Curse of the Kissing Cousins

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Next was the box with photos, mostly publicity stills, each authentically autographed by an authentic studio staff member, some of whom had even managed to spell the names of the star correctly. She found the one she was looking for, a head shot of Mercy dressed as her character, all in black lace. Even if Tilda made allowances for her early adulation of the actress and whatever touching up had been done on the photo, it was clear that Mercy had been a striking young woman. Her straight black hair shone like a model’s in a shampoo ad, and her dark eyes were bright. She wasn’t traditionally pretty, but attractive in that strong way that promises even greater beauty in the future. Though it didn’t show in this picture, she’d been tall too—several cast members had mentioned the convolutions they’d gone through to ensure that the older boys looked taller than Mercy, even though she’d been their height. By now, she’d be forty-five years old, but Tilda felt sure that unless the actress had suffered some disfiguring accident, she’d be able to recognize her. That was, if she ever managed to find her. She kept the photo out too.

  Checking her watch, Tilda realized she’d been up in the attic for nearly two hours, meaning that June would be home for lunch soon. Short of checking to see if the Kissing Cousins board game had a coded message that revealed a hidden map to Mercy’s secret lair, she thought she’d found all she was going to find. So she restacked the boxes, trying to meet Glen’s exacting standards, and went back down to leave her gleanings in the spare bedroom and wash the dust of her memories from her hands and face.

  Her timing was good. June was coming in the door as she went downstairs, and Tilda dutifully complimented June’s haircut, which looked pretty much the same as every other haircut she’d had over the past several years. Then she convinced her sister to abandon her plans to fix something at home and instead let Tilda treat her to lunch at the local Bertucci’s.

  Knowing her sister the way she did, Tilda wasn’t surprised by the topic June introduced at the restaurant, only that she waited until their Cokes and hot rolls were served before introducing it.

  “So?” June prompted. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said solemnly. “I see dead people.”

  “Very funny. I saw that movie too.”

  Tilda grinned. “Actually I did see a dead person, or at least her coffin. I went to a funeral yesterday in Connecticut.”

  “Oh?” June said, looking concerned. “Anybody I know?”

  “No, it was work. Someone I interviewed.”

  “Anybody I’ve heard of?”

  “Do you remember Kissing Cousins?”

  “The show you watched incessantly? The one you wanted to record so badly that you nagged Mom for a month until she bought a VCR? The one that inspired the board game that I spent two weeks on eBay trying to find for your birthday, because it had to be in mint condition? No, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It was the actress who played Sherri, the cheerleader.”

  “That’s a shame. She was still fairly young, wasn’t she? Cancer?”

  “Murder.”

  “Really? Husband or boyfriend?”

  “Don’t women ever get killed for money or revenge?”

  “Women get killed for all kinds of reasons, but husbands and boyfriends—whether they’re current, former, or estranged—are the most likely. Horrible, I know, but true. I may live in the suburbs, but I do read the papers.”

  “Cruel but fair,” Tilda acknowledged, “but this time it might be something else.” She briefly explained Vincent’s theory, but when she saw that her sister was looking worried, she quickly changed the subject to the story assignment.

  “Something else for my scrapbook!” June said.

  “Are you still keeping that up?”

  “Of course. Times three: one for me, and one for each of the kids. You’re keeping copies of everything for your kids, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t even have a regular boyfriend.” Then she swore inwardly, realizing June had managed to get the conversation right back where she wanted it. Someday she’d have to figure out how her sister did that.

  “So you’re not seeing anybody right now?” June confirmed.

  Tilda thought briefly of Lawrence White, who’d certainly hinted that he was willing, but she didn’t want to get June’s hopes up. “Nobody bed-worthy, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I have no idea what you mean—Glen and I sleep in twin beds and the kids appeared on our doorstep in baskets.”

  They both snickered, and when their food arrived, Tilda took advantage of the distraction to ask about her niece and nephew. Answering in the required amount of detail kept June talking through their chicken parmesan, the second round of Cokes, and the drive back to June’s house. The kids themselves were dropped off by their carpool soon after, and getting them snacks and making sure they did their homework took up most of the rest of the afternoon.

  Though she’d expected June to get back around to the topic of husband hunting over dinner preparation, instead she sent her off to the guest room “to get some work done,” so Tilda went online to see what she could find out about The Raven’s Prey. She didn’t remember it that well, other than her disappointment at not seeing Mercy in it, but found that it had been about a young female spy with the code name Raven outfighting male spies three times her size and eventually falling for an enemy spy. Luckily for the plucky lass, he turned out to be a double agent, so it was okay for her to ride off into the sunset with him, which they had done in a helicopter.

  According to the Internet Movie Database, Tilda’s favorite movie Web site, the acting had been wooden, the writing completely unoriginal, and the action scenes unbelievable, so, not surprisingly, the movie had tanked. IMDb also listed all the cast and crew, but unfortunately Tilda had met none of the people involved. Of course, the film industry being what it was, a little time would likely find her a connection she could use. She started searching for a link.

  She came up empty on the first round and was ready to take a break when she heard Glen come home, so she went downstairs to say hello. He was in the middle of telling June how wonderful her hair looked, proving both that he was an exemplary husband and that maybe the haircut had been worth the drive after all.

  Inspiration struck. “June,” Tilda said, “how long has Tom been doing your hair?”

  June added up the answer on her fingers. “Twelve years now. Why?”

  “How many different places has he worked?”

  “Three, counting the new one.”

  “And you keep following him?”

  “Of course. He knows my hair, and he knows all about my life, so I can talk to him about anything. It’s better than going to a therapist, and I should know. Do you want an appointment with him?”

  “No, thanks. I just had a thought. You’d go to a lot of trouble to get to him, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Elizabeth Montgomery was the same way,” Tilda mused, remembering the phone interview she’d had with the actress’s former hairdresser. “There was this one guy she liked and she made sure he got hired to work on her movies after Bewitched was canceled. In fact, she still talks to him.”

  “I thought she was dead,” Glen said.

  “She is, but the guy says they still keep in touch. Anyway, it sounds as if stars are just as devoted to their makeup artists as regular people are.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Glen said, politely trying to follow along.

  Tilda didn’t take time to explain. “June, is there time for me to do some more work before dinner?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  “Great!” She scooted back up to the spare room and sent a quick e-mail to Vincent, asking if he knew who’d done the makeup on Kissing Cousins. It was too obscure a question for IMDb or the usual fan sites, but Vincent had the answer for her in minutes.

  Though there’d been a couple of different makeup people, Jasmine Fisher had done the girl Cousins, including Mercy. A little bit of Go
ogling, and Tilda had found her Web site, which included contact information and a résumé. She even had Mercy listed as a client, which might mean that they’d been more than casual acquaintances. Fisher’s address was in New York, and Tilda e-mailed a request to interview her by phone for Entertain Me! She knew the woman would assume that she was the intended focus of the piece, but Tilda could explain the real situation after she agreed to the interview. Besides, now that she thought of it, an article about makeup artists might be interesting—actors spent a lot of time in those makeup chairs, and there were bound to be interesting stories. She quickly composed a query letter and e-mailed it to Jillian.

  Her niece Lonnie came up then to call her for dinner, and Tilda was feeling happy enough to race her down the stairs. The makeup artist might not lead to anything, but it was a new lead, one she’d missed when looking for Mercy before, and that was enough to cheer her up.

  Dinner was meat loaf, one of June’s specialties, and Tilda was enjoying the treat of one of the so-called normal dinners that very few people actually seemed to experience: meat and two vegetables, conversation about the day’s events, and reasonably polite kids. But halfway through, she noticed that June was laughing a bit too loudly, smiling a bit too brightly, and nodding longer than necessary. There could be only one explanation. Her sister was up to something.

  As June brought out the dessert of strawberries and whipped cream, she casually asked, “So, how long will you be staying with us, Tilda?”

  “Well, my roommate said her—” She stopped, starting to get an idea of what June was planning. “Why do you ask? Do you need me out of the spare room?”

  “Of course not,” June said quickly. “We’re just having some people over tomorrow night that you might enjoy meeting. Friends.”

  One would have thought that, somewhere along the line, a psychologist would have learned to lie convincingly, but June must have slept through that course. Tilda was sure that at least one of the friends would be an unattached male with a good job and attractive, at least to June. She’d introduced a number of such friends to Tilda over the past few years, and none of them had been worth a second evening. Now Tilda knew why her sister hadn’t asked her to keep her company in the kitchen while she fixed dinner—she must have hit the phone faster than Tilda could get her computer booted.

  “That sounds great,” Tilda said as sincerely as she could, “but I’m going to New York tomorrow. I got a lead on my story, and it’s not something I can do long distance. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure,” June said, acknowledging defeat. “We’ll plan something when you get back.”

  Of course that meant a flurry of e-mails and phone calls over the course of the night and the next morning to make sure that Entertain Me! would reimburse her for train fare and a hotel room. Plus she had to fend off an end run from Nicole, who wanted to force her to take the bus from Chinatown instead of the train and to stay in a cheaper hotel. When Tilda flatly refused to take the bus and pointed out that she needed a decent room in case she conducted interviews at the hotel, Jillian agreed to pay.

  With that settled, Tilda could set up an actual meeting with the makeup artist instead of the phone call she’d originally planned. And, since she was going to be in New York anyway, she decided she might as well schedule dinner with Sophia Vaughn. Surely one of the meetings would bear fruit of some kind—Jillian had expressed moderate interest in a piece about celebrity makeup artists and Sophia was almost always good for an article. If not, the trip would be worth it so that Tilda could avoid Heather’s noisy lovemaking and June’s unsubtle matchmaking.

  Chapter 9

  Teen Fave gave a lot of space to Kissing Cousins. They were

  never huge—they only got one cover and never a banner—but

  one or more of them made it into just about every issue while

  the show was on the air. They were good-looking kids, with

  that built-in feud to play with. In other words, tailor-made for us.

  —SOPHIA VAUGHN, FORMER EDITOR OF TEEN FAVE, QUOTED IN “CURSE OF THE KISSING COUSINS,” ENTERTAIN ME!

  AFTER travel arrangements were completed, Tilda made a stop at her apartment to pick up more clothes and make sure Heather’s boyfriend was staying out of her room. Then she took the T to South Station to catch the 1:15 train to New York.

  As far as Tilda was concerned, the train was the only civilized way to travel from Boston to New York. Since it was an off time, she had no problem getting a window seat, and she pulled out her iPod and a paperback to keep herself entertained during the three and a half hours the train took to get to Penn Station. Between her toys and occasionally looking out the window to watch New England scenery flow by, she was completely relaxed. From past experience, she knew she needed the respite before she dove into the whirlpool of sights and sounds that was Manhattan.

  As soon as she got to the station in New York, she rolled her suitcase into a semiquiet corner and used her cell to call the doorman at Sophia’s building to find out what restaurant the older woman currently favored. The Palm was still in vogue, so next she called there to see if they were familiar with Sophia’s tastes. They were, and Tilda ordered heart of palm salad, prime rib, and hash browns for two. Then she headed outside to the taxi stand and cabbed it to Second Avenue.

  The price for an information-gathering session with Sophia was always the same: dinner from her favorite restaurant, whatever that happened to be. Since retirement, Sophia seemingly never left her apartment, so that meant takeout. By virtue of knowing countless famous people, Sophia was able to prevail upon even the most prestigious and popular restaurants to provide her with to-go food of the quality she considered her due. Price was no object, particularly if somebody else was paying.

  Tilda didn’t know why Sophia never left her apartment. She and the mutual friend who’d introduced her to the former editor had speculated about it more than once, considering agoraphobia, embarrassment over some deformity hidden by the flowing caftans Sophia always wore, fear of crime, fear of being recognized, and fear of not being recognized. Tilda had eventually concluded that Sophia never left because she liked having the world come to her.

  Tilda kept the cab waiting while she went into the Palm, glaring at the man who was trying to snag it as she brought her order back out. New Yorkers might lay claim to the most aggressive attitudes on the East Coast, but Tilda was unwilling to concede the point.

  A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Sophia’s building on East Forty-ninth Street, and the doorman came out to help Tilda with her suitcase and dinner. The marble foyer and elevator with its shiny brass fixtures were a far cry from the dingy doorway and stairs at Tilda’s walk-up, but then again, nobody there expected a tip, as the doorman would once they reached the eighteenth floor. A slender, dusky young man met them at Sophia’s door, took the shopping bag of food from Tilda, and disappeared toward the kitchen without saying a word.

  “Joe, is that you?” a voice called out from somewhere out of sight.

  The doorman’s name tag said “Bill,” but he replied, “Yes, ma’am. I brought up your guest.”

  “Thanks, Joe. You know where the cookie jar is.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” There was a tall pedestal just next to the door, the kind one would expect to hold an objet d’art or exotic plant. This one had a glass cookie jar filled to the brim with money: one dollar bills, fives, tens, even some twenties. Joe, or maybe Bill, lifted the lid and pulled out a buck. Then he tipped his hat to Tilda before closing the door behind him.

  Sophia called out again. “Tilda? What are you waiting for? You don’t get to dip into the cookie jar, you know.”

  Tilda followed Sophia’s voice to an enormous corner room, framed with French doors and full-length windows that showed a gorgeous and ridiculously expensive view of Manhattan. The furniture was also gorgeous and ridiculously expensive: two couches covered with sleek black leather, glass and chrome tables, and Sophia’s preferred
seat: an honest-to-God chaise longue. The woman was gracefully arranged on it, wearing the expected flowing caftan. This one was green silk, which made a striking contrast to her henna-red hair and fair skin.

  “Tilda,” Sophia said, her arms thrown wide, and Tilda leaned over to dutifully exchange air kisses in the vicinity of both cheeks, complete with “mwaaa” sounds.

  “You’re getting better at that,” Sophia said, “but you still lack sincerity.”

  “And once I can fake that, I’ve got it made.”

  “Exactly! Have a seat.”