Tilda looked at her watch again. She had to make the call to Elizabeth Montgomery’s hairdresser soon or miss her chance. Vincent, on the other hand, would be in a turmoil for days, so she’d have plenty of other chances with him. “Vincent, I know you’re upset, but I can’t talk right now.”
“Wait, I’ve figured out the pattern. There were two months between Brad’s and Damon’s deaths, and one between Damon’s and Sherri’s. That means there’s only two weeks before Mercy dies. You can’t afford to wait!”
Tilda didn’t know where to begin, so she didn’t even try. “I’ll e-mail you later, okay? I’ve got to go.”
“But Tilda . . .”
“Damn it, I’m losing your signal. Gotta go!” She disconnected.
Nicole had materialized next to her. “Is there something wrong, Tilda? Do you need me to handle your interview?”
“No, it’s fine,” Tilda said pleasantly, and started dialing the hairdresser’s phone number.
“But I heard you say somebody you know was murdered.”
“It wasn’t somebody I know,” Tilda said, “it was an actress from—” She saw the hungry look on Nicole’s face and stopped. If Sherri really was dead, she damned well wasn’t going to let Nicole get the story out from under her. “I’ve got to make this call,” she said, turning away to finish dialing. She wondered if Nicole was going to stay there, eavesdropping through the whole interview, but those Manolo Blahnik shoes must have been as uncomfortable as they looked, because Nicole went back to her own desk.
Tilda got focused and spent nearly an hour talking with the hairdresser, who really did have some great trivia about working with Elizabeth Montgomery while she starred in Bewitched, even if she did have to wade through the wonders of meditation and rebirthing to get to it. Not to mention having to make sure she knew which quotations came from before the actress’s death and which ones came after.
Once Clift had hung up, Tilda kept her headset in place to keep Nicole from pouncing. She’d been using her laptop to take notes, so it was easy enough to go online to see if anything about Sherri had hit the Web. There was nothing she could find. Then she checked e-mail, receiving the expected cascade of messages from Vincent, each detailing more and more about the investigation. She had no idea how he’d tracked down the information so quickly—the man had contacts in the strangest places, and played the Web like Jimi Hendrix played the guitar. Though she didn’t know the whole story, thanks to Vincent she had enough information to pitch an article. The trick would be making sure her byline was on the piece and not Nicole’s.
Tilda hung onto the phone until she saw that Jillian was momentarily unoccupied, then quickly got up to talk to her.
“Jillian, I might have a story for you.”
“Impress me,” Jillian said.
“You remember that piece you ran a couple of weeks ago about Kissing Cousins and how two of the cast members had recently died?”
“You mean ‘Curse of the Kissing Cousins’? We got a lot of reader response on that one. Great title. Really grabbed people’s attention.”
The title had been Jillian’s idea—Tilda hated it. She’d written about how teen actors had a hard time making it in the real world, but that title had made it sound as if King Tut’s mummy was taking out the cast members, one by one. Then again, King Tut’s mummy might figure into Vincent’s next theory.
“One of the other cast members was found dead today,” Tilda said. “Murdered, apparently. I thought I could do a down-and-dirty for the next issue, and then something more in-depth for later this month, following up on the original story.”
Suddenly Nicole was there at her elbow. Tilda was less than surprised.
“Obits are done in-house,” Nicole said, which meant that she herself wrote them, and if she stretched it out enough and dug up some decent art, sometimes she could talk Jillian into giving her a byline for a by-the-numbers career wrap-up. Tilda pictured Nicole’s future tombstone with date of birth, date of death, and number of bylines.
“Obits, yes, but this is more of a news piece,” Tilda said.
“We’re a magazine, not a newspaper,” Nicole countered.
“I wrote the original story.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that piece.” Nicole couldn’t say anything against the article since Jillian had just talked it up, but she could sneer as long as Jillian wasn’t watching. Jillian wasn’t watching.
Instead the editor was looking at the latest version of the table of contents for the next issue. Though feature articles were planned well in advance, a weekly like Entertain Me! had to allow leeway for late-breaking celebrity news. She made a notation on the page with her red pen, and announced, “Nicole, you do the obit. Tilda, you can have the in-depth, as long as you still get me the witch piece on time.”
“No sweat.” With studied casualness, Tilda added, “Maybe I’ll be able to track down that last cast member. You remember? The one I couldn’t find for the last article?”
“Sure, whatever.”
Tilda was more than willing to take that as permission. “What about my deadline? I was thinking a month.”
“Two weeks.”
“That won’t give me enough time for much more than a rehash of the last piece.”
Jillian eyed her. “Three weeks, and it’s your job to make sure it doesn’t read like a rehash.”
“Expenses?”
“Reasonable expenses, sure. Don’t go crazy.”
“It’ll be like buying designer at Filene’s Basement.”
“Make it Target.”
“Done,” Tilda said, but Jillian had already moved on to something else. By the time she herself turned around, Nicole was already sitting where she’d been working, peering at the screen of her laptop. Fortunately Tilda had shut down before she went to see Jillian.
“What have you got on this death?” Nicole asked.
“Just that she was found dead,” Tilda lied blandly. “I couldn’t get any details because I had to do that interview.”
“Where did she live? Where was the body found?”
Tilda just shrugged her shoulders. If Nicole wanted the story, she could damn well track down the nitty-gritty for herself.
“Then give me your friend’s name. What’s his connection to the dead woman?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have any connection. He’s just a fan who heard an Internet rumor. Gosh, I hope it’s true. I’d hate for you to waste time on it if it’s not.”
Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “What was the actress’s name?”
“Her character’s name was Sherri. The actress’s name?” Tilda tapped her chin with one finger in a purposely unconvincing act. “Gee, it’s on the tip of my tongue. . . . Tell you what. It’s in the article I did, so you can find it in the archives. Or check IMDb.com.”
Nicole grimaced—she was notorious for hating to do her own basic research. “Don’t you have a copy of the article on your hard disk?”
“Sorry. I always offload the files for finished projects.” It wasn’t true, but it was true that Nicole could find the article herself in about two minutes in the online archives. The woman was lazy, and it wouldn’t be supportive to enable her. Tilda reached around Nicole to pack her laptop and papers into the black messenger bag that served as a combination pocketbook and briefcase. Nicole glared at her for a minute, then went back to her own desk and started pounding away at her keyboard.
To the room at large Tilda announced, “Later!” and headed for the door. Cooper, who disliked Nicole almost as much as Tilda did, looked up from the story he was proofing long enough to give her a discreet thumbs-up.
Tilda smiled back. Not only did she have a new assignment, but she had another chance to track down her all-time favorite TV actress. This time, she wasn’t going to hand in her article without Mercy.
Chapter 3
Episode 6: Felicia’s Bureau of Investigation
Felicia joins the Junior FBI and starts spying on the family,
look
ing for subversive elements. The tables are turned when
Elbert discovers her dossiers, prepares a similar report on her,
and threatens to send it to Junior FBI Headquarters. Pops then
explains to her the importance of respecting others’ privacy.
—FANBOY’S ONLINE KISSING COUSINS EPISODE GUIDE, BY VINCENT PETERS
WHEN Tilda stepped out onto the busy sidewalk, she was willing to admit to herself that the Boston weather was decent for a change. Sunny and bright, with a light breeze and low humidity. She’d have to remember to mark it on the calendar when she got home. She had a bet going with a friend in Albany that the weather was worse in Boston than it was there, and she was honor-bound to track those few occasions when it wasn’t raining, snowing, overly hot, sticky, foggy, or some combination of the above.
She hated having to go down into the depths of the Hynes / ICA T Station to catch the subway, but she hadn’t wanted to risk driving into town. Jillian insisted that Entertain Me! needed the prestige of a Newbury Street address. So what if there was no nearby parking to be had for love or money, and so what if Tilda was regularly short on both?
At least rush hour wasn’t in full swing yet, which meant that she got a seat so she could relax while she started thinking about how to find Mercy.
Tilda had written several articles about Kissing Cousins, including one of her signature “Where Are They Now?” pieces for Entertain Me! Despite the puerile title, “Curse of the Kissing Cousins,” she’d been happy with the story in all respects but one: she hadn’t been able to find the actress who’d played Mercy. Despite putting in extra hours and pushing her deadline until it squealed, she’d gotten nowhere. While the failure hadn’t exactly haunted her, it had certainly irritated her. After all, she’d located Peter Brady’s first girlfriend, the man who whistled the theme song to The Andy Griffith Show, and three seasons’ worth of Captain James T. Kirk’s bed partners. Why was it so hard to find an obscure actress from an obscure seventies TV show?
It wasn’t as though Kissing Cousins had been a big hit, or even all that good a show. It had started out with a contrived setup right out of Sitcoms 101—a crotchety grandfather with a heart of gold raising his two daughters’ six children. The “normal” kids—Brad the jock, Sherri the cheerleader, and a Goody Two-shoes named Felicia—had lost their mother, and their father was off bravely serving his country in some never-named foreign land. The mother of the weirdos—a vaguely drugged-out biker named Damon, Mercy the proto-Goth, and science geek Elbert—was a divorcée who’d abandoned her children when she went to find herself.
From her own interviews with Irv Munch, the show’s creator and executive producer, Tilda knew that the original plan had been for the straight kids to gradually lead the weirdos away from the Dark Side of the Force, while everybody gained heartwarmingly sincere appreciation for one another’s personalities and talents. Fortunately for the viewers, it was soon realized that the original concept provided as many yucks as herpes jokes. Instead, the show evolved into a kind of family feud, with each week bringing a new conflict between the sets of Cousins while the oblivious grandfather dispensed hokey wisdom and morals.
Kissing Cousins never developed much of a following—what success it had was because it came on right before The Love Boat. When the schedule changed, the show’s audience quickly dwindled. Despite a last-ditch effort to up the cuteness quotient by adding two more Cousins, a set of twins whose parentage was never adequately established, the show died after the third season. Without syndication, it would have been completely forgotten, but these days it was shown on enough stations that a new generation had discovered the show and a cult of fans had developed.
Thanks to years of practice, Tilda noted that the trolley had arrived at Park Street even though she was deep in thought. She got off, wishing the smell of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee wasn’t overwhelmed by the odor of unwashed winos, and walked down the tunnel to Downtown Crossing so she could switch to the Orange Line train to Malden. Rush hour was starting to heat up, but she managed to slide into a seat just in front of a man dressed in Brooks Brothers from head to toe, and when he glared at her, she gave him the blank stare that tended to make people nervous. He moved off, leaving her to concentrate again on Kissing Cousins.
Tilda, who was born during the show’s original run, was one of that second generation of fans, but had made up for tardiness with enthusiasm. It wasn’t the show’s plots she’d loved—it had been the radical nonconformist Mercy, Tilda’s first and most ardent star crush. She’d idolized the woman, or at least the character, and had done her best to emulate Mercy’s bizarre combination of serenity and rebelliousness, standing in front of the bathroom mirror for hours trying to reproduce the actress’s crooked Mona Lisa smile.
Though Tilda dreamed of dressing like Mercy, in the black lacy skirts and blouses that were so different from the Day-Glo colors of most teens on TV, her mother wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t until Tilda went to college that she got the chance to indulge herself, wearing relentless black day and night for most of those four years.
Looking at her reflection in the subway car’s window, she was reminded that she still wore a lot of black, but even her mother had to admit that it suited the Black Irish coloring she’d inherited from her father. His hair had gone gray, while Tilda’s was still jet black, but they had the same fair skin and startlingly blue eyes.
The train pulled into Malden Center, the penultimate stop on the T’s Orange Line, and Tilda swiftly squeezed out and got to the escalator and out of the station ahead of most of the crowd. Dunkin’ Donuts’ coffee was still calling to her, so she took a side trip to the store across the street from the station and picked up a large black and a corn muffin for the next morning’s breakfast. Or, more likely, that night’s midnight snack. She could have picked up two, to cover both occasions, but not with her latest roommate. Heather ate Tilda’s supplies continually, despite their carefully negotiated agreement, but at least she was polite enough never to take the last of anything. If Tilda brought home two muffins, one would be gone by dinner time. If she brought home only one, it would still be there when she wanted it.
The apartment Tilda shared with Heather was just half a block from the subway station—in fact, the location was the only thing the place had going for it. As she trudged up the two flights of stairs, Tilda reminded herself that it was cheap. Someday she hoped to be able to afford her own place in Boston or Cambridge, but in the meantime, sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment out in the burbs was the best she could do.
“Anybody home?” Tilda called out as she unlocked the door, but there was no answer. Heather wasn’t due home from work for another hour, which meant that Tilda could play her music without restrictions. Once Heather got back, the headphones went on, both because Heather despised Tilda’s taste in music and to drown out Heather’s endless phone calls to her bevy of boyfriends. Heather was her fourth roommate in four years, and Tilda had strong doubts about the relationship making it as far as another lease. She honestly wasn’t sure if she was that hard to live with, or if she just had bad luck with roommates.
She headed for her bedroom, forced open the window to get some fresh air, set up her laptop on her desk, and cranked up the Dead Kennedys on the stereo. After taking a minute to gulp down some coffee, she started going through her files on the Kissing Cousins cast members.
Other than the actress who played Mercy, the cast had been easy enough to track down, especially since she’d had only the Cousins to deal with. The actor who’d played Pops the crotchety grandfather had passed away a year or two after the show ended.
Jim Bonnier, who’d played Brad the jock, had become a major party animal: drugs, drinking, whatever came his way. Despite his habits, he’d managed to eke out a living doing guest shots on TV, playing the usual circuit of The Love Boat; Fantasy Island; Murder, She Wrote; Diagnosis Murder; and Touched by an Angel. The work had kept him in recreational chemicals right up until t
he night in his Pasadena apartment when he shot up too much while drinking. Tilda had managed to get a peek at the crime scene photos—it had been a nasty way to die.
It was never explicitly stated in Kissing Cousins that biker boy Damon was doing drugs—it was a sitcom, not an after school special—but there’d been broad hints and lame jokes ripped off from Cheech and Chong. Actor Alex Johnson really was a motorcycle enthusiast, though he’d never copped to the druggie part, and after the show ended, he went on to open a bike shop that expanded to a Southern California chain. He gloried in flouting helmet laws, which made him either a rebel or a complete idiot. After he was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while riding his Harley sans protective headgear, Tilda had come down on the side of “complete idiot.” The police officer Tilda had spoken to about the incident said Johnson might have made it if he’d been wearing a helmet, but without one . . . She hadn’t asked to see those crime scene photos.
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 2
