Soap Opera Slaughters Read Free Page A

anticipation that was palpable in the air of early afternoon.
    When still some distance from the entry, I observed a riptide of countermovement about twenty feet to my right An eddy of autograph-seekers waving papers, books, pens and pencils converged on a young blonde vainly attempting to push through the knot of people.
    My breath caught. I immediately recognized Lara Wells’ silky hair, tied severely back, her trim figure, her lustrous blue eyes. But how in hell could Security permit her to walk unescorted across a thronged parking lot? It was madness. The fans would strip and smother her in the name of adulation.
    I white-knighted to her side, elbowing, sidling, shoving and trampling, skipping sidesaddle. Her distressed voice wailed above the crowd’s gabble. Middle-aged women shook crimson-leather autograph books in her ; hands dipped into Lara’s purse and the dossier she carried beneath one arm, emerging with photographs, lipstick, rouge, even wadded tissues. A teenager with acne used the press of the mob as an excuse to familiarize himself with her contours. She huddled in a defenseless ball, her eyes wide with panic.
    Muscling in next to her, managing to accidentally on purpose knock aside the kid and a few of the more rabid souvenir seekers, I shouted for her to stay close, I was going to help her break through.
    Gratefully, she turned to acknowledge the aid. Then her eyes widened, and so did mine.
    “Gene!” Hilary exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck.
    Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and Hilary was running true to form. Yes, she thanked me for the cosmetics I purchased to replace what her “fans” filched. But it bothered her that I knew all her brands and shades.
    We sat across the table from one another exchanging cool trivialities while elsewhere in the mall’s third-floor press room half a dozen daytime celebrities told polite fictions to journalists. The first “star show” was scheduled for 1 P.M ., the second at four. Because Lara Wells was in the early lineup, she was downstairs getting ready and I had not yet set eyes on her.
    The large, chilly room was filled with white linen-covered round tables that bore small bowls of potato chips, popcorn, pretzels and peanuts. A much-frequented bar was stocked with all the basics. Against one wall was a long banquet table laden with great trays of cold cuts, naked shrimp ringing reservoirs of cocktail sauce, cherry tomatoes and celery stalks and stuffed olives, wilted lettuce beds cradling diced fruit assortments, here and there a crabapple included for shape and color. But one of them graced the platter I brought to Hilary.
    As I glanced across the table at her, I marveled at how much lovelier she was in person than memory painted her, even though my recollection kept her likeness in cameo. Her light golden hair shone with dazzling highlights and her blue eyes seemed to hint at things her lips refused to utter.
    Earlier, Lara herself loaned Hilary a pair of slacks and appropriate blouse to replace the dress that the mob rumpled and ripped. Meanwhile, I shopped in a variety store downstairs and found the irritating cosmetics.
    Hilary was determined to minimize my rescue. “I could have handled those animals,” she said, “but they all seemed to think I was Lara, and that meant I had to keep my temper. Otherwise, whatever I did would have been blamed on my cousin, and ugly rumors would get into the fanzines.”
    “Uh-huh,” I agreed drily, nibbling at a Saltine. If that’s how she chose to play it, okay, there was no need for me to edit her own personal filmtrack of events the way she wanted to remember them. And if she didn’t wish to bring up Harry, that was all right, too. For the time being.
    “So Lara Wells is actually your cousin Lainie.”
    “Mm-hmm. On my mother’s side. We grew up together, but she was Laraine Adler in those days. We’ve been out of touch nearly ten years.”
    Laraine Adler. Cousin Lainie. I’d