Jinxed Page 13

  “I have no confirmation on that,” Officer Ragon said, flipping his notebook closed.

  “Yeah? Then I guess I’ll check it out with the people who have inside dope.”

  Doug rolled his eyes as Dirck stalked off toward the news van. “You can bet he’ll be on a live news feed doing interviews in no time.”

  “Should we go to the hospital?” Donna asked fretfully.

  “Not much point if the newswire got it right,” Doug said. “She’ll be in the care of the medical examiner.”

  “Poor Chelsea. It’s her mother!” Tears sprang to my eyes as it sank in. “I hope she’s okay, wherever she is. If only we knew how to find her.”

  “I know,” Doug said, “I’ve been thinking that, too.” He turned to Officer Ragon. “We’ll be up at the house if you need us. There’s no reason to stay here.”

  “Thank you, sir. Appreciate it,” he said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  We headed back to Donna’s house, passing Dirck’s car in the driveway, its trunk still wide open.

  “We better take his things inside,” Donna said, peering at the luggage.

  “I’m not his damn bellhop,” Doug said, slamming the lid down on the trunk. “He can drag his own stuff in.”

  Elaine’s death was confirmed on a late-night news bulletin during a stand-up interview with Dirck, his collar up, shoulders hunched, seemingly bearing up under the terrible weight of “the loss of a good friend.” He was positioned with his back to the sedan as a tow truck hoisted it up. His voice husky, he said, “Elaine Farris was one of the industry’s great stunt gals, no one finer. She’s going to be deeply missed by all who knew and loved her.”

  Doug, watching the interview on the flat screen in Donna’s den, cracked his knuckles, mumbled an expletive and said he ought to be going home.

  Donna and I went to bed, neither of us feeling up to waiting for Dirck to arrive back once the news vans shut down for the night. Donna set a plate of cookies on the kitchen table with light bulbs, a set of towels and some brief instructions for the guest quarters in the pool house.

  “I gave him a key and the code to the gate. You think he’ll be okay? This seems sort of inhospitable,” Donna said.

  “Don’t worry. Dirck has a way of figuring things out.”

  Alone in my room, I sent a text to Jack. I ached to call him, but he was in Minneapolis, where it was three o’clock in the morning. Call me whenever you can, I tapped out. The news was too big, too complicated for my tired fingers to type.

  This morning, awake only hours after I drifted into fitful sleep, I feel no urgency to get up. I pick up my cellphone and look at the video I shot of the pulsing geyser of water shooting up from the fire hydrant spraying Elaine’s car. The headlights of a car I hadn’t noticed last night shine across the darkened north side of the park. A bicyclist cuts across the road as a squad car, lights flashing, approaches the boulevard. The video is choppy, occasionally blurred, but grows sharp as I focus on the female detective looking into camera, nodding and looking back to Detective McCauley.

  I reach for the remote to turn on the small flat-screen mounted on the wall. I’m in time to catch the top-of-the-hour local morning news, not surprised to see that the death of Elaine Farris heads the broadcast. The adage “if it bleeds, it leads” is entirely appropriate for a story that crackles with such hashtag piquancy as Hollywood, murder and stunt girl. The fact that the incident occurred in one of the toniest neighborhoods in Los Angeles only adds to the allure.

  A sweeping early-morning shot of the crime scene shows a substantial length of the boulevard cordoned off. The reporter, toothy, busty and blond, indicates that where Elaine’s sedan mounted the curb, there’s now only the toppled fire hydrant and an array of candles and bouquets forming a small shrine. Who would leave flowers for Elaine? The moment that cynical thought crosses my mind, I try to scrub it away, but I still can’t help but wonder—Who? Why?—unless it’s simply a gesture of humanity for someone inexplicably and tragically killed.

  In a cutaway to Dirck, looking fetchingly haggard, filmed sometime during the night, he’s identified as “a family friend and the acting coach for young Chelsea Horne, the missing daughter of veteran stuntwoman Elaine Farris, killed in a drive-by shooting.” A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. I wonder if Dirck will be on deck as a “family” spokesperson?

  Thank God Dougie notified Ed Ackerman last night, because the producer’s phone must be ringing off the hook by now. Sadly, and ironically, Elaine’s death also means Chelsea’s disappearance will become a top police priority. If there’s a connection between her disappearance and her mother’s murder, is there the grim possibility that Chelsea’s body will now be found? I can’t bear to think about it. Feeling sick with dread, I turn the television off and toss the remote to the foot of the bed.

  Sun streams through the open windows like a slap in the face. The birds are finally chirped-out, but I hear splashing in the pool. I clamber out of bed to take a look, but realize almost immediately that it’s probably Dirck swimming vigorous laps.

  I push my arms through the sleeves of a robe and crouch next to the window, shading my eyes from the glare of sun glancing off the pool. The lawns glisten with the last of yesterday’s rain, wisps of steam rising where the warm sun bakes the grass dry. The air smells sweet, perfumed with jasmine and fragrant English roses.

  The only sight marring the idyllic scene is Dirck flipping around at the far end of the pool for another lap.

  I watch him slither through the water, back and forth, lap after lap, almost forgetting he used to be my husband. I manage to take an abstract view of a lean, powerful swimmer, with arms stretching out in long, clean strokes. The water churns in his wake, sparking in sunlit crystals that seem to burst and fizz in the bright sunlight. My eyes follow the figure gliding through the water until he emerges from the pool, dripping onto the flagstones and shaking himself like a wet dog.

  Every inch of that body is familiar to me. It’s held up well since I last saw it in as natural a state as this. The shoulders are broad, the waist narrow and the legs strong and finely shaped. If I did not know this package housed Dirck—God help me!— there’s a chance I might’ve been interested in getting to know it better.

  He picks up a towel from a lawn chair, uses it to ruffle his thick, curly hair dry, then tosses it around his shoulders like a loose cape. Hands on hips, he surveys the tennis court, the rolling lawns and the orchid pavilion, then turns to gaze at the entrance to the den. I know what he’s thinking: Breakfast.

  Then, in a swift move that catches me off guard, he glances up at my bedroom window. I shift sideways, wondering if he’s caught my movement or if he can even see me through the glare of sun. His head swivels as he takes in the entire house, then turns to look back at the pool house. I watch him pad across the flagstones to the French doors and vanish into the shadowy interior of his new guest quarters.

  I admit it’s churlish of me to begrudge Dirck free use of Donna’s unoccupied guest room. After all, she took me in, too, providing me with safe haven when I had no shelter other than my car. But I resent the intrusion. He should not be here. The last thing I want is to bump into him in the kitchen, where I’m sure Donna is whipping up a sumptuous breakfast. I’m so unhappy about this turn of events that I consider going back to bed to brood. If my cellphone hadn’t rung its merry tune, I probably would have done just that.

  Instead, I snatch up the phone, instinctively knowing it’s Jack calling.

  “Hey, sunshine, you texted at three in the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No, I’m so glad you called. Have you seen the news reports about Elaine Farris, the woman who was shot last night near Sunset Boulevard?”

  “I was just watching a news bulletin now. Did you know her?”

  “She was my stunt double years ago. She was here for dinner last night with Dougie Halliburton and Dirck Heyward. We all worked together on Holiday. Someone killed her ju
st after she left here to go home. It was awful! Elaine also happens to be the mother of the young actress I was coaching for the role of Jinx.”

  “The one who took your hat. Is she still missing?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s been three days now. The worst of it is, she and her mother were estranged. Elaine came out here to patch things up and then this happens. It’s anyone’s guess if there’s a connection between the murder and Chelsea’s disappearance.”

  “The report I heard indicated it was a random drive-by shooting.”

  “But according to Dougie, who was on the scene, there was no one driving by—I mean, no one anywhere on the street when it happened. I can’t figure it out.”

  “The police will, Meg. Just tell them what you know and leave it to them. Have they interviewed you yet?”

  “We talked to a detective last night. He called Donna after we got home and said he’d be coming by today. The only one who really saw anything was Doug. When are you getting back?”

  “I wish I could get on a flight right now, but maybe we’ll wrap this up before tomorrow. Sorry, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

  I hear his sigh and follow with one of my own. “I understand. I just miss you.”

  “Me, too. I wish I could be there for you. Keep me posted on this. I’ll try to find out what I can, but please keep me informed, okay?” There’s a hesitant sound in Jack’s voice, and before I can respond, he adds, “There’s no way to know what’s at the bottom of this. Just watch yourself, Meg. A breaking story like this brings out the—”

  “No, I know. Don’t worry. Donna and I will look out for ourselves, and besides—” I stop on the verge of telling Jack that we’ll be safe because my former husband has moved into the guest house—definitely TMI. There is no way this information is beneficial. I laugh to ease the tension and shake off a terrible mental image of Jack encountering Dirck lolling at Donna’s pool.

  “What? Besides what?”

  “Nothing. I was going to say that I haven’t seen Elaine in years and barely know Chelsea. There’s nothing to connect me to them, so don’t worry.” I laugh again. “Hey, I miss you! Get your buns back here as soon as possible.”

  Jack laughs, too. “Working on it. But stay in touch, okay?”

  The doorbell rings. “I promise.” I walk to the window with the phone to my ear and peer down at the driveway. “There’s a Chevrolet Caprice parked out front. I have a feeling the police are here to interview us.”

  “Then I’ll let you go. Call me when you can.”

  “Bye, darling. I’ll stay in touch.” I hold the phone to my cheek a moment, feeling its warmth, not wanting to be the one to push End Call.

  Then, figuring Donna will be happily plying Detective McCauley with flapjacks and applewood-smoked bacon, I take my time showering. Something tells me I’ve got a long day ahead.

  Chapter Ten

  Donna has staged no elaborate mise-en-scène in the dining room this morning. There are no props or fancy china on display, just Dirck sitting at the kitchen table, working his way through a plate of eggs over easy, bacon and whole-wheat toast, his favorite breakfast. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jeans and boots, his essential manly-man outfit.

  Donna sits with a cup of coffee, elbows on the table, apparently captivated by Dirck shoveling food into his mouth. She looks up as I enter, rapture glittering in her eyes.

  “Good morning. I just made fresh coffee for Dirck. Want some breakfast?”

  “Best I’ve ever had,” Dirck says, tapping a napkin to his lips. “The applewood-smoked bacon is great!”

  “Thanks. I’ll just have coffee. I thought the police were here.”

  “They are,” Donna says. “I was about to come up and get you. They already talked with Dirck. I didn’t have much to tell them. They’re out front now, looking around, but they’ll be back. They want to talk with you, of course.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dirck says. “I pretty much filled them in, gave ’em all the background.”

  “That’s helpful,” I murmur, wondering what in the world he’s managed to dredge up. I sip my coffee and size up the situation. Given that Dirck has a wife and kid back in New York, he can’t stay here that long, but he’s looking awfully comfortable. With luck, he’ll spare us a burp of satisfaction. “You slept okay?”

  “Got in a couple of hours, all I need. Man, I must’ve done five, six stand-ups out there last night. Exhausting. I shoulda got paid for those interviews, but it’s the least I could do for poor Elaine.” He leans back in his chair, gazing at Donna, his voice honeyed. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to wake up here. And the pool’s even heated.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” Donna coos, pouring more coffee.

  “Did the police have any news about Chelsea this morning?”

  “I asked. Nothing new,” Dirck says, looking up at me. “I wonder if she’s heard about her mother.”

  “Who can say? I just hope she’s alive and well, wherever she is.” I pull a chair up to the table. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, that Chelsea was really into researching her role. You don’t think she’d sign on with an escort service and actually hook up with some guy, do you?”

  “Hey, c’mon, I didn’t suggest she do that,” Dirck chuckles, “but you never know. Chelsea’s pretty gung ho. I had another gal in class, who got herself arrested for shoplifting. The judge wouldn’t buy her story that it was just research for a role. But at least she’s got that experience under her belt, and a little community service, to boot.”

  “Nice. A criminal record always looks impressive on an actor’s resume.”

  “You always got to put me down, don’t you?” Dirck scowls. “I didn’t tell her to shoplift!”

  “Okay, okay, the girl was a little too gung ho. But what about Chelsea?”

  “Chelsea’s got great instincts. This call girl, whoever she is, must have given her some good background dope, because it really comes through. I saw honesty and real depth to her work. I like to think I had a hand in getting her to that place, you know? It’s what I live for.”

  “That’s swell of you, Dirck. What have you got on for today?”

  “I’m hanging loose. I’ve got a couple of Skype sessions scheduled later with some actors in New York.” He looks out the window at the pool glimmering in the sun. “Thought I might catch a few rays until then.”

  “Be my guest,” Donna beams. “Let me know when you’d like some lunch.”

  “Thanks, Donna. Let’s go a little light, if it’s okay with you. Maybe some salad and a slice or two of cold pot roast?” He stands and stretches. “How about you, Meg? Joining me at the pool?”

  “No, I think I’ll stay dry until I’ve talked to the cops. See you later.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks again, Donna.” Dirck ambles out of the kitchen, taking an apple from a bowl on the counter as he goes.

  “Wow,” Donna breathes. “He has some appetite.”

  “Especially when it’s on the house.” Then, realizing I’ve done my own share of mooching on her hospitality, I add, “It’s very good of you to put him up. Any idea how long he’s staying?”

  “He didn’t say, but he did offer to help me move some furniture around later this week.” She lowers her voice and gives me a teasing look. “You two really don’t get along, do you?”

  “It shows?”

  She laughs. “I’m hiding the sharp cutlery for the duration. Look, I can see he gets under your skin, but he’s really kind of a nice guy.”

  Alarm bells ring. Dirck’s charm offense is working. I smile. “You’re absolutely right, Donna. Nice guy.”

  “And he sure loves to eat! Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll finish my coffee and go outside to make friends with the police.”

  The thought of Dirck on the premises through the week is enough to rob me of my appetite, but it occurs to me that Donna’s look of rapturous
adoration has as much to do with having a man around the house paying attention to her as it does with his appreciation of her cooking.

  This thought is confirmed when Donna says, “Okay, see you later. I’m off to the market to pick up some fish. Dirck said he liked the idea of a nice bouillabaisse for dinner, and then we’re going to watch a movie together. He’s knows as much about film as Robert Osborne!”

  “Sounds like fun, but I’ll probably miss out on it. I’m hoping to see Jack tonight if he gets back to town. I’ll call and let you know.”

  “Please do. You could always invite Jack to dinner here,” she says with a sly smile, “but something tells me that’s not in the cards.”

  “I can’t imagine anything worse. Dirck would have a field day and I’d be mortified.”

  Donna laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t even mention Jack’s name to him.”

  “Much appreciated. By the way, I’m dropping by to see Doug later. Any leftovers you want me to bring him?”

  “You bet!” she says, glowing with the anticipation of feeding yet one more human being.

  I swish my coffee cup with a spray of water and leave it to dry in the dish drainer. Fortified with a strong shot of caffeine, I step out the front door. I know Jack probably won’t be back until tomorrow, but if a little white lie to Donna saves me another dinner in Dirck’s company, it’s worth it.

  Detective McCauley isn’t hard to spot crouching in the grass at the bottom of the driveway, nor is the squat woman with cropped hair that I saw with him last night. She appears to be inspecting the intercom pad to the side of the front gates, but glances up when she sees me amble down the walkway. Looking composed in an ill-matched navy jacket and black pants, she watches me approach.

  When I’m within greeting distance, I call out, “Good morning. I’m Meg Barnes.”

  “Good morning. Detective Christine Yarrow, West Los Angeles Homicide Division. I understand you live here?” She hands me her card.

  “Yes. Donna probably told you I’ve been staying here for a while until I find my own place.”