by R. T. Jordan
Tim rolled his eyes and followed his mother’s instructions.
The trio approached apartment number 1. At the pockmarked door a hand-printed label above the doorbell read C. BUNCH. Polly looked at Tim and Placenta with a “Here goes” expression and then pushed the button. After a moment the door flew open and a Siamese cat raced outside. Charlotte, who was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, yelled, “Let the coyotes make a meal of you. D’ya think I care?” Now, standing before Polly, she plastered a wide smile on her face.
“As I live and breathe!” Charlotte cried. “It’s Polly Pepper! For heaven’s sake you are as sweet as your image—coming to check up on me after that nasty bit of business this morning.” She leaned in to hug Polly. “Please come in!” Tim and Placenta followed.
“You’re not opening your wrists in the tub, I see,” Polly said as she moved past Charlotte and into the apartment. “It only seems like the end of the world, hon. You’ll get a better job.”
The interior of the building—at least Charlotte’s unit—was the polar opposite of the exterior. Charlotte’s small apartment was clean, although extremely cluttered, and boasted calming cream-colored walls and dated cottage cheese ceilings. The furniture wasn’t new, but it was well crafted and heirloom quality. A Persian rug accented the floor, and framed, autographed eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of famous Hollywood stars were neatly arranged on tables throughout the living room. Polly and her entourage were impressed and each said as much to Charlotte as she offered them a drink.
“Maybe a teensy flute of champagne,” Polly suggested.
Charlotte laughed. “Safeway-brand red table wine is about as good as it gets in this house. I can get a whole case for the cost of a bottle of the brand of champagne that the National Peeper says you suck down night after night.”
Polly tittered. “As long as the wine isn’t poured from a box!”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve enjoyed Chateau Walgreen’s!” Charlotte peeled with more laughter. “The twelve-thirty P.M. reserve vintage is très extraordinaire!”
“With a screw-on cap and expiration date on the label?” Polly joked.
“A skull and crossbones, too! Right next to the surgeon general’s warnings about side effects from prolonged exposure to the fumes!”
Polly could only hope that she was kidding.
“Sit, sit, sit,” Charlotte insisted as she turned off the television, which was showing an old movie on TCM. She moved into the kitchen—which was actually part of the large open room, divided from the living space by a bar counter—and brought out wineglasses from a cupboard. When she reached for a bottle, Polly gave a silent sigh of relief to see that it required a corkscrew.
“Haven’t got any brie and crackers or hors d’oeuvreez,” Charlotte apologized. “But this is actually a good bottle that I’ve saved for a special occasion. And what could be more special than a visit from TV’s greatest star ever? Oh, listen to me, I’m sounding like a fan. Which of course I am!”
Polly smiled. “I’ll bet you say that to MTM and Carole B. too. But please keep stroking—said the bishop to the nun—’cause I never get such attention at home!”
Charlotte regained her composure. “This wine came from Maureen Stapleton’s cellar. Most of what I have comes from dead celebrity estate sales. The old-timers are dropping off so fast, there are one or two such sales almost every month. I can hardly keep up.”
As Charlotte handed the drinks to her guests, Polly wondered which dead star once owned the sofa on which she was seated, and who, she asked herself, previously sipped from the glass she now held in her hand? As if reading Polly’s thoughts, Charlotte pointed to the sofa and said, “Shelley Winters. Feel the dent where she sat?” She then lifted her glass and tapped the nail of her index finger against the side and made a ping sound. “Richard Dawson.” She frowned. “No, that can’t be right. I think he’s still with us. Oh, I know, June Allyson. See what I mean? It’s impossible to keep up!”
“After the day we’ve had, this is just what the doctor ordered, eh?” Polly raised her glass to Charlotte. “I still can’t believe that no-talent maniac Gerold Goss canned you and Hiroaki. Hands down, you would have stolen the show. Even from me!”
Charlotte smiled. “No way. You’re the star! You’re the living legend that audiences want to see. I’m just a supporting player. Although I do have some good lines, don’t I?” Charlotte spoke with an air of self-assurance. “By the way, I’ve been unfired, or whatever the word is for getting my job back.”
Polly’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re your own replacement! Splendid! I suspected you were bargaining with Gerold this morning when you told him he’d be wise to reconsider his decision to terminate your services.”
“I don’t think I ever said that.” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “I think Gerold knew that with the show opening in only ten days, and Sally Struthers in Cleveland with Damn Yankees all summer, he would be hard-pressed to find another Gooch on such short notice. Another drinky?” Charlotte took Polly’s near-empty glass from her hand and walked back into the kitchen area.
Polly spoke up to be heard on the other side of the room. “It’s dreadful that Sharon Fletcher, a beautiful young soap star with everything in the world going for her, would beat the living crap out of our dear Karen…with her bleeping Emmy no less! Usually nothing in Hollywood is original. However, I have to give her kudos for a novel way to kill the messenger.”
Tim and Placenta each sat up a little straighter. “If you ask me, it was premeditated,” Polly said. “Sharon knew she was being dumped and wanted to get even. I’ll bet she thought it would be poetic to use an acting award as her weapon of choice.”
“God knows a cheap-o Tony wouldn’t have made more than a dent in the poor woman’s skull,” Charlotte agreed as she returned Polly’s glass to her guest.
Taking another long sip of wine, Polly swallowed and asked if Charlotte agreed that Sharon probably knew in advance that she was being booted out of the company.
Charlotte turned to Tim and Placenta. “More wine for you two?”
“She couldn’t have avoided the rumors,” Polly said.
“Rumors?” Charlotte asked innocently.
“Hell, when my agent called to say I’d booked this job he insisted that I watch my back. He warned that it was common knowledge that Gerold Goss had plans for his girlfriend to be cast in this show, which could ruin our chances of getting to Broadway. But what better part for her to play than the character who is practically her real-life counterpart? Or so I’ve heard.” Polly shook her head. “And who is this little wannabe anyway? Where does she come from? Where has she worked?”
“Other than on her back?” Placenta said.
“Is she Equity or SAG?” Polly continued. “Is she listed on IMDB?”
“Mag Something-or-other,” Charlotte said. “She has a Valley Girl accent. Uses a lot of words like ‘cool’ and ‘rad’ and ‘awesome.’”
“Brava!” Polly raised her wineglass, impressed with Charlotte’s performance. “You should be Meryl Streep’s dialect coach!”
“It’s why I became an actor.” Charlotte beamed. “Can you guess who this is?” She then told an old chicken joke in a voice that was dead-on Polly Pepper. Then, a cappella, she launched into the song “Let Your Fingers Do the Talking,” special musical material from Polly’s 1980 Emmy Award–winning one-hundredth-year musical birthday television celebration of Helen Keller: “Lady Signs the Blues” (in which Polly had starred with Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and Diane Schuur).
Polly, Tim, and Placenta applauded wildly. “Where did you learn to do that?” Polly said, still laughing at Charlotte’s caricature of her.
Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t help impersonating people. This talent used to get me into trouble when I was a kid. One day I tricked my mother into thinking she was talking on the phone to Ed McMahon. Using his voice I told her that the Prize Patrol had taken a wrong turn and couldn’t fin
d our house. After Mother gave directions, the poor thing waited all day and all night for Ed to arrive with a big cardboard check, champagne, and a bouquet of flowers and balloons. Of course he never did come to the house. Mom even called The Tonight Show to try and reach Ed. I know better now, but at the time I didn’t think it was cruel. I just wanted a big laugh.” Charlotte sighed.
Without prompting, the hostess volunteered that during the first rehearsal for Mame, director Karen Richards had taken issue with her Irish brogue. “Lovely woman, but don’t tell me how to speak my lines with an accent, Irish or French or German or Russian. I excel in all of them,” Charlotte said. “Hell, Marlene Dietrich is living up here.” She pointed to her temple. “I’m not usually so adamant about anything. But don’t tell me that I should practice with a dialect tape!”
“God only knows why directors cast us if they’re not going to let us do what we are hired to do!” Polly said. “What did Karen say?”
Charlotte took another sip of wine. “Karen let it pass. After all, I’m not usually a tantrum-throwing Michael Richards. I was about to apologize when you came in and rushed the stage. Now I feel guilty that I never had an opportunity to tell her that I was sorry for acting like an amateur.”
Polly shook her head. “I’m positive that she didn’t give it another thought. Her bio says she directed Kelly Ripa in Ain’t Misbehavin’. Surely in your worst moments your fits couldn’t compare to her rumored legendary flare-ups.”
Charlotte put a hand on Polly’s shoulder and sighed. “I wish that I could be more like you. Everybody in the business adores Polly Pepper. She never makes a fuss. Never makes a false move, publicity-wise. No scandals. How do you do it?”
“Champagne,” Polly deadpanned. “There’s nothing like inebriation to make you forget what you’ve done. Kidding of course,” she quickly added. “But speaking of problems, Sharon Fletcher has a big one. I’m all for stringing her up, but Tim and Placenta over there have their doubts about her guilt.”
Tim and Placenta glanced at each other. “These nonprofessionals don’t know what a dog-eat-dog business we’re in,” Polly said. “You and I both know that some people in this town will do anything—including bludgeon a director to death—to secure a role. Stranger things have happened. It goes further back than Fatty Arbuckle and the famous Coke bottle! However, I do agree that there are a few unanswered questions, like why would Sharon be summoned to the theater so early in the morning? Okay, so she was going to be fired, and perhaps Karen wanted to spare her the embarrassment of being given the news in front of others. Or she didn’t want to give her the news over the phone. Still, Tim and Placenta seem to think that doesn’t make sense. Go figure. What do you think?”
Charlotte looked at Tim and Placenta as if they were morons. “Anyone who has watched Sharon Fletcher’s soap opera knows that she’s capable of murder. She killed a couple of ex-lovers and a maid who forgot to clean the lint tray in the clothes dryer. Kinda like Naomi Campbell without the anger management classes. She’s a real-life phony baloney, for sure. I don’t buy her off-camera sweet-as-pie act one teensy bit.”
Placenta nodded. “Only the Lord knows what’s in Sharon’s heart. But before I judge the girl as guilty, I need to see some hard facts, not just circumstantial evidence.”
“I’m the last one to cast aspersions,” Charlotte said, “but I think a jury would have an easy time convicting Sharon. She had motive, means, and opportunity. She was disgruntled over being fired. The blood all over her Emmy was Karen’s. She was alone in the theater with Karen. It seems like a slam-dunk case for the district attorney.”
“Absolutely! I couldn’t agree more,” Polly said. “Don’t forget that she lied to the police and that her fingerprints and Karen’s were the only ones found on the bloodied Emmy. And I’ll testify that her car was in the theater parking lot at the approximate time of the murder. But so was Gerold’s. Do you buy his alibi? Out walking?”
“No reason not to.”
“On that lovely note…” Polly rose from Shelley Winters’s sofa. “We both need our rest so we’ll be in top form for Gerold tomorrow.”
As Polly and her posse said good-bye to Charlotte, she gushed about having a lovely evening and that the next time they got together it would be for a dinner at Pepper Plantation. Charlotte was thrilled with anticipation and accepted for any night that Polly found convenient. “Let’s check our calendars and discuss a date tomorrow,” Polly suggested as she stepped out into the cool evening air and walked down the sidewalk. As she waved back at Charlotte she said sotto voce to Tim and Placenta, “The wine tasted like Listerine.”
Settled into the car and cruising down Fountain Avenue toward LaCienega Boulevard, Polly said, “Let’s recap. Likes dead celebrity possessions. Quick to convict Sharon. Admits to having a temper. Somehow got her old job back.”
Placenta added, “Sally Struthers isn’t in Cleveland. I was in line with her at Gelson’s Market yesterday. She was buying up all the Entenmann’s cheese Danish rings.”
“Add liar to Charlotte’s resume,” Polly said.
Chapter 8
The world of regional theater was a distant universe, far away from the mundane bore of an insurance company office or auto parts warehouse. However, regardless of where one worked, there was one common denominator: sex. In every show, on the first day of rehearsal, the cast and chorus sized each other up and soon partners were paired up for friendships and sexual trysts that seldom ran beyond the end of the production. Girl dancers two-stepped with boy dancers. Boy dancers do-si-doed with other boy dancers. An ingénue might fancy the older star who was on television when she was a kid. The female lead might take a chorus boy for her temporary lover. There were as many backstage sex scenarios as there were worldwide productions of Mama Mia.
Polly had seen the entire spectrum and combinations during her years in television and touring in summer stock. She had witnessed wives arriving from out of town with the kids to join their actor husbands on the road for the summer, missing by moments the actor’s boyfriend or girlfriend scurrying out of the hotel room. She’d overheard actors on their dressing room phone lying, “Honey, we’re working really hard. If you visit right now, I don’t know when I’d get to see you.” In the meantime, a new paramour in the dressing room was doing God only knows what to satisfy the actor.
A star of Polly’s stature was particularly vulnerable to someone paying romantic attention to her and she could succumb in a nanosecond. Therefore, when they traveled, Tim felt it incumbent upon himself to assess the members of the theater company and decide who in the show might be particularly stupid enough to try to latch on to his mother. Thankfully, this time out her daydreams were not about a muscled twenty-something dancer with a prodigious hokeypokey; her thoughts were preoccupied with police detective Randy Archer.
It was already warm and smoggy in Glendale when Polly, Tim, and Placenta arrived at the theater at eight thirty the following morning. Tim parked the Rolls near the stage entrance and no one in the car missed seeing that Gerold’s Jaguar was in the lot too. “I wonder if he’s out walking off his Häagen-Dazs today,” Polly said. “I’ll wager that his happy hands are getting their exercise on Mag Ryan.”
Placenta scoffed, “In that case, there ought to be a portable heart defibrillator backstage. I’d love to give that ape a jolt of seventeen hundred volts.”
The trio stepped from the car and walked through the doorway marked ENTRÉE DES ARTISTES. They whispered good morning to George, the half-sleeping old man supposedly guarding the door, and Tim signed them in on the visitor log. Then they made their way down the hall toward the stage wings.
In her trademarked yodel, Polly called out ahead as she approached the stage. “I’m hee-er!” she announced. As Polly predicted, Gerold and his young girlfriend were already at the reading table when she walked under the proscenium. He was giving her a shoulder massage. Mag looked up. “Is that her?” she said.
The kid wasn’t subtle, or q
uiet for that matter, and the acoustics amplified her voice. Gerold simply cast a steely look at Polly, who beamed a bright smile back at him and headed straight for Mag. “Indeed, it is I,” she said in an exaggerated theatrical voice. “I’m the Polly Pepper. You must be the immeasurably talented Mag!”
The young girl blushed and cast her eyes to the floor.
“There’s no place for modesty in the theater,” Polly gently reprimanded. “I’ve heard gads about you, and surely Gerold has told you tons about me. All lies of course.”
“Cool,” Mag said. “I mean that you’ve heard of me…and all.” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “I’ve heard of you too.”
Polly held out her hand to shake Mag’s. “Enchanté.” Polly assessed the young actress and smiled. “I can tell that you’re going to be memorable as Gloria. If there’s any teensy thing that I can do for you, I trust that you’ll feel completely comfortable about calling on me.”
Mag smiled. “This is totally rad. It’s like, you know, so awesome that you’re in my show. Like you used to be a totally big star, and all. Way cool.”
“Way,” Polly deadpanned. “Your show will be most amusing. I have a sixth sense about all things related to masks of comedy and tragedy. Instead of ‘I see dead people,’ I see ‘stars on the rise.’” Polly thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I’ve begun to see dead people a lot lately too. But that’s another story.”
Gerold interrupted with a gruff rebuke of Polly for bringing guests to the rehearsal.
“Good morning to you too, Gerold,” Polly said. She squared her shoulders and offered him the same hard look she used on her agent J.J. when he tried to convince her that an endorsement for Gerber’s new line of pureed liver and onions for seniors would do wonders to increase her public visibility. “Our director has been murdered. A maniac is on the loose, and the killer may well be someone connected with the theater…perhaps from our very own cast. Are you going to spend big bucks for a security detail? Not just for me, but for the entire cast? If so, I want a posse of no-neck wannabe rappers with loads of tattoos and ostentatious bling to escort me to and from the theater each day and night.” Gerold stared at his shoes.