Just as Tilda sank into one of the couches, the man who’d met her at the door carried in a silver tray with two wine glasses. Sophia’s actually held wine, but Tilda’s was filled with Dr Pepper, which she preferred. Then he silently disappeared.
“Is he new?” Tilda said.
“Who, Juan? Cute, isn’t he?”
“He looks just like the last one, and the one before that.”
“Well, both of them were cute. Therefore this Juan is cute too, right?”
“Do you clone them or put them through plastic surgery?”
Sophia laughed. “I breed them. Not me personally, but they’re all brothers or cousins or something. I bring them over, give them a job, help them get their green cards, and then they leave me for better jobs.” She rolled her eyes. “What could possibly be better than working for me?”
“You mean better than waiting on you hand and foot, twenty-four/seven? Maybe cleaning the bathrooms at Grand Central Station with a toothbrush.”
“Tilda, Tilda,” Sophia said, trying to sound disapproving, but she couldn’t hide her grin. “Could an old woman hope to dream that you’ve come just to visit?”
“At the Palm’s prices? Please!”
“Then whose dead career are we exhuming today?”
“The stars of Kissing Cousins.”
Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Silly show. Didn’t you just do them? That awful curse thing?”
“Less than a month ago,” Tilda admitted, “but there’s a new hook. Holly Kendricks—the one who played the cheerleader—was just murdered.”
“Murder is so sordid. We never talked about murder in Teen Fave.”
“Nobody died at all in Teen Fave.”
“Not so. People died all the time. There was no better way to draw in fan mail than a tragic teen idol whose mother had died in a car accident, whose father had fallen in war, whose childhood sweetheart had died in his arms after a lingering illness.”
“Like AIDS?”
“Don’t be vulgar. Even if AIDS had been around, childhood sweethearts would have been immune from it. At any rate, nobody we wrote about was ever murdered.”
“Holly was—I saw the body myself.”
“You got into the funeral? I heard security was tighter than a virgin’s knees.”
As usual, despite Sophia’s protestations of being isolated, she knew far more than she let on. One day Tilda hoped to catch her watching TV, reading the paper, taking a phone call, or, in her wildest dreams, trolling the Internet. “Gabrielle and Gwendolyn Roman snuck me in,” she said.
“And? Start talking. What was the service like? Who was there?”
Sophia was, Tilda decided, one of the few people she knew who would openly admit that a funeral was a prime source of gossip, even if you were honestly sad about the person’s death. So they happily discussed the mourners who’d shown up, judging which ones were sincere in their grief and which ones had less mournful agendas, and what was appropriate dress for a funeral in these decadent times, continuing the conversation over dinner when Juan came in to tell them it was laid out. Even when eating takeout, Sophia wouldn’t stoop to eat on anything other than her Limoges china.
Afterward, comfortably ensconced back in Sophia’s living room, Tilda felt simultaneously stuffed with good food and drained by all the details Sophia had dragged from her. Sophia, who was sipping a fresh glass of wine supplied by Juan, looked as sated as a cat who’d scored an entire gallon of cream. She leaned back in her chaise longue and solemnly said, “It’s really quite sad. Holly was never a big draw at Teen Fave, but we ran a few photo spreads on her. She had no acting talent to speak of, but she was attractive and personable. I only spoke to her two or three times, so I don’t know if I can give you anything for your article.”
“The article isn’t just about Holly. I’m doing another piece about what’s happened to all of the Kissing Cousins, and I’ve got most of what I need. What I don’t have is Mercy.”
“No reporter should have mercy—I never did.”
“Ha ha, very funny. I’m talking about Mercy Ashford, the actress who played Mercy on the show. I never did track her down when I was working on that other article.”
“Didn’t you?” Sophia shrugged. “I gave you everything I could when you were here last time.”
“I know you don’t know where she is, but I found something that might shake something loose in your memory banks.” Tilda looked around for her satchel, and when Juan silently appeared to hand it to her, she reached inside to pull out the issue of Teen Fave she’d found in June’s attic, and opened it to the article about Mercy. “You said in here that Mercy was going to be in a movie called The Raven’s Prey, but she wasn’t. Do you remember what happened?”
“You don’t ask much, do you? That was what, thirty years ago?”
Tilda just waited. Part of the fun for Sophia was pretending that remembering these things was harder than it was.
The older woman frowned pensively for a few seconds, so that Tilda would appreciate how hard she was working, and then said, “She quit.”
“I heard she did that, but not why.”
“Nobody knew why. There was talk about it too, because up until then her reputation had been spotless. Since the picture was low budget, people finally decided that she must have gotten a better job. Only she never showed up in anything.”
“You didn’t mention this when I talked to you before.”
“You didn’t ask about the movie. You asked if I knew where Mercy Ashford was now.”
Tilda nodded ruefully. Sophia wasn’t one to volunteer information when each tidbit could lead to another dinner being brought to her door. While she had a chance, she said, “Do you know anything else about Mercy that you didn’t print in the magazine?”
“Like?”
“Was she as cool as she seemed to be? Is there any truth to the rumors about her wearing black all the time because she was mourning her parents or a lost love or a beloved poodle?” Remembering Javier’s lurid speculations, she added, “Did she date any of the men on the show? Or the other women, for that matter?”
Sophia rolled her eyes, and sighed an aggrieved sigh that Tilda’s roommate would have envied. “You realize I only interviewed her two or three times personally. The rest of the time we just mined the questionnaires we sent out to all the stars.”
“Humor me.”
“Fine. Yes, she was as ‘cool’ as she seemed to be—a very focused and creative young woman. She wore black on screen because the role called for it, and during public appearances because the fans expected it. It also suited her. When she was off duty, she wore whatever she wanted. I saw her in blue and red, and one time in yellow, which was a mistake. Her parents did die in a car accident when she was young, but she never mentioned a poodle or lost love, living or otherwise. She never dated anybody else on the show. She was seen dating a few other men in the industry, but none of those relationships were serious—two were publicity stunts I set up myself. What else?”
“Can you tell me anything I can use to find her?”
“I could try to find the questionnaire she filled out for us, but I think all that stuff went into the magazine at one point or another.”
“Don’t bother. I already know her favorite movie was Casa blanca and that she liked hot fudge sundaes for dessert.”
“Then you’ve got all I can give you.”
“What about this picture?” Tilda turned to the back cover of the issue of Teen Fave she was still holding to show the photo of Sophia, Mercy, and the unidentified man and boy. “Do you remember who that man was?”
Sophia studied the picture. “That was taken here in Manhattan. At the Plaza, I think. Mercy was in town to ride in the Macy’s Parade, and that man was her escort.”
“Escort? Like a date?”
“Like a bodyguard. He got her to the parade and back to the hotel, then I came and met her for dinner. Got a nice piece for the Christmas issue out of it too, all about her holiday memories from wh
en she was a kid. That’s when Mercy told me she’d auditioned for that movie, come to think of it. She was so excited about it. It’s a shame it didn’t work out.”
“Was this guy her regular bodyguard?” Tilda asked. Somebody who’d been with her every day could be an even better source of information than the makeup artist. But Sophia shook her head.
“No, the studio hired him just for the day to get her to and from the parade and deal with any fans who got carried away. Mercy didn’t have a regular bodyguard. Not many people did, then, unlike today.” Sophia handed back the magazine. “I could dig up his name, if you’re that desperate. I must have gotten a release for the photo, even though he wasn’t identified. We only took that shot to make the little boy happy—that’s the bodyguard’s son, there. I wasn’t planning to use it, but the idiot photographer screwed up every other shot to get back at me for having to work on Thanksgiving.”
Tilda was going to tell Sophia not to bother. A one-day encounter that many years ago probably wouldn’t mean anything. Then she decided it wouldn’t hurt. “I’m that desperate.”
Sophia was kind enough not to mock her. She just called Juan in and gave him a complicated set of instructions about where to find a particular file. A few minutes later he returned and handed a thick folder to Sophia, who flipped through it until she found what she was looking for. “Here we go. Dominic Tolomeo, Tolomeo Personal Protection.” She looked up at Tilda. “I’d forgotten this—he wasn’t from New York. He’s in Boston.”
“Really?” Tilda said, entering the name into her Palm.
“I know—who’d have thought they’d need celebrity security in a town like Boston?” Sophia said with the unconscious but ingrained snobbery of the longtime New Yorker.
“Amazing,” Tilda said dryly. Her friend’s attitude reminded Tilda of another snob she’d recently encountered: Lawrence White, who’d been so surprised that a national magazine could operate out of Boston. “On a completely different subject, do you know an industry stringer named Lawrence White?”
“Only by reputation, which isn’t that good. Dresses well, but writes poorly. Not only is his prose pedestrian and his stories sycophantic—”
“This from a woman who published ‘Ten Reasons to Love David Cassidy.’ ”
“I never pretended to be writing Teen Fave for anybody but teenyboppers. White claims to be a journalist.” She snorted as delicately as one can snort. “Rumor has it that his real claim to fame is the ability to parlay his interviews into bedroom encounters, which he probably commemorates with notches on his bed post or something equally tacky.”
“He’s a star fucker?”
“We called them star collectors in my day,” Sophia said primly. “Like in the Monkees song.” She sighed. “Ah, Davy, Davy, Davy . . .”
“Davy Jones? Was he one of your protégés?”
Sophia just smiled. “What an adorable accent he had. So very appealing.”
“Kind of short, wasn’t he?”
“Height doesn’t matter when you’re lying down.”
Tilda snickered.
Sophia said, “As for your Mr. White, I understand his greatest appeal is for those on their way up or on their way down. When you’re desperate, you’re more willing to trade favors for magazine inches—”
“Inches for inches, as it were.”
Sophia allowed herself a small grin.
“That explains why he was trying to get close to Gabrielle and Gwendolyn at the funeral,” Tilda said.
“I’m surprised he’d waste his time. They were never far enough up to be on their way down.”
“No, but they’re cute and desperate for attention. Plus they’re twins.”
“One of the perennial male fantasies.”
Tilda considered it. “Actually it sounds pretty interesting to me too.”
“Twins are more trouble than they’re worth,” Sophia said firmly. “Believe me.”
Tilda did. If half the rumors she’d heard—or a quarter of Sophia’s hints—were true, had Sophia descended to putting notches on her bed post, she’d have needed more bed posts. Though it hadn’t been necessary for a teen idol of the sixties and seventies to sleep with Sophia to get a Teen Fave cover, it hadn’t hurt his chances either. The former magazine editor’s predilection for pretty young men like Juan was nothing new.
“Can I assume your foray into fantasy means you’re without regular male company at present?” Sophia asked.
“You sound like my sister,” Tilda said, “at least in theme.
No, no male company. Though Lawrence White did ask me to join him and the twins for lunch, with the unspoken possibility of more activities to follow.”
“And?”
“I turned him down. I was afraid his tan-in-a-can would rub off on me.”
That reminded Sophia of a story about the natural coloring of an exotic-looking teen idol who was not actually a native of the Near Eastern country he claimed as his origin. During a photo shoot at the beach, his true complexion had come to light, light being the operative word. Sophia, who admitted to having enough of a personal interest in the fellow not to want to ruin his image, had effected a quick cover-up with a beach towel.
More stories followed, some of which could have been true, and all of which were hilarious. But eventually Sophia started to yawn, so Tilda said, “This has been illuminating, as always, but I should go check into my hotel before they give away my room.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re tired—you’ve got no stamina for late nights,” Sophia scolded. “At your age, I’d have two dates waiting for me at this time of the evening.”
“Then call them up and have them come see me—your dates were always closer to my age than yours.”
“Jealousy is so unattractive,” Sophia said with a smile, and indicated that Tilda should practice her air kisses once again.
It was only when Juan appeared, silent as always, to escort her to the door that Tilda said, “I think I’ll poke around that movie Mercy walked out on. Do you know anybody who was involved?”
“Of course I do—no movie got made at that time that I didn’t know people on,” Sophia said, “but offhand, I don’t know who I know. I’ll see what I can look up in the morning, and messenger the information to you. Where are you staying?”
“The Kimberly. You could just call me—they’ve got phones in every room. I’ve even got a cell phone.”
“Don’t be silly. Juan needs the exercise. Now, when you get downstairs, don’t give Joe any money to call you a cab—that’s his job.”
Sophia had this Joe—who was named Bill—well trained. He wouldn’t take the tip Tilda offered in spite of Sophia’s instructions.
Tilda always tried to stay at the Kimberly when she was in Manhattan. The location was convenient and it was small enough that the staff remembered her from visit to visit, or at least convincingly pretended to. Most of the rooms were suites, meaning that she could interview people in her room without a bed in plain view, which forestalled complications.
Once she checked in she decided to boot up her computer and check e-mail, but once she had, she almost wished she hadn’t. The first item was a program Vincent had put together to count down the time remaining until the Kissing Cousins killer was due to execute Mercy, if Tilda couldn’t find her in time. Not that Vincent was putting pressure on her or anything. She deleted it.
Next were three batches of Mercy sightings from members of the Kissing Cousins Listserv, thoughtfully divided into “Possible,” “Unlikely,” and “No Way.”
As she read through the “Possible” posts, she wondered what Vincent had been smoking when he compiled it. If the posts were to be believed, Mercy was working at a Barnes and Noble in San Francisco, raising ostriches in a small town in North Carolina, running a law firm in Manitoba, and walking the streets as a prostitute in New Orleans. In her spare time, she worked for the CIA, the FBI, and other sets of initials with which Tilda was unfamiliar.
M
ost of the accounts were so short on details as to make them impossible to confirm, and the others could well require hours of work to disprove. She put the less unlikely ones on her mental list of things to do if she got terribly, terribly desperate.
She should have known better, but she couldn’t resist looking at the “Unlikely” list. Twenty minutes of reading about aliens and government conspiracies was enough to convince her that she wouldn’t have to bother with that category in the future, although she had to admit that the explanation of how Mercy was actually the last heir to the Romanov throne was particularly imaginative.
Tilda knew she was being a glutton for punishment, but she just had to look at the “No Way” list, the posts even Vincent wouldn’t believe. The first one made her very glad it had been so long since dinner—the writer claimed that he knew Mercy’s whereabouts because he himself had killed her and buried her in his backyard. Eventually. Tilda decided that the sicko who came up with that bit of necrophiliac porn needed some serious help.
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 10
