Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  Duane presented Polly with a white plastic bag on which the Sav-Smart drug store name was written in bold fading blue letters. “Just a token,” he said proudly as he eagerly waited for her to accept the offer. Polly temporarily placed the bouquet of roses on the hall table and accepted the plastic bag. She looked inside and retrieved an ancient copy of TV Guide. Her image (as a blundering psychoanalyst character she occasionally played on her show) graced the cover, which was faded with time and had come away from the staples on the binding. Perplexed, but pretending to marvel at his thoughtfulness, she gave Duane a peck on both cheeks.

  “It’s from my personal collection,” Duane announced, satisfied that he’d selected the perfect present. “I have almost every issue of TV Guide ever printed,” he boasted. “I hope you don’t have this edition.”

  Dozens! Polly wanted to scream. Instead she gave a noncommittal, “I remember the day the reporter came to interview me for this issue. Such marvelous memories! How can I thank you enough for thinking to give me such a treasure?” She dropped the magazine back into the bag and picked up the flowers. “Now, let’s get Placenta to put your lovely posies into water.” As she dragged Duane along toward the kitchen she asked, “What would you like to drink? Join me for a BM?”

  Before Duane had a chance to understand what Polly was offering, she was strides ahead of him, practically barreling down the hall corridor, which opened into the kitchen. She wanted that Bloody Mary badly.

  Duane gazed around in amazement. Not only was he in a real, live, movie star’s Bel Air home, but the star was his all-time favorite. He tried to act as if this waking dream didn’t faze him in the least; however, he desperately wished that his family and those who had placed him at the top of their loser list could see him now. If they could see me now, that little gang of mine… He wanted to sing and dance.

  In the kitchen, Placenta was putting the final touches on a tuna salad luncheon. A pitcher of lemonade had been fresh squeezed and spiked with champagne. When Polly and Duane stepped into Placenta’s domain she greeted them both warmly and made a pleasant fuss about the gift of roses. “I have the perfect vase,” she said, untying the red ribbon that bound the stems together, and placing them on the kitchen’s center island. “You two go outside. Here’s your drinkie,” she said to Polly. “I’ll take care of the flowers, and Tim will bring refreshments for Duane.”

  The early afternoon had turned comfortably warm and Polly was delighted to see that without exception her landscape workers were shirtless. “Don’t mind the help,” Polly said to Duane, who now seemed more interested in the perspiration glistening Latino pushing a wheelbarrow than in his hostess. “They’re unobtrusive, and should be breaking for lunch soon,” Polly said. “Appearance is so important, don’t you think so?” she asked trying to redirect Duane’s attention to her garden. “These lovely men do an extraordinary job of spilling their seeds and fertilizing the tender buds? Tim insists they have an extraordinary way with a Thallus. And he should know. Oh, a Thallus is the early flat leaf of a fern,” she said to a dumbfounded Duane.

  Remembering where he was and with whom he was speaking, Duane brought himself back to the moment and mumbled, “Yes. Well maintained,” he said, stealing another glance at the muscled workers. “The garden and lawns, I mean.” Then he actually took a good look at the acreage. “This is awesome!” he said. “I’ve heard so much about the famous parties you’ve had here. It’s so cool that I get to be where all the action is!”

  Just then Tim appeared bearing a tray with the pitcher of lemonade and four tumblers. “Heya, Duane!” he called out as he set the tray down on the patio table. He wiped his wet hands on his jeans and reached out to shake Duane’s. “So glad you could make it, man. Have a seat.”

  The trio pulled out chairs from around the table and sat down. Tim reached for the pitcher and without asking if Polly or Duane wanted a drink, he poured them each a tall one over crushed ice. “Has Polly given you the grand tour?” he asked, knowing full well that she had not.

  Grinning from one splotchy red check to the other, Duane said, “Gee, if I could really see Pepper Plantation, that would be so neat!”

  Polly looked at her wristwatch, trying to calculate the amount of time she would require to serve lunch, get Duane to open up about who murdered Sedra, and discreetly send him back to wherever he lived. If Tim gave Duane a tour, that was less time she’d have to spend trying to act as though she was interested in whatever hobbies kept him busy when he wasn’t guarding movie studio’s location sets. She trusted Tim to gather whatever gossip he could from Duane. “You two run along,” Polly said, standing up from her seat and practically sweeping Duane away. “Just be back within a half hour. Placenta’s serving lunch, and I want to really get to know all about your Polly Pepper collections!”

  “Follow me, sport,” Tim said, “and take your drink.” He led Duane back into the house. They began in the Great Room where Polly’s most treasured mementos where on display.

  As Duane drooled over the Emmy Awards, and the large oil painting of Polly that hung over the fireplace mantle, he began to offer anecdotes about how he had come to worship Polly. “There was just something unique about your mother,” he tried to explain. “On her show, which I only saw in reruns, she wasn’t a goodie-goodie like some stars of the era pretended to be. She had a naughty side. Oh, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he amended. “I mean, she was a regular person. She could use curse words, but coming from her they sounded tame and got huge laughs. Can I hold an Emmy?”

  Tim reached out and picked up one of the awards. He read the engraved plate. “Second season,” he said as he handed the statuette to Duane.

  Cradling the treasure in the crook of his arm, as if he’d just been handed the last offspring of an otherwise extinct species of animal, Duane began caressing the statuette. He stood in a trance, not wanting the dream-come-true to end. “Polly Pepper’s Emmy Award,” he sighed. “I memorized each of your mother’s acceptance speeches,” he said, which made Tim cringe. Duane continued, “She had tears in her eyes by the time she reached the podium. Then she screamed out, ‘Mama! I won!”

  Duane fell into a trance as he recited Polly Pepper’s acceptance speech. “‘When I was eighteen, my lovely and talented mother said that I needed to learn to face rejection…as if I didn’t get enough of it at home. Mama pushed me out of the house to an audition, expecting me to come home crying. I got the role and it took me to Broadway. I never had to look back.’”

  Tim interrupted what he could tell was going to be a verbatim recitation of Polly’s speech. “Let’s continue the tour,” Tim suggested and carefully pried Duane’s fingers from around the torso of the golden woman with lightning bolt wings who held the world her hands. He gently reclaimed the statuette and placed it back onto the bookshelf. Then he cocked his head for Duane to follow him out of the room. “No one ever gets to go up stairs, but come on, I’ll show you Polly’s bedroom.”

  Duane’s eyes grew wide with gleeful anticipation. “Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked not wanting to do anything that might displease Polly.

  “Of course. You’re with me,” Tim said, making his guest feel as though they were buddies. As they entered the foyer and began to ascend to the second floor Tim said, “This is what we euphemistically call ‘The Scarlett O’Hara…’”

  “Memorial Staircase,” Duane interrupted. “I know. Isn’t it great? It’s sorta modeled after the one in Gone With the Wind. When Polly was a little girl she dreamed of living at Tara. So when she got rich and famous she had one built to her specifications.”

  “Between you and me, I think she built the staircase just to make a grand entrance when company arrives,” Tim said with a conspiratorial wink of his eye.

  In the upstairs corridor, Duane stopped at every painting and photograph. When they came to an autographed picture from Mel Torme, Duane said, “He was on ‘The Polly Pepper Playhouse’ eighteen times. The most of any guest. Way past Phyllis Di
ller. She was only on nine times.”

  Tim truly marveled at Duane’s encyclopedic knowledge of his mother’s career. “I can tell that Mom is flattered by your interest in her,” Tim said. “She definitely appreciates her fans, and I’ll bet that you’d do just about anything for her.”

  “Darned tootin’, I would,” Duane pledged. “I’m very loyal when it comes to my devotion to Polly Pepper. She could ask me to do anything, and I wouldn’t question her. Anything at all. Is there something?”

  Tim waited a few silent moments before softly saying, “As a matter of fact there is something. But Polly doesn’t have the nerve to ask you herself.”

  Duane looked surprised. “She shouldn’t feel that way at all,” he declared. “Her wish is my command.”

  Tim put a hand on Duane’s thick shoulder and said, “Mom doesn’t want to get you into any trouble, that’s why she feels she can’t talk to you as one dear friend to another about something this important.”

  “What could possibly get me in trouble?” Duane said.

  Tim hesitated for a moment. He felt that he had to straddle a very fine line between asking a direct question about Sedra’s death and getting Duane to volunteer information on his own. As if drawing Duane further into his confidence, he said, “Polly feels sure that you’re a man with a great deal of dignity and integrity…and that you of all people would probably have some very wise thoughts about the current situation on Detention Rules! Like when the cast might return to work. Or whom she should talk to about keeping one of her costumes for her museum. Or, um, who really murdered Sedra Stone…”

  Duane stared at Tim for a moment. His silence gave the impression that he was either trying to think of what gossip to repeat, or that he was insulted by an obvious attempt at manipulation. When Duane came out of his daze, he looked around as if to search for eavesdroppers. He stepped closer to Tim, and in hushed tones said, “I’m just the man to help answer all of those questions. And, I can even get her marijuana if she needs a score.”

  Tim smiled, relieved. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve got plenty. It’s just that Polly hasn’t worked on a film location in such a long time, and it seems that protocol is different in features than in television, especially when it’s her own show. She really could use your guidance.”

  “Never fear,” Duane said. “As for the person who wacked ol’ Sedra? It’s not who everybody thinks. Although I did hear every word of the fight between Dana Pointer and Sedra Stone that last night. They were downright nasty to one another.”

  “Did you see Dana leave the set?” Tim asked.

  “Not exactly. When the fight ended my shift was over. Don’t tell anyone at Sterling, ‘cause we’re supposed to punch the time clock right at eleven o’clock, but I hung out just long enough to see Sedra throw Dana out of her trailer. I didn’t see the murder, but I know Dana’s not the killer. Too many other people were around.”

  “If you weren’t there yourself, how can you be so certain,” Tim asked as casually as possible, as if he were simply shooting the breeze. He was surprised by Duane’s response and wanted to make sure he had his facts straight. “Why do you think Dana’s innocent?” he said.

  Duane scoffed. “Don’t get me wrong. Dana’s got a killer’s instinct, just like every actor. And maybe she really did the deed. That’s what makes this crime almost perfect. There was tons of competition to see who could knock Sedra off first.”

  “Motives?” Tim asked, knowing full well that there were as many reasons for wanting Sedra eliminated from the planet as there were people on Earth.

  “See, it’s like this,” Duane said, as if explaining quantum physics to a three-year-old. “Connect the dots. Up-and-Coming Star—Dana—helps Has Been—Sedra Stone—get a job. When Has Been gets famous again, she thanks Up-and-Coming by dragging out an old autobiographical screenplay she’s been working on for half a century. She serves up a heaping plate of stinking garbage about her own past sins, as well as those of everyone in Hollywood, especially the new generation of stars. Up-and-Coming gets hold of a copy of said screenplay and when she finds that she’s the centerpiece, she goes berserk and puts a quick end to the possibility that Has Been is going to make a big chunk of taxable change off her sorry ass.”

  Tim was intrigued. “A memoir?” he mumbled, trusting that no producer would think the public might be interested in the life story of Sedra Stone. “My God,” he said, “is there really a screenplay? Does it contain anything that’s shocking and slanderous? If it’s truly a vengeful story there must be plenty of other people besides Dana who would have reason to silence Sedra. And how do you know about the script?”

  “Everybody in town has one, don’t they? A script, I mean. Plus, I’m in security,” Duane said, matter-of-factly. “Sterling Studios is pretty notorious for being a Peeping Tom when it comes to knowing everything about everybody who works for them. One of my jobs is to find out in advance if any of the talent is breaking the morals clause in their contracts—like surfing the net for porn on company time and property—so the studio publicity department can do damage control before anything gets out to the press.”

  “Big Brother is watching, eh?” Tim said, taken aback. “So how did you find out about the script?” he asked again.

  “Simple,” Duane shrugged. “I read parts of it on her laptop while she was filming scenes. It worked out great that Missie and Dana are such lame actresses that they had to shoot those scenes over and over, so I didn’t have to rush.”

  Tim took a deep and dramatic inhale of breath. “Why were you reading her personal information in the first place?” he asked.

  “Like I said, looking for stuff that Sterling might need to know about,” Duane smiled. “It’s part of my job. We check employees’ computers all the time.”

  “But that’s private,” Tim said, trying his best not to sound judgmental.

  “No,” Duane insisted, “not at all because the laptop belonged to Sterling. It was just a loaner. So everything she had in there actually belonged to the studio.”

  “Splitting hairs,” Tim said. “Who has the computer and all of Sedra’s files now?”

  “The killer, I guess,” Duane said. “Boy did I get in a ton of trouble. After they found the body, my boss wanted me to retrieve the computer. But, um, it wasn’t in Sedra’s trailer. And it wasn’t in her rented limo. Sterling sent someone to her house, but they couldn’t find it there, either.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Tim said. “This sounds like something out of a Tom Clancy novel! What if you’re in danger? Aren’t you afraid that you might be the man who knows too much?”

  Duane stopped, dumbfounded. “You’re the only one I’ve told,” he said.

  “Why trust me?” Tim asked.

  “Because you’re Polly Pepper’s flesh and blood. And I’m your friend.”

  Just as Tim was about to suggest that others might know about the screenplay, such as Sedra’s agent, Placenta called out from the bottom of the staircase. “Mister Tim! Mister Duane! Polly’s hypoglycemia’s kicking in. She’s starved. You guys finish your tour and beat it on down to the patio. Hurry up!”

  Duane looked at Tim and looked down the few feet of corridor before Polly’s bedroom door. “Darn. I won’t see where Polly Pepper sleeps.” Then he smiled. “No biggie,” he said. “I can see it the next time I come over. Let’s not keep the great Polly Pepper waiting. I don’t want to make a bad impression.”

  Tim was far from ready to end his conversation about Sedra’s bio pic, but conceded that they’d better hustle down to lunch. “Just tell me one more thing,” he said. “What did Sedra say in her screenplay about Polly?”

  Duane turned and faced his host. He looked deep into Tim’s eyes and said, “I did a global search for the name Polly and/or Pepper and they came up five hundred and seventy-seven times. But I only read as far as the beginning of a story that started off with the time Sedra and Polly were dating Burt Reynolds…”

  “Are you two coming down?�
�� the voice of Placenta rang out again. “I know that Polly is eager to chat with Duane.”

  “We’re coming,” Duane responded. Then to Tim he said, “I’ll tell you the rest later.”

  “Tell me now,” Tim said, eager for news. “Am I mentioned?”

  “You only had three entries,” Duane said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tim said. “Dana’s probably going to fry in the electric chair, or get a massive dose of some lethal injection, or hang from a gallows, ’cause I’ll bet they find the computer in her house, even if she’s not really guilty. I mean who really cares about a movie star anyway, right?” He gave a lascivious wink to Tim.

  “It’s not at Dana’s house,” Duane said as Placenta came to fetch them.

  To Tim’s surprise, Duane stopped at the top of the stairs and said, “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that nothing is ever as it appears to be. God knows people in high places usually get off scot-free. It’s the people below them who end up taking the blame. I think that some people are born to get away with murder all their lives. If they’re pretty or rich or both, people fall all over themselves to protect those who project a little star shine. Maybe Dana will walk.”

  As the two men descended the stairs, Tim asked sotto voce, “Was Sedra surfing for porn?”

  Chapter 19

  Lunch with Duane was not the Tower of Terror that Polly had anticipated. Tim and Placenta guided her to reveal dozens of inside show business anecdotes—which she exaggerated out of all proportion—giving Duane the lowdown on her meteoric rise to fame and fortune. Although she covered well-known territory about how poor and deprived she’d been as a child, and that she had to clean the tarantula cages at the L.A. County Zoo to earn extra money to feed her bipolar, alcoholic single mother, she mesmerized Duane by offering a few details that she’d kept from all but her earliest interviews. When three o’clock arrived, Duane was sated and willing to leave without too much of a fuss.