by R. T. Jordan
“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.’”
Tim poured himself another glass of champagne. “What about the possibility that The Bluebird of Happiness—Missie Miller—is the evil doer?” Tim asked. “I think there’s more going on behind her brown eyes than most people notice. She’s inordinately eager to get this movie finished.”
“Of course there’s more going on with her. She’s an egghead,” Placenta reminded. “Harvard brain—which I don’t really believe. Musical prodigy—so we’re told. I didn’t see any sheet music on her piano.”
“Remember that offstage meltdown at her party?” Polly said. “She’s probably Betty White on the outside, and Sue Ann Nivens on steroids on the inside. Honestly, no one’s as sweet as she pretends to be. Except me.”
Placenta agreed. “God knows even I put on a great big smile in front of some people. Every week when you grudgingly hand over my paycheck. You don’t wanna know what I’m actually thinking.”
Polly flecked soapy water at Placenta with the back of her hand. “And I smile whenever you cook up that Tahitian dish that tastes the way I imagine pureed Purina Puppy Chow would taste.”
“It is pureed Purina Puppy Chow!” Placenta snapped.
“A recipe for salmonella poisoning, if you ask me,” Polly retorted.
Placenta ignored her and the trio settled down and resumed their languorous activity of drinking, listening to music, and playing Grand Jury, indicting everyone in Hollywood for the murder of Sedra Stone.
Streisand’s voice over the central stereo gave way to Tony Bennett singing about wanting to be around to pick up the pieces of a former lover’s broken heart. It was the sort of “I told you so” song with which every jilted lover identified. It started Polly thinking about the vindictive nature of romance gone sour. “D’ya think it’s true that Jack Wesley was having an affair with Sedra? Perhaps he dumped her. And maybe she felt used and abused and decided to be mean about it—as she was wont to be. And he decided to get rid of her before she could rat him out to the tabloids?” Polly said. “Nobody dumps Sedra Stone, etcetera.”
Tim had been on the brink of falling asleep in his chair, but his mother’s comment brought him back to full consciousness. “Hate to burst your bubble, but Sedra wasn’t exactly Jack’s type. Want me to spell it out in graphic detail?”
“Oh please!” Polly said as if to an idiot. “That’s old news, at least to everyone who isn’t Jack. We all know that it’s the worst kept secret in town. As Dorothy Parker quipped, ‘Scratch the surface of any actor, and you’ll find an actress.’ But then, Sedra always liked a challenge. And hey, sex is sex. With Jack’s looks and libido, he’s bound to spread himself around with X and Y chromosomes.”
Suddenly, in a change of subject, Polly whined, “My goddamn bubbles are disappearing. Everybody out. I’ll be down in the Great Room shortly.” As she began to break through the water and to stand up in the tub, Tim and Placenta stood and averted their eyes from the view of Polly plastered with remnants of suds. They began to leave the boudoir.
“Don’t forget the champagne and cheese,” Polly said, wrapping a large plush white towel around her torso. “Scat!” she said as they hauled away the treats. But before they closed the door, Polly added, “I’ll figure out who the killer is and explain it all to you in a few minutes.”
A short while later, when Polly joined Tim and Placenta downstairs, she was wearing silk pajamas and a monogrammed bathrobe. It was nearly bedtime for all, but she wanted to crack the case before hitting the sack. “Who’s the least likely person—besides me—to have knocked off Sedra?” Polly said. “Isn’t it always the shy ones like Duane, that namby-pamby guard? Or how about that screen-writer guy, Ben Tyler. The word from Adam Berg is that the writer was royally pissed off at Sedra because she embarrassed him in front of the entire cast and crew. Sedra said that his script wasn’t worth shredding and that she’d already tossed her pages of dialogue in the school’s pool. Or how about the wardrobe mistress?”
“What’s her motive?” Tim asked sarcastically. “Sedra doesn’t like polyester blends?”
Polly said, “I had a little conver-say-she-oney with Miss Threads this morning. Spilled her guts about how pooped she is of demanding celebrities, and that Sedra was among the more difficult. Didn’t have nice things to report about Dana, or Missie for that matter. Said that these days, even the stand-ins were becoming troublesome because they’re all envious that they’re not the star. Said that my stand-in, Lauren Gaul, wanted to be dressed precisely as Sedra for each scene. The way she now dresses like me. After twenty-five years of pesky actors, Stella’s ready to pack it in and become a real estate agent in Antarctica.”
Then the telephone rang and the trio abruptly stopped their banter. The answering machine engaged and a voice came through the speaker. “Um. Er. Adam Berg here,” the director began to ramble. “Sorry to be the guy to tell you this, and over a mechanical device no less, but…um, er…the Channel 2 news just reported that um, Sedra Stone’s death was, um…murder. Geez. They’ve charged Dana Pointer. Damn. I was only four days away from wrap. This sucks. We’re outta work—again. That little pisher is ruining my career. All our careers. That arrogant Detective Archer couldn’t have waited four more freakin’ days! As I said, this sucks.”
In the background the trio at Pepper Plantation could hear the voice of Dana Pointer over a television news program pleading, “I’m innocent! I’m innocent! I swear it! For Christ sake! L’me go, you moron!”
Chapter 14
Tim quickly grabbed the television remote control and turned on the monitor. He found a local news broadcast that was recapping their top story. “Screen teen Dana Pointer, star of the box office hit Bummer, among other films, has been charged at her home in Benedict Canyon for allegedly murdering TV legend Sedra Stone.”
With the surliest visual image of Dana that the station could find to accompany the story, the news anchor continued reading from a teleprompter. “As well-known for her offscreen temper tantrums as her onscreen bad girl roles, Dana Pointer was taken into custody this evening shortly after returning home from the location shoot of her new film, Detention Rules! According to her publicist, Pointer is innocent of the charge and will sue the quote ‘Lyin’ bastards of the LAPD for false arrest.”
The anchor made an involuntary and ever-so-slight smirk. “Moving on to sports, we turn now to Buck Jones,” he said. “How about those Lakers! Wouldn’t you love to murder their coach?”
Tim muted the sound of the television and simply stared at his mother. After a long silence, he said, “I’m stunned. I really thought that Dana was too obvious to be the killer. Frankly, I thought they’d come to the conclusion that Sedra’s death was an accident.”
“An accident waiting to happen!” Placenta said. “The only thing about this mess tha
t surprises me is that Sedra didn’t meet her end years ago.”
Polly stood up and moved to the champagne bucket. The bottle was empty and upside down in the icy meltwater, like something drowned face down in a pond. For the first time in ages, Polly didn’t ask that someone else fetch another bottle. Instead, she lifted out the empty one, which dripped melt water all over the coffee table, and walked to the door leading out of the Great Room. She left Tim and Placenta staring at the door after her departure.
Now alone in the vast room, with only the silent images on the plasma television screen to intrude on their thoughts, the two looked at each other for a long moment. Tim shrugged. Placenta shook her head in agreement and said, “The one I feel most sorry for is Polly. I mean, Sedra’s dead and there’s nothing we can do about that. But your mama’s an innocent party. They’ll shut down production and her career is back in the crapper. It’s not fair.”
Tim nodded like a bobblehead toy. “She can’t catch a break. It’s easier to become a star than to remain a working actor. When this all sinks in she’s going to be totally devastated.”
At that moment, Polly appeared. She stood motionless for a moment, between Tim and Placenta, trying to find the right thoughts to express her feelings.
When it was obvious that words were failing Polly, Tim stood up and raised his glass. “I think I know what you’d like to say, Mom,” he said softly. “We all knew Sedra Stone, and although she wasn’t exactly a friend, we respected her talents. Well, not her talents necessarily because let’s face it, she was more like Ally Sheedy than Meryl Streep. But, she was unique. Sure she was vulgar, and at times—most times—nasty and hateful, and a lot of people didn’t understand her. But she carved a niche for herself in pop culture, and that’s certainly to be commended. There are a lot of fans who’ll miss her. And they’ll be very pissed off at Dana Pointer for prematurely ending an icon’s career. We send Sedra’s soul our best thoughts and prayers.”