Fatal Identity (3 page)

Summer Heat
was a story of deception, of a marriage gone awry. Mercedes played the victim, a wife whose husband was slowly poisoning her, so that he could be free to marry his mistress. She had to be naively trusting and totally unsuspecting in the early part of the movie, a woman who was so in love with her new husband that she was completely blind to his faults. As the movie progressed, her character deepened and matured. The wife began to doubt her husband, and finally realized, in horror, that he was trying to kill her. At the end, Mercedes had to play a woman so crazed by her husband's duplicity, she exacted a terrible revenge.

Her role in
Summer Heat
wouldn't have been all that difficult if it had been a play. Most plays were chronological, starting at the beginning and progressing in a straight line to their conclusion. But movies weren't like plays, although most people who weren't in the industry didn't realize that. Almost all of Mercedes's scenes were shot out of sequence.

The scene they'd done today had been near the end of the movie. Mercedes had played the vengeful wife, preparing to kill her husband and his mistress. Tomorrow they would shoot the park wedding at the very beginning of the movie, and that meant Mercedes had to jump back in time to play the trusting bride, meeting her husband's mistress for the first time, and being completely unaware of their relationship. It took mental preparation to jump back and forth like that, but it was more cost-effective. Scenes that took place in the same setting were shot on the same day, regardless of where they occurred in the movie. Mercedes reread the script every night, starting at the beginning and stopping at the scene they'd shoot the next day. That helped her to get into the right frame of mind for the morning's work.

“Rosa? I'm home!” Mercedes walked down the hall and peeked into the immaculately clean kitchen. Her housekeeper wasn't there. She walked through the beautifully decorated rooms on the ground floor, but Rosa and the children were nowhere to be found.

Since she was still uneasy when she was alone in the house, Mercedes got her Lady Smith from the gun safe and carried it upstairs to her pretty sea green bedroom, where she undressed and slipped into a robe. She loved the new color she'd picked for her bedroom. It was very calming and restful. Then she sat down at her white wicker dressing table and peered into the mirror to assess the damage after her long day of shooting. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, but that wasn't surprising. She'd waited up for Brad to come home last night, despite her early call. Her green eyes were clear and bright, thanks to the eye drops her makeup artist had applied, but her pale blond hair was wet with perspiration.

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.

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.

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.