Remains to Be Scene (5 page)

Placenta said, “You were too cheap to pay hush money to that petty wait staff person who ratted on you.”

Tim was adamant. “If you’re serious about a last-minute party, we only have time for a plain and simple cocktail crush,” he said. “Look, I can arrange for a really chic evening here at the house with a tent and a small chamber orchestra. But on such short notice for entertainment we’ll be lucky if we can hire the Amazing Kreskin. Although maybe he can tell us where you left your sanity.”

“No, no, no,” Polly protested. “You can wave your magic fairy wand and do absolutely miraculous things for parties. You’re a pro. Those Queer Eye guys would have lasted longer if they’d had you on their dream team.”

Placenta spoke up. “Polly, your parties are legendary. You can’t lower your standards for the sake of trying to prove something to beastly Sedra Stone.”

“Polly Pepper has nothing to prove.” Polly faked astonishment at the implied suggestion that Sedra Stone was at the root of her plans. “I’m only thinking of myself, as usual, and my stalled career. I need a little lift, and a party is the solution. Black tie will be fine,” she said to Tim, relieving him of the burden of having to devise an elaborate theme worthy of Donald Trump’s overproduced birthday celebrations.

E
vening arrived and for the second night in a row, dinner at Pepper Plantation was cancelled—due to lack of appetites following another stomach-churning telephone call from J. J.

“Aneurysm, anyone?” Placenta deadpanned, before announcing that Polly’s agent was on the line. “Says that Someone owes
Someone
an apology,” she said, handing the handset to Polly.

Polly Pepper rolled her eyes and reluctantly accepted the telephone. Broadcasting a phony smile through the microphone she cheerfully said, “Twice in as many days, eh, J. J.? Going for a personal best? Jeeze Louise!” Polly shook her head and shot a look of exasperation at Tim.

“I can’t talk long, J. J. Madonna and little Lourdes are due here any minute,” Polly lied, and paused for a moment listening to J. J.’s comment. “I do too know her! We go way back. Long before Sean. And
Sex
. The book, I mean. She’s in town doing the talk show circuit. Promoting the latest reinvention of her career—wife, mother, mistress of the manor in England, and children’s book author. Title? Um…” Polly was temporarily stumped. “
The Little Virgin Who Could
?
Humpty Dumped Me
? Beats me. Probably a collection of nursery rhymes all of which begin, ‘There once was a man from Nantucket’.”

An expression of annoyance crossed Polly’s face. She couldn’t bear it when she was trying to be clever and the joke soared over someone’s head. As Polly half listened to what J. J. had to say, she tapped her toe, pursed her lips, and made a
wrap it up
gesture with her free hand. She raised a finger to attract Tim’s attention and pointed to her empty champagne flute. Polly mimed knocking back a drink, then looked to Placenta and force-whispered an accusation. “Never answer the phone during Lush Hour!”

Returning her attention to J. J., she listened for half a minute then held the phone with both hands and pretended to choke the device. “J. J.!” she said, her frustration racing toward meltdown. “J. J.! I’m not interested in a voiceover role for a toenail fungus infection commercial. But you owe me big time, mister. At least find me a job as a judge on one of those freaky bottom-of-the-barrel reality shows—‘Who Wants to Marry a Bankrupt Former Child Star Turned Death Row Inmate.’”

J. J. apparently took her seriously because Polly spat, “I’m not an idiot, J. J. I just played one on TV.” Polly looked at Tim and swirled an index finger in the air next to her temple.

“Fungus infections aside, just explain to me about Catharine, and why I wasn’t even allowed to audition!”

The retort wasn’t lost on Tim and Placenta, both of whom blatantly eavesdropped on the conversation. They looked at each other in bewilderment.

“And now,” Polly continued, “because of my snake pit scene in your lobby, Thesmokinggun.com is probably boasting that Polly Pepper deserves a big fat nomination for The Russell Crowe Tantrum of the Week Award! My hard-earned reputation as the Gandhi of Hollywood is definitely in the crapper.”

Polly became aware that Tim and Placenta were scrutinizing her every word and decided to end the call. “Oh, drats,” she said. “We’ll have to chat about this later. That Lourdes thug is pitching pebbles at my Rolls. Obviously, Mrs. Kabbalah Blah-blah didn’t pass on her Material Girl genes to her offspring.”

But J. J. said something that made her give him another fraction of her life. “An unlikely story,” she said. “Speed things up here, J. J.,” Polly said, “I’ve got a cake or something in the oven.” She called out, “Lourdes, darling, that’s Lalique. Put it down and play ‘Find the Doggy Bone’ with Mommy’s sparkly lavaliere instead, dear. She can afford breakage better than I can.”

Polly, an actor to her marrow, nearly believed her own fiction. “Sorry, J. J. Have to dash. Gotta throw these guests out of my house.” Then she unexpectedly smiled. “A party?” Her face just as quickly folded. “Missie Miller’s,” she said with an edge of scorn in her voice. “Yes, Little Mary Sunshine, indeed. Fax me the details.” And then Polly pressed the release button on the telephone and set the handset down on the glass coffee table. “That man is so full of hot air he should be tethered to a stake so he won’t drift away in a breeze,” she said, reaching for her champagne.

Evading the questioning stares from Tim and Placenta, Polly tried to side step what she knew was about to turn into a sequel to the Spanish Inquisition. She forged ahead under the full-throttle pretense that J. J.’s call had been purely social.

“The usual nonsense,” Polly said, intentionally ignoring Tim and Placenta’s unspoken questions. “A lot of smoke up my tushie about how much he respects my talents, that my best work is ahead of me, and he loves my new hair color. Yada, yada. Oh, and he said that a pharmaceutical behemoth wants me to pitch a pill that cures something so gross that they have to animate the TV ads to prevent viewers from upchucking their Lean Cuisines on their dinner trays. I’ve obviously graduated to Jane Powell’s rejects,” she grimaced.

“He takes me for a fool,” she chattered on autopilot. “J. J. claimed that the reason I didn’t get to read for the role was because Sedra had already…um…. If you ask me, Sedra deserves…, er….”

Polly realized she’d blathered herself into a corner and exposed her disgrace. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Mother, what happened?” Tim asked, leaning closer to her on the sofa.

Placenta, with maternal compassion added, “You didn’t voluntarily turn that job down, did you?”

A disconsolate Polly looked dolefully at her maid and friend and said, “Now look at who has the sharp intuition.” And then, with what began as a quiver of her lower jaw and rapid blinking of her eyelids, Polly began to tremble and cry. The combination of an exhausting and humiliating day, J. J.’s badly timed call, the weight of her own subterfuge—and the champagne—conspired to make her feel as vulnerable as an orphan in a Dickens novel. “You were right,” Polly admitted, squinting at Placenta through a blurred veil of stinging tears. “You called it correctly the first time you suggested that I didn’t get the job. I just couldn’t admit my failure to you two.”

Rivulets of watery black mascara found wrinkle paths from the corners of Polly’s eyes and streaked down the side of her nose and cheeks. She made a soft sniffle, and then she gave a sigh of defeat. “I’ve become my worst fear—an old-timer.

“The truth is, when I arrived at J. J.’s office this morning, I planned to tell him to take the job and shove it at Mitzi Gaynor. But then I learned that it wasn’t mine to blow off. It never was. The lovely and talented Sedra Stone had already seduced whoever makes the casting decisions.”

Tim and Placenta were stunned. They offered nonverbal coos of sympathy and disbelief. Tim reached over and enveloped his Mother in his protective arms, while Placenta patted a comforting hand on her knee. “I don’t understand,” Tim said. “Yesterday J. J. insisted that they wanted you to read for the part. I figured it was just a formality.”

“I don’t understand either,” Polly said. “But it was in this morning’s
Daily Variety
. Sedra Stone beat me again.”

Tim asked, “Did J. J. explain why he led you to believe that Catharine was pretty much your role?”

Polly shrugged. “He may have tried to, but I cut him off,” she said. “I don’t care anymore. I want to forget the whole thing and simply move on. Perhaps Sedra’s a bigger name than mine, after all.”

Tim disagreed. “You’re a living legend. Sedra Stone can’t touch your status.”

Placenta harrumphed, “I don’t understand why Sedra, or anyone, cares about this measly Catharine role in the first place. Are all these people dense? With a few exceptions, musicals are as dead as Rob Schneider’s movie career. And that’s a blessing. I mean about Rob Schneider’s movie postmortem,” she explained.

Polly sighed. “This role has become important—at least for me. Playing Catharine would be no great shakes, but if I’m not even wanted for one lousy minute of screen time, then where’s the hope for higher profile Blythe Danner-like parts?”

Placenta said, “Someone ought to finally teach Sedra a lesson. Furthermore, you shouldn’t be associated with such a schmuck as J. J. It only reflects poorly on Polly Pepper’s image.”

Polly took a deep breath. “J. J.’s mendacious and mean and stubborn and can be all smiley-faced and giggly while he’s grinding his knee into somebody’s groin. Which is completely fine as long as he’s doing so on behalf of getting me a job. But that describes every other agent in this town. If I dumped him I’d just be making a lateral move, no matter who reps me.”

For a while the air in the room was filled only with the mellow sounds of Carly Simon singing romantic standards from the CD player. Finally, Tim shifted his weight on the sofa and said, “Did I hear you say, ‘party,’ as in an invitation to a social gathering?”

Polly waved away the idea. “Some little thing that Missie Miller’s throwing on Saturday,” she said. “Probably BYOB. A combination memorial service for Trixie, and a pep rally for the troops before they return to battle on the set of
Detention Rules!
There go my plans for a party here! I don’t think I’ll be in the mood.”

“That would be a first,” Placenta said, giving her mistress a playful nudge. “I’ve never known you to miss a party, except fundraisers where you have to dole out coin.
Infectiouschronichosis
will continue to be a scourge on the planet as along as you’re invited to make a contribution for its eradication.”

Tim slapped his knee and triumphantly said, “You’re definitely going to Missie’s party. We all are. It may be the only occasion we’ll have to be in the same room with Sedra and the two twits. We’ve got to find out how she weaseled the role away from you. With the three of us working the room independently, we’re bound to connect with loose lips.”

A glint came into Polly’s eyes and she looked at Tim with animated excitement. “You’re so right, my dear Dr. Watson. We’ll all sparkle and show ’em how real Hollywood royalty behaves. I’ve always had a special knack for making people putty in my hands. Strangers tell me their most intimate secrets.”

“Columbo raised stupid to an art form to solve mysteries,” Tim said. “Jonathan and Jennifer Hart used their money and sophistication. With your genuine stardom as a cover, you’ll be the best damn amateur sleuth since…since…Bubbles Yablonsky,” Tim said, picking a name out from a mystery novel he’d recently read.

Polly looked into Tim’s green eyes. “Um…better not cancel the cattle herd for your Running with the Bulls in Pamplona theme for our own party. Depending upon what we uncover at Missie’s, I may want to position a few select guests in the middle of the stampede!”

M
issie Miller lived in Fryman Canyon, a bucolic and expensive pocket of Los Angeles real estate. The area’s narrow meandering streets, carved deep into the canyon, boasted an eclectic collection of homes set on large parcels of wooded land and exuded all the rustic charm of rural Connecticut.

It was evening in late June, and summer sunlight remained at 8:00. As Tim gently guided his mother’s Rolls-Royce over a rutted lane that rambled past a Tudor-style estate, a French chateau, and a classic Colonial America-style house, Polly and Placenta kept their eyes open for Missie’s address. “We’ll never find it in this maze,” Polly whined from her place in the backseat. “She gave us dumb directions!”

“The numbers are still going up,” Placenta observed, shushing Polly. “If we get lost you can play Donner Party and drink the hostess’s gift. Anyway, it’s gotta be the next driveway.”

And it was. Tim was the first to see the large numerals burned into an oval weathered wood sign that was hung by a rusted chain over the property entrance between two oak trees. He turned left and eased the car down an unpaved stretch that was so narrow that bush branches on either side grazed the car.

“My paint!” Polly cringed and added, “I’ll kill if there is so much as a scratch.”

They came to a semi-circular drive in front of one of the least pretentious homes in the canyon. It was a modest American Georgian-style house, painted white, but in need of a fresh coat of Sherwin-Williams. Blue shutters flanked either side of the multi-paned, double-hung windows on the first and second stories. An American flag hung limp on a pole bracket mounted on the front of the house. “Enchanting,” Tim said, admiring the old world style of the residence as he brought the car to a stop. He switched off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt, then opened the door.

Before stepping outside, however, he heard Polly cry, “This can’t be the right house, dear. It’s too puny for someone who’s in
The National Peeper
every week. And there aren’t any other cars. Where are the guests? What about a security detail? Is this Missie person too cheap to protect me out here in the boonies?”

“This is the address on the fax,” Tim said. “Perhaps we’re the first to arrive. And I didn’t notice any street gangs hanging around the fountains at the replica of Versailles on the corner.”

“Security?” Placenta pooh-poohed. “In this neighborhood you’ll be lucky to be shot by paparazzi lurking behind the garbage cans. Although you could use the exposure.”

In that moment, the front door of the house opened and a beaming Missie Miller, wearing casual black Capri pants and a man’s Oxford cloth white dress shirt untucked and opened at the collar and down three buttons, stepped outside. A black Labrador ambled close by her side. “Welcome,” she called out, and advanced to the car from which Polly was emerging.

“Remember our mission,” Tim admonished his troops in a whisper. “Just for tonight you
love
Missie Miller and Dana Pointer
and
Sedra Stone. You’re committed to putting on your most precious Polly Pepper sweet-as-pie pose. You too, Placenta,” Tim implored. “We’re Audrey Hepburn, Annette Funiccello, and Tom Hanks all rolled into one loveable package, casually gathering information.”

“You found us!” Missie said, arriving at the car. She unconsciously brushed shiny shoulder-length black tresses away from her face.

“Only by divine intervention,” Polly stage whispered to Placenta.

If Missie overheard Polly’s remark she gave no indication. Instead, she offered a hand as Polly and Placenta eased themselves out of the car. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Pepper,” Missie said, with a warmth and dignity that was at once deeply sincere yet not obsequious. “And you must be Tim, the famous Beverly Hills party planner,” she said leaning in to brush a kiss on his cheek. “I’ve read all about you in
The Peeper
. Yeah. I admit it. I read that rag just like everybody else. And you’re Placenta,” she said knowingly, also bestowing a kiss to Placenta’s cheek. “The whole family,” she smiled. In that moment Missie had disarmed them all.

“And this is Luca,” Missie said, introducing her dog. “She’s rather old, but very docile. I love her to bits.” After a moment of tousling Luca’s well-groomed coat and patting her head, and babbling lovey-dovey baby talk to the animal, Missie’s attention returned to her guests. “Please, come inside,” she said.

As Polly, Tim, and Placenta followed Missie and Luca down a short flagstone path, they each exchanged looks of surprise, delight, and relief at their warm reception. Then they stepped through the open doorway and into the front entrance hall.

“You have such a lovely home, dear,” Polly cooed as she looked around and noticed the hardwood floor, a polished mahogany hall table set against the wall, and a tall faux Wedgwood ceramic urn used as a holder for umbrellas and walking sticks. A collection of four cameos grouped together in small old-fashioned oval frames added a Colonial touch to the entryway.

“I’m afraid the Chippendale’s a fake,” Missie said modestly, nodding at the antique table. “However, it’s of the period. And the primitive is an authentic Zoto,” she said, pointing to a small rectangular oil painting.

Missie ushered her guests into the cavernous living room which was accented with wide crown moldings, and decorated in chintz fabrics, floral print wall paper, and a baby grand piano beside a bay window that looked out over the grassy backyard and swimming pool. A wood-burning fireplace dominated the right side of the room, and expensive coffee table books with glossy color covers featuring formal English gardens, portrait paintings by Sergeant, and modern architecture seemed to be stacked everywhere. Missie implored them to make themselves comfortable.

“If the fire gets too warm, let me know,” she said. “I realize it’s summer, but evenings get so nippy here in the canyon. A welcoming fire reminds me and Luca of home. Nibbles are on the table. More on the way.” She pointed to trays of Brie, crackers, and dips. “I’ll be back in a moment with some champers. I know that’s your favorite,” she said to Polly and embraced the trio with her radiant smile.

While Tim and Placenta each took seats on the sofa facing the fireplace and sampled the hors d’oeuvres, Polly walked about the room, admiring the curios. She examined the numerous small tables on which were displayed photographs in expensive silver frames as well as cheap wooden ones. A built-in bookcase contained an enormous selection of contemporary and classic novels, and more framed pictures. It was one of the coziest settings in which Polly had ever recalled finding herself. “French country shabby,” she said approvingly.

As Polly was admiring another colorful primitive painting that was hung over the fireplace mantle, Missie returned to the living room. “Miss Pepper, Tim, Placenta,” she addressed the group, “I’d like to introduce you to my darling mother.”

Standing beside Missie was the farthest thing from anyone’s idea of a sweet little old mother. Instead the woman was a sturdy, steel gray-haired matron immaculately dressed, but seemingly uncomfortable in a mandarin collar Chinese motif silk blouse and black slacks. Her eyes were hidden behind large black plastic glasses that wrapped around the side of her face. “Everybody, please meet Elizabeth.”

The trio erupted with friendly overlapping greetings.

“Mom,” Missie said, “I’d like to introduce you to your favorite star.”

As Polly smiled, waiting to play the role of the humble and unworthy superstar, Elizabeth snapped, “Gloria Swanson’s dead.”

Everyone but Missie giggled at the unexpected response. “As a matter of fact, that’s true,” Missie said trying to conceal her embarrassment. “But I meant your favorite
living
star is here.”

“All the good ones are gone,” Elizabeth grumbled.

The old woman was obviously in a sullen mood and in need of a laxative or a stronger dose of whatever pills she popped to keep her out of a sanitarium.

“Not all of them, Mother,” Missie said, her patience beginning to fray.

Elizabeth shot back, “For crying out loud, you’d better give me a hint. I can’t see more than a blur, so I can’t imagine who you think will impress me.” She castigated her daughter as though they were the only ones in the room.

Missie stumbled nervously with her words. “Um, remember, I said that the famous Polly Pepper was coming to the house? She’s graced us with her presence, Mom. This is Miss Pepper.”

In a husky voice that matched her severe look, Elizabeth dramatically clutched her hands to her chest and sighed loudly. “I’ll be damned,” she said. “I guess this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.”

“As a matter of fact, Mom really was your biggest fan,” Missie acknowledged.

Polly melted, although the past tense of Missie’s affirmation wasn’t lost on her.

“I liked you in that Palmolive dish washing detergent commercial you did oh-so many years ago. Before my situation,” Elizabeth conceded, expressing a tad more sincerity and obliquely referring to her near blindness.

Polly thought for a moment. “Dish detergent?” she said. She turned to Tim and asked, “When did I ever…?”

Elizabeth stepped on Polly’s attempted recall of her early career. “Don’t be modest. I bought the damn soap because of you. Although I can’t say the stuff gobbled up grease the way you promised. But I sparked to you and your television show,” she said. “Now I remember.”

Again Polly pretended to be overjoyed, if a bit dubious, and offered a plastic smile. She was about to repeat her stock comment about how much she missed the years of being on television each week, when Elizabeth interrupted. “Whatever happened to your cute brother?”

“Brother?” Polly said, looking to Tim and Placenta for guidance.

Missie playfully hugged her mother and said, “Um, Mom, Miss Pepper doesn’t have a brother.”

“Of course she does,” Elizabeth spat and wriggled away from her daughter’s embrace.

“Actually, I’m an only child,” Polly concurred. “Alas.”

“Listen,” Elizabeth charged, “I remember quite clearly. “One of you was a little bit country. And the other was a little bit rock and roll.
Alas
.” She mimicked Polly’s affected language.

Tim caught on. “You’re thinking of Donnie and Marie Osmond. Way different generations. Although Polly’s got a lot of big teeth too. And a huge overbite. Go ahead and put your hands on her face. See for yourself,” he urged.

Polly’s eyes grew wide with the fear of a stranger’s fingertips tracing her every line and pore. She automatically took a nearly imperceptible step backward.

Missie added, “Easy mistake to make, Mom. Polly and the Osmonds both had musical variety shows. All that singing and dancing and special guests each week. Plus you were seeing double at that time. But this is Miss Pepper. From ‘The Polly Pepper Playhouse.’ We watched her every Friday night when I was a kid.”

Elizabeth reluctantly gave in.

For the sake of ingratiating herself into Missie’s life, Polly pretended to be genuinely touched by the old woman’s greeting. “Oh, dear Elizabeth,” she said, “you’ve made my day. I’m so delighted to meet you, and your lovely daughter, too. I actually worked once with your favorite star Gloria Swanson. A true legend.”

“Robbed of her Oscar!”

“I completely agree,” Polly said. “
Sunset Boulevard
is one of my all-time favorite classic films.”

“No, for
Gone with the Wind
,” Elizabeth corrected.

Missie shook her head and gave a shrug to the group that said, “I give up.” Then she suggested that Polly take a seat in a comfortable plush chair adjacent to Tim and Placenta on the couch.

“I need my drink now,” Elizabeth said.

“I was waylaid from the champagne,” Missie apologized to her guests, as she assisted her mother into another chair. “I think we’re all a little desperate right about now. I’ll just be a sec.” And then she left the room again and headed back down the hall toward the kitchen.

In the quiet that immediately followed, the guests became aware of the barely audible voice of Billie Holiday singing, “I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues,” through hidden speakers. But just as they all began to settle in and adjust their ears to the distinctive plaintive vocals, they were startled by a blood-curdling scream blasting like a tsunami warming siren from the far end of the house and reaching into the living room. Elizabeth didn’t flinch, but Tim and the others immediately stood up ready to rescue Missie from Freddie Krueger. “Never mind,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just the little Drama Queen having her hourly breakdown. Miss congeniality, my ass.”

Tim tentatively sat back down onto the sofa and exchanged looks of confusion with the others. The room returned to semi-quiet with Lady Day singing, “Good Morning, Heartache.” To ease the tension, Tim cleared his throat and directed an innocuous comment to the old woman. “Mrs. Miller,” he said, “you have a great house. Have you lived here very long?”

Silence filled the space until finally, the old woman turned and asked, “You’re not speaking to me, are you?”

Tim chuckled. “I was just saying…”

“My name’s not Miller. It’s Stembourg,” Elizabeth said. “Missie changed her name. We decided that Stembourg sounded too much like a science fiction creature. Like her daddy.”