the silver screen to an LED screen the size of a Snickers bar.”

  Jack laughs and gets up, leaning over to give me a kiss. “How about a glass of wine? I want to hear more about this.”

  “You’re out to make fun of me,” I tease, my eyes following him appreciatively as he pads barefoot toward the kitchen.

  His six-foot frame moves easily, a slim torso attesting to vigorous handball workouts and daily jogs—and, I would imagine, the rigors of his FBI job, though he doesn’t talk much about it. Jack lives in a clearly defined Guy Pad, a one-bedroom condo overlooking the marshy Ballona wetlands, a coastal freshwater expanse just south of Los Angeles International Airport that was once owned by billionaire eccentric Howard Hughes. The musky smell of marshland and distant cawing of birds skimming over the grassy inlet drifts through the open balcony doors.

  “No, seriously, tell me.” Jack pulls a bottle from the wine cooler and opens it with a corkscrew mounted on the quartz countertop. He glances up. “Who’s directing this mini extravaganza?”

  “Cornelius Shaw, a sixteen-year-old kid who goes by the name Corky.” I join him, perching on a stool at the counter. “He’s into film noir and obsessed with Ida Lupino. How could I resist?”

  Jack pours pinot grigio into two chilled glasses, hands me one and touches his glass to mine. “Sounds like a Turner Classic Movies geek. How did he find you?”

  “Not through my agent, believe me. But these days you can track down anyone, especially if you’re as resourceful as Corky. He’s been making movies since he was twelve. Now his folks have given him a choice between auto insurance and a film budget, which gives you some idea of what I’m getting paid. His mom drives him everywhere. I bring my own lunch.”

  “Wait a minute, that scene we were reading takes place in some so-called FBI headquarters. That’s a pretty elaborate location setup. Don’t tell me he’s going to try to sneak you into the Federal Building?”

  “If he could, he would, believe me. Instead he does it all with CGI, or what passes for computer-generated imagery when you’ve got a vivid imagination and no money. It gives a whole new meaning to fixing it in post-production. You’ve heard of garage bands? This is a garage film studio with the walls lined in blue cloth. At night, his dad parks the family Honda in there.”

  “And the upside?”

  “Lots of close-ups?”

  Jack laughs. “That’s it?”

  “What the hell, it’s fun! I’m looking at blue bed sheets and imagining I’m in a city park or a jail cell. He fills in the background later on his computer. Everything feels primitive, yet it’s all high-tech. And it’s so collaborative, like the way it must have felt making two-reelers with Charlie Chaplin a hundred years ago, and—”

  Jack leans in to give me a kiss. “And?”

  “The kid is sweet and trying hard and maybe he’s a young Orson Welles or Steven Spielberg . . . and, let’s face it, he had me on Ida Lupino.”

  Jack smiles. “But you know he’s riffing on what really happened to you, right?”

  I swallow hard. Wine runs down my throat in a chilly river. I cough, stalling for time, then meet Jack’s eyes. “Yeah. I figured he might have read a few news stories about me.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, the title Conman and His Lady was a tip-off. Now he’s calling it Forsaken. But I thought, why not? The story he’s written is different from what really happened to me. The husband is caught and the money returned. I’m cleared. Life goes on.”

  “The way you wish it had happened.”

  I nod. Left unsaid is that in Corky’s perfect film-noir world I wouldn’t have lost everything I own, including my home, and ended up living on the streets in my “Ritz-Volvo.” It’s hard to get past the fact that the man I loved and married swindled so
many other people besides me, destroying their lives, too.

  “But what about you, Jack? Don’t you wish things had gone differently on your end?”

  Corky’s teenage sensibilities don’t run to nuance and his script is not subtle. While he couldn’t know what was actually said during my interrogation, his tough-talking FBI agent pretty much lays it on the line.

  “I don’t have to do any intense memory work to prepare for that scene, you know?” I say to fill his silence. “I remember what it feels like to be grilled like that. I was truly scared and probably looked guilty as hell. C’mon, Jack, you were the one grilling me! You remember as well as I do.”

  My cheeks burn. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, by now he’d be unbuttoning the blinding white shirt and unzipping his sun-bleached jeans, and I’d be tearing off my own shirt and jeans. His face, so close to mine, with a shadow of stubble hollowing his cheeks, his close-cropped gray-flecked hair curling like goose down behind his ears, sends a wave of longing rocking through me—so why am I pursuing this?

  I should be way past this by now, yet residual anger grips me. A year ago, FBI Agent Jack Mitchell was in charge of investigating my fugitive husband and suspected me of being in on the scam. Does he still wonder what I knew and when I knew it?

  I wonder the same thing: How much did Jack know? When did he know it? Had he given me an inkling of the FBI’s history with the man I knew as Paul Stevens, I could have protected myself. Burned into my brain is the sense that I was treated as nothing more than collateral damage.

  If it’s true that love doesn’t care who owns it, I bought it at a terrific price with my second marriage. Paul made loving him easy, but that was his agenda, with a big payoff for him in the end. With Jack, love runs deeper, but trust still comes hard.

  Perched on a stool, wine glass in hand, I look around Jack’s sleek kitchen, seeing my future life as I could live it. The cupboards are already equipped with two of everything, not just service for one, and there are pegs for two robes in the bathroom. What could be better than to live here with Jack in security and comfort, our past issues resolved and behind us? But it’s not the case—yet. I’m not prepared to enter a relationship that’s not on an equal footing. If trust is one challenge to overcome, the need to redeem myself is another.

  Jack slides the base of his wine glass around in a slippery puddle on the countertop. “It’s my job,” he says quietly. “If I could undo the harm, I would.”

  I nod and sip my wine, preparing for my own admission. “You asked if I was aware this kid was exploiting my own ripped-from-the-headlines story, and I am. It was a clumsy way of letting you know I’m still picking at the scab. I wish I could stop.”

  “I think I knew that,” he says, tapping my glass gently with his. “It takes time. For both of us.” He slips his arm around my shoulder. “How about some fresh air?”

  He tops up our wine glasses, and on our way to the balcony, I look around the familiar apartment, imagining myself nesting here permanently, not just roosting a night or two at a time. Jack, a widower, has created his own private space, a peaceful haven close to nature and ocean tides, where everything visible is rooted in the present. Not only is there no clutter, but there are no mementos from a past life. His slate appears wiped clean; the skills of his trade evident in that he’s left no revealing clues for me to find. It’s his choice, his own way of dealing with the death of his wife and the restrictions of his job.

  I envy Jack for making peace with his loss and moving on. The night air is balmy, ruffling my hair as I lean back against the brushed steel railing. I catch a glimpse of the two of us in the inky reflection of the sliding glass doors, both of us barefoot, wine glasses in hand. I’m leaning into Jack, my bobbed ginger hair grazing his shoulder. We look like a carefree couple pictured in a cruise brochure, celebrating their happy, prosperous life together. I smile at the masquerade. Who are these people?

  Jack, channeling an image of his own, says, “I’m off to Seattle in the morning. Maybe when I get back we could drive out to the desert for the weekend. How about staying at Two Bunch Palms?”

  “I’d love it.” I’m more than ready to embrace the present. I wrap my arms around him, hugging the warmth of his body as we kiss. Then we look at each other, both startled as we feel my hipbone vibrating against his. My hand dives into my pocket to retrieve my cellphone.

  ”It was good for me,” Jack laughs. “You?”

  I give him a lingering kiss, barely registering the caller’s name before answering.

  A female voice asks for Meg Barnes. “Yes, that’s me. What? Yes, of course. Where? What time?”

  In less than a minute, the call is over and I’m gaping at Jack in disbelief. “That was The Today Show. They want to do an interview with me to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of Holiday. I can’t believe it’s been that long since I played Jinx!”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ll catch the show in Seattle. When do you leave?”

  “I’m flying to New York the day after tomorrow. But I’ll be back before the weekend, I promise.”

  “What about your film noir?”

  “After tomorrow, it looks like Corky’s dad gets to park the Honda in the garage for a day or two.”

  “I’m glad we’re still on for Two Bunch Palms.” Jack puts his arm around my shoulders and looks up at the star-filled sky. “It’s nice out here tonight.”

  I turn into his embrace and murmur, “I had an even nicer place in mind inside.”

  “Funny,” he says, smiling. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Chapter Two

  Even with water gushing in the sink, I’m able to hear the CNN reporter in Seattle announce, “ . . . body of a teenage girl found early yesterday morning has been identified as a Ukrainian student missing for two months. Homeland Security and FBI agents investigating the case say . . . ”

  At the mention of the FBI, I stop cold, my toothbrush wedged in my mouth, listening for Agent Jack Mitchell’s name. He’s still in Seattle and chances are he’s part of the field operation investigating the teenager’s death. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen him on television speaking about a breaking case he hadn’t yet mentioned to me. I peer into the half-gloom of my hotel room, my eyes on the screen in case the camera cuts to him.

  But the broadcast moves on to images of raging wildfires in the parched Southwest and I resume brushing my teeth. I’m only hours away from my own television interview, in which I’m meant to be bright and engaging at a time of morning one can barely call day.

  An appearance on The Today Show is a welcome taste of my former life, but at least I’m not expected to don the famous swallowtail jacket and satin shorts Jinx once wore. As the thought pops into my head, grim suspicion prickles my scalp. They wouldn’t! It’s absurd. Yet it occurs to me to ring Pat, my agent, to find out if anyone from The Today Show called to ask for my measurements. I stop myself from grabbing my cellphone, figuring Pat wouldn’t appreciate being awakened in her Santa Monica bedroom at 2:47 in the morning.

  Thank God I have a cool pair of skinny black pants and a terrific-looking fitted jacket in my garment bag in case someone in production has brainstormed surprising me with the signature Jinx ensemble. At my age, I don’t do shorts. Period.

  Not that I’ve porked up and let myself get flabby. I’m toned enough to wear a tank top, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to let an audience of several million viewers (mostly women) make unwelcome physical comparisons between the current me and the Jinx of yesteryear. Would Diana Rigg willingly climb into her Emma Peel Avengers outfit? Nope. Maybe Michelle Pfeiffer would wear her Batman Returns leather to nice effect, but I hold the line. There are standards to maintain.

  In the lobby of the hotel, the doorman smiles and takes my garment bag. The limo driver nods and opens the door. Never mind that the temperature is reaching the century mark and it’s barely six thirty a.m. Forget that the street smells like hot tar and humidity is sticking my tank top to
my skin. It’s July in the Big Apple, and whatever the weather, it’s good to be home again.

  The fact that I live in LA and haven’t resided in New York for several decades doesn’t mean I don’t think of Manhattan as home. Any actor who’s spent time encamped in a roach-infested railroad flat in Hell’s Kitchen, sweating it out as a waitress or bartender while awaiting that elusive career break, gets it. Actors struggle in Hollywood, too, but there’s a gritty exhilaration that comes from surviving grimy, late-night subway rides and a five-floor walkup to a spooky apartment with a door that boasts three deadbolts and a security bar.

  Soon after I moved to New York, I was heading to just such an apartment, a sublet I shared with two other aspiring actresses, when a skinny guy on a bike grabbed my handbag—and I wouldn’t let go. I screamed and held on, clutching the bag with both hands as I ran alongside his rickety two-wheeler. Then I tripped on a manhole cover and sprawled onto the pavement, skinning my knees, hands and chin, with the thief and his bicycle tumbling on top of me. My dress was ruined, my shoes badly scuffed, and I had a bloody nose, but my cheap plastic handbag containing three bucks and change was still in my possession, a triumph! The thief was back on his feet and cycling up the street before I could pry myself off the pavement. Who doesn’t have a war story like that to tell about living in the Big Apple? It’s a rite of passage.

  That experience and a few others less notable for bruises and bloodshed were enough to establish a lifetime bond with New York. When I arrived I was a virgin (not for long) and still had chipmunk cheeks (not for long, either) left over from a corn-fed Nebraska girlhood. I did Off-Off-Broadway (so far-far off we were barely in the same borough), a few trade shows, some commercials, a stint on a soap opera and a national bus tour of Barefoot in the Park (where I met Dirck Heyward, my first husband) before signing on as a studio contract player in palm-tree-laden La La Land. Now, gliding the streets of Manhattan toward Rockefeller Plaza in leather-lined, air-conditioned comfort, memories of those long-ago days rush back in a flood.