Fatal Identity

by Joanne Fluke

Genres: Mystery; International Crime & Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

Except for their faces, identical twins Mercedes and Marcie Calder are nothing alike. Mercedes is a movie star in LA, with a sexy husband and a glamorous lifestyle; Marcie is an art teacher in Minnesota, with a shy disposition and a quiet life alone.

But when Mercedes is found dead, Marcie is the only person who can step into her shoes. On a Hollywood soundstage, she will take on her sister's greatest role. But there is one part of Mercedes' life that Marcie isn't prepared for - until it's too late....

Release date: April 28, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Even though she’d had a grueling day, Mercedes Calder flashed the driver one of her famous, million-watt smiles as he helped her out of the studio limo. Her smile was totally genuine. Mercedes liked the new driver the studio had assigned to her. George never tried to make idle conversation on the twenty-minute trip to the studio when she had lines to learn; he didn’t mind stopping at the school to pick up her twins on the days she finished shooting early; and he was unfailingly prompt. Even though George was well paid by the studio, Mercedes planned to give him a generous bonus when they wrapped her film.

“Six-thirty tomorrow morning, George? I have an early call.”

“No problem, Miss Calder. I’ll be here. Do you want me to check out the house for you?”

Mercedes shook her head. “That’s not necessary, George. They finally finished installing the security system. But thanks for asking. That was very thoughtful.”

George tipped his hat and slid back in, behind the wheel. He was a retired policeman who looked like a fullback, over six feet tall with the muscular body and lightning reflexes of a professional athlete. He’d told Mercedes he’d taken his early retirement option when he’d been shot chasing down a murder suspect. He’d known they were planning to kick him upstairs, and he hadn’t liked the idea of sitting behind a desk all day. Early retirement pay wasn’t all that much, and George had done private detective work for a year or two. Then he’d landed this job with the studio as a combination bodyguard and driver.

Although the studio had dismissed Mercedes’s threatening letters as a crazy prank by an unstable fan, they’d immediately assigned George to be her driver. And it had worked, as far as Mercedes was concerned. She never worried when George was around. He was more than capable of defending her, and when she was with him, she felt safe. At least there hadn’t been any threatening letters today. Mercedes had checked the mailbox at the end of the driveway, when they’d stopped at the gates. She hoped that her ordeal was over, that her crazy fan was locked up tight in some mental hospital or jail.

Mercedes still shivered when she thought about the letters that had come in the mail. The words had been cut out of magazines, and pasted on pieces of plain notebook paper. The whole thing had sounded like something you’d see in a bad B-movie, but the message had been chilling.

Most stars got an occasional letter from a crazy fan. It was so common, it was almost normal. Ashley Thorpe, her costar in Summer Heat, had told Mercedes about the proposal he’d received from a seventy-year-old widow who’d offered her life savings if he’d spend the night with her. And Sandra Shepard, the character actress who played her mother in the movie, had mentioned a letter she’d received last year from a high school student in Iowa, inviting her to be his date for the senior prom.

Mercedes had been in the “biz” for over fifteen years, and she’d shrugged off plenty of proposals and propositions from crazy fans before. But the letters she’d received two months ago were very different. They’d come to her home, instead of the studio.

The first letter had arrived on a Saturday, and Mercedes had been alone in the house. She’d been out at the pool, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, when she’d heard the distinctive squeaking brakes of the mailman’s Jeep. Since she usually got a letter from Marcie on Saturdays, she’d hopped into her car and driven down the long, winding driveway to pick up the mail.

Marcie’s letter was there, and Mercedes had taken the time to read it. Then she’d noticed another letter marked “personal,” with no return address, and she’d opened that as well.

Mercedes’s hands had been shaking as she’d finished reading the letter. He knew her bedroom was red! He really was watching her! She’d jumped back into her car, locked all the doors, and peered out of the window in fright. The grounds seemed peaceful enough, but was he out there somewhere, taking vicious pleasure in her fear? Her instinct had been to race for the house, but she’d left it unlocked, and he could be waiting for her inside!

Pure panic had propelled her as she’d turned on the ignition and put her car in gear. She had to get away! But where should she go? What should she do? She’d made a quick U-turn, tires sliding on the gravel, and headed down Mandeville Canyon Road.

She’d glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, but no one had seemed to be following her. She was safe. For now. As she’d turned on Sunset Boulevard, she’d suddenly remembered the interview she’d done for a popular fan magazine. It had mentioned her exercise regime—twenty laps in the pool every night. And there had been several photos of her in her newly redecorated bedroom. If he’d seen a copy of that article, he would have known about the swimming and the color scheme of her bedroom. Perhaps he wasn’t watching her after all.

With each mile Mercedes traveled away from the house, she’d felt a little calmer. She knew that most people who wrote threatening letters never dreamed of actually carrying out their threats. This man was probably nothing more than a harmless neurotic who got his kicks by scaring people. Still, it couldn’t hurt to take a few precautions, like buying a handgun and learning how to use it. And while she was at it, she’d order a new security system. The one she had was over ten years old.

It turned out that buying a handgun in California was a frustrating experience. Although her life had been threatened, and she had a legitimate reason for wanting to arm herself, there was still a mandatory waiting period before she could take her new Lady Smith revolver home. Rules were rules in California, where the anti-gun lobby was strong. Crooks could buy guns immediately through illegal means, but honest citizens had to wait and hope that they’d still be alive at the end of the waiting period.

Mercedes had walked away from the gun store shaking her head. She was probably overreacting, but she had to take precautions, just in case. She’d stopped at a pay phone to call a home security service, and she’d hired an armed guard to patrol the grounds until her new state-of-the-art security system was installed. Then she’d arranged to have her room redecorated in a lovely shade of sea green. That would please Brad. Green was his favorite color. Brad hadn’t liked her red bedroom. He’d said it was like sleeping inside a catsup bottle. She’s laughed at his joke, but she’d been planning on changing the color scheme anyway.

That night, when Brad had come home and found the security guard, he’d told her he thought she’d done exactly the right thing. The letter was scary. And while it was true that Mercedes probably wouldn’t hear from this particular man again, she was a big star and there were lots of crazy fans out there. Then he’d hugged her and told her he wished he could always be home to protect her. Unfortunately, his investment business demanded a lot of traveling. He’d certainly rest much easier after the new security system was installed. It would give him peace of mind, knowing that Mercedes and the twins were safe behind locked gates.

The second threatening letter had arrived a week later. Luckily, the security guard was on duty when Mercedes had taken it out of the envelope, and she hadn’t panicked. Her crazy fan was still out there, but at least she now knew what he wanted.

When Brad had read the letter, he’d urged her to call the police. Naturally, Mercedes had refused. The police could do nothing, and there were bound to be leaks to the press. The studio wouldn’t like that kind of publicity, and this whole thing was probably just a crazy prank.

Exactly a week later, the third letter had arrived. It was almost identical to the second, except that the sum of money had doubled, and there was one additional postscript after the signature. Your security guard cannot protect you. If you continue to ignore me, perhaps your death will not be as merciful as I planned.

When Brad read the letter, he was convinced that they had to take action. While he agreed that he didn’t believe in giving way to threats, he’d suggested that perhaps they should pretend to do what the crazy fan wanted. He’d go to the phone booth, get the instructions, and deliver the money. And then he’d stake out the area and catch the nut case, when he came to pick it up.

Mercedes had vetoed that idea immediately. There was no way she’d let him do something that dangerous. But Brad was insistent. He was her husband, and he wanted to protect her. There was no way he’d let a crazy fan get away with threatening his wife!

They’d argued about it long into the night, but Mercedes had been firm. She wouldn’t let Brad put himself in danger, and she wouldn’t even pretend to give way to blackmail. Brad knew how blackmail worked. If the crazy fan actually succeeded in getting the money, he’d keep right on sending threatening letters, demanding more and more cash. It was best to take a strong stand in the beginning, and not give in to this type of extortion.

Even though Mercedes had shrugged off the threats, she was concerned enough to take the letters with her to the studio the next morning. The studio hired experts to deal with crank letters from crazy fans, and Mercedes had asked their advice. They’d agreed that she had done all the right things to protect herself. They’d said not to worry, that they’d dealt with hundreds of extortion letters, and nothing had ever happened. It would have been an entirely different matter if someone had come up to her face-to-face and made these kinds of demands. But no one had, and chances were her crazy fan was already back in a mental institution or a jail cell.

Mercedes felt much better after she’d talked to the studio experts, especially since they’d assigned George to be her driver. George was armed and he was formidable. There was no way anyone would bother her while she was under his protection.

After she’d finished work for the day, Mercedes had asked George to drive her to the gun store. She’d picked up her revolver, and bought a gun safe that only opened if she pressed a series of coded buttons. George had installed it for her, and that weekend he’d driven her to a firearms safety class, where she’d learned how to use her Lady Smith with deadly accuracy.

Of course, Mercedes hadn’t mentioned any of this to Brad. And she’d decided not to tell him if she got another threatening letter. Brad might do something brave and foolish, like trying to catch the blackmailer himself.

The letters had definitely changed Mercedes’s life. Opening the mail had always been fun for her, but now she dreaded it. She held her breath every time she picked up the neat stack of letters her postman slipped in the box. It had been almost a month since the last threatening letter, and she was almost convinced that her crazy fan had given up. But even though their new security system was up and running, George had told her to carry her revolver from room to room, whenever she was alone in the house.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Calder?”

George looked concerned, and Mercedes nodded. “I’m fine. See you in the morning, George.”

Mercedes waved as the limo drove off. The moment the gates had opened and closed again, she reactivated the alarm system. There was no way anyone could open the gates without the code. And if anyone tried to climb over the bars or force his way in, a patrol of armed security guards would be on the grounds in less than five minutes.

The alarm on the front door was set, and Mercedes punched in the code on the numbered panel. The advisor from the security company had cautioned her against using her birthday as a code. That was a matter of public record. Brad had suggested they use their anniversary instead, and he’d joked that it was one way to make sure she never forgot the date. As if she could!

As she opened the door and walked across the tile foyer, Mercedes caught sight of her reflection in the gold-framed, oval mirror on the wall. She’d never considered herself beautiful, although everyone else seemed to think she was. Green-eyed blondes weren’t all that unusual in her home state of Minnesota.

When Mercedes had landed her first movie role, the studio publicity department had called her a cross between Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe. The comparison had made Mercedes laugh. Doris had been bubbly and innocent, while Marilyn had exuded sex from every pore. Mercedes knew she wasn’t bubbly and innocent, or super-sexy. She was just an ordinary actress, who worked hard to learn to play any role she was offered.

At first Mercedes had played the fun-loving teenager, the cheerleader who fell in love with the quarterback on the football team. Then she’d graduated to college roles, playing the young freshman coed who fell in love with the professor. From there she’d played the young professional who fell in love with her boss. She was always falling in love and ending up happy, the essence of the female romantic lead. Finally, she was mature enough to play other, more demanding parts, but her latest role in Summer Heat was the biggest challenge she’d ever faced.

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.

“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. . .