Fatal Identity

by Joanne Fluke

  Mercedes walked to the huge mirrored bathroom and turned on the shower. She’d feel much better once she washed her hair and used some conditioner. She took off her robe and surveyed her body critically. Her skin was still tight, and her breasts were high and firm with no signs of sagging. Another week of dieting, and she’d be in better shape than she’d ever been in before. And she needed to be in perfect shape, since she would wear a bikini in the honeymoon beach scene.

  As she stepped under the hot stream of water, Mercedes gave a weary sigh. She really didn’t feel like swimming laps tonight but she knew she should. Physical fitness and a proper diet had kept her looking like she was in her twenties, when she was actually thirty-four.

  When Mercedes emerged from the shower, fifteen minutes later, she felt refreshed. She changed to a warm-up suit that had been especially designed for her. Then she towel-dried her hair-the ends were beginning to split from having it blow-dried too often-and carried her Lady Smith downstairs with her. Perhaps she was being a little too paranoid, since the new security system was armed, but it did make her feel much safer.

  Her first stop was the den, where she poured herself a glass of perfectly chilled Chardonnay from her husband’s new wine cooler. Brad was a wine connoisseur, and he had over two hundred labels in his temperature-controlled EuroCave. At least this hobby of his was useful, not like the racehorses that never won, or the antique cars that were stored in their specially designed warehouse garage.

  The wine was delicious—a light, fruity vintage—and Mercedes smiled. A hundred and ten calories, she’d have to skimp on dinner, but it was worth it. Then she flopped down in the leather massage chair behind her husband’s desk, and called the florist to order flowers for her hairdresser, who had just given birth to her first baby.

  After five minutes in the massage chair, Mercedes felt rejuvenated. She took another sip of wine, picked up the phone again, and called the number for her voice mail.

  The first message was from Brad. He wouldn’t be home until late. There were harness races at the track tonight, and he wanted to check out some of their competition. By the time she got this message, he’d be at the stables with their horse trainer. Metro Golden Mare was having some problems, and they might have to scratch her in Sunday’s race.

  Mercedes frowned and tapped her pen on the message pad. Thoroughbreds were an expensive investment, and they weren’t paying off. She’d wanted Brad to minimize their losses and sell out, but he’d convinced her to hang on for one more season. And now their prize racehorse was going to be scratched! When she’d married Brad two years ago, she’d thought that he was a shrewd businessman. But instead of increasing her capital, he’d reduced it considerably. It was a very good thing she’d met with Sam Abrams, her lawyer, on the set today. She knew Brad would be upset at first, but he’d understand when she explained exactly why she’d hired another investment firm to handle the bulk of her assets. If he continued to funnel her money into risky ventures, there’d be nothing left for her twins!

  When Mercedes pressed the button for her next message, her hand was shaking. She took another sip of wine and got ready for more bad news. But this message was from her housekeeper, and Rosa always made her smile. Rosamunda Szechenyi Kossuth was a welcome addition to the family. Mercedes knew she’d always be grateful to her first husband for hiring Rosa to help out when the twins were born.

  When Rosa had first come to work for them, there had been a language problem. Rosa spoke perfect English, but she had just emigrated from Hungary. Her accent was so thick, Mercedes had been unable to understand her. They’d solved the problem by calling in a friend, who made his living as a dialogue coach. After two months of speech lessons, three times a week, Rosa’s accent had faded to only a faint trace.

  Rosa had given Mercedes a worry-free decade. Mercedes’s children were her children, and Rosa was a Super Mom. The twins would be ten years old next week, and Mercedes had planned a big party. What Rosa didn’t know was that the twins had a surprise for her. Mercedes had taken Trish and Rick to an expensive jewelry store, and they’d picked out a beautiful watch to give to Rosa. Mercedes had assured them that Rosa would love it. Of course, Rosa would love anything “her babies” gave her. Rosa’s room was decorated in what Mercedes called Early Twin, with crayon drawings, framed finger-paint handprints, and dried flowers they’d picked for her in the garden.

  Mercedes laughed as she played Rosa’s message. She could hear the twins in the background, urging her to please hurry. Rosa had left a message to say that she was taking the kids to an early movie, and they’d stop for a hamburger on the way home. Mr. Brad had insisted the kids needed a night out, and he’d given her money to spend. She’d prepared a chicken salad for Mercedes. It was in the refrigerator, along with a big pitcher of iced tea.

  Mercedes sighed. Salad, again. A thinly sliced, skinless chicken breast on a bed of mixed greens with diet dressing. Three hundred and fifty boring calories, but she had to lose another four pounds before they shot the bikini scene.

  Thirty-four was a rotten age for an actress. It was too old to play the ingénue and too young for “mature woman” roles. There weren’t many parts written for actresses in their mid-thirties, and the competition was fierce. Her best hope for continued success was to stay in perfect shape.

  Even though she tried not to think of it, Mercedes pictured Rosa and the twins in a green leather booth at Hamburger Hamlet, munching on thick, juicy burgers with crispy french fries. The twins would talk Rosa into ordering huge slices of chocolate cake with fudge sauce and ice cream for dessert. They always did. And Mercedes was stuck here with chicken salad! Of course, she couldn’t have gone along, even if they’d waited for her to get home. She had script changes to memorize before tomorrow morning, and she couldn’t afford to blow her diet.

  Mercedes swallowed—her mouth was watering—and punched the button for her next message. It was a polite reminder from her dry cleaners, asking her to pay her last month’s bill. She jotted down the information on a yellow sticky and placed it on the top of Brad’s desk. Since she was so busy with her career, Brad handled the bills for all of their household expenses.

  The fourth message was also about an overdue bill, the landscaping service this time. Mercedes wrote out another yellow sticky and placed it next to the first. Brad had mentioned that they were having a slight cash-flow problem, but this was ridiculous! Perhaps he just hadn’t gotten around to writing the checks yet.

  The next message was a typical call from her sister. “This is your twin sister, Marcie Calder, in Minnesota.”

  Mercedes put the message on pause and laughed out loud. She only had one twin sister and she knew where Marcie lived. But Marcie was shy, and she felt so uncomfortable about leaving a recorded message that she always identified herself that way.

  “I called to tell you that cousin Betty is getting married on Saturday. She’s Aunt Bernice and Uncle Al’s youngest daughter . . . the one who used to wet the bed when they came to visit? I’m not going. It’s way up in Hibbing, and they’re predicting snow for the weekend, but I’m sending a gift. I called to ask whether you want me to include your name on the card.”

  Mercedes frowned. She vaguely remembered their cousin Betty, and knew that anything that Marcie picked out would be fine. Her sister was an art teacher and she’d always had impeccable taste.

  “I bought a beautiful pottery bowl at the college art sale, cerulean blue with pink and lavender blossoms that remind me of the ones in Cézanne’s Vase of Flowers. It was fifty-four dollars, which is a lot, but since it was the last day, the artist took ten dollars off. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’ll just add your name to the card and send it off.”

  Mercedes grinned. Thank goodness one of them was organized! She remembered receiving Betty’s wedding invitation last week, but she’d tossed it aside and forgotten all about it. How could twin sisters be so different? They looked alike, tall with blond hair, green eyes, and light complexions
. If they dressed alike, no one would be able to tell them apart. But they had totally different temperaments. Marcie was solid, dependable, and sweetly naive, while Mercedes was exactly the opposite. The only thing they had in common was their disappointing luck with men.

  Mercedes had married Mike Lang, the producer of her first picture, right after the film was completed. It was a May-December marriage, Mike was thirty years her senior, but both of them had wanted children. Mercedes had gotten pregnant almost immediately and delivered twin babies, a boy and a girl. They’d named them Patrick and Patricia, and they’d called them Rick and Trish. Both Mercedes and Mike had been delighted with their happy, healthy babies. But Mike had been a workaholic, and the stress of producing hit after hit had taken its toll. He died of a massive heart attack when the twins were only two years old.

  At first, Mercedes had thought she’d never love again. Then she’d hired Brad James as her investment counselor, and everything had changed. She’d married him at the high point of their whirlwind Hollywood courtship, and she was beginning to wonder if the old adage was true. She’d married in haste, and she worried that she might repent in leisure. It seemed as if all the romance had gone out of their marriage. Brad was gone more often than he was home, and although she had no proof, she suspected that he was involved with someone else.

  Marcie had suffered through a bout with a fickle lover, too. She’d fallen in love with a fellow art student when she was in college. Mercedes had met him. He was handsome and very talented, but she had been worried that he was only using Marcie, until someone else came along. As it turned out, she’d been right. The day after their graduation ceremony, Marcie’s boyfriend had flown off to France with a wealthy widow, leaving Marcie with nothing but a note and a couple of his paintings.

  “Oh, yes. I got the roundtrip airplane ticket, and I’ll be there for the twins’ birthday party. I can’t believe they’re ten years old already! But really, Mercy, I absolutely insist on reimbursing you. It makes me feel like a charity case when you pay for everything.”

  Mercedes grinned. Marcie was the only person who used her nickname. The Calder twins had been Mercy and Marcie all through high school, and Mercedes had hated it. Every time she’d complained, Marcie had told her she ought to be grateful their parents hadn’t named them something even worse. They’d compiled a long list of names that made them shudder, names like Patrice and Caprice, Mabel and Sable, Clarissa and Marissa, Edwina and Bettina, and the very worst, the one that had made them collapse in gales of laughter, Drusilla and Ludmilla.

  “Guess I don’t have any other news. Curtis Benson spilled green poster paint all over the tan leather shoes you gave me, but it came right out with a little saddle soap.

  Give the twins a kiss for me and keep one for yourself. Bye.”

  Mercedes was still grinning as she wrote another yellow sticky for Brad, telling him to send Marcie a check for twenty-two dollars, her half of the wedding gift. A call from Marcie always cheered her up, and having her here for the birthday party would be wonderful.

  The last message made Mercedes frown. Her agent and business manager, Jerry Palmer, wanted to discuss her next project over lunch tomorrow. But there wouldn’t be a next project for Jerry. She’d already talked to someone else, and she was planning to switch to them right after Summer Heat was completed.

  When she’d broken the news to Brad last night, they’d had a nasty fight. Jerry was Brad’s friend, and she’d hired him on Brad’s recommendation. They’d argued for hours, but finally Brad had agreed that she needed to go with someone who had more clout with the big boys. And that brought up another problem, one she needed to solve immediately.

  Mercedes picked up the telephone and called Sam Abrams. He’d been her lawyer for almost a dozen years, and he was practically a member of the family. That gave her certain privileges other clients didn’t enjoy, such as access to his home telephone number.

  It took only a moment to make sure that all her future earnings would go directly to Sam’s office, and Mercedes was smiling as she hung up. By this time it was almost seven in the evening, and she was beginning to think much more kindly of Rosa’s chicken salad. She’d swim twenty laps, treat herself to another glass of wine, and eat in the poolside cabana.

  Since she’d already lost a total of ten pounds, none of her old bathing suits fit her new, svelte figure. She’d ordered more, twelve lovely, white suits that had been especially designed for her, but when she opened the drawer in the cabana, she found that the designer had made them in the wrong color. There were twelve new suits, but all of them were red.

  Mercedes frowned as she remembered a line from the first threatening letter. Red is the color of blood. Her fingers trembled as she held up the suit, but she forced herself to remain calm. The crazy fan was long gone. And even if he wasn’t gone, there was no way he could get past the sophisticated security system. She took another sip of wine to fortify herself, and slipped into the red bathing suit. She wasn’t about to give up her exercise regime, because some looney objected to the color of her bathing suit!

  There was a sound, and Mercedes froze. It sounded like the security gates were opening. Were they home already? She waited a moment, expecting to hear Rosa’s car, but there was no crunch of tires on the crushed rock driveway.

  It took no more than a second for Mercedes to pick up her revolver. The solid weight of the tempered steel was comforting, and she held it tightly as she listened for any other alarming sounds. But everything was perfectly quiet.

  Since her security system was new, and she wasn’t quite used to relying on it, it took Mercedes a moment to remember to check the closed-circuit monitor. There was one in every room, including the cabana. When she switched it on, the camera showed that the gates were firmly closed. The sound she’d heard must have come from the pool equipment, or perhaps her neighbor’s gate had opened. Sound sometimes carried quite far in the canyon.

  Mercedes felt a little prickle of fear as she stepped out of the cabana. Of course, there was no reason to be nervous. Her security system was armed. If anyone tried to get into the house, bells would clang, sirens would blare, and the police would be notified immediately. She was perfectly safe from any intruder.

  She put her Lady Smith down at the side of the pool and tested the water with her toe. The pool was warm, just the way she liked it, and Mercedes slid into the water. She’d learned to swim at an early age, like most kids who grew up in Minnesota. The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes had several within biking distance, and Mercedes and Marcie had spent practically the whole summer in the water. But the swimming season was short in Minnesota, barely two months long. Mercedes was glad she lived in California, where she could use the pool year-round.

  Mercedes used the Australian crawl for her first two laps. She was an excellent swimmer, and when they were teenagers, both she and Marcie had qualified as Red-Cross-certified Life Savers. When she’d moved to California, she’d actually taken a job as a lifeguard at Santa Monica Beach. It had paid for her acting lessons, and given her a great opportunity to get a tan. Then Mike had discovered her, and her dream had come true. She’d gone from her one-room, ramshackle apartment in Venice, to this gorgeous, twenty-room mansion in Mandeville Canyon.

  She pushed off at the deep end and swam another lap, using the butterfly stroke. It was physically exhausting, lifting herself out of the water with her arms, and Mercedes was puffing by the time she finished. Time to change to something less rigorous, like the breaststroke. Two laps of that, and she switched to the sidestroke for another three laps.

  Freestyle was next, and Mercedes alternated between her favorite strokes for five more laps. She was getting tired, but she was pleased at all the calories she must be burning. She chose a modified crawl for her last six laps. A total of twenty laps was a lot, but she knew she could do it.

  The end was in sight, only one lap to go. Mercedes was running on pure determination, when she approached the deep end of the pool. She looked u
p and gasped as she saw a dark shape behind the palm tree by the diving board.

  Suddenly, the pool lights went out, and she was plunged into darkness. Mercedes opened her mouth to scream, but it ended in a sputter as strong arms pushed her head beneath the surface of the water. She kicked out desperately, trying to propel herself away, but her tired legs found only the slippery resistance of the water. There was nothing to kick, nothing to push, as her head was held under the water in a grasp of steel.

  Her tortured mind screamed out for air. Her lungs were burning as her muscles began to spasm. She struggled to pry loose, but her frantically clawing fingers encountered padded gloves. It was no use. Her mouth and lungs were filling with deadly water. The last thing Mercedes Calder saw in the cold, blue moonlight before final blackness closed in, was the wavering image of her killer’s familiar face above the surface of the water.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was seven-fifteen in the morning, when Marcie Calder stepped out of her apartment and prepared to perform the Minnesota Footwear Switch. She carried her shoes in a plastic shopping bag looped over her arm, and wore her boots. She needed boots to wade through the snow to the garage at the back of her building. Once inside, she would slip out of her boots and switch to her shoes to back the car out of the garage. Then she’d put on her boots again to get out and close the garage door. And then she’d switch back to her shoes for the drive to school because her snow boots were too bulky for driving. This was only part of the reason why Marcie never wore shoes that tied in the winter. The Minnesota Footwear Switch still had several more steps.