“Who spent, what, one day with her?”
“And I asked the director of that movie she was in.”
“Who knew her for a few weeks. Right?”
“Right,” Tilda said faintly.
“What about the people who worked with her on the show?”
“None of them ever mentioned anything about her boyfriends.”
“Did you ask them?”
“Not directly, but . . . Hell, no, I didn’t ask them and I haven’t gone back to ask them. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. I’m an idiot!”
“No, you’re not.”
“It was the obvious next step, and I didn’t even see it. I am one shitty reporter.”
“Nope, not that either. But if I were a psychologist—which I am—I’d wonder what was keeping you from seeing the obvious.”
Tilda wondered about that herself. “You know what? I don’t think I even want this guy to respond to my e-mail. If he doesn’t, I can tell everybody I tried and move on. Even better, I’d like him to send me something so ridiculous—like a theory that Mercy started seeing Elvis and now she and he live in Area 51 and only leave their cozy shag-carpeted bunker to race their matching Cadillacs across the desert. Either way, I’d be able to write him off.”
“And why would you want to write off a source? Are you that sure he’s lying?”
“Honestly, no, I have no particular reason to think he’s making it up. Sure, nobody else has hinted at anything like that, but that doesn’t mean anything. Did I ever tell you what I found out about that one guy who directed some episodes of Werewolf Hunter? He used to take his dates onto the set at night and make out in the woods with them. Howling, no doubt.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“No, I actually have a point.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that I interviewed a dozen or more people about that show and that director, and nobody mentioned this fact except one lowly production assistant. A couple of people managed to miss that bit of gossip, but most of the others knew. They just figured somebody else had spilled the beans. That could be the case here, or the network or Irv Munch asked people to keep it quiet that Mercy was so sexually active back then, given that she was so young and was playing somebody even younger.”
“So, what do your journalistic instincts say about Have_ Mercy’s story? Is it possible?”
Tilda snorted. “I don’t have any journalistic instincts, June. All I’ve got is a decent ability to tell when people are lying or covering their asses—like when you pretended you weren’t trying to fix me up again, and when my roommate didn’t want to talk about her three-night-stand’s live-in girlfriend. Most people can do that because most people lie, not just the stars. But I haven’t got enough from this guy to guess whether or not he’s lying.”
“So why are you letting this one guy kill your story?” June gave her a couple of minutes, then said, “This is the place where you have an insight into yourself.”
“I thought that’s what the psychologist was for.”
“How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it has to want to change.”
“Are you calling me a low-watt bulb?”
“Stalling . . .”
“Okay, here’s my insight. I don’t want to hear from this guy, and I’m not chasing after the other sources who might confirm his story, because I don’t want to find Mercy anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to find out that she’s a killer. I’d rather keep my untainted memories of the woman intact. It’s that simple. Not to mention pathetic!”
“There’s nothing pathetic about it!” June snapped. “Is it pathetic that your niece still pretends to believe in Santa Claus, and that the rest of us go along every year? She knows the truth—she just wants to hold on to the magic. What’s wrong with your holding on to the magic?”
“Then you think I should just write the article without finding out what’s happened to Mercy?”
“I’m not saying—I’m asking. Why don’t you do just that?”
“Because it’s too late. My memories are already tainted,” she said. “Besides, three people are dead. Maybe Mercy really is the killer or maybe she’s the next target. Either way, I can’t let my idol—hell, she’s not just some teen idol and she’s not Santa Claus. She’s a person. I can’t let another person keep killing, or let her be killed, just so I can keep my little Kissing Cousins fantasy going. She needs to be found.” Tilda took a deep breath. “I’m not giving up until I find her.”
“You go, girl!” June said. “Or is that out?”
“June, you can say any damned thing you want. And tell you what—when this is all over, I’m going to let you fix me up again.”
“Really? You won’t be sorry.”
Tilda doubted that, but it was the least she could do to repay her sister for the much-needed kick in the ass. In the morning, she was going to get back in touch with every Kissing Cousins source she had, and she was going to do her level best to dig up every bit of dirt, scandal, and smut about Mercy, if that’s what it took to find her.
Chapter 18
Q: What’s the secret to your success?
A: Never giving up! My mother taught me that. If you keep trying,
you’ll always succeed.
—“KISSING COUSINS’ ELBERT ANSWERS TWENTY-FIVE PERSONAL QUESTIONS,” TEEN FAVE
THOUGH Tilda didn’t always wake up as determined on a course of action as she’d been on going to bed, this time she did. As soon as she was done with what her father had always called her morning ablutions, she made a list of everybody she thought worthwhile to contact. That included producer Irv Munch, the surviving cast members, and a few others she’d spoken to over the years: a costume designer who’d worked on the show, the man who’d directed more episodes than any other, a secretary at Mercy’s talent agency, and the widow of the man who’d played Pops. She stopped with that, at least for the time being. She’d already pumped Jasmine about Mercy’s love life, and Matthew Boardman and the Tolomeos had made it plain that they’d known next to nothing personal about the actress.
Then she booted up her computer, pausing only briefly to see that Have_Mercy hadn’t answered her note, and started digging up contact information. Though it would have been less embarrassing for her to send e-mails with the impertinent questions she was going to ask, it would also have been that much easier for people to lie or ignore her. She did cater to her embarrassment by deciding to call from home instead of going to the Entertain Me! office—she didn’t think she could take any more of Nicole’s veiled hints. Instead she was planning to see just how unlimited her unlimited cell phone calling plan was.
Since she had to allow for time differences, at nine o’clock she started with people on the East Coast. She hit it lucky with her first try. Pop’s widow was at home when she called.
The costume director had moved to Chicago, so Tilda took a break for breakfast before calling him. Kat Owen was performing in Branson, she learned from her Web site, but Tilda managed to get her at eleven-thirty.
She gleaned a couple of names of more people to call from those three calls, and took care of them next.
After that, there was still a little time to kill before she could start calling the West Coast crowd, so she hit the Web harder than she’d ever hit it before, checking every Web site and user group for mentions of Mercy and a man, any man. She looked at every picture she could find online too, seeing if Mercy had ever been photographed with a date. After two hours of that, Tilda wondered if it was possible to make her eyes bleed.
After a quick break for lunch and a warm compress for her eyes, she got started on the California contingent. Irv Munch was still out of town, and while his assistant again expressed reluctant willingness to pass on a message, she still wouldn’t cough up his cell phone number.
Tilda had better luck with the twins. She wasn’t sure if it was Gabrielle
or Gwendolyn who answered their phone, but since the one on the phone constantly consulted the one who wasn’t, it really didn’t matter.
The secretary from Mercy’s old agency was out, but Tilda left a message asking her to call back.
Oddly enough, Noel Clark was the only one whom she reached who wouldn’t take time to answer her questions. He was home, so obviously he wasn’t working, but he insisted he couldn’t talk and that she would have to call back the day after next. With Vincent’s countdown haunting her, Tilda had to grit her teeth, but she made an appointment for the call.
A few minutes after she hung up from Noel, the agency secretary called back. This resulted in one brief follow-up call.
That was the last of the phone calls she could make while waiting for a return call from Irv Munch and the scheduled call with Noel Clark. So she went back to the Web, following every link she could find.
By four-thirty, she could honestly say she’d left no stone unturned. And, as she explained to Cooper, whom she’d called at work, she knew exactly where to look for Mercy.
“Where?” Cooper asked excitedly.
“It’s going to take some legwork, but I’m going to start with a list of every convent in the United States.”
“Convents?”
“Since it is now plain that Mercy never went on a date with a guy more than twice, and never so much as held hands in public, I think it’s safe to assume that she was a fucking nun!”
Cooper made sympathetic noises.
“I did find three guys she went out with,” Tilda added. “One was a star from another sitcom that wasn’t doing so well, and he admitted it was a fix-up for publicity. They only went out twice. The other two were behind-the-scenes guys—a continuity guy and a cameraman—and though they both thought she was great, they just didn’t hit it off. That’s it!”
“I know what happened to her—she exploded from sexual frustration.”
“It’s as good an explanation as any.”
“Then there’s just one thing to do.”
“What? Give up? Let it go? Get a life?”
“Nope. Drink heavily.”
“Thanks, Cooper, but I’m so not in the mood.”
He ignored her. “I’m going to grab a cab and pick you up—shouldn’t be more than half an hour, forty-five minutes, so get dressed. We’re going to the Border Cafe and see how many margaritas we can drink.”
“Cooper . . .”
“You’re right. It’s rush hour and it will be just as quick on the T—we’ll call a cab when I get to your place. I don’t want you driving when you’re drinking. And you are going to be drinking!”
“Cooper!”
“Hasta la vista, chica!” He hung up.
Short of locking the door, there wasn’t much she could do but start getting ready. In fact, even that wouldn’t have worked. She’d given Cooper a spare key for emergencies, and she had no doubt that he’d use it. So she covered the bags under her eyes with some of the makeup she’d brought back from New York and put on something tight and low-cut. She just might meet somebody promising at the Border Cafe, and she didn’t want to risk exploding from sexual frustration.
Chapter 19
It was a great cast to dress because every character was different:
hip stuff for Brad, vintage rock T-shirts for Damon, miniskirts
for Sherri, Victoriana for Mercy, and corduroy jumpers
for Felicia. But I did get tired of Elbert’s lab coats.
—ROBERT PEPPLER, COSTUME DESIGNER, QUOTED IN “CURSE OF THE KISSING COUSINS,” ENTERTAIN ME!
THOUGH Tilda found nobody promising of the male gender at the Border Cafe, she did find several excellent margaritas. In fact she found at least one more than she should have, but she had to admit that she was exceedingly relaxed by the time the taxi deposited her at her apartment. At least she remembered to drink a lot of water and take a vitamin in hopes of avoiding a hangover the next day.
When she finally woke up the next morning, long past her usual time, she was happy to realize that she’d been mostly successful, and a long shower and a couple of Advil took care of the small hangover she did have. Then she went to face her computer. As frustrating and as useless as all her efforts had been the day before, she fully intended to continue, calling even more distant connections to Mercy and Googling variant spellings of her name, but the phone rang before she could get started.
“Tilda Harper.”
“At least you’re answering your phone,” Nicole said with a sniff. “I just checked the RSVP list and saw that you haven’t bothered to respond. Are you coming or not?”
“Coming to what?”
“Hello? To the cocktail party honoring the attendees of the Boston Film Festival? The one we host every year? Is this ringing a bell?”
“Ding, ding, ding. But I didn’t get an invitation.”
“Are you sure? We sent one. Hold on.” There was the sound of keys being pounded. “You live on Clifton Street in Malden, right?”
“No, I’m on Summer Street. Clifton Street was two apartments ago.”
“Did you ever consider sending in a change of address form?”
“I did—” Tilda stopped. It wasn’t worth the time. Besides, she knew the magazine had her current address—it was where they sent her checks. “Okay, my address is—”
“There’s no time to mail an invitation now! The party is tonight! Are you coming?”
Tilda thought about it quickly. “Sure, I’ll be there. Where and when?” She jotted down the information Nicole grudgingly read out.
“Remember, you’ll be representing the magazine, so dress accordingly.”
“I’ll wear my least patched jeans,” Tilda promised.
Nicole ignored her. “And about your plus-one—”
“My what?”
Nicole sighed heavily, and Tilda could almost hear the eyes rolling in her head. “The invitation is for you plus one.”
“Fine. What about him?”
“Bring somebody presentable. Remember, you’re—”
“I know, I’m representing the magazine. I’ll see you there.”
“I can hardly wait,” Nicole said, and hung up.
Tilda’s first reaction was satisfaction. First, that Jillian had decided it was worth the catering fee to invite her, and second, that Nicole’s attempt to keep her away had failed. She was sure the other woman had mailed her invitation to the old address out of spite, but Jillian must have seen that she hadn’t responded and made Nicole call her.
Then she looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock in the morning. The party was at five o’clock. That left her seven hours to find an appropriate outfit and a plus one.
Clothes first. She picked up the phone and dialed Cooper’s extension at Entertain Me!
“Cooper? Tilda. Are you still copyediting that fashion magazine on the side?”
“Why?” he said.
“I’ve got a fashion emergency.”
“A fashion emergency? And you assume that I, as a gay man, am knowledgeable about women’s fashion?”
“No, I’m assuming that you, as a gifted copy editor, retain enough information from your editing to have some pointers about current clothing trends.”
“And?”
“And that since you always look fabulous, obviously you have an innate fashion sense.”
“And?”
“And . . . Cooper, I don’t have time for more sucking up. Can I owe you one?”
“Make it two.”
“Fine. Two major bouts of sucking up. Now tell me what to wear to the Entertain Me! party tonight.”
“I didn’t know you were invited.”
“I didn’t either, which is why I’ve got to come up with a decent outfit right away.”
“How much can you spend?”
“Nothing. No, wait, I’ve got fifty bucks from my mother that I’ve been saving for an emergency.”
“That might get you a decent scarf at Filene’s Basement,” he
griped.
“I think I need more than a scarf to wear.”
“That would depend on the party, but in this case, you’re probably right. This is going to take some thought. The one thing you don’t want to wear is a little black dress.”
“I thought a little black dress was good for every occasion. I thought that was the whole point of having a little black dress. We women spend all this time and money finding the perfect little black dress, and now I can’t wear it?”
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 17