Money? No hint of it being involved.
Sex? Despite Javier’s wet dreams, she’d never heard about canoodling on the set. But for the sake of argument, what if Holly had slept with Jim Bonnier back in the day, and her husband only recently found out. Enraged, he flew to California, talked himself into Jim’s apartment, got the man drunk, and administered a fatal overdose, all while wearing gloves so there would be no fingerprints. Then he flew home to Connecticut, with nobody the wiser.
A month later, Holly made another confession, or the husband found another volume of her diary, or whatever, but somehow he found out she’d slept with Alex Johnson too. Back to California to lie in wait for Alex to zoom by on his motorcycle so the vengeful husband could run him down, again leaving no clues of any kind, and go back to Connecticut.
Two weeks after that, he finds out there were more guys on Holly’s hit parade, and he decided it would be easier to kill his wife than to try to track down all of her former bedmates. And one more time, this hitherto blameless businessman managed to cover his tracks completely.
It could have happened. And monkeys could have flown out of his butt to transport him between California and Connecticut! Not only was the tale terminally lame, but it did nothing to explain Mercy’s disappearance.
Tilda mentally ran down the motives from every mystery movie she could think of, trying to think of what was left. A serial killer with a hatred of seventies sitcoms? Mistaken identity? Killing a bunch of people to hide the motive for killing the last one? All theoretically possible, but all unconvincing. Guilty knowledge? Of what? Again, neither Tilda nor Sophia had gotten wind of any scandals or mysteries. Other than Mercy’s disappearance of course.
Other than Mercy’s disappearance.
Tilda sat up straight. Could the connection between the deaths and Mercy’s disappearance be Mercy herself? Could something have happened back then, something so awful that it would make her disappear for all those years, and now she was taking her revenge? Or suppose Mercy had some reason for disappearing that she didn’t want anybody to know, and she was afraid her former castmates were going to reveal the truth or her hiding place. How far would she go to keep her secrets, whatever they were? Could Vincent actually be right about somebody targeting the cast members?
Could Mercy herself be killing the Kissing Cousins?
Chapter 17
Most of us have a hero, be it an athlete, historical figure, TV or
film star, musician, or even an author. The manner in which
one engages with one’s accumulated cognitive schema of that
person relative to their known history is highly indicative of
one’s relative maturity. In other words, mature people recognize
their idols’ feet of clay.
—“IDOL WORSHIP AS A MATURITY MEASURE: MATURITY
CORRELATES OF PERSONAL HEROIC FIGURES’ COGNITIVE
SCHEMATA COMPLEXITY,” BY LORINDA B.R. GOODWIN, PHD,
AND JUNE O’REILLY, PHD, PSYCHOLOGICAL SCIENCE
THE pizza Tilda had eaten for dinner turned to cement in her stomach. How could her idol be a murderer? The idea was obscene!
It also made a certain amount of sense. Considering Mercy’s history with Jim Bonnier, it would have been no trouble to convince him to invite her into his apartment so she could kill him. Alex Johnson had been riding his motorcycle without a helmet for years—it would take no particular skill or strength to run him off the road. As for Holly, she’d been a petite woman—someone as tall as Mercy could certainly have subdued her. Speaking purely from a physical perspective, Mercy could certainly have killed all three.
But would she have? Tilda grabbed her satchel, pulled out the photo of Mercy with its ersatz signature, and stared at it. All she could think was that Mercy didn’t look like a killer. She threw the picture across the room in disgust. God, what an idiot she was! Mercy wasn’t the girl in the picture any more. Hell, she’d never been that girl. She’d been an actress playing a part, and no matter how much Tilda knew about her, she still didn’t know the woman. How could she be so sure she wasn’t a killer?
Admittedly, she had talked to a lot of people who’d known Mercy, and they’d all liked her and trusted her. But they were talking about somebody they’d known nearly thirty years ago. The people who’d known Mercy then didn’t know the Mercy of the present day any more than Tilda did.
Then again, Tilda hadn’t known any of the dead Cousins very well. For all she knew, they could have done something terrible to Mercy. They could have deserved what happened to them.
Damn it! She was doing it again. Even when faced with the idea that Mercy killed three people in cold blood, she was trying to come up with more reasons to admire her. She’d thought Vincent was an incurable fan. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pitiful.
All right, Tilda decided again, the only way to get at the truth—to figure out who and what Mercy Ashford really was—was to find her.
The first step was to connect her laptop to her desk computer so she could back up the notes she’d taken since she left for New York. Then, stopping only for a trip to the kitchen for a glass of Dr Pepper, she started going through every interview, every phone call, every bit of data or random musing she’d entered, looking for some thread that she could worry at to get closer to Mercy.
Two hours later, she’d found nothing she hadn’t already followed up on. Then she remembered that she hadn’t transferred the notes from the interviews with Jasmine the makeup artist or Nick the bodyguard. Again she dove for her satchel, this time to get out her Palm, and moved over everything Jasmine had said about Mercy. Then she read it. Nothing.
Next, she put in what she’d learned from Nick. These notes were sketchier—she’d been eating and enjoying herself too much to be thorough—but she remembered details as she went. Then she read that all over again. All she’d learned was that Mercy was nice to a little boy who was a big fan and reasonably tactful in resisting the advances of a horny costar. So not only had she not found any new leads, but she’d put paid to the idea that Mercy slept her way through Hollywood, no matter what Have_Mercy claimed.
Or had she? Sure, nobody else had confirmed it—in fact, those Tilda had asked had denied it—but she didn’t really know that Mercy wasn’t an easy lay. As she’d pointed out to Nick, maybe she didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, or maybe she hadn’t liked Jim Bonnier. Maybe she was particularly skilled at hiding her bedroom antics, being an actress and all. So if Have_Mercy really had the inside scoop, he must have been pretty close to her.
Tilda frowned. It wasn’t much to work with. The way Have_ Mercy had avoided giving more details, even when asked repeatedly, made her suspect he was lying. He could have an ax to grind or he could be a random nutcase. But since she had nothing, she was willing to go with next to nothing. Besides which, given a choice, Tilda would gladly believe that Mercy was a tramp instead of a murderer. Come to think of it, there was no law that said she couldn’t be both.
No more speculation, Tilda told herself—she needed facts, and maybe Have_Mercy would have some she could use. There hadn’t been any communications from him in Vincent’s latest report, so she was going to try to approach him directly. Since the Mercy sighting transcripts listed only the guy’s user name from the Listserv, she needed his e-mail address, which Vincent should be able to dig up for her. She checked her clock and saw that it was after nine. By the rules of business and personal etiquette, she couldn’t call him until at least ten o’clock the next day. So she e-mailed him instead:
Vincent,
Call me ASAP.
Tilda
Then she went to get a refill on her Dr Pepper. The phone rang before she got the refrigerator open. She didn’t need to check caller ID to know who it was.
“Hi, Vincent.”
“Have you found Mercy yet?”
“And a lovely evening to you too.”
“Sorry, but your message sounded urgent.”
“It is, but not like that. I need to get the e-mail address of one of the people from the Kissing Cousins Listserv.”
“No problem. Which one?”
“Have_Mercy.”
“The guy who said Mercy slept around? Are you kidding me? I couldn’t believe it when I saw that you’d posted a message to him. He’s lying through his teeth.”
“Probably.”
“They why are you wasting time on him?”
She didn’t want to tell him that she had nothing better to spend her time on, so she said, “I want to find out where he got the idea in the first place.”
“He made it up,” Vincent scoffed.
“Maybe, or maybe he heard it somewhere and doesn’t want to give up his source. Maybe, just maybe, he even knew her himself.”
“You think?”
“I don’t think anything yet. Can you get me the address? Are you at your computer?”
“Of course,” he said, as if there were nowhere else anybody would possibly be on a Friday night. There was the sound of rapid typing. “[email protected].”
“Got it,” she said, jotting it down. “Thanks, Vincent.”
There was a pause. “Tilda, you don’t really think Mercy was a bad person, do you?”
For a heart-freezing moment, Tilda thought he’d had the same thought that she had, that Mercy herself was the killer. “What do you mean?”
“You know. Sleeping with people. Men.”
She relaxed. It was only the sex that alarmed him. Tilda would never understand how Vincent had managed to stay so innocent, considering the amount of trivia and biographical data about any number of stars that he had stored in his brain and on his hard disk. “Vincent, whether or not Mercy had a lover or a hundred lovers has nothing to do with her being a bad person. So what if she wasn’t a virgin? Neither am I. Does that make me a bad person?”
“Of course not.”
With almost any other friend, she’d have followed up with, “You’re not a virgin, either, and I think you’re a good person,” but for all she knew, Vincent was a virgin. She didn’t even know if he was straight, gay, bi, or asexual. “Today I met a man who rode with Mercy on a float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade when he was a little boy, and she went out of her way to be kind to him.”
“Really? He got to ride the float with her?” Vincent said. “God, I’m jealous.”
Of course he was, Tilda thought. “Anyway, a woman who’d go out of her way to be nice to a little boy couldn’t be all bad, right?”
“Right,” he said, sounding as if he felt better. “Thanks, Tilda. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
She realized she felt a little better herself, as if in telling Vincent about Mercy’s virtues, she’d almost convinced herself.
Though the message Tilda intended to send to Have_Mercy was brief, it took her a good half hour to word it just the way she wanted it. She was aiming for polite and interested in what he had to say, but skeptical.
I don’t know if you remember me, but we exchanged posts during the online memorial services for Holly Kendricks, formerly of Kissing Cousins. As I mentioned then, I’m trying to locate Mercy Ashford, and you suggested that I get in touch with Ms. Ashford’s former boyfriends. Unfortunately, I have been unable to track down anybody who dated Ms. Ashford or who knows who she dated. Do you have any names of any of Ms. Ashford’s dates? Failing that, do you have other contacts who might have those names? I’m anxious to find Ms. Ashford, and would really appreciate your help.
She read over the message a few times and even considered adding a veiled offer of a bribe, but decided to send it as it was. Either Have_Mercy was just a whacko, or he had something—all she could do was wait to see if he responded.
It would, of course, have been completely ridiculous to check e-mail every thirty seconds for the rest of the night. So she set her e-mail program to do it automatically and played Quake for an hour. Unfortunately, she couldn’t play for shit, probably because she switched over to e-mail every time a piece of spam came through, which didn’t do much for her concentration. Finally she called it a night. Anything Have_Mercy had to say could wait until the morning.
The apartment was strangely quiet, Tilda realized, as she got ready for bed. Either Heather had gone to her new boyfriend’s or she was staying out even later than usual. Now all Tilda had to do was get to sleep with pictures of a murderous Mercy—older, but still dressed in black lace—running through her head. She woke up the next morning feeling vaguely dissatisfied, though she didn’t remember her dreams.
Before making coffee, Tilda checked her e-mail, but there was nothing from Have_Mercy. Not that she intended to sit around waiting for him, of course. She showered and ate before checking again. But she had to admit that checking again after drying her hair was overkill.
After that, she took herself firmly in hand. Even though it was the weekend, she had other work in the hopper, and it would be unprofessional to wait around for a source that might not have anything to tell her. So she did some preliminary work on her story on makeup artists, including some online research on the history and techniques of theatrical makeup. Then she wrote a more detailed query for the article she had in mind and sent it to Jillian to see if Entertain Me! wanted it.
Sure, she kept the e-mail window open while she worked, just in case something came in, but she often did that. And maybe she did jump every time the computer twanged to let her know e-mail had arrived, but that was because the apartment was still quiet.
That done, she did some research on the gospel music business to try to decide if a profile of Kathleen Owen would be salable, or if maybe she should try for a bigger feature on the industry. Eventually she came up with three different slants and sent off query letters to markets she’d worked with before. That distracted her fairly well for the rest of the day.
Tilda made herself go out for a bite to eat at dinner time so she wouldn’t be tempted to keep checking e-mail, and for once she was glad she hadn’t been able to afford the BlackBerry she’d been lusting after. If she’d had one, and had been able to get e-mail no matter where she was, she’d probably have sprinkled crumbs on it during dinner.
Saturday night was a continuation of Friday night’s doldrums. Tilda never saw Heather, though the disarray in the bathroom told her that her roommate had made a pit stop between dates while she was at dinner. Tilda pretended to work, but she could only fool herself so long. Finally she gave up the pretense and played Quake until it was time for one last e-mail check and bed.
When she woke up late Sunday morning, she decided she was being an idiot, despite her best efforts. For all she knew, Have_Mercy was partying all weekend or only checked his messages at work. So she did her laundry, cleaned the apartment a bit, caught up on her bills, and made the usual calls to her parents. Then she watched TV, which almost counted as work for her.
Late Sunday afternoon, as she was about to fall off the wagon and check e-mail, the phone rang, and she grabbed it gratefully.
“Hey, stranger,” her sister said.
“Hi, June. What’s up?”
“Just thought I’d call to see how the trip to New York went.”
“In other words, you talked to Mom. She told you I sounded as if something was bothering me, and asked you to check on me.”
“Bingo!” June said cheerfully. “So what’s the problem?”
“This damned story is making me crazy.”
“Then let me put on my old psychologist hat and see if I remember how to diagnose crazy people.”
“You weren’t a clinician—you were a researcher.”
“And you’re a whole lot more interesting to run through a maze than any rat ever was. Spill it.”
Tilda did, detailing what she’d learned about Mercy and her terrible suspicions, plus how she’d been waiting for some word from her one possible source as desperately as a sixteen-year-old girl hoping the cute boy she’
d met at the mall would call to ask her out.
“You sent him the e-mail Friday night?”
“Right.”
“So what have you done in the meantime to verify his story?”
“Haven’t you been listening? He’s all I’ve got. Otherwise I’m dead in the water.”
“Okay, you’re the reporter, not me, so maybe I don’t understand the process. This online guy is the only one who seems to know anything about Mercy sleeping around?”
“Apparently.”
“Then you’ve already asked the other people who knew her about her sex life.”
“Well, not all of them. I asked Nick and Dom Tolomeo.”
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 16