Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Tilda suddenly realized that June knew far too much about that feeling—her sister had wanted to help her and instead she’d gone to Cooper and an ex-boyfriend. Tilda could have smacked herself, but settled for thinking furiously. She didn’t know of any advice June could offer about Pete Ellis, but maybe she could help elsewhere.

  “And if that weren’t enough,” she said, “I’m really stuck on this whole Leviathan search. Hey, maybe I can borrow some psychological insight from you.”

  “How much do you need? Half a cup? A whole cup?”

  “Why do people pretend to be something they’re not?”

  “Okay, now we’re talking a tanker truck. Can you narrow it down?”

  Tilda had spoken to June briefly about the search when she was trying to find backup to make sure Joni didn’t give up the search, but now she explained the story in more detail. “I’ve already eliminated a bunch, including the one who claims to be Leviathan reincarnated, but I’ve still got five Leviathan wannabes, and I’m running out of ways to figure out which one is the real deal. Maybe if I knew why somebody would fake it, I’d know who was faking.”

  “Would it help if I told you there are all kinds of reasons to fake an identity?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. Let’s start with pathological liars. They lie to get their own way, as a way to avoid taking other peoples’ needs into account. As in the mother at the kids’ school who told everybody she had sciatica and couldn’t walk very far, so she needed to use the handicapped spot during afternoon pickup even though she didn’t have a handicapped tag. That worked until somebody saw her playing tennis.”

  Tilda pulled out a pad to take notes. “Okay, that could fit some of them.”

  “Then there’s the compulsive liar. He lies out of habit, with no particular reason. The lies usually aren’t very convincing, so he can be easy to catch.”

  “I think I already weeded those out,” Tilda said, thinking of the guy who’d claimed to be the real talent behind Frank Miller.

  “Some people lie to get attention and to look better than other people. Remember that friend of Lonnie’s? She always claimed to have seen the hot kids’ movies before we had, even when the movie hadn’t opened yet. She’s gotten over that, but some folks never do. Remember that Tony Curtis movie The Great Pretender?”

  “That’s a song. The movie is The Great Imposter. But I never saw it.”

  “How do you know a movie title when you haven’t seen the movie?”

  “How can you not know the title of a movie you have seen?”

  Since this was a long-known difference between the two sisters, they put it aside.

  June said, “Anyway, the movie is based on the real story of this guy who faked his way into jobs. He was apparently extremely smart and may have had a photographic memory. One time he posed as a doctor in the Canadian Navy, and actually performed surgery.”

  “Successfully?”

  “More or less. None of the guys died, and some of them would have without the operations. But that’s a very special case.”

  “What was his excuse?”

  “He gave so many at various times that I don’t know if he himself knew why he lied. The one I liked was ‘pure rascality.’ ”

  “I’m not sure pretending to be a comic book creator, even a cult figure, would be in his wheelhouse.”

  “Of course, almost anybody will lie if they’ve got a good reason. A con artist lies to cheat people out of money. Some people lie for sex—a doctor or a film producer is more likely to get laid than a guy who delivers pizza.”

  “That would depend on the pizza.”

  “Lots of people lie on their resumes. Maybe they promote themselves to manager when they were just office boy, or give themselves a degree they never completed. I’ve seen a lot about that in the paper lately.”

  “One of my wannabes is a commercial artist, and being a public comic book artist would have helped him get that first job. No, wait, he’s already out. He told me an obviously phony story about meeting his editor in his last e-mail.”

  “You’re doing this by e-mail? Are you insane?”

  “What?”

  “Tilda, you can’t believe anything anybody says online. Even my kids know that. There are pedophiles pretending to be cute young guys, guys pretending to be girls in order to get virtual items on game sites, nobodies pretending to be celebrities, and all kinds of people pretending to be Nigerian royalty.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Because a lot of people are assholes?”

  “Well, yeah, but they mainly do it because one, there’s no accountability on the Web and two, it’s so easy. When you talk to somebody, you get all kinds of unconscious cues to tell you whether or not to trust them. Tone of voice, whether they meet your eyes, do their clothes match their supposed identity, body language—all kinds of stuff. But online? All you’ve got to go on is a user name, spelling, and grammar. It’s not enough. If you’re going to figure out which one of these people is really Leviathan, you’re going to have to meet them, or at least talk to them on the phone.”

  “I think you’re right. Again. Of course, I don’t know that for sure because we’re only talking on the phone, but—”

  “Anything else? Because I do have a life.”

  “Kiss kiss to you, too. Tell the kids not to take any virtual wooden nickels.” Tilda hung up, satisfied that she’d allowed her sister to help. And in fact, June had helped a lot.

  Of course, bringing five strangers to the Cape posed logistical problems. For one, she didn’t know where they all lived. For another, considering how cranky the already eliminated wannabes were getting, she really didn’t want to have to tell somebody to his face that he was full of plankton.

  Before she started working out those details, she wanted to eliminate as many contenders as possible. So she sat down in front of her computer to send more e-mails to her remaining Leviathan wannabes, this time asking if there was any particular inspiration for the appearance of the lighthouse Pharos. If any of them didn’t mention Monomoy Point, that would take him out of the running. The ones who were left standing after that would get an invitation to the Cape.

  Once that was done, she started working her notes on the day’s shoot into an article and got sucked in enough that she barely looked up for the next few hours. If she hadn’t realized she was getting hungry, she might have kept at it for another hour or more.

  June’s brief mention of pizza deliverymen had given her a taste for something covered in cheese and Italian sausage, so she checked with the inn’s concierge for a recommendation and then called the nearest delivery place to order a Greek salad and a small pizza.

  The food arrived promptly. Not being in the mood to eat alone, Tilda put her laptop on the table and stuck a DVD in so Matthew Morrison and the rest of the Glee cast could sing to her. She knew it was pathetic, but it was also quite pleasant until her cell phone rang. It was Cooper.

  “Heard from your sister lately?”

  “Yes I have.”

  “Damn! I meant to warn you, but I got tied up at work and forgot. How many pints of Toscanini’s ice cream do I owe you?”

  “None. Well, maybe one. She wasn’t angry—she was just very, very disappointed.”

  “That’s the worst.”

  “Seriously, we’re good. June was right—I should have called her. I’ve just been a bit overwhelmed by everything that’s going on.”

  “Tell me all.”

  She did so, or at least most, since she decided to leave out the bit about Laryea’s height, or lack thereof. She probably would tell Cooper later, but only when she was sure she could do so without making short jokes.

  “I see what you mean. It sounds insane.”

  “A bit.”

  “Still, it’s not all bad, right? I mean you, Nick, private moonlit beaches, a private pet-free cottage . . .”

  “And me watching reruns of Glee on my laptop.
Dude, I told you he’s seeing somebody seriously now. I don’t poach.”

  “You wouldn’t have to keep him—just borrow him.”

  “No.”

  Cooper sighed. “You are spoiling my vicarious jollies. Can’t you make something up?”

  “Fine. There was a knock on my cottage door late last night and when I went to answer, I found a trail of wet footprints leading into the darkness. I was drawn to follow them, and I found him standing at the edge of the sea. At first I thought it was John Laryea in costume, but this was no actor. It was Dylan O’Taine himself, wearing nothing but a kilt of seaweed. He held his hand out to me, and gestured toward the softly lapping surf. Then he loosened his kilt and waited for me to untie the ribbons at the neck of my flowing gown so it could puddle at my feet.”

  “Yeah, you in a flowing gown.”

  “Okay, in my oversized T-shirt with the words ‘And then Buffy staked Edward. The End.’ ”

  “That I can picture. Keep going. This is good stuff.”

  “Yeah, it is, but the part about Glee reruns is the real story. At least it’s a really good episode.” They spent the next few minutes debating the charms of Will versus Finn versus Kurt before hanging up.

  Chapter 29

  “I’d always avoided stuff like ‘Where are they now?’ or ‘Whatever happened to?’ ” he explained in a telephone interview from his home. “Just ‘No thanks, thanks for calling.’ You tell me, have you ever seen a ‘Whatever happened to’ where they seemed anything but pathetic?,” he continued.

  —JACKIE EARLE HALEY, QUOTED IN “SOME GOOD NEWS ARRIVES AT LAST FOR A BAD NEWS BEAR” BY MARK OLSEN, THE NEW YORK TIMES

  AFTER hanging up the phone, Tilda knew she should keep working, but since there were no replies from the Leviathan brigade she was stymied there. She wasn’t ready to do much more on the Pharos piece, and she didn’t know what more to do on Pete Ellis’s behalf. That left Glee, and she was too restless to watch the next episode.

  She stepped out on the patio and was irritated to see that the night was just as alluring as the one she’d described to Cooper. There were no footprints leading into the darkness, of course, but she really did feel drawn to leave the cottage, which suddenly seemed unbearably stuffy. She grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, stuck her key and phone into her jacket pocket, and slipped into her sneakers. Leaving the outdoor lights on to make sure she could find her way back to the cottage, she headed for the ocean.

  With the flashlight, the path down to the beach was pretty easy to navigate, and before long she was standing in the sand the inn’s management must have had shipped in at exorbitant prices to cover the rocks that usually made up Cape Cod beaches. The sound and smell of the water had its usual effect on Tilda, which was to make her problems and concerns seem terribly small in comparison to the sheer size of the ocean. She turned off the flashlight and let her eyes adjust so she could soak it all in.

  The solitude and peacefulness were slowly turning to boredom when she heard a noise. She looked down the beach to see somebody lighting a cigarette.

  Tilda hesitated for a minute, but decided that anybody who’d meant her harm wouldn’t have lit a cigarette to advertise his presence. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” a familiar voice said, and Tilda went close enough to recognize Pete Ellis. He was staring at the ocean much the same way she had been before.

  “What’s up?” she said, feeling guilty about not having called him.

  “Not much,” he said.

  “Did you talk to your lawyer?”

  “I did, but he didn’t believe me, and the cops didn’t believe him.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, which was wholly inadequate. “I’ve been asking around, but . . .” She shrugged, even though she wasn’t sure he could see the gesture. She thought about her tenuous theories, but they all sounded so ridiculous she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about them. “I’m not finding anything out. Nobody seemed to have a grudge against Foster or Laryea, or at least, nothing worth killing over.”

  “I appreciate your trying.”

  “I just wish I could help.”

  “It’s okay. I’m kind of coming to terms with it. The Serenity Prayer, you know? ‘God give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.’ I’m thinking that maybe this is one of the things I can’t change. Coming out here helps with that.”

  “If you want to be alone, I can go.”

  “No, it’s cool. I’ve got a blanket if you want to sit down.”

  “Sure. I was wishing I’d brought one myself.” It was a lie, but it sounded good.

  Together they spread it out and sat facing the ocean. Tilda was once again struck by how comfortable Pete was to hang with, just as he had been when they first met. Was that the reason she didn’t want to think he’d killed Foster? Would she have been more willing to accept it if he’d been annoying the way Foster had been?

  “I’m trying to decide if I should tell my lawyer to plead guilty,” Pete said. “Maybe it would be easier that way.”

  “Did you kill Foster?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t do it. You know Nick believes you.”

  “Dom doesn’t.”

  “He wants to. Give him time, and he’ll come around.”

  “Maybe. But the cops are sure it was me. If I hadn’t picked that night to fall off the damned wagon . . . Dom would have every right to write me off, just for that.”

  “It was really bad timing,” Tilda admitted. “Why did you start drinking that night?”

  He gave a half laugh, half snort. “You know why. Driving Laryea around, then listening to Hugh Wilder talking about the glory days on The Blastoffs. I thought I could handle it, but it brought back too many memories. You know what I mean. You must have figured it out that first day, in the limo. When I had to go make a fool of myself and say what I said. I saw the look on your face.”

  “Then you really are Spencer Marshall?”

  Pete put the cigarette to his mouth again and inhaled, and the ember illuminated his face just for a second as he said, “Blasting off, bro.”

  Now that he’d finally admitted it, Tilda didn’t know what to ask first. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, but it’s time. You’ve been holding on to the secret for me—you deserve to know it all.”

  Tilda just waited for him to continue.

  “Can I ask you something first? Was that moment in the limo when you figured it out? Or was it when you first met me? I should have begged off from driving Laryea, but I knew he’d never notice me, and I didn’t realize until later how good you are at recognizing old actors.”

  “I’m not that good—just meeting you didn’t do it. And even in the limo, it was as much the lighting as what you said that got my attention, and I was only half convinced. Then the questions you asked when you were driving me home combined with a picture I found on the Web got me up to eighty percent. I just couldn’t get around the fact that Laryea didn’t recognize you. Didn’t that surprise you?”

  “Not really. It’s not the first time I’ve run into him. I had a bit part in one of his movies years ago, and when I tried to speak to him then, he blew me off.”

  “How could he not know who you were? You guys worked together day in and day out.”

  “It wasn’t for that long. We filmed the show in about six months. Add in another few weeks laying down music tracks in the studio, and a few months of promo work. Then we did a lousy mall tour for about a month. That was it. Call it a year, all told. We didn’t hang out together or anything—we just worked together. Would you remember somebody you’d worked with for a year, twenty years ago?”

  “Probably not, but didn’t you ever see each other? Hollywood isn’t that big a place.”

  “Maybe we would have if I’d stuck around, but while John went from The Blastoffs to doing more TV work, I went to college. By the time I graduated, he w
as doing regular guest shots, making a name for himself. Me? The Blastoffs had been forgotten, and nobody knew who the hell I was. I did a few made-for-TV movies, but only as long as I was young enough to pass for a college student. Meanwhile John moved into films and started hitting it big while I could barely get speaking parts. That’s when I started drinking.”

  “I can see why.”

  “No, it’s no excuse. I could have kept at the acting, or tried something else. The drinking was just my way of giving up. It took me a long time in the program to learn that, but it’s the truth.”

  Tilda had enough friends in various forms of addiction recovery to know what he meant by the program.

  Pete went on. “Anyway, jobs are even harder to get and keep when you’re drinking. By the time I sobered up, my reputation was wrecked. I was doing shit work until I got a job driving, and I realized I liked it. I stuck it out long enough to get my chauffeur license, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep driving people I used to know.”

  “Didn’t they recognize you?”

  “Some did. Some didn’t. I never could decide which was worse. I knew I was going to start drinking again if I didn’t get away from Los Angeles. But I liked the driving, so I talked to some of the other drivers, and that led to me getting the job in Dallas. That’s went I went back to my real name. Spencer Marshall was a stage name, a combination of my father’s middle name and my mother’s maiden name. I only used it because there was already a Peter Ellis in the union.

  “I stayed in Texas for just over ten years. Then I met Dom when he was in town handling security for a movie that was shooting down there. One of the actors he was watching got into a bit of trouble, and I helped him take care of it. Dom decided he liked the way I handled myself, and asked me to move to Boston to work with him full-time. I was tired of the heat in Texas, and figured it was time for a change. And I like Dom.”

  “But you never told him you’d been an actor?”

  “Tilda, I don’t even talk about it in program meetings—I tell them I messed up my career, but I don’t say what the career was.”