Kiss of Death

“An actress.” Sloan doesn’t seem surprised. Then again, in L.A. lots of people are hoping to become actresses, especially pretty young women like Sherry Taylor.

“That’s correct, yes. She has some talent, too.” Mr. Taylor has none of the usual parental bragging in his voice. He seems detached, more like he’s making a professional observation.

“You’re in the industry?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m the lead writer and producer on Stars Like Us.”

Impressive…I don’t watch much TV, but I know the half-hour sitcom is doing very well in the ratings and I see billboards for it everywhere.

“So Sherry grew up with it. I presume she’s already appeared on TV?” Sloan still hasn’t taken out her notebook. I doubt she’s relying on my notes so she must have a superb memory.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice floats. “Brian won’t let either of the girls act until they’ve finished college.” It’s hard to tell from Mrs. Taylor’s tone if she has any strong feelings about her husband’s rule. Perhaps there’s a slight exasperation in her voice.

“I’ve seen what acting does to children…adolescents. Especially girls. And that’s not what I wanted for Sherry or Misha.”

College isn’t exactly the most wholesome environment, either, but I keep my mouth shut. Mr. Taylor doesn’t strike me as particularly strict, certainly not authoritarian, so I’m guessing this was one of his few rules—something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bend on.

“She was only a couple of months away…from finishing college and being able to fulfill her dream.” Silent tears fall down Mrs. Taylor’s cheeks. Before the sleeping tablet they probably would have been hysterical tears but now they’re masked by medication and numbness. She’s been beaten—by life, by God, by whatever you believe in. Although I try not to, I can’t help but think of my mother. Even though I was nine years old, I don’t remember the day they told us that my brother John’s body had been found. It was a year after his disappearance and I already knew he was dead anyway…I saw it in a nightmare. But I have managed to block the death knock from my memory.

“What about Misha? How old is she?”

Sloan’s question brings me back to the present.

“She’s eighteen.” Mr. Taylor rests his hand on his wife’s knee. “There’s only nineteen months between the girls.” He stands up and takes the photo he looked at earlier from the mantelpiece. “This was taken at Christmas.” He hands it to Sloan.

The family sits around a table, with a turkey in the center. I also notice a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in an ice bucket, and that Sherry has on full makeup and nail polish.

“Just the four of you?” I ask.

“Yes.” Mr. Taylor nods. “I’m an only child and my parents are both dead, and Mandy’s parents spend Thanksgiving with us and Christmas with Mandy’s brother in New York.”

I take another look at the photo. “Sherry lived here with you, correct?”

“Yes. She would have loved to live on campus, but I didn’t see the point…not when UCLA is a five-minute drive.”

“And Misha?” Sloan passes the photo back to Mr. Taylor.

“Misha’s studying music…in New York.” He stares at the photo.

“I see.”

“Have you told her yet?” Sloan asks softly.

The question brings another onslaught of tears from Mrs. Taylor, and this time not even the medication can control them. “I can’t…I can’t do it.”

“We can’t wait any longer, Mandy.” Mr. Taylor turns to us. “I was just about to call Misha when you arrived.”

“Without me?” Mrs. Taylor stands up and pulls at her hair with one hand. “How could you?”

“We have to tell her.” Taylor’s voice is soft.

Mrs. Taylor hesitates for a moment before sinking back into the couch and holding her head in her hands. “Maybe you’re right. She has to know, and Lord knows I can’t bring myself to say those words.”

We’re all silent for a few beats.

“It’s not going to be on the news or anything, is it?” Mr. Taylor gently places the photo back on the mantelpiece. “Misha can’t find out like that.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not Sherry’s name, no. We won’t release those details until you’ve made a formal identification at the coroner’s office.” She pauses. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“No, I need to see her as soon as possible.” He’s still looking at the Christmas photo. “Need to see my baby to believe it’s really her.”

We nod, and Sloan says, “I understand.”

Silence again.

“Sherry…” I pause. “Was she outgoing? Shy?”

“More outgoing, I guess. She certainly had a lot of friends.”

“She was an extrovert.” Mrs. Taylor looks up. “She drew people to her and was loved by everyone. Sherry and her friends often spent time over here—I always opened our house to them.”

“Did she have a best friend? Someone she was particularly close to?”

“Desiree Jones. They’ve known each other since high school. Both charming, social girls.”

“We’d like her details. And the contact details of anyone else close to Sherry.”

Mrs. Taylor manages to stand up. “Of course. I’ll get my address book.” She strides out of the room, but I can tell the deliberate movement and poise take her full concentration.

When she returns, she reads out a few names and we take down the details.

“Anyone else? Perhaps that you don’t have contact details for?”

“I know all Sherry’s friends. Sherry and I are very close.”

I haven’t decided yet if Mandy Taylor is a more open, progressive mum, or if she’s one of those mums who live their lives through their children. Could be she had to be part of Sherry’s social life, almost think of Sherry’s friends as her friends.

“What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?” Sloan asks.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor fiddles with her address book, which now sits closed on her lap. “She dated Todd Fischer for three years, but they split up just before Christmas.”

Sloan leans on the couch’s arm. “She still in contact with him?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“You know who broke it off?”

“She did. Told me it just didn’t feel right anymore.”