Remains to Be Scene (9 page)

“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 instead 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.

V
arious 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.”

“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.”

Then he signed off. “Reporting live from Santa Clarita, this is Lowell Lodge. Now back to you in the studio, Dan.”

The camera returned to a wide two-shot of the male anchor and his pretty but equally vacuous female co-anchor, presenting what they hoped were reasonably somber expressions. The camera switched to a close up of the anchor who solemnly reiterated, “Legendary television star Sedra Stone. Dead at sixty-two.”

“She’s history,” the perky co-anchor added without thinking of her unfortunate
double entendre
. Then, as if someone in the control booth had flipped a toggle labeled “lively and fun” and sent a jolt of electricity into the co-anchor’s chair, she beamed and said, “Let’s check in with Helen Rodriquez for a look at your traffic commute. God, I’d rather be
dead
than stuck on the 405 Freeway this morning. Tell us about it, Helen.”

Placenta switched off the television. Seated on the bed beside Polly and Tim she silently tried to think of the right words.

Polly’s thoughts had turned to the day she received a telephone call from
The National Peeper
, asking her to confirm that her husband, Tim senior, was divorcing her for siren Sedra. “Let me check,” Polly said at the time. Holding her hand over the telephone mouthpiece she yelled out from where she was reading a script in the den, “Hey! You! Mr. Hanger-On! Are you leaving me?” There was no answer. Her husband had climbed out the window and scampered off into Sedra’s arms without so much as a confrontation with Polly. Although he’d already met with attorneys to discuss spousal support—for him.

Tim flashed on a memory of the year after his parents’ divorce when he spent a summer with his father and Sedra. A precocious boy of ten, whose favorite old movie was
The Women
, he insisted on calling Sedra, “Auntie Crystal.” Not only did Tim think that Sedra sort of resembled Joan Crawford, but one afternoon he discovered her sucking face with the shirtless and muscled pool boy. In Tim’s young mind this was not unlike Crawford’s sinister character Crystal Allen who rips off other women’s rich husbands. He knew that his father was being cuckolded, and Tim spent the rest of the summer spying on Sedra and getting an accelerated lesson in the facts of life. He wasn’t trying to lay claim to any evidence of her infidelity to his father, rather, he was intrigued by how she so easily seduced men and he wanted to follow her example.

Placenta recalled having to comfort Polly after Sedra made headlines by flaunting her acquisition of husband number two of America’s favorite television musical/comedy variety show comedienne. For months, Polly was a zombie. Thanks to Placenta’s loving care, she never missed a rehearsal or publicity event. It was possible that Placenta hated Sedra Stone even more than Polly. Still, now that Sedra was in the news as literally a bag of broken bones, Placenta felt sorry for her.

The telephone rang for the second time that morning, breaking the reverie in Polly’s bedchamber. This time, Placenta recognized the number on the caller ID display. “Are you in for your agent?” Placenta asked before picking up the receiver.

Polly shrugged, too consumed with lethargy and thoughts of Sedra to care about much else. She decided that the least she could do was express her condolences for J. J.’s loss of another client. She reached out and accepted the cordless handset from Placenta. “This is Polly,” she said.

After an exchange of only a few syllables of shock and sympathy between Polly and J. J., she said, “Never! What am I, a third runner up, for crying out loud? This is not high school where I had to tolerate being the last one picked for the softball team. Anyway, that set’s jinxed. I wouldn’t set foot in a place with so many dead celebrity spirits hanging around! With my luck Jayne Mansfield’s there with Dick Kallman!”

After a short pause that suggested intrigue she asked, “How much did you say? Single card billing? Immediately below Dana and Missie? You actually got them to agree to the use of the words ‘iconic legend’ before my name? Hmm.”

Polly exchanged looks with Tim and Placenta. She mimed knocking back a drink to indicate it was time for breakfast, which sent Placenta to the bedroom bar for a chilled bottle of champagne. After another moment of Polly nodding her head and making the type of agreeable sounds that she usually reserved for expressing approval over the glistening body of a beach Adonis, she simply said, “Send over the new script. I’ll let you know by Lush Hour.” Then she hung up the phone.

For a brief moment, Polly’s mind wandered as she stared into nothingness, picturing her professional come back. It was only when Tim said, “We’re shadowing you on the set—for protection,” that Polly smiled and acknowledged that she had been offered the role of Catharine. Again.

“I’m trying very hard to be sad for Sedra,” Polly finally said as she accepted a mimosa from Placenta and took a long first sip. “But I can’t. Even now, she’s trumped me in the fame department. She’ll be a freakin’ legend long after you dispose of my ashes because she died in a hideous way. They’ll probably rename that goddamn school pool in memory of her. And you can bet that hordes of demented fans will create a myth to surround her memory. They’ll be making yearly pilgrimages to throw roses from the diving platform. Books will be written about her and people will forget what a shrew she really was. There’s still no love lost between us, even though I wouldn’t have wished her fate on anybody.”