by Denise Dietz
“I stopped by to pick up my stuff,” she told him.
“Will you be long, child?”
Leaning against the security booth, which looked like a tollbooth, she said, “Fifteen minutes, half an hour. Anybody else here today?”
“Vance Booker, but he left.”
“Judith Pendergraft?”
“Haven’t seen her. Miss Graham is upstairs in her office, and Miss Anissa—”
“Anissa’s here, at the studio?”
“Yep. She had a meeting with Miss Graham.”
Delly smiled. Even though he was perpetually posted at the entrance, Henry knew everything that went on inside the building.
“I was sorry to hear about you leaving the show,” he said.
Her smile faded. “Say la vee.”
“Hush, child, don’t you be sounding like her!”
The hate in his voice was unmistakable. “How come you don’t get along with Maxine, Henry?”
“Miss Graham tried to get me discharged, only she called it early retirement. She wanted to hire another guard, that man who delivers food from the deli. Miss Graham took him inside the projection room for his audition, but it didn’t work out. He’s still toting sandwiches. How was your goodbye party, Miss Delly?”
She stared at him, confused by the change of subject.
“Last night at the Sawmill,” Henry said. “I saw Miss Echo sneak a prop from the show. Did you have fun?”
“Yes. Sort of.” Delly tossed Henry a fingertip kiss and entered the building. As always, the wall mural greeted her. Hannah and Topher had been eliminated. However, Echo’s phantom, Mr. Ratings, hadn’t killed off Pandora yet.
Pandora stood behind Cal and Charl, with only her face, neck and shoulders visible. Her left cheek rested against the rag doll’s carroty hair. Soon Panda and her baby would be gone, as if a ghostly eraser whooshed through the building, rub-a-dub-dubbing. Hey, what else could you do with a crazy person? In the real world, mental hospitals had names like Peace-haven-rest, and they were filled with insurance patients. Which was funny when you thought about it—and who wanted to think about it?—because most of the crazies roamed the streets, un-caged.
Too bad Panda didn’t have insurance—wait a sec! Change Panda’s ponytail to shaggy gold hair, change the color of her eyes, and Samantha Gold could be the Panda on the mural.
After all, we’re twins.
Uncomfortable with that revelation, Delly climbed stairs to the third floor.
Maxine’s door gaped open. Seated behind her cluttered desk, the producer nibbled a pencil. She looked like a beaver. No. A termite. The kind of termite they always showed in nature movies, eating wood, magnified a bazillion times. An Emmy stood on Maxine’s desk, next to a yellow legal pad covered with scribbles.
Scribbles and doodles and dots, oh my.
E my name is Emmy.
Oh, Auntie Emmy, there’s no place like home.
Too bad the bad, bad Pandora Poe was kicked out of Wayne County. Now she’s homeless. Un-caged.
Delly knocked and entered.
Maxine looked up. “What can I do for you, dear?”
“I came to collect my things and . . .”
“Yes?”
“Maxine . . . about Pandora . . .”
“You did a fine job, Delly. We were very pleased.”
“If you were so pleased, why’d you kick me off the show?”
Maxine lit a cigarette. “Honorable dismissal is not a kick in the pants, dear.”
“Why couldn’t you and Judith cure Pandora?”
“Without her illness, there is no Pandora.”
“That’s not true. She could be released from the hospital and settle in Wayne County.”
“As what? She couldn’t be a nurse or a doctor. She couldn’t go back to school or suddenly start a business. She has no background.”
“Yes, she does. I gave her a background, a whole history, even a last name.”
“That’s nice.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Judith once said something about a relationship with Cal. Pandora and Cal.”
“I don’t have time for asinine bon mots, Delly.” Maxine puffed smoke toward the projection room window. “Cal and Charl were married a la belle etoile.”
“Under the stars?”
“Right. Don’t you remember our lovely outdoor wedding?”
“Panda wasn’t in that scene.”
Max sounds sarcastic, thought Delly. With sudden insight, she realized that Max was jealous of Charl and Cal. No, not Charl and Cal. Anissa and Drew.
“Why couldn’t Pandora come between Cal and Charl?” Delly said, playing on Maxine’s jealousy. “Pandora could work at the newspaper. That way she’d be close to Cal.”
“There is no newspaper.”
“Sure there is. The Wayne County Gazette.”
Maxine sighed, stood, led Delly toward a small loveseat. “Sit down, dear, you’re shaking like a leaf. That’s better. Would you have us build a new set, just so Pandora can write classified ads and hustle Cal?”
“No. But she could be a reporter, help Cal solve Hannah’s murder.”
“A former mental patient as an investigative reporter? Get real, Delly.”
“This is daytime drama, Max. You can do anything you want.”
“Even if it were possible, we’re way over budget. You have no idea what Toper Coombs cost us. That bastard threatened to sue if we didn’t buy him out of his contract.”
“You can cut my salary.”
“We’re planning to introduce a new character,” Maxine continued, ignoring Delly’s desperate offer.
“I know. The little girl who Topher—”
“A new singer for the Echo Chamber.”
“What? But Tabby Cat—”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, Delly, and I’ll trust you to keep it a secret.” Maxine’s finger grooved her lips. “Tabby’s going to be arrested for Hannah’s murder. Meanwhile, we’ve been auditioning singers.”
“Max, I’m a singer. My whole family is musically inclined. My mom writes songs and my sister—” Delly swallowed. “My sister is Samantha Gold. We both sing, Max. It’s in our genes. Maybe you haven’t heard of Samantha yet, but—”
“The Samantha Gold? We’ve been talking to her agent about the new part.”
“My sister? You’ve been talking to my sister’s agent?”
“It will probably be a short stint, but we need a vocalist and Samantha wants national exposure. I had no idea she’s your sister. Ummm, maybe we can use that.”
“Right. She could be Pandora’s sister and—”
“No, not the show. I meant publicity. You’d do that for your little sister, wouldn’t you?”
“My little sister?”
“I meant age, Delly, not size. You and Samantha could hit the talk shows, pose for pictures together, and—are you all right, dear? You’re white as a ghost.”
Delly reached for her mouth with her thumb. Instead, she withdrew a cigarette from her purse.
Maxine’s lighter flamed. “Tell you what. Samantha has to audition, just like everyone else. If she doesn’t work out, I’ll have Vance give you a call. I suppose we could turn Pandora into a singer, but please don’t get your hopes up.”
Up, up and away, in a beautiful balloon.
“You’re a fine actress, Delly, and I’ll be happy to recommend you for another daytime drama.”
The Wizard’s balloon flew off without me.
“I have work to do, dear.”
Click your heels three times.
“Judith wants me to jot down some ideas, the new singer’s plot treatment. Maybe she can come between Charl and Cal. Yes, that might fly. Thanks for the idea, Delly.”
Click. Click. Click.
“You can visit the set any time, dear.”
Was it all a dream?
“And don’t forget, Delly. Pandora can always recur.”
She plowed through Wardrobe, tossing clothes left and right, hoping to find a future script outline and verify that Tabby Cat would be arrested for Hannah’s murder. But no script magically appeared, so she wandered into the makeup room.
A smile split Anissa’s lovely face as she lowered a can of ginger ale to the dressing table’s surface. “Delly, what luck. I called this morning, only you were asleep. I’m so sorry about last night.”
“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
“I know Samantha’s been a pest, but until I spoke to Jon—”
“Pest? Oh, Anissa, that’s funny, an ‘asinine bon mot’ to quote Maxine. Sami seduced Jon. She’s poisonous, like a snake, and she’s been hired for Morning Star. Max just told me. Max said Sami would have to audition, but she’s great at auditions. Remember our pen pal days? I lied. Sami played all the roles, every single one. Sami was the cheerleader, not me, and she belonged to the glee club and—”
“Calm down, love. Take a deep breath. It will be all right, honest it will. There were times in my life when I felt everything had turned sour and I wanted to die. I’ll tell you a secret, Delly. Even Drew doesn’t know. I once tried to commit suicide. Randy saved me. Too bad I couldn’t save him.”
Secrets! Delly was tempted to blurt out her secrets. Mr. Hailey. Jules. Judith. Topher. But the little voice inside her head warned, Keep your tongue in your pocketbook. Biting her bottom lip, she retrieved two capsules from her purse.
“May I have a sip of your soda, Anissa?”
“Sure. What kind of pills are you taking?”
“Tranquilizers. Judith gave them to me.”
“Easy, Delly, don’t get hooked on downers.”
“I won’t.”
“For what it’s worth, my Aunt Theresa used to quote from the Bible. Her favorite line was about the morning stars singing together and the sons of God shouting for joy. I’m paraphrasing, of course. It’s from Job, the answer to a ‘when’ question, but Aunt Theresa believed it meant things would get better.”
“Point taken. Jonny feels awful about my sister. Anyway, it’s his turn to grab the spotlight. Everybody adores his movie, and his book is climbing toward the top of the bestseller list.”
“You must be so proud.”
“I am.” She smiled tremulously. “We need the money, now that I’m unemployed. I owe astronomical amounts on my furniture, and Jon supports a retarded sister.”
“He does?”
“Yes. We had a long talk after Sami’s Vegas debut. Duck Pond’s Virginia was inspired by Jon’s little sister. She’s institutionalized. Recently he shifted her to a private sanitarium with the best of facilities.” Delly sighed. “Speaking of secrets, I’m sort of pregnant.”
“How can you be sort of pregnant?”
“I haven’t seen a doctor yet, but I’ve skipped a couple of periods and I forgot to bring my birth control pills to Vegas.”
“Have you told Jon?”
“No.”
“Why not? He’ll be deliriously happy.”
“Do you think? After he told me about Virginia, I wondered. Genes and all that. How did Drew take it when you announced the big event?”
“He laughed and cried.” Anissa fiddled with her ginger ale can. “Delly, I wish you wouldn’t gulp down tranquilizers. It’s not good for the baby.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Great. Bugs is fine, too.”
“Bugs?”
“During my last checkup, the doctor put that gizmo that measures the heartbeat on top of my belly. Drew was with me and he threw his voice. It sounded as if my stomach said, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ We’ve been calling the little nipper Bugs ever since. Why don’t you come home with me, Delly? We’ll concoct a celebration dinner. On second thought, I’ll cook. You can keep me company.”
“Maybe later. Right now I want to collect my stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“A sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and my doll.”
“The doll belongs to the show.”
Delly retrieved a cigarette from her purse and flicked her lighter several times. “Damn, nothing works right.” Rummaging through her purse again, she mumbled, “I bought some lighter fluid—never mind. Here’s a box of Sawmill matches.”
“Leave the doll at the studio, Delly. Don’t take Pandora home with you.”
“How can I take her home when she doesn’t exist? Maybe I’ll introduce Pandora Ghost to Mr. Ratings and they can both kill our Max. Anissa, what the heck are you doing?”
“I know it sounds alfy, but I’m being followed.” She secured a brown wig with bobby pins. “I guess you could call this wig a disguise.”
“Followed? You’re kidding.”
“I wish. It’s been happening for two, maybe three months. An overzealous fan, I suppose. Once I tried to confront my bothersome ‘groupie,’ but when I turned around all I saw was that delivery guy from the deli. I couldn’t see his face, he was too far away. He waved. Then he turned into Maxine’s office while I walked toward Wardrobe.”
“Does Drew know about your ‘groupie’?”
“Sort of.”
Delly grinned. “What kind of answer is sort of?”
“I made a dumb joke out of it, quoted Brando. ‘If you want something from an audience, you give blood to their fantasies. It’s the ultimate hustle.’ ”
“Forget Brando. Have you told the police?”
“Told them what? That I suspect an overzealous fan is following me? There haven’t been any letters, phone calls, or threats. The police would think I’m bonkers, if not downright paranoid.”
“Be careful, okay?” Delly bent forward and gave her friend a hug.
“Please come over tonight. I can call Maryl. Drew bought that new version of Trivial Pursuit, Silver Screen. He swears I’ve memorized all the answers, but I haven’t, so we can play fair and square and—”
“Anissa, you’re babbling.”
“I know. But I have a feeling—” She took a deep breath. “You’re cracking up, Delly.”
“An egg cracks.” Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
“So do people. I’ll wait and we can leave together.”
“I’m fine, Anissa. Double or nothing.”
“What?”
“Trivial Pursuit. I’ll give you a chance to win back our World Series bet.”
“Deal. Call me later?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll tell Jon about the baby?”
“Anissa, please.”
“Okay, okay, I’m history.”
Delly watched her friend leave, then glanced around the makeup room. She could see Samantha, instant center of attention. Sami wouldn’t have to appear in a shapeless shift on her first day. Max would want to emphasize Sami’s cleavage, dazzle the viewers. Marla, head honcho hair stylist, would ooh and ahhh over Sami’s palomino mane.
Delly reached for a blonde wig and put it on. There! Now Panda looked like Sami. No. Panda looked like Charl.
Standing in front of the dressing room mirror, she combed the long wig-strands. Then she paused, her arm suspended.
Someone’s spying on me.
She saw nothing.
Anissa gave me the jitters.
Placing her comb on the table, Delly left the makeup room, entered the prop alcove, searched until she found Pandora’s doll, walked downstairs, and slipped into the room where Maxine and Peter gave critique/bitch sessions.
Grabbing an ashtray, she sat against the wall, directly beneath the window. She saw discarded clothing sloppily draped over card table chairs. On the old couch, near the door, lay her hooded sweatshirt and Dodger’s baseball cap. Nurse Marybeth had abandoned a Stephen King novel, The Stand, and it lay face down across the corner of the card table.
Focusing on the wood-framed mirror, Delly could imagine Maxin
e’s reflection, her mouth moving. Sami would receive her share of criticism. Nobody was immune, not even the great Samantha Gold. Or was she? If Sami could out-bitch Pat Python, couldn’t she manipulate Maxine Graham?
Delly fumbled through her purse, found her box of restaurant matches, and lit a cigarette. The tranquilizers were working. She yawned.
Marlon Brando claimed that fame was the ultimate hustle. Delly had proposed that Pandora hustle Cal. Maxine said no, maybe Samantha. What about Judith? Could Judith alter the concept? But Judith had ignored Delly, ever since Little Boy Blue and Man in the Moon. Actors didn’t live happily ever after, after all. They didn’t live forever, either.
Even swans died.
Anissa had once said, “People have great respect for the dead in Hollywood but none for the living,” paraphrasing Errol Flynn.
If Maxine died, would she be respected? Delly had a feeling Max wanted love and respect even more than she craved high ratings.
What about Delly Diamond?
You can’t buy smart.
Could you buy respect? How? With money? Not in Hollywood. With talent? Absolutely. Judith was a prime example. She’d once said that drive and talent earned respect. But that would make Maxine an object of respect, and she wasn’t. The Mr. Ratings bit proved it. The bathroom graffiti proved it.
Delly yawned again. Then, very softly, she chanted, “Delly Diamond took an ax, gave her producer forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave Pandora forty-one.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
A portable TV played the tape from a future episode of Morning Star. Lost in her own fantasies, Maxine slumped on the office loveseat, one hand in her lap, her fingers curled around an Emmy.
Emmy, an alteration of Immy, the nickname for image orthicon.
Maxine coughed. The room smelled like fumy antiperspirant. Elizabeth Taylor had been quoted as saying “There’s no deodorant like success.” Maybe Maxine could convince Elizabeth Taylor to cameo, just for fun. Ratings would soar.
Lighting another cigarette, Maxine sniffed. Christ, it stank to high heaven in here. Carefully placing Emmy-Immy on the floor, she stood, walked behind the loveseat, and tried to open a window. The frame inched up then stuck. Merde! Returning to the loveseat, retrieving her statuette, she pictured Drew Flory.
