Remains to Be Scene (2 page)

She was equally malevolent offscreen. At the height of her fame, even naïve young school kids who didn’t get the joke would giggle and repeat, “What’s the difference between Sedra Stone and the
Titanic
? More men went down on Sedra Stone. Tee-hee.”

Polly wagged a finger. “No, Tim darling,” she said. “When it comes to failed and scandalous Hollywood marriages, I’ve learned a lot from dear Debbie and Liz. Anyway, Sedra’s rat droppings in this town. She can’t get arrested.”

“Except for that time she took a swing at that hunky Beverly Hills traffic cop when he forced her to take a Breathalyzer,” Tim chuckled.

“Mark my words, dear heart,” Polly continued, “directors would surely come to me before they would ever think to hire Sedra. On the other hand…,” Polly thought for a moment. “This town could actually do without that Trixie Wilder and her ilk.”

“One less character actor might make way for a star to get her face back on screen,” Tim agreed.

“At this stage, I wouldn’t mind having Trixie’s career,” Polly said.

“At least she’s got one,” Tim said.

“You can have it,” Placenta said, overhearing the banter as she hurried from the house into the bright warm morning.

Tim interrupted. “Trixie Wilder? She’s not even a star,” he said. “Oh, she was fun on that Bob Newhart thing years ago, but that’s so far in the past it doesn’t even appear on ‘Nick at Nite.’ She does character bits. People recognize her from commercials and cameos, but they don’t even know her name.”

“Trixie takes anything that comes along, so she’ll never stop working,” Polly lamented.

“One day she’ll be dead and she’ll still play the role of the corpse that the coroner pulls out of a morgue refrigerator, when someone comes to identify what’s left of a serial killer’s victim,” Tim laughed.

“She’s in rehearsals,” Placenta said, panting, and trying to get a word in edgewise. “She’s got herself a toe tag.”

“Ach! Trixie’s as ancient as Lauren Bacall,” Polly said. “But let’s face it, character types last well past a star’s shelf life. Speaking of Miss Bacall,” Polly changed the subject and glared at Tim, “How did
she
rate a Kennedy Center Honor? And she’s not even on life support. Yet. So there goes that stupid theory about the Grim Reaper stalking old stars who finally get some renewed recognition. Back to Trixie. You think that nobody knows her? Well, she’s mentioned in
The Peeper
!”

“Yes, about Trixie…” Placenta said.

Polly picked up the paper again and thumbed back several pages. “Here it is,” Polly said. “‘Although it’s hardly anyone’s idea of an old-fashioned Judy and Mickey musical, Sterling Studios is banking on Dana Pointer and Missie Miller to make
Detention Rules!
next summer’s box office blockbuster. And despite the fact that music video director Adam Berg is no John Hughes, there’s little doubt that audiences will flock to the theater to see Dana and Missie mixing it up with sexy Jack Wesley, who plays—well, Sexy—with a capital Take-Your-Clothes-Off-Fast-And-Don’t-Open-Your-Mouth.
With golden girl Trixie Wilder in the cast, too
, maybe these pretty Hollywood screen teens will learn a trick(sie) or two about propriety and professionalism.’”

Placenta put her hands on her hips and said, “Poor Trixie, having to put up with that crowd in her final hours.”

“Poor?” Polly barked. “I should be so poor! While she’s cashing in with back-to-back films, I’ve got to kill myself for eight shows a week in Kansas City this summer!”

“Trixie’s cashing in all right,” Placenta said. “She bought the farm!”

Polly and Tim both gave their maid quizzical looks.

“Trixie Wilder’s gone,” Placenta announced. “Dead. Stiff. Ready for planting. Possibly rubbed out by some maniacal diva like you, or one of your friends who were dropped off in that space ship that couldn’t rush back fast enough to whatever galaxy you all come from.”

“Murdered?” Polly gasped. There was a hint of intrigue in her voice.

“Katie Couric said maybe,” Placenta reported. “If you’d listen to real news instead of reading that
Peeper
trash…. Katie explained that Trixie was found last night, dead in her trailer on the location of that movie you were just reading about. Katie said something about a trauma to the head and that the police are investigating and can’t rule out foul play.”

For a fraction of an instant, Polly’s showbiz survival instincts surfaced as she thought, “Have they recast her role?”

“Make a donation in Trixie’s name to the Motion Picture Retirement Home,” Tim suggested.

“To absolve you of your self-centered thoughts that Trixie’s misfortune is an opportunity for you,” Placenta said.

Polly upbraided her servant with her eyes.

“Don’t play innocent with me, Your Highness,” Placenta said. “I see through you as plainly as all those mediums on TV see dead folk.”

H
appy Hour (otherwise known as Lush Hour) began at five o’clock at Pepper Plantation. As usual, Polly, Tim, and Placenta were lounging in the Great Room of the mansion, dividing their time and attention between killing off another bottle of Verve, and nibbling on Placenta’s salmon tortilla appetizers. But tonight was different. Instead of their ritual of ferreting out killers on The Mystery Channel, they were surfing through “Larry King Live,” “Access Hollywood,” and the “ABC Nightly News.” Trixie Wilder, a minor acquaintance of Polly’s, was the lead story on every local and national network news broadcast. She had become a teaser to lure viewers away from the ubiquitous reruns of “Friends.”

Although the coroner had yet to determine the specific cause of Trixie’s demise, journalists were playing up the angle of possible foul play—mainly because Hollywood hadn’t enjoyed a celebrity murder scandal in at least a week. If there was an upside to Trixie’s death, it was that she had an actor’s perfect timing. Her final bow took place during a slow cycle when movie and recording stars’ DUIs, rapes, drug charges, child molestations, shoplifting arrests, and other sure-fire attention-grabbing debaucheries were temporarily off the court dockets. For the first time in her long if unremarkable career, Trixie was a household name.

A lot more people than Tim had originally imagined knew who Trixie Wilder was. After a day of being bombarded with biographical highlights on CNN and “Anderson Cooper 360,” Tim could recite the ups and downs of Trixie’s entire life story. As a noncontract day player at all of the Hollywood studios during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, she had appeared in dozens of feature films and shorts. Her stock in trade was playing a wiseacre nurse to Ray Miland, or the tough-as-nails housekeeper for Doris Day, or a spinster librarian dispensing one line of life-altering advice to a depressed Bette Davis. Although she never came close to playing a leading role, zealous film buffs today could tick off Trixie’s list of credits in an instant.

Now that Trixie Wilder was suddenly a name worth talking about, the world tuned in to what the producers at “Larry King Live” had hastily pasted together as a special edition of the program.

With Jayne Meadows and Nanette Fabray as guests, they sat opposite their host’s suspenders and chattered about the almost maniacal dedication to the craft of acting that Trixie had always displayed. According to the two magpies, whose recall of facts was dubious at best, Trixie’s work ethic was so sacred to her that she never married or had children who might have interfered with her vocation. Instead, they claimed, she devoted her time and energy to the masochistic endeavor of auditioning, and accepting whatever minor film or stage roles she could find. She was often nothing more than atmosphere on the platform of a train station. Her image personified the idea of the true artist, alone in her room, with only a cat for company. (Although Trixie actually lived comfortably in a high-rise condo in Century City.)

With little relevant information to offer in the way of personal anecdotes about Trixie, Jayne and Nanette instead tried to recall what the really big stars of their day had said about the character actress. That she was “special.” That her comedy was “unique.” That she “had an unusual face that transfixed audiences.” It was obvious to Larry King (and his audience) that neither guest really knew their subject very well—if at all—but they wouldn’t miss the opportunity to be seen on national television and remind viewers that they themselves were still breathing—if through badly reconstructed noses.

“Is it true that Trixie was alone in the world? That her only living relative is a grand niece who’s shackled to a cinder-block cell wall somewhere in a Costa Rica prison for smuggling drugs?” Larry asked Jayne and Nanette. Both women shrugged their shoulders. Then, raising her voice to be heard over Nanette, who was saying, “When I was starring in
The Bandwagon
with Fred Astaire…” Jayne plowed ahead and said, “When Steve and I were playing Vegas, this ghastly thing happened when…”

“Let’s take a call,” Larry interrupted, his voice pleading to be rescued by anyone in Chillicothe.

Polly switched the channel to “Access Hollywood,” and marveled that anyone could be as unctuous as Billy Bush. “There must be millions of vacuous viewers who consider him inordinately sexy,” she said, mainly for Tim’s benefit. “I mean I can understand the reaction. But I for one certainly do not get the message of his being.”

“We’re on the same page,” Tim said, evading his mother’s bait for an argument about who was hot and who was not. It was an ongoing game between the two. Most of the time they agreed. Yes, for Hugh Jackman. Yes, for Colin Firth. Yes, for Mark Harmon. No, for Vin Diesel. Yes for Jon Stewart.

Placenta said, “Billy reminds me of the first ex–Mr. Polly Pepper. From whom Timmy gets his best genes.”

“Sure, slurp down my expensive champagne and cleave this loveless, thrice-divorced legend down to the marrow in her bones by mentioning that louse,” Polly whined. After a moment and several more sips from her own glass of bubbly she conceded, “You’re right, of course, and that’s precisely why I loathe BB. Every man I’ve ever loved—except Timmy here—has been as artificial as that plastic fichus you never dust in the breakfast nook,” she said. “But Mr. Number One was a hottie, all right. He was definitely catnip to me. Still, I can’t bear Bush.”

On television, peacock Billy continued with his gleaming if insincere smile. “It was precisely Trixie’s lack of glamour that made her popular with movie-going audiences of all ages,” he said, trying to appear like an analytical film historian, as if the thoughts and words he was speaking were his own. “She was common, and one of the few women in Hollywood who never dated Howard Hughes, Clarke Gable, or Bogey,” he said. “However, we did uncover this snapshot. It’s Trixie on a night out with Regis Philbin.”

A faded photograph from the 1970s appeared on the television screen. In the image, Trixie was apparently seated in a restaurant’s red leather banquette. She was wearing a plaid sweater accented with a string of pearls around her neck. Holding a glass of red wine in one hand, the look she was blasting at Regis was one of utter boredom.

“I know how she feels,” Polly said, reading Trixie’s body language. “Regis tried to date me once, and…”

“…And if you’d only known how stinking rich he was going to be, you’d have said,
yes
…” Tim completed her thought. It was a story he and Placenta had heard as far back as they could remember.

When the television camera returned to Billy’s smirking face, he said, “That’s an exclusive, folks. It proves that Trixie did have a life outside of a soundstage.”

For the remainder of the program, “Access Hollywood” was stuck making do with showing archival film footage as filler between commercials for Clairol hair-coloring products, and repeated showings of a video taken earlier in the day of Liza Minnelli wiping away a tear and sniveling, “I’m just glad that Mama’s not here. This would kill her!”

As the champagne loosened Tim’s tongue, and after watching so many black and white clips from Trixie’s early films, he stated the obvious. “God, she looked as old in the 1940s as she did in the twenty-first century,” he said.

Polly, comfortably seated in a leather wingback chair, her feet resting on an ottoman and facing the large television screen, agreed. “That’s the beauty of being a homely girl,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. “We never fade.”

“We,” was the well-placed cue for Tim to contradict his mother’s self-deprecation. He’d been through this a million times and had learned how to assuage her self-conscious fears—real or imagined. “You’d never have gotten a guy like Dad if you were unattractive,” Tim said with all the warmth and sincerity of an automated voice menu. “He chose you when he could have had a whole stable of starlets,” Tim allowed.

“And did. Which is why we divorced,” Polly reminded him, pulling an accent pillow out from behind her back and tossing it at Tim. “Trixie may have been a grinning walrus from day one,” she said, “but she made lemonade out of her life. That’s what we actors do, dear. I mean look at Owen Wilson’s broken nose and tiny pouting mouth and wrinkled lips, but by sheer force of personality he became a leading man.” She then switched the channel again.

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.