Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  Berg returned his attention to Missie. “This’ll take at least an hour to set up. How about a drink in my trailer?”

  Missie deftly deflected his advances. “I’m afraid of your cute girlfriend,” she chuckled. “She looks as though she could beat up Sedra—and would actually like to.” Missie caught herself. “Oh, but in a totally feminine kind of self-defense way, naturally.”

  Berg laughed. “She’s a bigger man than I am. Take a rain check?”

  Never far from the set, Sedra Stone’s stand-in Lauren Gaul appeared prepared to start all over again working with the director of photography and camera crew to reset the scene. Lauren, who was also an actress—when she could find work—had a lengthy resume of motion picture credits as a stand-in. A woman of fifty-five, she had worked with such legends as Jessica Tandy, Katharine Hepburn, Judi Dench, and, most recently, Trixie Wilder. Now she was Sedra Stone’s stand-in, although the star had never acknowledged her presence. Typical diva, Lauren thought and shrugged her shoulders in resignation. On motion picture sets, as in any profession, there is a hierarchy of queen bees and drones. Stand-ins are among the worker bees. They’re just above background extras, but they are below the acting talent. And there is an unspoken law that they never associate with the stars for whom they are standing in, unless the star speaks first. Still, Lauren felt that she was just as good, if not better, than Sedra Stone, with whom she had a past association.

  Although Lauren was usually employed on feature films, she had also worked on television programs. In fact, although Sedra would never remember—and Lauren couldn’t bring it up—early in her career she had been a stand-in on “Monarchy.” However, her assignment on that show was short lived. While filming the pilot episode, one of the production assistants informed her that her services were no longer required. “Miss Stone said to beat it.”

  “But why?” Lauren had pleaded, as tears welled in her eyes.

  Although the production assistant was as tough as frozen Styrofoam, she felt a moment of pity. She shook her head and said, “Listen, honey, an insecure star like Sedra Stone doesn’t want a stand-in who’s younger and prettier than she is. Them there are the breaks. Sorry.”

  Those were the exact words. Lauren had never forgotten them and never forgiven Sedra’s vanity and cruelty. She had been unceremoniously dismissed from a job she desperately needed, and was depressed and out of work for three months afterward.

  It had been Lauren’s fate to work in the industry not as a player, but ostensibly as a piece of equipment. Serving as a facsimile of the star on the set, a stand-in saves the actor and the production a lot of time by simply standing still as the DOP set the lights for the scene.

  In addition to being cooperative and taking direction well, Lauren had to be the same height and have the same hair color as the actor for whom she was assigned. On some jobs, if the star was particularly lazy, Lauren actually got to film the long shot scenes, or stand-in for overhead shots, or shots from behind. The fun part of her job was when she was asked to run the star’s lines with the other actors until the cameras were actually rolling and the real star was ready to emerge from the chrysalis of her trailer dressing room to shoot the scene.

  Although she had once been an ambitious young actress herself, Lauren had eventually accepted the fact that her bread and butter came from merely being nothing more than a member of the crew. She did all of the off-camera work with the other actors, but as soon as the star was ready to face the lens, Lauren stepped back into the nothingness and anonymity of being behind-the-scenes. Yes, the work was steady, and she could earn more than a thousand dollars a week for her services, but a part of her was still bitter and resentful that she wasn’t a working actor. It sucked. But it paid the rent.

  Lauren spent the next hour along with the other stand-ins being moved from one spot on the set to another. She stood patiently still while the DOP checked his light meter, and another assistant placed colored tape next to her feet on the floor to mark the spot where Sedra Stone would eventually stand. All the while she was thinking; After all these years, I’m still a stand-in. And I’m a better actor than Sedra Stone could ever hope to be.

  When the new camera blocking was done, Lauren left the set and continued her off-time habit of exploring whatever location she was on. In this case, the school campus. As a new state-of-the-art institution, Gary High School had an Olympic-size swimming pool and Lauren discovered it boasted a ten-meter diving platform. Although the water had been drained, she strolled around the perimeter of the pit and inhaled the scent of chlorine.

  By the time the screenwriter reluctantly altered several lines of his script, as Dana had commanded, and the cinematographer reset the lighting, and the new blocking had been worked out, and the caterers had fed the cast and crew, it was nearly nine o’clock at night. Director Adam Berg summoned his principals, and sarcastically asked if they were finally satisfied with the dialogue changes, the costumes, the lighting, and the overtime penalty pay that the technicians would be receiving as a result of having to work fifteen hours straight. In a gentle voice he said, “Let’s try this once again, shall we?” Then he sat in the director’s chair and let the assistant director call, “Take twenty-eight. Action.”

  Three minutes later, Berg’s quiet and mocking voice said, “That was lovely. Thank you. We’ll print it.” Continuing to speak as though to a class room of children, Berg said, “How good of you all to spend twelve hours rehearsing that one-hundred-thirty second scene, and committing to film the extraordinary new dialogue of Mr. Ben Tyler.

  “A special note of thanks to our luminous star, Dana Pointer,” Berg said looking directly at her. “It was absolutely delightful not to hear her whiny voice deviate from the lines on the page or complain that Jack or Missie or Sedra was giving her hives. I’ll try to squeeze another thirty seconds of film out of her tomorrow.” He rose from his chair and indolently walked out of the gymnasium. The cast dispersed as well, while the technicians and assistants packed up their gear, anxious to get home to their families.

  It was dark outside the school building, as Dana, Missie, Sedra, and Jack walked toward their respective trailers. Laughing, Dana said, “I think we showed that bum who’s boss, didn’t we?”

  Sedra smiled. “You were far from professional today, dear,” she said. “If I were Mr. Adam Berg, I’d probably never work with you again.”

  Dana was dumbfounded. “You’re the one who insisted that a bitch has to mark her territory!”

  “You’re not a dog.” Sedra’s voice was calm. “You must pay closer attention to how I behave. I push a little, and then I pull back. Today I showed how I care deeply about my character and the film project, and that I was ultimately willing to be the director’s piece of clay.”

  Dana turned on her. “You told me, ‘Give ulcers, don’t get them.’”

  “Darling, you’re giving me an ulcer,” Sedra deadpanned. “Now go to your trailer and think about how to make things up to Adam Berg in the morning.” She added “Ta,” as she split away from the group and went to her own trailer.

  “Don’t ‘ta’ me,” Dana spat at Sedra. “We have an agreement.”

  “From what I witnessed today, you’re succeeding beautifully on your own,” Sedra said. Then she opened the door to her trailer and stepped inside. Before closing the door she added, “Stop by before you leave for the night. I’ve got a few important things I want to say to you.” Then she disappeared into her Star Waggon.

  Dana was at once furious and embarrassed. “Missie,” she hissed, “that bitch made me look like a freak today. The way I behaved…I mean it was all her doing! Sedra told me to break the director’s back, that it was the only way to show who was in charge.”

  Missie continued walking toward her trailer. Finally she said, “Sedra’s right. You don’t need her help. You’ve been difficult since day one of this shoot. You’re so insecure that you think you need to bully people to get your way. Keep it up and you’ll be renting movies in
stead of starring in them.”

  Dana was speechless with rage. Then she turned to Jack. “Let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”

  “Nah, I’d better not,” Jack said. “I’m exhausted. We have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing. And it’s a long drive back to Studio City. Maybe another time.”

  Dana huffed in protest. “Fine,” she said, spitting the word out as though they tasted of Listerine. “And I won’t bother to ask you, little Miss Brown Nose the Director. You’ve probably gotta get your dear old Mama home.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s been stuck in here all day,” Missie said, as she arrived at her trailer. “Jack’s right. Have to be all perky for work in just a few more hours. Try to have a pleasant night.” She then opened the door and disappeared inside.

  Dana and Jack fanned out and headed toward their respective dressing rooms. Before closing their doors however, they both took another long look at the other. “Good-night,” Jack called. But Dana simply slammed her door.

  It was a quiet summer night. Little more than the sound of trailer doors opening and closing could be heard until a hostile argument broke out in Sedra’s trailer. The ruckus could be heard throughout the school campus. One after another, the cast slipped out of their mobile homes forming an audience of eavesdroppers for the melee. Soon most of the assemblage tired of the disturbance and found their way to the parking lot and their respective cars.

  By the time security came around to turn off the lights in each trailer, the Santa Clarita location was deadly quiet again.

  Chapter 10

  Various telephone ring tones issued from a dozen extensions throughout Pepper Plantation and fractured the early morning tranquility. Placenta, diligently marinating salmon for the evening meal, was startled. She automatically glanced at the clock on the face of the microwave oven. It was only 7:00 A.M. Friends—with the exception of Helen Reddy, who never caught on to the time difference between Australia and California—knew better than to call before the mistress of the manor was finally out of bed. Everybody knew that was seldom earlier then ten.

  The number displayed on the telephone caller ID readout was unfamiliar to Placenta. With slight trepidation, she gingerly picked up the receiver. She answered in the secret code of cautious celebrity households everywhere: “Dialysis Clinic,” she said.

  Within moments, Placenta was racing up the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase two steps at a time and sprinting down the second floor hallway. She didn’t bother to knock on Polly’s bedroom door. She barged into her private chamber and stood over Polly for a moment. Then, “Polly! Wake up. Polly!” she demanded.

  With her black silk sleep mask askew on her face, Polly drowsily flailed her arms like a rag doll and tried to push Placenta away. “Wha?” she groaned as if she were in the middle of a nightmare. “’Nother hour, please?” Polly halfway opened the one eye not hidden by her shade and squinted at the digital alarm clock on her nightstand. “Are you kidding me?” she bellowed. “The coyotes are still scavenging for cats at this hour!”

  The combination of the telephone ringing at a relatively early time of the morning, and the distant sound of Placenta’s voice wafting back down the hallway, mixed with Polly’s equally obstreperous complaints, wrested Tim from a luxurious dream. All that remained in his foggy memory was a vague image of sharing a compartment on a train to Paris with Olympic gymnastics legend Bart Conner. “Damn. I think I was his personal masseur!” Tim whined, his dream interrupted before he’d had an opportunity to give the gold medallist a rub down.

  He pushed away his top sheet and comforter and reluctantly slipped out of bed. Wearing his ubiquitous boxers and T-shirt, Tim finger-combed his hair, adjusted his manhood, and shuffled barefoot down the corridor and into his mother’s boudoir. “Wass up?” he asked, fighting for consciousness and bracing himself in preparation for upsetting news.

  Placenta sat on the edge of Polly’s bed. She shook her head and looked from Tim to Polly. “I’ve got terrible news,” she said. “You’re not going to believe it.” She leaned over and reached into the top drawer of Polly’s nightstand and retrieved a bottle of Valium. “Here,” she said, twisting open the childproof cap and shaking out a blue tablet into her palm, “you’ll need this.”

  Polly was now fully alert and waved away the pill. Tim had crawled into bed with his mother and put a strong and protective arm around her shoulder for mutual support in anticipation of news that either the universe was about to implode, or that France-hating Congress had banned the importation of Taittinger 1995 Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blanc. In terms of catastrophe, both possibilities would be equally disastrous to life at Pepper Plantation.

  Placenta made the sign of the cross, and held Polly’s hand. “It’s terrible,” she said again, preparing to deliver the news. “The L.A. Times just called.”

  Polly’s eyes widened and she stifled a grin in anticipation of seeing her name in the paper.

  “They wanted a statement,” Placenta said.

  “For that they can go to the bank,” Polly said. Then she became serious, knowing that unpleasant news was about to be delivered.

  Placenta continued. “There’s been another incident on the set of that movie you were supposed to do. This time…I can hardly bring myself to say it. This time…”

  “Sedra Stone’s keeping Trixie Wilder company,” Polly said.

  Placenta gasped, “Damn, you’re good! How is it you can always beat Jessica Fletcher to the killer even before the body shows up, but you can’t figure out that Thursday is my payday?”

  “What? I didn’t know anything!” Polly gasped. “What are you talking about? I was kidding! Sedra’s a corpse? I was joking!”

  “You were subconsciously hoping,” Tim added.

  Polly began to hyperventilate. When she finally caught her breath, she was dazed and confused. She repeated, “Sedra Stone’s dead? How? What happened? An accident? Did Dorothy’s house finally fall on her?”

  Polly and Tim both competed to ask questions for which Placenta had no answers.

  “It’s all over the news,” Placenta said, as she reached for the television remote control that was still on the bed where Polly had left it before falling asleep the night before. She pushed the power button. The plasma screen mounted over the fireplace at the foot of Polly’s bed filled with an image of a reporter in the field who was covering the story from the scene. She was saying, “…Back to you in the studio.”

  “Damn it,” Placenta yelled at the screen, and switched to channel seven. This time, Tim’s favorite reporter, sexpot Lowell Lodge, was beginning his coverage.

  “…Stone. What we can report at this time is that her chauffeur found the body of the star of the popular 1980s primetime television soap ‘Monarchy,’ at approximately midnight. She was discovered in the swimming pool on the high school location set of her new movie. She apparently fell from the ten meter diving platform.”

  “Drowning,” Polly shivered. “A horrible way to go.”

  “The pool was…empty,” the reporter said, as if he’d heard Polly and corrected her presumption. “Police are investigating this as an accident. But according to Detective Archer of the Santa Clarita Police Department, they can’t rule out the possibility of foul play.”

  The screen smash cut to a prerecorded interview with Detective Archer. “All I can tell you is that although the death of Miss Stone appears to be an accident, the investigation is ongoing. That’s all I know for now. Thank you.”

  “He’s a cutie,” Polly said of Detective Archer, obviously paying more attention to what the man looked liked than the substance of what he had said.

  Video images of the pool cordoned off with yellow police barricade tape appeared on the screen. The camera panned up to the diving platform. “It must’ve been an accident,” Placenta said. “Sedra wouldn’t take crap from a cold-blooded killer. Hell, she could stare down a gang of thugs led by Ann Coulter and Karl Rove. Nothing scared her.”
r />   “Except wrinkles,” Tim said.

  “I vote for killer,” Polly added. “She couldn’t swim, unless it was upstream to spawn after mating with someone’s husband or boyfriend.”

  “You’re right,” Tim said. “I never saw her put so much as a toe in the Jacuzzi during the summer that I spent at Dad’s place with her.”

  The reporter continued. “This is the second tragedy to strike the Sterling Studios production of the new Dana Pointer and Missie Miller musical, Detention Rules! As you may recall, just twelve days ago, another Hollywood celebrity, Trixie Wilder, suffered a stroke and died while filming at this very location. In fact, Sedra Stone had replaced Wilder in the same role.”

  The camera returned to the morning newscast’s anchorman who feigned incredulity. “They die in threes, don’t they, Lowell?” he said to the field reporter. “Celebrities, I mean. One. Two. Three. Do police have any idea who will be next?”

  Reporter Lowell Lodge professionally controlled a need to roll his eyes at the vapid anchorman’s ridiculous question. Instead, in all his Anderson Cooper earnestness he said, “Dan, it isn’t yet clear what Sedra Stone was doing at this indoor venue, which is primarily used for swimming and diving competitions. And it hasn’t been established that she was alone at the time of the tragedy.”

  “Is there any indication as to why Sedra Stone was swimming at night?” the anchor asked, unable to ad lib a sensible question.

  The reporter subtly corrected the anchor. “Sedra Stone wasn’t swimming, Dan. As previously reported, the pool was empty,” he said. “We’ve learned that the facility had been drained only yesterday for routine maintenance and resurfacing. One of the many mysteries in this case is why Sedra Stone remained at the film location long after the cast and crew had been dismissed for the day. We’re awaiting further details from the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office as to the exact cause of death.”