Remains to Be Scene (12 page)

Polly sighed in resignation. “And I’m
way
disappointed. Keeping my fans happy is a full-time job. Being a legend is all work and no play.”

“I know that you suffer terribly,” Tim mocked.

The director smiled and gave Polly a wink of his eye. “Whenever you can tear yourself away from your legions of admirers, there’s another fan in my trailer who’d enjoy spending some time with you.”

Polly blushed, as she looked Adam in the eye before he turned and walked away. “He’s so adorable!” she said to Tim and Placenta. “I’m imagining his lips against mine. I can see him taking off his shirt and letting me touch his strong chest and arms and…”

“Stop teasing me, Mother!” Tim chided.

Polly fumed. “Damn, he’s hot!”

And then Duane was upon them. He smiled broadly and said, “It’s lunchtime, Miss Pepper. That is, of course, unless you have something important to do.”

Polly turned to Duane. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She stopped for dramatic effect as Duane’s face caved in like a fallen soufflé. “But nothing’s more important than
our
date!” Polly enthused, dragging her index finger under his third chin and giving Duane a reason to live another day. “Give me ten to change my costume, then call for me at my trailer,” Polly said. She watched as Duane wobbled off doing what was probably the roly-poly equivalent of a tap dance.

Tim and Placenta both smiled proudly at Polly. When they passed by the stand-in, Lauren Gaul, Polly turned to her and said, “You’re my stand-in. Lauren, isn’t it? How do you do?” She reached out for a handshake. “I just want to thank you for helping to make my job so much easier.”

Lauren was taken aback. Never in all the years of her working in the industry had a star ever thanked her for the work she did on their behalf. She became an instant Polly Pepper fan.

“Another chocolate shake and a plate of fries?” Placenta said to Duane, offering a third helping of lunch.

“Maybe just this once,” Duane said, playing the fat person’s game of trying to convince a thin person that his weight was a genetic fact of life, rather than an overeating control issue. As he gladly accepted the food, Duane said, “I’m probably eating so much ’cause I’m nervous about actually meeting my favorite star.”

By now Polly had started to like Duane. He seemed genuine in his adoration for her and her career. All true fans have a gift for absorbing minutia about their star of choice. Duane had the capacity to recount the guest list of every “Polly Pepper Playhouse” episode. He could also recite in perfect order the titles of the songs that Polly and her guests had sung each week. Polly was fascinated by his encyclopedic store of information about her. “You should have been a fact checker on that horrid biography of me that came out last year,” she said.

“
The Pepper Principle
,” Duane said with a sneer. “Dialogue Press. December. Four hundred ninety-eight pages. Clip job. No new interviews. Terrible! Curiously, I can’t reduce fractions or tick off the names of the countries that border Australia, but when it comes to certain celebrities, I could get a Ph.D. in trivia about their lives,” Duane admitted proudly. “But I can only focus on the nice ones…like you, Miss Pepper. I have no retention for facts about the evil ones like that deservedly dead Sedra Stone.” Duane’s voice suddenly turned cold and distant. “I hope she was as scared of blue cement ruining her last face lift, as she made those around her afraid of her tongue.”

Duane stopped midshovel of a fist-full of French fries. “Sorry. I forgot that she was someone you knew. And I wouldn’t really wish her fate on anyone. Not even my mother. Or Iris. That bitch.”

“We’re a bit resentful, aren’t we?” Placenta whispered to Tim, who rolled his eyes in agreement.

“Rest her soul, I wasn’t a fan of Sedra’s either,” Polly said. “But whatever did that poor excuse for an icon do to make you dislike her so?”

Duane revealed the story of his altercation with Sedra, and how Iris the PA had made him feel stupid, and insisted that he send Sedra a bottle of her favorite champagne otherwise he could kiss his job good-bye. “I couldn’t afford to buy the champagne, so it’s lucky she died before I had to take out a loan,” Duane said. “I didn’t mean it was ‘lucky’ for her to die,” Duane back peddled. “But her ending up the way she did saved me a hundred seventy-five dollars!”

Tim joked, “One dead legend…priceless. For everything else there’s Master Card.”

Polly suddenly felt uneasy. She remembered the line in a crime novel she’d read in which the character she suspected all along—an introverted computer nerd—finally confessed to a killing spree. During the penultimate courtroom scene, when asked what all of his victims had in common, the character replied, “They made me feel stupid.”

“Well dear,” Polly said, standing up to signal the end of the repast, “it’s been lovely, but now it’s time for my nappy. We must do this again!”

Duane smiled. “If I can do anything for you while you’re working…anything at all…you can count on me,” he said holding out his hand for Polly to shake.

She accepted his damp paw. “Oh, dear me, I can’t think of a thing right now. But I’ll certainly give a holler if something pops up.” Duane wasn’t moving fast enough as she tried to scoot him out the door. As added incentive, Polly added, “Keep your ears open to any gossip about Sedra’s death. You know how I love my slander and defamation of character to come from a reliable source…before the tabloids get hold of it and subvert the juiciest parts out of fear of law suits!”

Duane smiled knowingly. “The things I could reveal…but we’re not allowed to tattle about what goes on during our shifts. But…” He hesitated for a moment. “But you’re Polly Pepper. I completely trust you to keep a secret.”

“Of course you can!” Polly insisted. “You know that Discretion is my middle name. That’s what the D stands for!”

“Your middle initial is P, for Patricia,” Duane corrected.

“Naturally, dear,” Polly said. “I was simply testing you.”

“I’ll find some fun stuff to chat about for the next time we meet.”

“Goodie,” Polly said and closed the door. She turned to Tim and Placenta. “That kid’s got a lot of pent up hostility.”

“If anyone had a misguided reason to knock off Sedra, I’ll wager he’s a perfect suspect,” Tim said.

“So many perfect suspects to chose from,” said a confident baritone. All eyes turned toward the voice at the trailer door. “I’m Detective Archer. Mind if I intrude for a moment?”

Detective Archer entered the trailer without waiting for a formal invitation.

Polly raised an approving eyebrow.
Assertive, yet polite
, she thought to herself. Her heart beat faster as she assessed him with her eyes.
Full head of hair. Body height proportionate to weight. Wide shoulders. Decent suit
. Her gaze drifted to his left hand.
No ring
, she thought as she calculated his approximate age.
Damn. If only I were two decades younger
.

An aura of importance radiates from celebrities. The instant that Detective Archer stepped into the trailer and looked at Polly, he knew from the vibrations in the room that she was the star from whom he was supposed to obtain a statement. He couldn’t help being intrigued by her wide smile. He speculated about her age, too. He decided that regardless of her years, Polly Pepper was an interesting woman. Detective Archer smiled warmly and extended his right hand to shake Polly’s.

“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Polly beamed as seductively as she knew how. She held his hand a moment longer than necessary. She then gently, yet forcefully, made Placenta move over on the sofa and motioned for Detective Archer to take a seat. “Forgive my manners,” she lamented as Archer settled in. “This is my family. Tim, and Placenta. I suppose you’re here to talk about Sedra Stone. Yes? Of course we’re happy to cooperate any way we can. Dear, dear Sedra. Her killer must be apprehended and brought to justice.”

Archer nodded his head and withdrew a microcassette tape recorder from the vest pocket of his suit jacket and placed it on the coffee table. “Mind if I use this?” he asked. “I’ve got a terrible memory, and I can never read my own notes.”

Still happily taking mental snapshots of her interrogator, Polly agreed to be recorded. “It’s not like we need a lawyer or anything,” she laughed. “Or do we?”

Detective Archer smiled and his eyes once again met Polly’s. “Ma’am, I’m sure that a lovely woman such as yourself has better things to do than to run around knocking off other famous people. And no doubt you have an airtight alibi for the time of Ms. Stone’s death. You were probably at some fancy party with your—husband? Em, boyfriend?”

Polly blushed. “Husband? Boyfriend?” Polly adopted a demure posture. “My last romance said he’d call when he returned from a business trip to Chicago. As that was more than five years ago, I don’t expect him home anytime soon.”

Archer sighed. “He’s not worth issuing an APB for. Using my highly trained detective skills, I’d say that you’ll soon be swept off your feet again. Your new man will know how lucky he is.”

Tim and Placenta looked at Polly and watched as she morphed into a schoolgirl with her first crush on a boy.

Archer cleared his throat and returned to the moment. “Em, now then,” he said. “You said that Ms. Stone’s killer must be brought to justice. What makes you think that her death wasn’t an accident?”

Polly was abruptly and unhappily snatched from her romantic reverie. “Dear Detective, the only thing more shocking than Sedra’s death is that it took so long for someone to do the deed. I’m sure that your little tape recorder is filled with many other people on this film location saying exactly the same thing. Fortunately, I do have an alibi for that evening. We were all at home TiVOing ‘American Idol.’”

To herself, Polly was thinking,
Why can’t I have a good-looking alibi like you
?

A
s Polly Pepper’s Rolls-Royce retraced the forty-mile stretch of clogged highway from Santa Clarita back to Bel Air, the star and her troupe were exhausted but uplifted after a day of being once again fawned over like a queen and her consorts. Such a long dull drive in the rear seat of her car would typically bore Polly more than the daily sports report, and put her in the mood to pop a cork from a bottle of bubbly. This evening, however, she was on an emotional high and she decided she could hold out for Lush Hour until after a relaxing bubble bath at home.

As the sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean, Tim finally glided the car onto the grounds of Pepper Plantation. They passed through the open iron gate portal and eased down the cobblestone lane. Tim parked the car beneath the porte-cochere and the trio happily stepped from the vehicle and marched up to the front doors.

As they entered the house, Polly moved swiftly toward the staircase and ascended toward her bedroom.

Placenta griped, “Y’all are on your own to forage for eats tonight. I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything more taxing than let my fingers do the walking over Wolfgang’s private number. I’ve got a date with my pillow. Per chance to dream…of all those hunky set builders who I spied hammering away this afternoon. Take your pick. They’re all variations on a theme of Viggo Mortensen!”

“A rhapsody,” Tim agreed.

Placenta’s blank gaze indicated that her memory had shifted into reverse and she was deep in visual thought for a particularly rugged and muscled laborer posing in shorts, scuffed work boots, and a flesh-revealing tank top. She made an exaggerated sound of swooning. “Never expected to see such a variety of tattoos, long sun-bleached hair, and earrings on straight men. And such tight abs, too! Lordy, the sight actually seared my eyes!”

Tim teased, “A teensy flute of champers before beddy-bye should help speed you along on the Fantasyland Express. C’mon. I’m throwing an impromptu post–first-day-on-the-job party for Polly.” As he headed down the hallway toward the kitchen Tim added, “You can go brain dead for Viggo’s sexier brothers after a nice, lethal dose of fizzy hooch. We’ll assemble in Polly’s powder room while she soaks away the stress of her selling her soul to be captured on film, and a grueling tête-à-tête with that police detective she seemed to like so much.”

“Polly devoured every nauseating nanosecond of the flatfoot’s attention,” Placenta quipped.

Polly had reached the second floor balustrade of the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase and called down, “
Tout suite
with the bubbly. Mummy’s got cottonmouth. By the way, what did you think of that nice Detective Archer?”

Tim smiled at Placenta.

“Wasn’t he just a wee bit cute?” Polly yelled from the distance. “In a off-beat Michael Chiklis with hair sort of way?” She didn’t wait for a response as she turned and walked down the corridor to her bedroom.

Tim looked at Placenta and shook his head. “‘A wee bit cute,’” she says. “Ha! Next she’ll be insisting that Tony Soprano makes her swoon. She’s nuts!”

Placenta said, “Polly requires lots of attention. You know how she likes to be interviewed…even if it’s by The Grand Inquisitor of the Santa Clarita Police Department.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “I’ve gotta cut her some slack.” Then he pushed the master switch to turn lights on throughout the house and wistfully said, “I actually feel sorry for her. She hasn’t had a date since the twentieth century. I really should encourage her fantasies. Detective Archer’s actually a catch, I think.”

As the two moved through the living room toward the kitchen Placenta said, “Her taste in men has improved with age. She’s not oblivious to physical appearance, but she realizes that life isn’t only about sex.”

Placenta harrumphed and followed Tim into the vast designer kitchen. There, she opened the refrigerated wine closet and withdrew a bottle of Dom while Tim collected Waterford from the crystal cabinet. He removed three flutes and placed them on a silver tray. Working in tandem, Placenta picked up a cut glass ice bucket and held it as Tim scooped in cubes from the freezer. He then planted the dark green bottle into the bed of ice and draped a starched and folded white linen table napkin as a blanket over the bottle and bucket.

“Brie?” Placenta asked and removed a wedge from the refrigerator without waiting for a reply. She unwrapped the cellophane and placed the cheese on a granite platter with a serving knife.

Tim opened a box of Carr’s crackers and deftly arranged them in a semi-circle on either side of the soft wedge then garnished with a small bunch of Concord grapes. Without need for words, they performed this ritual and then headed up the staircase to Polly’s bedroom.

Arriving in the grand suite, Tim yelled through the bathroom door, “Are you decently sudsed?”

“You’ve seen a naked legend before!” Polly called back.

“Mark Wahlberg you’re not,” Tim said.

“I’m under a suitable froth,” Polly conceded. “Redi-Whipped! The water jets are pulsating at all the right spots. Heaven!”

The door was ajar and Placenta pushed it open all the way with the toe of her shoe. She cautiously carried in the tray of crystal flutes, while Tim followed behind with the champagne bucket. As he entered the room he announced, “Your reward for a job well done today.”

“Took you long enough,” Polly snipped, playfully splashing around in the tub. “I’d like a ducky.”

Polly’s spa-like bathroom was cavernous. In addition to the airbath, rainshower, and sauna, the room was decorated with an antique marble-top sideboard on which Polly maintained a collection of skin softening lotions and intoxicating perfumes and scented candles. An overgrown philodendron in the center of the sideboard, the tendrils from which spread out over the length of the stone surface and hung down each side, dominated the piece of furniture. Placenta cleared away a space for the tray of glasses, as Tim placed the ice bucket on the marble top. He then returned to Polly’s bedroom to retrieve the platter of Brie and crackers that had been temporarily set on her bed comforter.

Returning to the steam-filled bathroom he attended to the champagne bottle, pulling off the leaded foil that covered the cork and set it aside. He untwisted the wire, which secured the stopper, then casually abandoned the bottle for the mere seconds it took to drop the foil and wire into the trashcan. But that moment was long enough to wreak havoc as the pressure from inside the bottle was too great, and an explosive pop sent the cork blasting like a cherry bomb and ricocheting off the vanity mirror and landing in the tub.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” Polly swore, startled out of her mind and cowering under a meringue of suds. Her heart beat like a bird caught in a cat’s jaw. “The neighbors’ll be calling nine–one–one, or Homeland Security!”

“The good stuff’s not supposed to make more than a burp,” Tim said, looking at the bottle as if it might taste more like iodine than champagne.

“A burp?” Polly scolded. “That was a mortar rocket loud enough to make Christianne Amanpour duck and cover! In the right hands, a champagne cork could be a weapon!”

Tim lifted a bath towel from a hook and dropped it over a puddle that had frothed out of the bottle and foamed onto the tile floor. “What a waste!” he said, and began pouring what remained into three flutes.

Tim handed a glass to Polly and then to Placenta, before taking his own and raising it to offer a toast. “Who says that stars never go to the bathroom,” he joked, looking around and thinking how fans would have a coronary if they ever had the opportunity to visit with Polly in her own bathroom. “To Polly Pepper, and an Oscar-caliber job today!” he declared.

“Cheers!” Polly agreed and took her first sip.

Placenta and Tim both pulled wing back chairs over the tile floor and set them beside the tub. “This is living,” Placenta sighed, putting her feet up on the side of the tub. For a long moment afterward there was only the muted sound of Streisand singing through the household music system, and the gurgling water rushing through the bathtub jets churning the water into whitecaps.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, “Punishment for whoever killed Sedra—surely it
was
murder—should be to have their Jacuzzi tub taken away.”

“I’d die without this refuge,” Polly agreed, draining her glass and holding out a sudsy arm with her glass flute for a refill. “How did Martha Stewart survive in prison! And of course it
was
murder. Sedra’s death, I mean. Not that domestic diva phony having to do hard time. I already have my suspicions about the perp.”

“The perp?” Tim imitated his mother mimicking a trite line from every 1970’s television cop show. He poured another round of drinks. “So, you’re smitten with Detective Archer, are you?” he smirked. “What’s the attraction? Other than the fact that he’s a man without a wedding ring—and at least twenty years younger than you.”

“Need there be more?” Polly sniffed. “Anyway, I’m far from smitten. Just because I have 20/20 vision when it comes to romance…”

“You’re as blind as I am when it comes to recognizing a flirt,” Tim corrected.

“…and can see that he looks healthy enough. That doesn’t mean I’m thinking about him stepping into the bath with me. At least not while you two are in the house to spoil the fun,” she joked. “And what about you and that Judith friend?” she addressed Tim. “She was plastered all over you like an immigrant in search of a green card.”

“My virginity—and inheritance from you—are safe,” Tim said. “Anyway, she’s looking for a Harvey Weinstein or a Michael Eisner. Wants to be the trophy wife.”

“Too butch. She’ll never get more than a Disney Studios marketing executive.” Polly leaned back in the tub and groaned with satisfaction. “And by the way, you’re not getting a dime in my will. It all goes to the Monks of the Order of Saint Someone Or Other. They make embroidered tea towels for sale at Bloomingdales.”

“You’ve given up deep sea tortoise sanctuaries?” Tim chided.

Polly ignored her son. “Frankly, I confess that I was
slightly
enamored of the good detective,” Polly said. “Anything wrong with that? I may be ‘of an age,’ but I refuse to sacrifice good looks and brains for a man with nothing more than a sense of humor. Randy—Detective Archer—told the most amusing story about the LAPD’s so-called
P
File. Okay, so he has a sense of humor, too. He said there’s a vault full of pictures of naked male movie stars and their…well, let’s just say their Wee Willy Winkies. They apparently got ’em from a raid on Shari Draper’s office.”

“Scary Shari,” Tim recognized the name. “That moronic Sterling Studios publicity exec who screwed up your last movie marketing campaign.”

“Detective Archer said that Willem Dafoe’s is the
most
impressive!” Polly said. “He promised to show me. You don’t think that means he’s gay, do you?”

“Dafoe or Archer?” Tim quipped and was reprimanded with a withering stare from Polly. “Don’t ask me if he’s gay or straight,” he said in self-defense. “I never get it right. It’s all that metrosexual stuff. But if it means anything, my antenna failed to pick up the slightest vibration around your policeman. Perhaps like you, he simply has good vision, and can appreciate—or envy—another guy’s God-given gifts.”

“Such talk while on official business!” Placenta interjected.

“You know how it is,” Polly said, “people end up telling me their most intimate secrets. They feel that I’m trustworthy, and of course I’m a clam when it comes to keeping a secret. But I liked Archer’s sort of veiled attempt to hide his fascination for me.”

“Any chance he was interested in a different body? A dead one?” Placenta said. “He may have been using you to get more information about Sedra.”

“I knew he was a fan from the get-go,” Polly continued. “He just couldn’t bring himself to drop his professional demeanor.”

Placenta restrained an “Oh brother” comment. “If he were such a fan, why was he practically interrogating you?” she asked.

“Just getting his facts straight,” Polly said, slightly perturbed. “Sure, he wants to solve a case and get some personal recognition in the papers, but all work and no play…. I came right out and told him that Sedra had a gazillion enemies and that I didn’t buy her death as accidental. He agreed.”

“No-brainer,” Placenta said.

“Anyone on your personal list of potential killers?” Tim asked as he yawned and closed his eyes, settling comfortably into the leather-upholstered chair.

Polly, too, had closed her eyes, enjoying the womblike warmth and serenity of the tub. “Potential killers?” she mumbled. “Only every waiter in town. Sedra stiffed ’em all,” she said. “And every housekeeper she ever set her dogs on. And the wives and or girlfriends—or boyfriends—of the men she slept with. Add the revolving door of directors on ‘Monarchy,’ who became alcoholic drug addicts because she had a knack for emasculating their already tiny manhoods. As I’ve said before, the list is endless.”

Placenta, nearly asleep in her chair managed to say, “I vote for someone the police don’t suspect. Like Charlize Theron. Or maybe one of the girls. It was so obvious that they wanted you out of the way once you started stealing the scene today.”

Polly giggled, “That was fun, wasn’t it? I love it when I make people squirrelly with envy of my innate gifts. It’s the A student in me. Poor darlings. They rode into Dodge on looks alone. They’ll leave as a contestant on ‘Snorkeling with the Stars.’”