Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  Another news anchor on Channel 2 speculated that because Trixie had been working on a closed set, if she in fact met with foul play, it would have had to be an inside job. “Is that right, Tiffany?”

  The screen filled with a honey-blond reporter who could have been a swimsuit model. She was standing at the crime scene with strips of yellow police tape as a backdrop to her story. She said, “That’s right, Kevin. The stars in Hollywood aren’t twinkling so brightly tonight.”

  “Yes, we are,” Polly talked back to the screen.

  Tiffany the reporter continued. “Potentially hundreds of people—film crews and celebrities alike—may become suspects in this all-too-real reality show called, ‘How Did I Die?’” The reporter was doing her best to sound as though crime was a novelty in Tinseltown. “Party princesses throughout Beverly Hills may be shaking in their Pradas until this alleged killing is solved. Now, back to you in the studio,” she said, projecting a straight face that told viewers she honestly believed that the story she just reported was the most important event shaking the planet.

  “They’re making this up as they go along,” Polly groaned, then added, “Who did you say is in the cast of Detention Rules!?”

  “It’s been repeated all day long,” Tim said, slightly annoyed. He reiterated that Dana Pointer had first become known for posing semi-nude on a billboard that advertised the sex appeal of drinking Johnny Walker Red. Missie Miller, who had cut a CD with the church choir at Harvard, had unexpectedly hit the top of the Christian record charts with the solo portion of “Jesus is The Answer (So Hit the Nail on the Head).” Both girls were summoned to Hollywood as a result of their small notoriety—then started making movies.

  Polly considered all the gossip she’d ever heard or read about the two teen stars—and the massive retouching required of their publicity photos. It was no secret that Dana was notoriously unprofessional. They called her “an alumna of the Shannen Doherty Charm School.”

  Missie, on the other hand, was considered a Julie Andrews knockoff for her sweetness, wit, vocal pipes, and for still living at home and caring for her semi-blind and widowed mother.

  Where Dana was a self-absorbed, club-hopping, paparazzi-bashing, bulimic, nymphomaniac who openly hated Missie’s guts, her co-star was a straight-A Harvard freshman majoring in biochemistry, who had a patent pending for a pill that if tested by Merck might lead to a cure for halitosis. In her spare time, she was the guest first chair violin with the Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra.

  In Dana’s spare time, she appeared in court as the corespondent in divorce suits.

  “And the male lead?” Polly asked. “Jack Wesley,” she answered herself. “They’ve all got reputations.”

  “Ooh, Mr. Jack ‘Sexy’ Wesley,” Placenta said, “Lord knows he’s got the body of a lean grease monkey. But he’s got Charles Manson eyes. They’re completely dead. No depth. But hell, when you’ve got shoulders, abs, biceps, and pecs like what he showed in that underpants billboard ad, nothing else matters.”

  Polly thought about the trio of teen celebrities for a long moment, trying to find a common denominator other than their youth, sex-appeal, and appearing in a movie together. “Sometimes so-called good girls like Missie can’t resist a bad boy like Jack,” Polly said, as if she knew from first-hand experience. “Perhaps the two girls were fighting over the affections of Jack, and maybe Trixie was a third wheel who got in the way,” she said, making up a story that, considering the blank stares of Tim and Placenta, was as farfetched as Britney Spears remaining married for more than half a minute. “Trust me, I’m as intuitive as Jessica Fletcher,” Polly said. “One of those girls was involved in Trixie’s death.”

  Switching back to “Larry King Live,” Tim said, “God help us if this is the kind of media circus we have to look forward to on the day you drop dead, Mother.” He pointed the remote at the television set and clicked to another station—only to find mascara-smudged Liza un-hinged again.

  Polly said, “I’m not afraid to die. It happens to the best of us. But when it’s my time, I expect rioting on Hollywood Boulevard and preemption of ‘Desperate Housewives.’ Make a note of that for my publicist and attorney,” she instructed Placenta. “And swear to me that the coverage of my eventual demise will be more tasteful than this déclassé spectacle.” Polly grabbed the remote from Tim and again switched channels. “I don’t want Larry scraping the bottom of his e-mail list for media whores who don’t really give a damn about me. I’m not inviting Jayne to my memorial service,” she said. “And dear God, don’t let me get screwed like Mother Teresa and Prince Ranier. Rotten timing to go out at the same time as Princess Di, or the Pope!”

  Evenings at home, sharing a volley of conversation like this with her two best friends, and knocking off a couple of bottles of midpriced champagne, always gave Polly a glow and a sense of peace. Despite all the dreary talk of death, Polly was actually happy tonight. She looked around the vast room and counted her blessings, as well as her Emmy Awards, several of which were used as decorative bookends on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that dominated one wall.

  Placenta kept these intimate evenings running smoothly with one chilled bottle of Verve Cliquot following another, until it was time to serve dinner. Tonight, however, no one in the family was interested in dining. Although the news of the day had become tiresome, Polly and Tim, and Placenta, too, kept a close watch on the television for the latest developments, just in case it was revealed that they personally knew whoever was eventually accused of “allegedly” murdering Trixie Wilder.

  “One down, two to go,” Placenta said, a reference to the theory that stars drop dead in series of threes. “Any bets on who’s next?” Placenta asked. “Big points if it’s someone young and totally unexpected, like Sophia Bush.”

  “I was so close when I put Siegfried and Roy on my list,” Polly said, “proving that I have decent intuition. Perhaps it hasn’t been honed to perfection, but if you’ll remember, Bob Hope was another name I felt strongly about—for years.”

  Suddenly the telephone rang in the distance. Placenta set her champagne flute on the oval glass-top coffee table that separated twin Tahitian cotton upholstered sofas in the center of the vast room. She was used to stopping whatever activity she was involved in to answer a telephone. Polly placed outgoing calls only. She refused to answer incoming ones.

  Still, the ring tone made Polly perk up. “It’s a little late for the press to be calling me for a quote,” she said to Tim, pretending to be miffed. “What should I tell ’em about Trixie? One appearance on ‘The Polly Pepper Playhouse’ does not an intimate relationship make. But I always sent Christmas cards.”

  “All actors are liars,” Tim said. “Just say that you spoke to Trixie yesterday morning, and you’re completely shocked by what’s happened since then.”

  Returning to the great room with the cordless phone in her hand, Placenta walked over to Polly and said, “Put your intuition to the test and guess who’s calling.”

  Polly playfully put the tips of her index fingers to her temples. “Um, it’s Ed McMahon…he’s bringing the Prize Patrol over for drinks, but they’re lost in Benedict Canyon.”

  “Almost.” Placenta handed her the phone. “It’s your agent.”

  For a moment the only sounds in the room were the voices issuing from the television’s speakers. Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked at each other with confusion. It was highly unusual for J. J. to be calling—at any hour.

  “How’d he get my number?” Polly joked, as she accepted the phone from her maid. She pressed the talk button. In a tone of voice that she generally reserved for her money-grabbing second cousin in Des Moines who invented outrageous scenarios about health issues, or biblical invasions of flying insects that required biblical-sized checks from Polly to help eradicate, she said, “Hello, J. J. What level of Dante’s Hell are you calling from, dear? Still married to Jackie? Right, Vickie. Still under IRS investigation for fraud? Still running an agency?”

&n
bsp; Tim and Placenta pretended to give Polly privacy and returned to watching CNN. They each picked up their drinks and although they feigned interest in the news, they cocked their respective ears to eavesdrop on Polly’s conversation. Intermittently they gave each other furtive looks that plainly said, “J. J. Norton only calls when a commission check has to be countersigned.”

  Polly was clearly talking to J. J. about Trixie. She said, “Yes, it’s a terrible tragedy. Of course I adored her. We all did. Yeah, so much talent wasted. Yada, yada. Get to the point.”

  Then there was a long stretch of silence. Polly was obviously paying close attention to what was being said by her agent. The cessation of Polly’s voice caused Tim and Placenta to turn around and look at her with curiosity.

  Noticing Tim and Placenta’s attention, Polly drifted away from the center of the room and took a seat on the piano bench in the corner. She was slowly nodding her head in agreement with whatever J. J. was telling her. Finally, she responded. “Well, it’s rather short notice,” she said. “Yes, of course there was no way of knowing. By all means, tell them I’ll consider it. We’ll chat in the A.M., when you have more info. Love to Jackie. Vickie? Whatever.”

  Polly pushed the disconnect button on the telephone and laid the handset on the piano lid. She looked dazed as she raised herself up. Deep in thought she slowly crossed the room and retrieved her champagne flute. With Tim and Placenta staring at her, she finally spoke. “I’m up for Catharine. Trixie’s role.”

  Tim and Placenta were stunned into dropped-jaw silence.

  “One of the producers got the DVD boxed set of The Best of the Polly Pepper Playhouse Comedy Sketches for his twenty-fifth birthday, and he thought I might be good. Might be good? What a putz.”

  Tim was suddenly uncorked with excitement. “It’s what you sort of wished for this morning,” he said.

  “Sort of?” Placenta jeered. “The gears in your head were exposed.”

  “Don’t worry about those other two stars in the film,” Tim smiled and hugged his mother. “They may be the leads, but you’ll be the star. Guaranteed.”

  “Other stars?” Polly said, feigning offense.

  Polly took a long swallow of champagne, held out her flute for a refill from anyone, and made a face. “It’s hardly a done deal,” she said. “They’re auditioning a number of actresses. You know what an idiot agent J. J. is. Chances are he’ll price me out of the job. It’s happened before. I’m not getting my hopes up.”

  Tim raised his glass and proposed a toast. “To the legendary Polly Pepper, and her triumphant return to the silver screen! Of course you’ll get the job! It’s got your name written all over it. Probably always had, but Trixie got in the way and the ghost of Euripides had to make some adjustments. Not good for Trixie’s health, but as a trouper she’d be the first to say, ‘That’s showbiz!’”

  Placenta raised her glass, too. “Cheers,” she said. “J. J.’s a lousy agent, but he wouldn’t call unless a job for you was dropped in his lap. He’ll take all the credit, and the commission, of course. But you can probably start packing!”

  “Oscar! Oscar! Oscar!” Tim chanted. “You’ll be noticed again.” Then, shifting his thoughts, he tentatively asked, “What else did J. J. have to say about this producer, other than he’s twenty-five and smart enough to recognize your value to his project?”

  Polly shot a lascivious smile at her son, and tickled him under his chin. “Leave it to me, sweetie. You’ll get an introduction.”

  Chapter 3

  By the time Polly tottered to her chair at the patio breakfast table the next morning, Placenta had already placed the Los Angeles Times morning edition over the vacant eyes of Paris Hilton on the cover of The National Peeper. For the first few moments of her day Polly’s undivided attention was on her Bloody Mary. After sucking up her breakfast, she adjusted her shades, lit a Merit cigarette with her BIC, and gazed around her property. Polly admired the artistry of the landscape gardeners who maintained Pepper Plantation as if they were manicuring the grounds at a Disney resort.

  The yard was immaculately groomed, and the men who Tim hired for the chores were an exhibition for Polly to appreciate as well. The workers, all shirtless and in the bloom of Antonio Banderas-hood (pre-Melanie), were out in force, scattered about the property, mowing the grass, planting annuals, and vacuuming the swimming pool. Slight irritation crossed Polly’s face when she couldn’t spot Hector, the inordinately seductive, perspiration-glistening Latino foreman who was usually on site. “Bummer,” she thought, mentally calculating the hours of practice she’d completed with her Spanish 101 Berlitz CDs. She hoped to soon begin conjugating verbs with Señor El es muy guapo—as Tim, too, referred to Hector. She aimed to give him instructions with as much fluency as Tim. “Como se dice…prune this bush?” she often rehearsed, spying on him from behind the louvered shutters in her bedroom.

  A bee interrupted her reverie about Hector by lighting on the newspaper and crawling over the headlines.

  Polly looked down. The headline beamed up. Polly screeched, “Mother of God! Was I in a coma?”

  The Los Angeles Times was adamant: TRIXIE TRAGEDY RULED ACCIDENTAL.

  “Anticlimactic, eh?” Placenta said as she came out from the house, placed a basket of warm bran muffins on the table before Polly, and shooed away the bee.

  Polly was incredulous. “A few hours ago the police were investigating a probable homicide,” she said. “Now, Trixie’s just any old dead woman.”

  “The media turned that poor dear’s death into an all points bulletin Amber Alert for a maniac who never existed,” Placenta clucked. “It didn’t take Kinsey Milhone to figure out that the media was milking this nonstory for all the juicy gossip it could squeeze from a stone cold corpse.”

  Polly picked up the paper and scanned the front-page story. “Stroke followed by heart attack,” she read aloud. “Collapsed. Fractured her skull on a brick lying on the floor. Case closed. See page E12 for memorial service details.” She slapped the newspaper down on the table and picked up her glass for another sip of her BM. “A brick,” she snorted. “Murder would have been the perfect coda to Trixie’s dreary life. Even minor celebrities win instant immortality if they die under any circumstance that might hatch a lame conspiracy theory.”

  Tim emerged from the house. Hearing the tail end of his mother’s comment, he sort of asked, “Wha?,” then plopped himself into a chair at the table. Placenta poured Tim’s coffee and retreated into the house for the plastic tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Tim locked his lips over the rim of the mug and noisily slurped up his cure-all. After a long moment waiting for the caffeine to kick-start his engine, he flipped the newspaper pages to Doonsbury then made an effort to ask, “News ’bout Trix?”

  “Too upsetting,” Polly said, as if closing the subject.

  “There’s something worse than her death?” Tim said, then came to a quick conclusion. “Plain ol’ final grain of sand slipping through the egg timer of life, eh?” he said knowingly.

  “Where are the Hollywood deaths of yore?” Polly bemoaned. “The entertaining ones, like Jayne Mansfield. Or Bob Crane.”

  “Or Mama Cass,” Tim said, and reached for a muffin.

  “Vic Morrow,” Polly continued. “John Landis’s personal Cuisinart sliced and diced him into kibbles ’n bits.”

  “Marvin Gaye,” Tim added. “Target practice for his old man.”

  “Sonny Bono,” Polly quickly jumped in. “What sort of idiot hits a tree while skiing?” she mused. “Or did the tree hit him? See, a conspiracy theory!”

  “John Denver,” Tim said sadly, missing one of his favorite singers. “Musta been on a Rocky Mountain high ’cause nobody leaves the ground without fuel in his private airplane.”

  “Marie Curie,” Polly trumped Tim. “Of all people, she should have known that exposure to that radiation stuff couldn’t be good for her health!”

  “Isadora Duncan? Rather chic, but an embarrassing way to be remembered!�
�� Tim said. He crossed his eyes and shoved his tongue out the side of his mouth, mimicking strangulation.

  Placenta walked back out onto the patio. “This should cheer you up,” she said, holding a large manila envelope in her hand. “Just arrived via messenger.”

  Polly’s eyes widened with excitement as she grabbed the package from Placenta and completely forgot about Trixie and famous dead people. “It’s from Sterling Studios!” She immediately saw the address label with the SS logo (which had undergone a radical design change when the Anti-Defamation League pressured the studio to modify the twin lightning bolts that had long been the company’s trademark), and eagerly ripped open the sealed flap. She withdrew a three-hole punched script that was fastened together with brass brads. Polly held it up for Tim and Placenta to see.

  “Detention Rules!” Polly declared triumphantly as she read the title. “A Screenplay by Ben Tyler.” She frowned. “Remind me to Google that name,” she said, then started flipping through the pages searching for a character named Catharine. With each page of the script that Polly scanned she seemed to become more frustrated. Then, three quarters of the way into the text, her face beamed with a wide smile. “Catharine! There you are, you little career-saving vixen!”

  “Read it aloud,” Tim implored.

  “Cold? And out of context? Never! Not to this tough audience,” Polly said. Then her lips began to move in silent unison with her eyes. But as she continued reading to herself, her smile faded. She turned a page then flipped back to the previous page, as if checking to see if she’d missed some vital information. Polly began to bite her mother-of-pearl–lacquered thumbnail as doubt crept across her face.

  Placenta quipped, “You were expecting Neil Simon?”

  Polly ignored her maid and leafed through the last quarter of the screenplay. She counted the few pages on which Catharine had lines of dialogue. Then, in a daze, she closed the script and placed it on the table. She stared blankly past Tim.