by Denise Dietz
On the maid-made bed was a newspaper. Now he glanced down at his special message, right there in the classified-personals. She’d even paid to have it boxed so it would be easy to find.
Jake Smith. Know you’re not to blame.
Miss you and want to talk. Our secret.
Call me. Love, Charl.
She missed him. She wanted him. She loved him.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Morning Star makeup room was embellished with several newspapers. A sleazy tabloid proclaimed: CRAZED PANDA SEEKS REVENGE. The L.A. Times stated that Terms of Endearment had won the New York Film Critics Circle award. On the same page, a smaller caption read: “Grand Jury To Determine Pandora’s Fate.”
Placing her soda can on top of CRAZED PANDA, Maryl studied her reflection in a dressing table mirror. “For the first time in my life I have breasts,” she said. “I’ve named them Joan and Richard.”
Anissa smiled. “So it’s Richard if it’s a boy, huh?”
“Yes. Jonah thinks Richard is for his father, but it’s really for Gere. Richard Gere Wiggins.”
“Your brother wants me to name my breasts Drew One and Drew Too. T-o-o.”
Echo Foster stamped her foot. “This is, without doubt, the stupidest conversation I’ve ever overheard. And you both look . . . I don’t know . . . jumpy . . . yeah, jumpy . . . as if you’re waiting for a bomb to go off.”
“There’s a bomb inside Maryl’s belly, Echo. She’s ten months pregnant.” Anissa zipped up her white maternity dress with its tatted lace collar, then glanced at her watch—5:03 p.m.
T.G.I.F. Thank God it’s Friday. N.T.T. No Taping Tomorrow.
No Grand Jury, either. The decision would be handed down next week, after Drew and a couple of other cast members had testified.
Strolling through the doorway, Echo stopped mid-stride. “Are you sure I shouldn’t wait, Anissa? You and Maryl could join Peter and me at the Unicorn.”
“No, thanks. Everybody has left for the day, including stagehands, so I plan to show Maryl the studio.”
“If you see Delly, tell her I didn’t say boo to that stupid Grand Jury. Tell her my tongue was butter-soft, not knife-sharp, and that I hope the district attorney’s chest collapses from suspender-itis.”
“I hope he chokes to death on his own venom.” Anissa fisted her fingers. “Supercilious snake!”
“It was fun meeting you, Maryl. I used to sneak a peek at your steamy telegrams. They sounded like my favorite author, Edwinna Cartwright. Are you really Drew’s sister?”
“That’s what I’ve been told. It was fun meeting you too, Tabby Cat.”
After Echo’s footsteps had faded away, Maryl scooped up a handful of potato chips from a nearby bag and washed them down with Pepsi. The colors on the can matched her outfit; a red and white striped T-shirt and blue maternity slacks.
Anissa said, “All systems go?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to hide, with my tape recorder, behind that room divider screen next to the door. If anything goes wrong, I waddle like hell to a phone and call the cops.”
“Drew had a meeting at Paramount or he’d never have let me enter the studio without his protective custody.”
“I told him I planned to shop for layette items. I thrust my humongous belly under his nose. He patted my belly, gave me a timid guy-smile, and said have fun.”
“Well, I guess we just twiddle our thumbs until Jake Smith arrives. I asked Henry to buzz.” The wall phone buzzed. “Talk about a cue line. What a break. When Jake called this morning he said he’d be here around five-thirty. I’m glad he’s early. I hate to wait and Bugs is squirming.”
The phone buzzed again. Motioning Maryl behind the black lacquered screen, Anissa picked up the receiver. “Hi, Henry.”
“Miss Anissa, there’s a woman at the gate. She says her name is Monica Hoffman.”
“I don’t believe I know her, Henry.”
“She says she’s from Madison Wisconsin, the wife of someone named Bobby Hoffman, and she’s got a message from your momma.”
“What’s the message?”
“She says it’s personal.”
“I’m expecting the food delivery man. Could you tell Mrs. Hoffman it’s late and everyone’s gone home? Ask her if she can come back tomorrow. No, wait, tomorrow’s Saturday. How about Monday? Tell her she can watch us tape the show. That’s why she’s really here. I talked to my mother last night.”
Anissa tried to keep her voice steady. Following Jacob’s sudden stroke, Helene had retreated more and more into her dream world. Last night’s call had been surreal. Mama had chastised Charl, warning her over and over again that she’d lose Cal’s love if she continued her shenanigans. Anissa’s pregnancy, carefully hidden during her Charl-scenes, hadn’t even been mentioned.
“Hold on,” said Henry. After a short silence, he returned to the line. “Mrs. Hoffman says she’s flying home this weekend. Ordinarily I wouldn’t try and change your mind, child, but she’s all gussied up special.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to her. Please don’t forget to signal when the delivery man gets here. Thanks, Henry.” Anissa hung up the receiver. “I guess you can come out of hiding, Maryl. It’s just some home-town lady with a so-called message from my mother. All she probably wants is an autograph. She’s married to a guy I grew up with, Bobby Hoffman. He was a hateful little shit, and I loathed him, but I can’t blame her for that.”
“I’m comfortable, curled up in this old stuffed armchair. You can chit-chat with your fan, Anissa, and I won’t have to listen to all that aren’t-you-the-Rosebud-girl crap.”
“Okay. I’ll sit at my dressing table, let Monica Hoffman think I’m taking off my makeup, anxious to leave.” For a few minutes Anissa straightened clutter, discarding tissues, capping tubes and lipsticks. “I hear footsteps, Maryl. That was fast. I guess Mrs. Hoffman didn’t stop to study our famous mural.”
Turning, Anissa forced her lips into what she hoped was a sincere smile.
* * * * *
Screw the cops, thought Drew, as he watched his speedometer needle hover around eighty-five. Strange. Maryl was the one with premonitions. Hadn’t she accurately forecast her que serra? “I have this strong feeling that something special will happen soon,” she’d said.
Drew had a strong feeling that something awful would happen soon. Because he was too damn happy. Too damn lucky.
He wanted to get home faster than a speeding bullet, hug Anissa, make mad passionate love, christen her beautiful breasts with his tongue.
* * * * *
Monica Hoffman wore an expensive, high-necked black gown with three-quarter sleeves and overall sequins. Pretty in a small-featured way, her platinum hair fell to her shoulders. Her brown eyes were set close together, the lashes caked with thick mascara. A cupid’s bow outlined her thin lips.
Then Anissa caught a glimpse of the woman’s back in a wall mirror and heard the echo of Randy’s voice: You can’t disguise a man’s shoulders and back. It’s a different shape than a woman’s.
Monica was short, muscular, and she was a man.
“Won’t you s-sit d-down, Mrs. Hoffman?”
“No thanks, Nissa. Shit! You knew me right away, didn’t you? I’ve been in California for months and you never saw me. You wouldn’t even say hello at Jacob’s fancy party. Then I wear a dress and you nail me.”
“Why are you pretending to be your wife, Bobby?”
“The security guard would recognize the deli delivery boy.”
“You’re Jake Smith?”
“Think, Nissa. Jake Smith. J.S. Jacob Stern. I named myself for the senator.”
“You’re a first-rate mechanic, Bobby. Why on earth would you work as a delivery kid?”
“Because it got me inside your studio.”
Turn on the tape recorder, Maryl, Anissa pleaded silently. Then sit very still, like a model model.
“Did you start the fire?” she asked.
“Yeah. But I didn’t mean to hurt nobody. I se
en you in this room, Nissa, combing your hair. Then I gave Maxine her sandwich. On my way out, I seen Pandora sleeping. Her purse had spilled stuff. Ciggies, matches, a can of lighter fluid. I stared at that can for a long time before it hit me. I’d set a fire, wait outside, then save you.”
“Save me?”
“I lit a cigarette and put its end in the matchbox. I seen a guy do that on TV once.”
“You started a fire so you could save me?”
“I figured you’d be grateful. On that TV show they hugged and kissed, but only after he saved her from the fire.”
Anissa couldn’t stifle her nervous giggle.
“Don’t you laugh,” Bobby said, stabbing the air with his index finger. “The last bitch who laughed at me is dead. I killed her.”
“Maxine Graham?” Anissa heard an audible gasp from behind the screen. “I thought you didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she said quickly, hoping she’d covered Maryl’s breathy whoosh.
“Hurt Maxine? Shit, no. I killed a whore named Jane Doe. Before that I shot Moosie, my wife. At your party you brushed me off, wouldn’t say nothin’. Moosie rubbed my nose in it, needled me for weeks. She died while hunting, an accident, shot through the head. No one suspected me. Why would Hoffman kill his wife? She didn’t have no insurance and she wasn’t sleeping around. Bobby loved Monica. ‘Fact, Bobby mourned so much for his dead wife he had to leave Wisconsin. The perfect crime.”
Maryl, we’ve collected enough evidence. He’s looking at me, his back to the door. Waddle the hell out of here.
“I sold my business,” he continued, “so there’s lots of money socked away. I’m not some snot-nosed kid living off the senator’s charity. A long time ago I told Jacob I wanted to marry you, but he laughed. Helene said it was all right with her. ‘Things will work out,’ she said. Well, things worked out great. I’m free as a bird. I’ve got money. And I still want you.”
“What are you talking about, Bobby? I’m married to Drew Flory. I’m pregnant with his baby.”
“So what? We’ll tell Jacob it’s ours.”
Anissa shook her head. “Don’t you understand? I’m legally married to—”
“Nah.” Kicking off his high-heeled pumps, he wriggled toes clad in nylon. “You don’t love Cal no more, Nissa. Anyways, he’s chasing that new singer while you’re making eyes at Dr. Ron.”
“Dear God, Bobby, that’s pretend.”
“If it bothers you, I mean being legally married and all, I’ll get rid of Cal. You can make sure he comes to the studio. I’ll knock him out and set another fire and they’ll blame it on Pandora again, like they did before. She’s not in jail, so they’ll think she wanted to finish what she started.”
Anissa took a deep breath. “You’d better leave before I call the police.”
“But on TV you said everything was Jake, and you wrote that newspaper message about how you missed me, wanted me, loved me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Liar! You were laughing at me.”
“How could I laugh, Bobby? I didn’t know Jake was you. I thought—”
“Why do you keep staring at that screen? What’s behind the screen?”
“Run, Maryl!”
Bobby turned and sprinted toward the entrance. Diving, he caught Maryl’s ankle.
She pitched forward.
At the same time, Anissa jumped on top of Bobby and grasped the first thing that came to hand—his platinum wig. Hairpins flew. Off balance, still clutching the wig, Anissa fell backwards.
Bobby crawled through the doorway, retrieved a blue gym bag, and pulled a small gun from its interior. He aimed it toward Maryl. “One false move, Nissa, and I’ll shoot your friend.”
Dropping the wig, Anissa lifted her hands. “Okay, Bobby. Will you let me see if she’s hurt? Please?”
He nodded, then sat with his back against the wall, resting the gun on his drawn-up knees.
Anissa knelt next to Maryl. “Are you all right, love? You took a nasty spill. Folks probably heard the thud inside Dodger Stadium.”
“Not . . . Dodger . . . Stadium. It’s football season. The damn Raiders will sign me . . . fullback or fullbelly.” Maryl sat up and took several deep breaths. She’d bumped her nose on the floor and blood trickled down to her mouth. “I should have tried to leave earlier,” she said, “but . . . oh! Oh, shit!”
“What is it? What’s wrong? You can’t be . . . no!”
“Yes. ‘Maryl Goes Into Labor During Crisis.’ I’ll have to remember details for Ed . . . Edwinna’s next book. Damn! Jonah was planning to videotape Joan’s birth.”
“Your pains, are they far apart?”
“Just started. Water broke. I shouldn’t have worn blue slacks. Next time I’ll ask Jonah’s fashion experts to design a maternity wardrobe the color of amniotic fluid.”
* * * * *
Clad in a white bra and girdle, Pat Huxley searched through her closet. Without pause, she tossed every glitzy outfit she owned toward the bed.
Why had she agreed to guest-star with Samantha Gold on Jonah’s show tonight?
The gigolo joke—pay it again, Sam—sounded stupid. And that Gold bitch could give as good as she got.
“So what’cha’ say, Bootsie?” The naked man’s voice, muffled by her sequined galaxy pantsuit, came from her bed.
“Shut up, Buzzy.”
“I’ve never seen you so antsy, Python.” He found the carpet with his toes, and lumbered toward the closet.
Ignoring Beeson, Pat discovered the perfect outfit. A black gown, complete with fur collar. To attach the collar, you pulled a fox’s poofy tail through its open mouth. The garment had just been returned from the cleaners. DRY CLEAN ONLY read the tag.
Black was good. Black would make her look slim. Everyone would stare at her foxy gown.
Pat grabbed the quilted hanger and turned around.
Beeson lowered her to the floor.
“Wait a minute, my dress,” she said, but he’d already pulled down her panty girdle.
His lips nuzzled her breasts. Then he penetrated, groaned, withdrew, and ejaculated all over her perfect black gown with its grinning fox-face collar.
* * * * *
“Bobby, Maryl’s having her baby,” said Anissa, striving to keep her voice calm. “Will you let her leave?”
“Do you think I’m nuts?”
“We can walk out of the building together and I’ll drive with you wherever you want—”
“No!”
“Lock Maryl inside an office. When we’re far away from the studio, we can call an ambulance.”
“No. We’re not leaving, Nissa. I have unfinished business from a Christmas Eve ten years ago, and we have to get Cal here so’s we can take care of him. Where do you film the show?”
“Top floor.”
“Ain’t never delivered food there.” Bobby glanced around the makeup room. “Does that phone on the wall have an outside line?”
“Yes.”
“Is Cal home?”
“My husband’s name is Drew.”
“Call Cal and tell him to get over here. Don’t say nothin’ ’bout your friend’s baby. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“If I hear one thing wrong I’ll shoot your friend.”
“Okay, Bobby, I promise. Wait. Drew and I tease each other. We call our baby Bugs Bunny, so please don’t think I’m signaling. If I don’t tease him back, he’ll know something’s wrong.”
“The phone has a long cord. Bring the receiver near me so’s I can hear you and him.” Bobby stood up, his gun hand steady.
Please be home, please be home, Anissa prayed, then felt her knees weaken when Drew answered the phone.
“Hi, darling, are you all gassed up?” she asked, placing the receiver away from her ear so Bobby could hear.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at the studio. Don’t be mad. I fell asleep and I’m feeling poorly. Belly-ache. Could you pick me up here? I know you’re bu
sy—”
“Not that busy.” Drew’s voice was gruff. “Lie down and rest. How’s Bugs?”
Nodding at Bobby, Anissa watched his chipped tooth flash in a tight smile of acknowledgment.
“Bugs is fine, Drew, buck-jumping. It reminds me of that Warner’s cartoon, the one where the whole gang dressed up as Biblical characters. Bugs Bunny played Samson and I think Daffy Duck played Delilah. Wasn’t Porky Pig the emperor Nero, fiddling while Rome burned?”
“Good casting,” said Drew.
“ ‘Disney has the best casting. If he doesn’t like an actor, he just tears him up.’ Quote, unquote.”
“Who said that?”
“Alfred Hitchcock. Your sister adores Hitchcock movies, especially the one about birds.”
Bobby’s gesture meant hang up the phone. He looked furious.
“Drew, I have to lie down now. I’m in the makeup room. I love you. Hurry.”
“I’m on my way. I love you, too. Don’t fret.”
“I won’t. ‘Bye.”
Bobby scowled. “What was all that shit about cartoons and cocks?”
“Hitchcock. I told you. Drew and I always make jokes over the phone.” Anissa placed the receiver on its cradle.
Maryl moaned. “I think baby’s in a hurry. Damn! It’s not polite to arrive at a party early.”
“Bobby, won’t you please, please let Maryl leave?”
“Help her walk to the top floor.”
“But Drew will look for me here, inside the makeup room.”
“Move!”
* * * * *
Samantha scowled. Delly, the bane of her existence, had ruined everything with that stupid arson attempt. The publicity had even eclipsed Samantha Gold’s TV debut. Delly-Dog strikes again. How could Samantha Vivian Gold strike back?
With a wicked smile, she walked toward Garrison. “Write me a song about fire, darling.”
“It’s already been done. Jerry Lee Lewis. Great balls—”
“Something country. Fire, desire—”
“Inspire me, Samantha.”
She made a little moue, stuck out her tongue, then kept it stuck out as she fell to her knees and unzipped his fly.
