Curse of the Kissing Cousins

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  “You don’t even have a little black dress, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then stop bitching. Even if you had one, you wouldn’t be wearing it tonight because two thirds of the women there will be wearing their little black dresses because they are appropriate for every occasion.”

  “Of course.”

  “For you, I’ve got one word. Vintage.”

  “Vintage?”

  “Vintage. Meet me at Harvard Square Station in forty-five minutes—we’re going to Oona’s.”

  “Thanks, Cooper.”

  As she got ready to go, a little voice in her head said that she was using party preparation as another excuse to stall her hunt for Mercy, but a different internal voice pointed out that this was work-related. When the first voice argued, the second started repeating, “La, la, la—I can’t hear you!” Tilda went with the second voice.

  Oona’s Experienced Clothing in Cambridge was a Mecca to bargain hunters and broke college students alike, and while Tilda had been there many times before, she’d never gone with a master of the shopping arts like Cooper. He flipped through skirts and blouses on racks at lightning speed and dug into boxes of scarves, belts, and purses with wild abandon. In forty minutes, including time for trying clothes on, he had what he assured her was the perfect outfit for the occasion: a steel-blue dress of floaty chiffon with a layered hemline, an old-fashioned sea-foam green and aqua-blue scarf to drape from shoulder to hip, and a beaded clutch that somehow still had ninety-nine percent of the beads attached.

  With all that, Tilda still had enough of her fifty dollars to pay for their lunch at Bartley’s Burger Cottage afterward. Picking up the check and complimenting Cooper’s new haircut and his really bitching shoes paid off her sucking-up debt too. She even sprang for his new copy of Astonishing X-Men at the Million Year Picnic, the comic book store where Cooper nursed his secret addiction to buff mutants in spandex.

  After issuing firm instructions about shoes, Cooper headed back to work while Tilda went back to her apartment to consider the next problem: a date for the evening.

  In thinking over her available male friends, she could come up with two that she was reasonably sure would make a good impression and that she could call at the last minute. The problem was that one of them would see the invitation as an opening gambit to reestablishing a relationship, and the other would see it as a way to get laid. She really didn’t want the relationship with the guy—it had taken her a month to let him down easily the first time, and if she had to do it again, she was afraid she’d need a restraining order. As for the second, he just wasn’t that good in bed.

  Then there was Nick Tolomeo, the security consultant with a father who approved of her. In his line of work, he’d certainly know how to act around industry types, and he was more than presentable. She wouldn’t mind it if he saw the call as the start of a relationship, and the idea of him in bed had appeal too. It being on such short notice was problematical, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  The receptionist, presumably the one who’d been missing the other day, answered and quickly connected her with Nick.

  “Tilda!” he said, sounding pleased to hear from her. “How are you doing? Did you come up with some more questions about Mercy?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you’re free tonight.”

  “Professionally or personally?”

  “Definitely personally.” She explained about the cocktail party, including an apology for the invitation coming so late.

  “Let me check on something.” He must have meant to put his hand over the receiver, but didn’t quite cover it all the way, because Tilda could hear every word that was said. “Pop, can you cover for me on the airport job tonight?”

  “What for? You got a hot date?”

  “I hope so. You remember Tilda Harper?”

  “The magazine writer? The one with the nice ass?”

  “Pop!”

  “What? I’m old, but I know a nice ass when I see one. When I met your mother, that was the first thing I noticed about her.”

  “Pop! I don’t want to hear that. I just want to know if you can cover for me.”

  “Damned straight I will. Don’t let that one get away!”

  Tilda was snickering when Nick came back on the line.

  “Just how much of that did you hear?” he asked in resignation.

  “All of it.”

  “Do you still want me to come with you to the party?”

  “Absolutely.” They arranged a place to meet, and just before she hung up, Tilda added, “By the way, thank your father for me, and tell him he’s got a great ass too.”

  Chapter 20

  Rule number one for cocktail parties: eat before you go. You’re

  there to see and be seen, not to eat. The food is usually terrible,

  and you don’t want to drink on an empty stomach. In vino veritas

  doesn’t go over well in the industry.

  —SOPHIA VAUGHN, QUOTED IN “TEEN IDOL WORSHIPPERS,” ENTERTAIN ME!

  OTHER than brief breaks to check e-mail, Tilda spent the rest of the afternoon following the advice given to her by the trio of makeup artists, not willing to take the risk of modifying their game plan. By five before five, she was standing next to the John Adams statue in front of Faneuil Hall, awaiting her plus-one.

  She’d hoped that Nick would know how to dress, perhaps in the male equivalent of the little black dress, and was more than satisfied when he showed up in a suit that even she could tell was Armani. If that weren’t enough, his shirt was crisply starched, his tie stylish without being flamboyant, and his shoes freshly polished. All those years of squiring fashionable celebrities must have taught him a few tricks.

  “You look amazing,” he said when he saw her.

  “Thank you. You look ready for the red carpet yourself.”

  “Is there going to be a red carpet?”

  “Come see for yourself.”

  The annual Boston Film Festival, though not nearly so glitzy as Cannes or Sundance, did bring an intriguing batch of films to town once a year, which of course meant an eager batch of actors and filmmakers looking for publicity. Though Tilda found some of the festival’s offerings needlessly artsy, she usually tried to catch some of the screenings and a celebrity or three for interviews.

  In addition to the screenings, there was always a flurry of prescreening cocktail parties during the festival, usually held at chichi restaurants or ritzy hotels. Jillian had decided on something with more attitude. Entertain Me! was hosting its party at Durgin-Park, the Boston landmark restaurant with the slogan, “Established before you were born.” Situated in the middle of tourist-laden Quincy Market, the place was famous for prime rib, Indian pudding, and rude waitresses.

  They really had laid out a red carpet on the cobblestones outside the entrance of the restaurant, but then had to station a man to keep the tourists from trampling over it or, even worse, posing for photos. Tilda and Nick walked onto it as if they belonged there, and Tilda had to admit it was neat in a snotty kind of way.

  Shannon was standing just inside the door, clipboard in hand, wearing a little black dress.

  “Hi, Shannon,” Tilda said.

  “Tilda! I didn’t know you were coming.” She checked the list, not finding Tilda’s name until she got to the end. “Tilda Harper plus one.” She checked them off. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Shannon, Nick. Nick, Shannon is one of the staff editors.” They shook hands, and Shannon waved them in. Tilda took a quick peek behind them and caught Shannon checking out the view of Nick from behind. She couldn’t blame her—Nick’s ass was even better than his father’s.

  It was still early, so none of the real celebrities had arrived yet. Though Tilda had never been invited to an Entertain Me! party before, she’d been to enough other parties associated with the film festival to know how they worked. Despite the fact that the party would last for only two hours, thereby allowing
time to get to an eight o’clock screening, the various stars and directors weren’t likely to show for another half an hour. Tilda preferred getting there on time, when the hors d’oeuvres were hot and the line at the bar was short, and then placing herself strategically to watch people as they came in.

  Of course, usually she was working, and this time she was there with a plus-one, so she felt obligated to socialize. The fact that she and Nick both looked fabulous had nothing to do with her making a beeline for where Jillian and Bryce were muttering at one another. She thought she heard the familiar refrain of “No, fuck you!” before they saw her.

  “Tilda, terrific outfit. Glad you could make it,” Bryce said.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. Nick, this is Jillian Carroll and Bryce Delaney, editor in chief and managing editor respectively. Jillian, Bryce, this is Nick Tolomeo. He’s a personal security consultant.”

  Hands were shaken, the air in the vicinity of cheeks was smooched, and small talk was exchanged. A few minutes later when Cooper and his husband, Jean-Paul, joined them, the ritual began anew.

  Cooper checked out Nick thoroughly, and when he got a chance, flashed Tilda a thumbs-up and said, “Tilda, we’re still on for lunch tomorrow, right?”

  They had made no such plans—Cooper just wanted to debrief after the party and ask nosy questions about Nick. But since the reason she looked halfway decent was Cooper’s expertise, Tilda was willing to go along. “Absolutely,” she said.

  After a few more moments of meaningless chat, Jillian said, “Look, we can visit at work. I’m going to talk to some of the real guests. The rest of you—go mingle!”

  Tilda was worried Nick would be offended, but he just chuckled, and the group dispersed to do as they’d been told.

  When she and Nick ended up close to the door, Tilda was both surprised and delighted at one of the familiar faces she saw arriving—Irv Munch had just come in with a woman wearing a very stylish little black dress. No wonder he hadn’t been available to take her call—he’d been in Boston! His lady friend looked young enough to be his daughter.

  Nobody else seemed to notice them, so she said, “Nick, let me introduce you to somebody else. I think you’ll get a kick out of this.”

  She led him to where Irv was surveying the room, and said, “Mr. Munch? Tilda Harper. It’s good to see you again.”

  It took him a second, which wasn’t bad considering how many people he must have rubbed shoulders with over the years he’d been in the industry. “Tilda, sweetheart. You’re looking incredible.”

  “Thank you. Are you doing something with the festival?”

  “Not me. My baby here has a film showing later this week. Rachel, Tilda Harper. She works with Entertain Me!”

  If Rachel minded being referred to as Irv’s baby, she showed no sign of it as she took Tilda’s hand and said, “Glad to meet you.”

  Tilda went on, “This is my friend Nick Tolomeo. Nick, this is Irv Munch, the man who created Kissing Cousins, among other shows.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Nick said with obvious sincerity. “I’ve been a fan of your work for many years.”

  “That’s always good to hear,” Irv said, beaming, “but this week is Rachel’s time to shine. Mark my words—in five years’ time, Rachel Munch is going to be a bigger name than Irv Munch ever was!”

  Tilda mentally bitch-slapped herself for assuming the worst of the older man. No wonder Rachel looked old enough to be his daughter—she was his daughter. Now that she knew, the family resemblance was obvious, though, fortunately for Rachel, it extended only to their shared eye color, brow shape, and strong chins. The bulbous nose, prominent ears, and thinning hair were Irv’s alone.

  They talked a few minutes about Rachel’s film, a roman à clef about a young Jewish girl growing up in Hollywood that could easily have been tedious but which sounded as if it had been done with a mix of humor and charm. When Rachel mentioned that the party was the first festival event she’d attended, Tilda extracted her from Irv and introduced her to some of the other filmmakers so she could get started on the all-important job of schmoozing and making contacts. Meanwhile Nick kept Irv occupied and thoroughly buttered up while she was gone.

  “Nothing’s in writing,” Irv was saying when she got back, “but it’s looking good, it’s looking real good.”

  “Tilda, Mr. Munch—” Nick started to say.

  “Irv!” Munch corrected him.

  “Irv, then. Irv was just telling me that he’s been in talks about a revival of Kissing Cousins.”

  “Is that right?” Tilda said, trying to sound as pleased as she’d actually been when she first heard the rumor, years back.

  “As God is my witness. It’s a terrible thing, what’s happened to my kids these past few months, but the publicity . . . You know what this business is like—any publicity is good publicity. Sometimes the worse the news is, the more attention it gets. When Jim Bonnier died, I got a couple of calls and sympathy cards. With Alex Johnson, I got a few lunches. Tilda’s article came out, and people wanted me to take a meeting. Now, with poor Holly, my phone is ringing off the hook. I hate like hell to have it happen this way, but I can’t turn down the work when it comes.” He did look sincerely contrite, for a vulture anyway. “Your business is the same way, am I right?”

  “If it bleeds, it leads,” Tilda admitted. She could hardly throw stones at Irv—if Bonnier and Johnson hadn’t died, nobody would have bought her article about Kissing Cousins, and Holly’s death had led to her current assignment. If Irv was a vulture, she and he were birds of a feather. “Are you aiming for a one-shot or a new series?”

  Irv waved his hands around airily. “Everything is still on the table at this point. There’s even talk of making a feature, with the kids all grown up. Wouldn’t that be a gas!”

  They played cast-the-movie for a few minutes: would Matt Damon or Shia LaBeouf be better as Brad, Johnny Depp or Paul Bettany as Damon, maybe Lindsey Lohan as Sherri.

  “What about Mercy?” Tilda asked. “Do you suppose you could get Mercy Ashford herself to reprise the role?”

  “Do you know where she is?” he asked eagerly.

  “Don’t you?” she countered.

  “I wish I did. I’ve had a couple of projects over the years that she’d have been perfect for, but I never could track her down. I did a pilot the season after Kissing Cousins went off the air, and I wanted to cast her, but she’d disappeared. I know she signed for a feature—”

  “The Raven’s Prey,” Tilda put in.

  “That’s the one. Only she left the production, and nobody’s seen her since. It’s a crying shame.”

  “She hasn’t been in touch at all? She didn’t come to any of the funerals?”

  “She didn’t even send flowers. It surprised me too. Mercy always had real class.” Irv shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t hear about the deaths—nobody knew how to call her.”

  “That’s odd,” Tilda said, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt. She hadn’t really expected anything more, but she had hoped.

  “You’re telling me. Even her agent couldn’t get in touch with her. When an actress doesn’t let her agent know where she is, you know something is off-kilter.”

  “She didn’t have any family you could get in touch with?” Nick asked.

  Irv shook his head. “Poor thing didn’t have any family.”

  Tilda hated to do it in front of Nick, but she had to try one more time to confirm Have_Mercy’s claims. “What about boyfriends? I’ve heard stories that she, you know, partied a bit.”

  “Who said that?” Irv demanded.

  “It was somebody on the Web,” she said vaguely.

  “It’s a damned lie! Sure she dated, but Mercy was a good girl.”

  Tilda was surprised by his vehemence, which seemed to go beyond the usual damage control instincts of a producer. Besides, what damage could it cause now? As Munch had said himself, any publicity was good publicity. Was he honestly upset by the idea, or p
rotesting too much?

  She quickly changed the subject back to Kissing Cousins revival possibilities, and after a few more minutes, Irv went to join his daughter.

  “You’re really determined to find Mercy, aren’t you?” Nick said.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t invite you to watch me work.”

  “It’s okay. It’s been interesting to observe your technique.”

  She snorted. “Not much technique going on, other than to nearly get Irv Munch mad at me. Nobody seems to have a clue where Mercy is or why she left acting or what she’s been doing all these years. I’ve been trying everything I can think of, and I’ve had no luck whatsoever. Maybe you were right. Maybe some people don’t want to be found. But I can’t even find out why she doesn’t want to be found!”