Fatal Identity (14 page)

The scene was finished, and Marcie gave a deep sigh. Then everyone on the set broke into spontaneous applause, and she looked up at Lee apprehensively. “Was I all right?”

“You were fantastic.” Lee pulled her into his arms for a hug. “For a moment, I truly believed that you were Mercedes.”

“Oh, thank you!” Marcie smiled at him happily. But before she could say more, Dave Allen and Ralph Buchannan were rushing over to shake her hand.

“I knew you could do it!” Ralph beamed down at her. “What did I tell you, Dave?”

The director nodded. “You were right, R.B. She'll be perfect.”

“Does that mean you want me to do it?” Marcie held her breath, and let it out in a sigh of relief as they nodded. “Thank you! I promise I'll do my absolute best.”

And then Brad was congratulating her and the twins were hugging her, and everyone else was telling her how good she was. She had the job! She could finish her sister's picture. But one person was missing. Where was Sam?

Marcie slipped out of the happy group to look for him. She found him still sitting in his chair, looking dazed.

“Hi, Sam.” Marcie tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. “What did you think?”

Sam blinked several times, and then he got up to hug her. “You did a fantastic job, Marcie. I still can't believe it. You
were
Mercedes!”

“Thank you, Sam.” Marcie hugged him back. “Did you hear? They want me to finish the movie.”

Sam nodded. “Good for you, Marcie. Mercedes would be very proud. I guess I'd better have a talk with Ralph Buchannan to hammer out the details.”

“Marcie?” Dave Allen called her over to his side. Then he turned to the rest of the group. “Let's have a toast to the woman who's going to pull our collective fat out of the fire. Right, gang?”

Everyone applauded as a man dressed in white rolled in a cart with champagne and glasses. Marcie noticed that there was even a bottle of sparkling apple cider for the twins. While corks popped and glasses were filled, another man wheeled in a second cart of hors d'oeuvres.

“Dave?” Marcie looked up at him in surprise. “What would you have done if I'd
failed
my screen test?”

The director grinned at her. “The same thing. We would have given you a little party to thank you for trying. But we wouldn't have had such a good time.”

There was a toast to Marcie. And another to the success of
Summer Heat
. It was an impromptu party, and Marcie was the center of attention.

Marcie smiled as she accepted congratulations. And she made sure to give credit to the people who had helped her. At last the party started breaking up, and she spotted Sam at the side of the set, talking to the producer and the director.

There was a slight frown on Marcie's face as she watched Sam. He looked perfectly normal now. When she'd gone over to see him after the screen test, he'd hugged her and told her that she'd been fantastic. But Marcie was sure she'd seen tears in his eyes. She didn't understand why Sam had blinked back tears, when the scene she'd done hadn't been the least bit sad.

CHAPTER 9

Marcie was smiling as she turned on Mandeville Canyon Road. For the first time since she'd come to California, things were looking up. The twins had been delighted by her performance yesterday, and this morning they'd asked to join their friends for a trip to the zoo. Naturally, Marcie had agreed. She'd dropped them off at their friend's house, and she'd promised to pick them up at the end of the day. Things were returning to normal, and it wasn't a moment too soon.

Even Brad had perked up today, and he'd taken one of his antique cars to a show. He'd asked her to come along, but Marcie had declined. She was happy to stay home and relax. Tomorrow would be another stressful day when she arrived at the studio to film her first scene.

But today wasn't the time to worry about anything. It was a picture-perfect day in Southern California. The temperature was in the low eighties, the air was clear, and the sun was shining brightly. Marcie smiled as she passed colorful landscaping, gently waving palms, and expensive homes that cost more than she'd ever dreamed of earning in her whole lifetime. Driving her sister's white convertible was wonderful, and she could scarcely believe that it was actually hers to keep.

Naturally, Mercedes had driven a Mercedes. She'd purchased it right before she'd married Brad, and according to the terms of her will, that meant it now belonged to Marcie. It was a beautiful car, and Marcie loved the built-in music system, the white leather upholstery, and all the glamorous little touches of a luxury car. It was a far cry from her mode of transportation back in Minnesota.

Marcie thought about her old, reliable Volkswagen Bug as she zipped around the curves in the road. She felt a bit disloyal to the car that had served her so faithfully for the past ten years. She couldn't face the thought of selling it, but perhaps she'd give it to Shirley Whitford. Shirley's husband had to get up an hour early every day to drive his wife to school. And Shirley had to wait in her classroom for an hour and a half, so he could pick her up after he finished his shift at Fingerhut Manufacturing. Even though they both worked, the Whitfords couldn't afford two cars. Shirley's mother was in a nursing home, and that was very expensive. But could they afford the insurance and upkeep on a second car? Marcie just wasn't sure.

Suddenly a solution occurred to her, and Marcie's smile grew even wider. She'd call Shirley tonight and ask her to use Miss Ladybug as a favor. Everyone knew that cars shouldn't sit too long in the harsh Minnesota winter, and she'd be here in California for at least another month. A simple phone call to her insurance agent, and Shirley's name would be added to her policy as a secondary driver. It would all work out perfectly.

Marcie approached the gates and stopped to punch in the security code. She had to remember to ask Brad to change it. The numbers were Brad and Mercedes's wedding anniversary, and it was bound to bother him. She'd just tell him that she had trouble remembering the code, and they'd think of another. It was one of the little ways she could help him get over his loss.

As she rounded the bend in the driveway, Marcie noticed a black Nissan parked in front of the house. Rosa must have buzzed the driver in. It was probably the television repairman. They'd been having some trouble with the big screen set in the living room. But wasn't it odd for a repairman to work on a Sunday?

Marcie put the car in the garage, let herself in through the connecting door, and headed straight for the kitchen. She was surprised to find Rosa sitting at the table, having coffee with George Williams.

“Oh, good. You're home.” Rosa jumped up. “I was just keeping George company until you got here. I have to run to the store for the asparagus Mr. Brad wants tonight.”

“Asparagus? I thought the twins hated asparagus.”

Rosa nodded. “They do. I'm fixing corn for them. Is there anything special you'd like?”

“Not really. Anything you make is delicious.” Marcie smiled as Rosa hurried out the door. Then she turned to George. “Hello, George. What are you doing here?”

“I came to tell you that I'm going to be your driver. I hope you don't mind, Miss Calder.”

“It's Marcie. You don't have to call me Miss Calder, George. I'm not a big star like my sister. And I'm very glad you'll be my driver. But isn't that a little unusual? I thought only big stars rated a driver.”

“That's generally true, but I twisted their arms a little. I told them that since you weren't familiar with the area, you might have trouble getting to the studio on time. And then I suggested myself for the job.”

Marcie laughed. “Good for you! I hope you'll be my friend, George. I'm going to need a lot of help getting used to this movie business.”

“You can bet on it, Miss . . . Marcie.”

Marcie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “What time do I start, George? The studio didn't tell me.”

“I pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. That'll give us plenty of time. You don't have to be in makeup until eight forty-five. I'll pick up the twins after school, and bring them to the set if you want me to.”

“Wonderful!” Marcie smiled at him. “No wonder Mercedes told me that you were the best driver she'd ever had. You think of everything!”

George looked a little uncomfortable at the unexpected praise. “I try, Miss . . . I mean, Marcie. Actually . . . there's another reason I drove out here today. I need to talk to you about something personal.”

George looked very serious, and Marcie felt her pulse begin to race. She had a premonition she wasn't going to like what George had to say. “What is it, George?”

“It's about your sister. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.”

Marcie sighed in relief. George was probably curious about how Mercedes had died. “Of course, George. Go ahead.”

“In your estimation, would you say your sister was a strong swimmer?”

Marcie's mouth dropped open in surprise. George sounded just like a detective. Of course, he had been on the police force. The twins had told her that.

George was waiting patiently for an answer, and Marcie nodded. “Yes, George. Mercedes was an excellent swimmer. Before she became an actress, she worked as a lifeguard at the Santa Monica Beach. And she swam twenty laps every night to keep in shape.”

“Would you say your sister was a heavy drinker?”

Marcie frowned slightly. She didn't really want to discuss her sister's personal life with George, but she supposed it really didn't matter, now that Mercedes was dead. “No, Mercedes didn't drink often. She said alcohol had too many calories and she couldn't afford to drink too much when she had to look her best in the morning.”

“Did you know that the officers at the scene found an empty bottle of wine?”

Marcie nodded. “Yes. Sam Abrams told me.”

“Didn't that strike you as odd?”

“Well . . . yes, now that you mention it. I can't imagine Mercedes drinking that much. Especially when Rosa told me she had an early call in the morning.”

“Did your sister ever mention anything about receiving threatening letters?”

“No.” Marcie gazed at George in shock. “Are you telling me that someone was threatening Mercedes?”

“I'm afraid so. She received three threatening letters in the month preceding her death.”

“Wait a minute.” Marcie took a deep, calming breath. “How do
you
know about it?”

“The studio told me. And they showed me the letters. That's why they assigned me to be her driver. I've done bodyguard work, and they wanted to make sure that she was protected.”

Suddenly, Marcie thought she understood. George felt guilty because Mercedes had died while he was assigned to protect her. But that was ridiculous!

“Please don't feel guilty, George. It wasn't your fault that she died. The police said Mercedes drowned accidentally, and there was no way you could have prevented it.”

“That's not it.” George faced her squarely. “I read the police report. I've still got friends on the force, and I can call in a favor once in a while.”

Marcie frowned. “I don't understand.”

“Look, Marcie . . . I've got a hunch, and my hunches are usually right. That's why I asked the studio to let me be your diver. I'm going to protect you, and this time I'm going to be a lot more careful. Do you trust me?”

“I . . . I . . . of course!” Marcie looked up at him with startled eyes. “But I still don't understand. Do you think I'm in danger?”

George looked at her with concern. “I honestly don't know. But you look exactly like your sister, you're living in your sister's house, and you're acting in your sister's movie. Your sister got three threatening letters from a real nutcase. And he may still be out there.”

“But . . . but nothing happened!” Marcie felt her heart hammer hard in her chest. “I mean, it's not like somebody actually tried to kill Mercedes!”

George just looked at her, and Marcie began to harbor a terrible suspicion. She didn't even want to ask, but she had to know. “You believe what happened to Mercedes was an accident, don't you, George?”

“No, Marcie. I can't believe it was accidental, at least not on the strength of the police report. I don't know why, or how, or who, but . . .” George paused and gave her a sober look. “I'm convinced your sister was murdered.”

CHAPTER 10

Of course, it would have been a lot more comfortable inside the house, but the guest cottage they used for storage was a nice place to live. He'd covered the window so they couldn't see any light from the house, and he'd stacked the boxes in high, even rows to make a labyrinth of tunnels. Sometimes he pretended he was a priest, leading a sacrifice to the Minotaur. Other times he pretended that the boxes were hedges, and he was hiding in an English garden maze. The furniture he'd uncovered was in a secret spot in the center of the tunnels, and that was where he lived. No one ever came here to see the boxes of things that had belonged to her first husband, so it was safe.

The guest cottage was a lot nicer than the Family Services Home, where they'd taken him after the Red Lady had died. He'd lived there for almost a year, and he'd hated every day he'd spent inside its damp, brick walls. They'd called it a Home, but it wasn't.

There was a big room they'd called a dormitory, with gray metal cots placed along the walls. They had given him the fourth from the door, right next to the boy who cried all night long in his sleep. Of course, he hadn't cried, not even when the big boy who was called the monitor had taken him off to the laundry room to do the nasty thing. He'd learned to be silent from the Red Lady.

Just as he'd done with Uncle Bob, he'd turned the monitor into a friend. All he'd had to do was to say what the monitor wanted him to say, and do what the monitor wanted him to do. The Red Lady had given him plenty of tips on how to please the Uncles, and the monitor was nothing but an Uncle in training.

Before the end of the first month, the monitor had started to do favors for him, like finding a metal footlocker for his books, and giving him permission to go to the Home library anytime he wanted. There was only one thing the monitor couldn't do for him, and that was to get him adopted.

On Sundays, they brought in prospective parents to meet the children. The kids got all dressed up in their best clothes, and sat quietly on chairs while the hopeful couples looked them over. The kids were supposed to smile and look cute, but they weren't allowed to talk unless one of the adults asked them a question. The whole thing reminded him of the pets in cages at the pound.

Naturally, the little kids were picked first. Every couple wanted a sweet, cuddly baby or a round-faced toddler. The puppies went first at the pound, too. No one wanted an older dog with bad habits, just like nobody wanted a ten-year-old boy with emotional scars. The monitor said he didn't have a chance in hell of being adopted, but he knew better. All he had to do was look for an Uncle, and he'd get adopted right away.

But he'd soon realized that there weren't many Uncles who came to the Home. And the few he spotted didn't come to their wing. They chose younger children who couldn't talk yet. It made perfect sense. The Uncles didn't want to get in trouble with Family Services.

He'd been at the Home for almost a year, when the first Uncle came into their wing. At first he didn't think the nice, older man was an Uncle at all. Perhaps he didn't even know it himself. He was sure the Uncle's wife didn't know. If she had, she wouldn't have wanted to adopt a child.

He put on his best smile, and the innocent, loving mask he'd worn with the Uncles. It was a look that said,
I'm yours, and I'll let you do anything with me.
And this Uncle stopped and looked at him for a moment, and then he smiled back. It was a friendly smile with just the barest hint of dark yearning.

The Uncle's wife looked worried. They'd agreed that they would choose a younger child. But he could tell that the Uncle wanted him, instead. All he had to do was convince the Uncle's wife.

He smiled at her, too. A big, happy smile that said
, I'm a good boy. I'm the best boy you'll ever find
. Then he pretended he was a pet in a cage, waiting to be adopted. If he'd had a tail, he would have wagged it. And then he would have licked her hand. Of course, he wasn't a dog in the pound, so he did the next best thing. He broke the Home rule and sighed. And then he whispered, “Oh! How pretty!”

“What's pretty, honey?”

She took a step closer, and he made the tears well up in his eyes. “I'm sorry, ma'am. We're not supposed to talk, unless you talk to us first. But . . . you look just like the picture of my mother!”

He pulled out his precious picture to show her. For favors rendered, the monitor had given him a little plastic sleeve so he could carry it in his pocket. “Here she is, ma'am. See?”

She glanced down at the picture, and he could tell she was surprised. She didn't look anything like his mother. His mother was beautiful, and she was just a plain-looking woman with a long, thin face.

“That's very sweet, honey. But your mother was blond, and I have brown hair.”

“I know.” He nodded, looking up at her with wistful, puppy eyes. “But you have the same smile. It's an angel smile, just like hers.”

“Why, thank you, honey!”

She blinked back tears as she smiled at him, and he knew he'd won. The Uncle was looking at her hopefully, and she nodded. It was done. They'd chosen him. He'd be a good boy for her, and a nice, nasty boy for the Uncle. It would all work out just fine.

He smiled at the pleasant memory. It
had
worked out just fine. They'd filed the papers to adopt him, and he'd gone home with them a month later to a pretty little condo in the San Fernando Valley. His room had been white with a blue bedspread and blue curtains. And theirs had been a pale, sunshine yellow. There had been no red rooms, and that had made him feel very good. When he'd asked, she'd told him she'd never liked colors that bright.

She had loved him from the start, and the Uncle had loved him, too . . . in a very different way. Luckily, she'd never found out about that. They had been very careful. At first the Uncle had only come to his room when she went out to her Bible study class, or her weekly bridge club. He'd been a good boy when she was with them, polite and happy, a regular kid. But when he'd been alone with the Uncle, he'd turned into another person.

After awhile, he'd felt the two boys grow apart, even though they'd occupied the same body. And that was when the trouble had started. The Uncle's boy was crafty and smart, and more than a little nasty. Her good, studious boy didn't like the Uncle's boy at all.

She'd been a librarian, and there had been fascinating books on shelves all over the house. She'd loved to see him read, and he'd spent every Saturday in the library with her, devouring the books she'd recommended. By the time he'd finished sixth grade, he'd read his way through most of the classics. That was when she'd introduced him to poetry and plays.

Junior high had been next, and during those years she'd concentrated heavily on nonfiction. He'd read his way through the Dewey Decimal system from General Works to Geography and History.

When he'd entered high school, the Uncle had decided he was old enough to learn about business and he'd spent an hour every night analyzing data and predicting trends. He'd even gone on several business trips with the Uncle, and stayed in fancy hotels all over the country.

Her good boy had loved words, gobbling them up from the printed page and relishing the beauty of a perfectly concise paragraph. The Uncle's boy had loved numbers, and he'd learned to figure out complicated equations in his head. Both loves had paid off. He'd been awarded a full scholarship to the college of his choice in the University of California system.

He'd decided he wanted to live with them and go to UCLA, and he'd really enjoyed the first half year. The class work hadn't been all that difficult for him. Naturally, there had been a lot of reading, but she'd taught him good study habits. And his math classes had been simple, mostly because the Uncle had trained him to figure out percentages, and probabilities, and margins of profit. Before he'd known it, the Christmas season had rolled around, and the Uncle's boss had invited them to a huge Christmas party at his home in Beverly Hills. If he'd known, he would have kept them away somehow. But nine years of safety, of being her good boy, had almost erased the memory of the bad thing that had happened in the red room. The memory hadn't surfaced until he'd seen the new dress she'd bought for the party.

 

 

“Are you almost ready?” He knocked softly on their bedroom door. “It's seven-thirty.”

The Uncle opened the door and stepped out. “It'll take her just a minute. She's still fussing with her hair.”

“Do you want me to back the car out of the garage?”

The Uncle smiled and nodded. “Good idea. We'll meet you out front.”

He waited in the driveway with the motor idling, and a minute or so later they came out the front door. The Uncle looked handsome in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. She was wearing her black dress coat with the gold Christmas tree pin he'd given her last year, and her hair was swept up in a cascade of curls. She looked almost beautiful, and he was glad. He'd made an appointment for her with the best hairstylist in the Valley as an early Christmas present.

Even though it was Friday night, it didn't take long to drive to Beverly Hills. She was in a party mood, and she chattered gaily all the way there. And she and the Uncle oohed and aahed over the lavishly decorated homes on Camden Way.

“Oh, my!” she gasped, as they pulled up in front of the house. There were giant candy canes stuck at two-foot intervals on either side of the driveway. The roof sported a lighted Santa's sleigh with eight reindeer, and there were evergreen garlands and wreaths on all doors and windows. Even though it was a dark night, the whole area was as bright as day. Every tree and shrub in the front yard was strung with thousands of colored light bulbs.

“His power bill must look like the national debt.” The Uncle turned to him with a twinkle in his eye. “Of course, he can afford it. He probably writes it off as a business expense.”

Then they were ushered inside by a maid in a black uniform. Her only concession to the season was a small sprig of holly pinned to her apron.

“The party's out on the patio.”

The maid gestured toward the French doors in the living room that led to the patio, and they went out to greet their host and hostess. He lingered behind when he spotted a familiar face in a group of new arrivals. It was one of his professors, and he wanted to say hello.

The professor was talkative, and several minutes passed before he could break away and head for the patio to join them. He went out through the French doors and found himself in a huge tent that had been erected on the back lawn. The pool had been covered with wood, and it now held dozens of tables set with crystal and silver, all ready for the buffet dinner that would be served in the living room. Each table had six chairs, and there were gas patio heaters to take the chill from the air. The tent was so massive, it easily accommodated a giant Christmas tree, a string quartet playing an arrangement of Christmas carols, and over a hundred people.

He stared at the sight for a moment, ladies dressed in their finest and men in well-cut suits, all displaying their best party manners. Waiters and waitresses wove their way through the crowd with trays of appetizers and crystal glasses of champagne. Again, there were garlands of evergreen and holly everywhere, held in place by shiny gold ribbons.

He didn't spot them at first, so he went to the bar and ordered a Coke. Since he was driving, he wouldn't drink. It turned out that the bartender was also a UCLA student, so they talked about school for awhile.

“There you are!” The Uncle came up and patted him on the shoulder. “We thought we'd lost you for sure in this crowd. She's waiting for us over there.”

He went with the Uncle around the huge Christmas tree. And then he saw her, sitting at a table alone. Someone had taken her coat, and now he could see the new dress she'd bought for the party. The cut was perfect. The style suited her beautifully. But it was red!

“Is something wrong?” She looked alarmed as she saw his horrified face. “What is it, Jimmy?”

He sank down in a chair next to her, and clenched his fists so his hands wouldn't tremble. “Uh . . . nothing. Everything's fine.”

But it wasn't. The horrible red mist was starting to swirl around his feet, and he fought to keep it down. It was the same red mist that had risen to choke his mind the night the Red Lady had died. It was difficult to fight something so intangible, so utterly unsubstantial, but this time he tried.

“How do you like my new dress? It's Christmassy, isn't it?”

He nodded and forced a smile. She had no idea what was wrong, and he wasn't going to tell her. This was something he'd have to fight on his own.

He remembered the class he'd taken in clinical psychology, how coming face-to-face with an irrational fear sometimes rendered it harmless. But his fear wasn't irrational, it was real. Red was the color of blood, and nothing but the ancient elements could disarm its potency.

“Champagne?” A waitress was smiling down at him, and he realized that they'd taken their glasses, and now they were looking at him. He wanted to tell the waitress to leave him alone, so he could fight the red mist, but he couldn't seem to find his voice. Perhaps it was a good thing. The words would have frightened them. It was much easier to smile and nod, as she took a glass from the tray and handed it to him.

“To our son! You've made us very proud.”

The Uncle raised his glass, and she raised hers, too. And for a brief moment, the red mist thinned. Gratefully, he raised his glass and clinked it against both of theirs. Their love had made the red mist disappear. Now he had to make sure it didn't come back.