“Nicole Webber, acting editor in chief,” she said grandly.
“Nicole, this is Tilda. Look, I did my best, but I cannot get face time with Rhonda until Sunday. Today she’s got a plumber coming and a doctor’s appointment, and she’s booked all day tomorrow for some sort of family thing. You’re going to have to let me have until Monday. Say by five?”
Nicole paused, and Tilda knew she was dying to push her harder, but she wasn’t willing to lose the article completely. “It’s got to be on my desk by one, or forget it.”
“Jeez, that’s cutting it tight. . . . Okay, one o’clock it is,” Tilda said. This time she hung up first, just because she could.
The glow of that small triumph didn’t last long. The time she’d bought wasn’t going to make any difference if she couldn’t somehow become inspired to find Mercy. She got out of bed, showered, and ate breakfast, so as to be ready for inspiration to strike.
It didn’t.
So she checked e-mail on the off chance that either the killer had sent his confession or Mercy had sent an invitation to lunch, including directions to her house. They hadn’t.
Next she once again skimmed all her notes for the article to see if inspiration was hiding there.
It wasn’t. Or, if it was, it was continuing to hide. She sighed. It was useless. She really had given it her best shot, but time was running out. The only rational thing she could do was to go ahead and write the story with the data she had, and since she didn’t live in Vincentland, that’s what she was going to do.
She started writing, and worked steadily until the phone rang an hour later.
This time it was the Burbank cops, or rather a Burbank homicide detective, and he asked her to again describe what had happened when she called Noel the day before. It was odd to be on the receiving end of an interview. If asked, she’d have given the detective a solid B for his style—he was thorough, but he was weak on developing rapport. Then again, maybe cops weren’t big on developing rapport with potential poisoners.
Tilda told him everything she knew about the poisoned Sky Bars, which wasn’t much. Then she asked questions of her own, and was pleasantly surprised when he answered. Apparently the police had traced the package. It had been shipped from Washington, DC, on Wednesday morning, and thanks to Nick and Cooper, she had an alibi for that whole time. The detective was nice enough not to sneer when she suggested that he might be able to find out how the package was paid for; he just patiently told her that the shipper had used cash, which helped nobody.
Even though she’d answered all of his questions and he seemed to believe her, he still asked if she’d mind if a pair of Boston detectives came to see her in person, and she lied and said that she wouldn’t mind at all. Then she hung up and got back to work.
The Boston detectives—a man and a woman—arrived promptly at eleven, and Tilda told the whole tale again. She’d once heard that witnesses tend to remember more details every time they repeat a story, but the only one she added was the fact that Noel’s doorbell sounded like the chimes of Big Ben. This startling revelation might have surfaced because the pair was better than the Burbank cop at developing rapport. She’d have given them a B+ in interviewing, and if the one who was taking notes had written a little faster, she’d have bumped them to an A-. Then they took her fingerprints and asked for handwriting samples to do whatever it was they did with such things.
After they left, Tilda wondered if she should have had a lawyer present while they questioned her—if she’d gotten more of an impression that they really suspected her, maybe she would have. As it was, she thought they accepted her innocence, if for no other reason than because she’d saved Noel’s life. Moreover, they were somewhat willing to entertain the possibility that Holly’s killer had tried to kill Noel, even though they thought her contradicting theories that Mercy was either a killer or in danger of becoming a victim were something for the circular file. She didn’t blame them—when she said it out loud, it sounded about as believable as the average Kissing Cousins script.
Tilda grabbed a sandwich for lunch and went back to her article, finishing a draft by late afternoon. When she read it over, she knew she’d done a decent job, but she also knew she’d never produced a piece of writing she detested more. Even if every word had sparkled, she’d have hated the damned thing because it didn’t include anything about Mercy’s whereabouts.
Feeling wildly dissatisfied, she got ready to go to Rhonda’s place to see the much-vaunted Kissing Cousins collection. Despite her annoyance with Nicole for pushing the sidebar, Tilda felt that she owed it to Rhonda to do a good job. First, it had bought her more time, even if she hadn’t been able to do anything with that time so far. Second, even under the circumstances, she was going to enjoy rummaging through the collection.
Since Rhonda lived in Waltham, not easily accessible by T, Tilda took her life in her hands to drive up I-93 and then switch to Route 128, the road that was sometimes called America’s Technology Highway in honor of all the high-tech firms located off its exits. One would presume that people in such jobs would have higher than average intelligence, but Tilda saw no sign of it in their driving styles. The mix of tailgaters and incessant lane-changers, plus slowdowns at popular exits, made for a frustrating drive. Tilda was relieved to finally arrive at the Gardencrest Apartments, a sprawling complex designed when people thought such developments should look like neighborhoods instead of warrens.
When Rhonda came to her door, the first thing she said was, “You’re not going to take pictures, are you? I’m a mess, and the apartment is even worse.”
Looking around at the stacks of papers, piles of magazines, and small mountains of boxes that filled the room, Tilda said, “I’ll only use close-ups of items. Neither you nor your apartment will show.”
“Thank goodness,” Rhonda said. “It’s been crazy ever since I decided to go through with this. I’ve got to catalog everything and give estimated values for the insurance company at the collectibles show, and it’s got to be done by the middle of next week. There’s all kinds of regulations for things being displayed.”
“Then you’re not selling after all?”
“Oh, I’m still selling, but not at the expo. They’re paying me an honorarium for the display, but only if I keep it intact until the show ends. I’ll take names and offers, and work out deals afterward. Anything that doesn’t sell that way will go on eBay. That’s unless I get lucky and sell it as a collection.”
“Is that likely?”
“Not really. Only a collector with really deep pockets would be able to afford it, and serious collectors already have enough of the items that they’re not going to want duplicates. I don’t think Vincent will ever forgive me.”
“Why is he so bothered? He’s not even that much of a collector.” It was true—other than a few signed cast photos and a set of dolls, Vincent didn’t have that much Kissing Cousins memorabilia. He had too many passions to indulge completely in any one of them.
“He’s treating this like it’s a museum collection and I’m the curator, but curators get paid, and I haven’t been for a long time now. I don’t want to give the stuff up, but I don’t want to give up eating either.”
“Maybe the article will get you some attention too. Human resource people read Entertain Me!”
“I never thought of that,” Rhonda said, cheering. “Beats putting up a billboard, which I had seriously considered. ‘Will work for rent money.’ So where do we start?”
“I’ve got some questions, and then I’d like to look at the collection and see what would photograph well.”
“Good enough.” While Tilda got situated—not an easy task considering the clutter—Rhonda went to get them something to drink and then had to find her own place to sit. For about half an hour, Tilda asked questions about how Rhonda had gotten into collecting and how she went about finding things from a long-defunct television series. Then she asked which item was Rhonda’s first (one of the Kissing Cousins jig
saw puzzles), her favorite (the Kissing Cousins play set), the most rare (a copy of one of the third-season scripts signed by the cast), the most valuable (a full set of Kissing Cousins dolls, mint in box), and the most unusual (Kissing Cousins panties for girls, thankfully still in the wrapper).
Then Tilda saw the price list Rhonda was working on. “Are these things really worth this much?”
“To a collector? Absolutely. I’m embarrassed to admit how much money I’ve got tied up in some of it, and I’ve been at it for years. Prices have been rising steadily, and every time Nick@ Nite does a Kissing Cousins marathon, there’s a jump.” She sheepishly added, “And honestly, the recent publicity hasn’t hurt prices any either.”
Tilda shrugged. “If people will spend big bucks on lousy clown paintings by John Wayne Gacy, why not buy cursed board games?” To herself she noted that her own modest collection might provide a decent nest egg too, should the need arise.
Once she had enough information for the written part of the sidebar, Tilda gathered up some of the items to photograph, using a dark-blue sheet she’d brought along for a backdrop. Though she knew that two or three photos at most would be used, she also knew that her photography skills were basic and that the best way to get one good shot was to take many, many iffy shots. With a digital camera, she didn’t have to be shy about film, so she told Rhonda to go back to cataloging while she experimented with angles and such. If nothing else, Rhonda could use the photos when posting on eBay.
Tilda was trying to figure out how to get rid of the glare from the plastic wrappings on the panties when Rhonda said, “Now this is different—take a look.”
“What?”
Rhonda handed her what looked like a leather-covered photo album, the kind people put their wedding photos in. But instead of being imprinted with “Bob & Mary, Together Forever,” it had the Kissing Cousins logo carved into the cover.
“Tell me you didn’t have this made,” Tilda said.
“Not guilty,” Rhonda said, holding her hands up in surrender. “I bought it last year. The original owner was a stone Kissing Cousins fan.”
“No, I’m a stone fan. Vincent is a bit more than that. This guy was a whole level of magnitude beyond.” Tilda flipped through the pages, where the unknown fan had carefully pasted in original magazine and newspaper clippings, laminated for preservation; eight-by-ten glossies of the cast, all of them signed and one of them personalized; and even TV Guide listings with summaries of every episode. The whole thing was in precise chronological order. “I’m surprised he sold it.”
“He died,” Rhonda said, “so his partner was selling a whole lot of stuff. He had other albums for other shows.”
“That’s scary.”
“I mainly bought it for curiosity value. Full magazines are more collectible than clippings, even if he did label them so thoroughly. The glossies are good, but I can’t get them out of the album without damaging them. Still, it’s interesting.” She went back to sorting while Tilda kept looking at the album.
The original owner must have been a Teen Fave reader—Tilda recognized many of the clippings. Plus there were articles from 16, Tiger Beat, and magazines whose titles she didn’t recognize. She even found a copy of the photo of Mercy with Nick and wondered if she should try to buy the thing as a present for him. That led her to speculate whether or not he and she were on gift-giving terms yet, and she almost missed one newspaper clipping she hadn’t seen before.
It was a shot of four couples at some kind of social function—the men were in suits and the women were wearing what Tilda thought would be called cocktail dresses, or perhaps party frocks. Mercy was at the end of the line, and though the other couples were identified as Mr. and Mrs. or Mr. Whoever and Miss Whichever, Mercy and her date were only “Wallace Lambert Jr. and Friend.” The accompanying article described the party they were attending in loving detail, and the label underneath identified it as being from the Desert Sun in Palm Springs. If the date given was correct, it had been printed in June of 1979.
“This is odd,” she said.
“What’s that?” Rhonda said. “Oh yeah, I remember that one. Funny that the guy who made the book recognized Mercy, isn’t it? It’s not a very good shot, and she’s dressed so strangely.”
Tilda admitted, “I don’t know that I’d have recognized her from this myself.” Instead of wearing black lace, Mercy was wearing pastel blue, with matching pumps and white gloves. Her hair was pulled back, in a French twist or something similar. Of course, Sophia had told her Mercy didn’t always wear black when she was away from the camera, but pastels? It just looked wrong.
She looked through the rest of the album, but ended up back at that one picture. By rights she should pack up and go. It was nearly six o’clock, and she had to write up her notes for the sidebar about Rhonda and make sure her story was ready to deliver on Monday. It would be ridiculous to try to track down some dude who went to one party with Mercy just to see if he knew where she was now. That was assuming that it really was Mercy in the picture. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.
“Rhonda,” she said, “Can I borrow this? I’d love to reread some of these old articles—I might find some quotes for my piece.” Just because she’d decided to be ridiculous, that didn’t mean she was going to tell Rhonda. “I promise to get it back to you in plenty of time for the collectibles show.”
“Sure, as long as you’re careful with it.”
“Thanks.” She quickly finished with her photos, thanked Rhonda for the interview and the loan, and left. Once in the car, she did some rapid calculations. Six o’clock in Waltham meant three o’clock in Sacramento, so she had a good chance of reaching somebody at the Desert Sun. Of course, six o’clock on Friday also meant a hellish drive back to Malden. Rather than risk missing her chance, she stayed parked and pulled out her cell phone to take one more stab at finding Mercy.
Chapter 25
I was never crazy about the title Kissing Cousins, but it could
have been worse. The network wanted Kissin’ Cousins, which
sounded like a Beverly Hillbillies rip-off. I had to fight for
that “g.”
—IRV MUNCH, QUOTED IN “CURSE OF THE KISSING COUSINS,” ENTERTAIN ME!
A call to information got her the number of the Desert Sun, but when she asked for Cecily Flax, the author of the article, the operator said nobody by that name worked there. Of course, the article was nearly thirty years old, and the reporter had probably retired or changed jobs. So Tilda asked for the life-styles department instead. She’d halfway expected that the life-styles editor would be as lost as the operator, but he recognized Flax’s name immediately. She’d been a longtime society reporter and still lived in the area. Once Tilda explained who she worked for, the editor gave her the woman’s phone number, but warned her that Flax was always Miss Flax, not Mrs. Flax or Cecily, and particularly never Ms. Flax.
Feeling unreasonably excited, Tilda dialed the woman’s number, and she answered on the second ring.
“This is Cecily Flax. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
Tilda told herself not to use the f-word, the s-word, or even the d-word. She had a hunch that somebody who answered the phone that formally would hang up if she did. “Miss Flax? This is Miss Tilda Harper calling from Massachusetts. I’m researching for an article for Entertain Me!, and I was hoping you might have a few minutes to speak with me.”
“I always have time for a fellow journalist,” Miss Flax replied.
“This is going back a few years. I’ve got an article you wrote about a Junior League party back in June of 1979. It includes a picture of four couples, and one of the women isn’t identified by name. She’s just ‘and Friend.’ Do you suppose you could consult your files and see if you remember that photo?”
“I don’t have to, Miss Harper. I remember that picture quite well—it’s the only time I ever wrote a caption like that. You see, Wallace Lambert Senior came up to me after I took the picture and told
me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want the young lady’s name linked to his son’s in the paper. Wallace Junior was furious, and the lady was horribly embarrassed, but Mr. Lambert was a personal friend of the editor so I didn’t dare cross him. I should have used a different photo, but I was quite the rebel in those days, so I ran it with her unidentified.” She giggled, or perhaps it was a titter. “My, what a stir it caused!”
Tilda was starting to like the older woman. “I don’t suppose you remember the young lady’s name.”
“Let me think. It was an unusual name. Hope? Charity? Some kind of virtue.”
“Mercy? Mercy Ashford?”
“That’s it! For Wallace Junior to bring her to the cotillion was quite a scandal. Don’t misunderstand me, she was perfectly well behaved, but it was common knowledge that she was an actress. The cats were all whispering NQOTD in the powder room.”
“NQOTD?”
“ ‘Not quite our type, dear.’ Such snobs! If they’d known half the tales I know about people of ‘their type,’ they’d have been delighted to have an actress with nice manners around. Unfortunately Mr. Lambert agreed with them, and I heard that he forbade Wallace Junior from seeing her again. Mr. Lambert controlled his son with an iron hand—a most unpleasant man. His wife had passed away young and the story was that she’d died to get away from him.”
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 23
