Kill the Mother!. Michael Mallory
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of the 1950s and beyond, and the epitome of what used to be called a light leading man. He had style and charisma to spare, if not outstanding talent, but he reliably got the job done while the Paul Newmans and Richard Burtons were getting all the attention. His biggest claim to fame was a 1960s television series called Luger about a private eye named Steve Luger, since television was never interested in a private eye named Bob Schwartz. Cousins died, to the best of my recollection, about ten years ago. It was a long-standing rumor that he was gay and that his marriage to actress Natalie Strange, who had been a starlet at Universal in the 1950s, and then later enjoyed a career renaissance on Broadway in the 1970s, had been one of convenience, since she was suspected of being a lesbian. They were the ultimate lavender couple, insiders hinted. But despite all that, the two were also known as the happiest couple in Hollywood because, it was said, they had a wide-open marriage in which neither had to worry about infidelity, since it was already a given. In the 1980s they turned up on shows such as The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, and even in late life were depicted as the ideal couple.
“What I mean,” I said, “is that I love Steve Cousins’ work. You’re Steve and Natalie’s daughter?”
“Their adopted daughter. Mother died six years ago, and Dad a few years prior to that. I’m the sole beneficiary of their estate, which was considerable. In addition to acting, my father was a rather astute businessman. He had real estate holdings on the side.”
“Wow,” I said, suddenly feeling like I had gained insight into Nora Frost. She had been raised by movie stars, and even though they were second tier movie stars, she felt she had to live up to the attention and glamour awarded to her parents, but did not have the natural equipment to do so. But now that she had children of her own, she was projecting the desire for that same attention and glamour that had escaped her onto them. Rosario, the costume woman, had intimated as much. “So you got everything when your mom passed away?”
“She didn’t pass away, Dave, she died,” Nora said softly. “In her final years she had become rather forgetful, and like so many other forgetful people, she refused to acknowledge that she was forgetful. She wouldn’t remember whether or not she took her pills so one day she ended up taking too much.”
“I’m sorry, Nora.”
She shrugged. “Life goes on.” Clearly she had managed to build a wall around her feelings.
“I will do my best to find out who is behind this letter,” I said.
“I’m counting on that.”
“Don’t forget to email that information to me.”
“I won’t.”
I walked to the dining room and called, “Goodnight, guys.”
“See ya,” a voice replied from a distance, and I think it was Taylor’s.
I walked to the front door, but before I could leave, Nora asked: “Dave, do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How old are you really?”
“I’m thirty-two, Nora.”
“Okay. You seem younger.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Do you want to know how old I am, Dave?”
“I don’t wish to be rude.”
“I don’t mind at all. I will be forty in October. How do I look?”
You look mahvellous! Billy Crystal said as Fernando Lamas inside my head, but I forced it away. “Do you really want me to answer that?” I said instead.
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“I think you look damn fine for any age,” I said. Sheez! I thought, hearing it bounce back. Where the hell did that come from?
“Take your money and get your ass out of here,” she commanded, but neither her expression nor her voice registered displeasure.
“All right. I’ll be in touch.”
She leaned close and breathed: “Touch me any time.” Then she closed the door in my face.
Bogart or Mitchum would have had something to say back. I simply rubbed my nose.
FOUR
By seven the next morning, the Barney’s Beanery chili cheese burger and fries I had treated myself to last night after leaving Nora’s were still reminding me why I don’t treat myself more often. After getting up and downing an Alka-Seltzer, I stumbled into the shower and shaved, and by nine I knew I had a decision to make: I could stay home and feel lousy, or steel myself to go into the office and feel lousy. I opted for the latter. Grabbing my laptop, I headed out. My first stop was the bank, where I deposited the majority of my newfound wealth. “I held up a gas station,” I explained to the young female teller as I handed over the bills and, fortunately, she laughed. Ironically, my second stop after the bank was a gas station, where Exxon/Mobil held me up.
I got to the office a little after ten, beating the mailman. Powering up the laptop, I saw that there was indeed an email from Nora. Opening it, I found no personal message of any kind, not even “Hi,” simply a list of names. Nora Faust was certainly not one to leave a trail, even a digital one. Plugging the laptop into my aging laser printer, I put out a copy. The toner was starting to run out so there was a pale line running through the print (why is it that machines invariably know when you’ve suddenly come into money and respond by breaking or running dry?). The names on the printed page were:
Marta Wheeler, Denise
Leslie Brielle, Alexis
Carole Gould, Nathan
Monica Epper, Tiffany
Cristina Diaz, Hugo
The full names I took to be the mothers, and the second names the children, and of course, there had to be one called “Tiffany.” Finding them should be a cinch because I have at my disposal a tool about which Bogie, Mitchum, Dick Powell, Alan Ladd and Charles McGraw could only have dreamt. Sure, they had snappier patter and cooler clothes, and their celluloid adventures were definitely more thrilling than the run-of-the-mill stuff a real PI engages in, but they would’ve had to start pounding the pavement and following leads and clues to find even one of these women. In today’s investigative world, we have databases.
Within a half-hour I had addresses and contact numbers for four of the women on the list. Only Leslie Brielle remained elusive. But obtaining four was a pretty good start. Picking up the phone, I dialed the number for Marta Wheeler. After three rings, it went to a recorded message:
This is the Klaster-Wheeler household…if you are calling for Bob, Marta or Denise, please leave a message when you hear the beep…if however you are looking for anyone not named Bob, Marta or Denise, are selling something, or do not understand what I’m saying because you don’t speak English, do us all a favor and just hang up. BEEP.
“Hi,” I began, “I’m calling for Marta. My name is Dave Beauchamp and I’m calling regarding a new television show—”
“This is Marta,” a crisp voice suddenly burst in. It was the voice from the machine.
“Oh, you’re there.”
“I screen all calls. You just never know. Mr. Beauchamp, you said? Hi, how are you? I imagine you’re calling about Denise. Are you a casting director?”
“Actually, no—”
“Producer, then?” she asked before I could finish.
“I’m calling in regards to the reality show that Denise—”
“Junior Idol,” she blurted. “You must be calling from Max Gelfan Productions. Do you need her to come in again?” There was a sense of urgency, if not desperation, in her voice.
I jotted down the name of the production company and said,