Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime Page 3

  Neither Norah nor Martha are my friends, but they are hometown folk, which puts me squarely on their side when squaring off with strangers. “These are my friends, Martha Sims and Norah and Sherri Hall. They are not pathetic. They are here for the casting tryouts. The ones you posted notice to all over town.”

  Don waved his hairy arms while he ranted some more. “I wanted lookers. Good-looking babes. You know, Hollywood material.”

  “Except that this isn’t Hollywood,” I pointed out. “The only lookers you’re going to find out here are hookers, and you’re going to have to go all the way to Pittsburgh for that.”

  “Thanks a lot, both of you!” cried Martha. “At the risk of sounding conceited, I consider myself to be a good-looking woman in her prime.”

  “Prime rib, maybe,” snipped Susannah as she came into the room from making her call. “I think he’s looking for something a little more like this.” She began to prance and pirouette like a Lipizzan stallion. Her voluminous outfit trailed behind in her dramatic swirls. It was like watching Lawrence of Arabia in drag.

  “That’s more like it,” grunted Don.

  Susannah smiled seductively.

  Bugsy beamed.

  Arthur remained aloof.

  For a few precious seconds there was silence in the room. Then Norah shouted, “Hit it!”

  “Like a virgin,” wailed the dumpling-shaped Sherri. She began twisting and bobbing like she had the time before.

  “I think I might have a laxative in the medicine cabinet,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  I thought I saw Arthur smile. At any rate, he nodded to Don, and perhaps even whispered something. Don in turn mumbled something to Steven, alias Bugsy, who nodded in agreement.

  “Okay, ladies,” said Don, turning to us, “this is what’s happening. “You,” he said, pointing to Susannah, “have the part of Rambling Rhonda.”

  Susannah shrieked with sheer joy.

  “And you,” said Don, pointing this time to Martha, “have the part of the lady in the bathtub.”

  Martha didn’t shriek. Instead, her eyes shot daggers at Susannah. “Doesn’t this lady at least have a name?”

  Don looked right past her and at little Sherri. “And you will be Terrible Tina, the teenager from hell.”

  “I told you not to swear, buster,” I reminded him. Meanwhile Norah and her offspring were dancing up and down in ecstasy, like a pair of Watusis.

  “And you, Miss Yoder,” began Don, and then he stopped and looked at Arthur. Arthur smiled and nodded again. “You,” Don continued reluctantly, “will be Mama Miller, the matriarch of the clan.”

  Steven sidled suddenly over and seized my hand. “Congratulations, Yoder!” he said. “That’s a speaking part. You’ll get paid extra for that.”

  “Don’t the others have speaking parts?”

  Steven held up a thumb and forefinger with about a millimeter of space between them. “One slip of the splicing equipment and their parts will end up on the cutting room floor.”

  Before I could respond with my own little shriek of joy, Don turned to Steven. “Get outside and survey the scum. See if you can find a couple of good-looking bimbo types for dressing.”

  Steven was good at his job, and in no time at all he returned, trailing two Hernia high school girls whom I recognized. They were the Biddle sisters, who definitely hail from the wrong side of the tracks, even though Hernia doesn’t have any. But you know what I mean. The Biddle sisters are so made up and lacquered with hair spray that it would take a hurricane to strip away enough layers to reveal anything natural. Both girls were wearing jeans so tight, they undoubtedly cut off their circulation. That could be the only explanation for the way the girls walked. As for their bazooms, if Sam’s Corner Market runs out of facial tissues during the next cold season, we’ll know where to go.

  “Howdy, Mrs. Yoder,” said Cindy Biddle. To say she chewed gum like a cow would be to insult my two Holsteins.

  “That’s Miss Yoder, Cindy. I’m not married.”

  “Figures,” said the simpering little strumpet, and she strolled across the room to meet Don and Arthur.

  Nadine Biddle wasn’t any better. She ignored me altogether and headed straight for the Arthur. Clearly, she’d been clued.

  “My jeans are made of memory-stretch denim,” she cooed. “Feel them. They’ll remember your touch.”

  “Oh, my God, it’s the whore of Babylon,” said Martha, who was pretty close to me in age.

  Arthur Lapata, much to his credit, merely smiled at Nadine. He declined to nod.

  Don sprang into action. “You,” he said, pointing to Cindy, “stay. You,” he said to Nadine, “wait outside with the others.”

  “But that’s no fair!” protested Nadine, at the same time wiggling her bottom like a dog in heat.

  An anguished look came to Don’s eyes. Instead of insisting that Nadine leave, he loped back over to Arthur and whispered something I couldn’t hear. Arthur nodded then, but I for one could tell that it was a reluctant nod.

  “You can stay,” Don said unabashedly when he returned. “I’ll give you that memory test later.”

  Nadine giggled and bobbled her bottom some more. It was the most disgusting carnality I’d ever witnessed, and right there in the front room of Mama’s house. Mama had undoubtedly begun to turn over in her grave with the regularity of a roast on a rotisserie.

  “Does your mama know where you are?” I asked.

  The child didn’t even have the decency to answer. She sashayed over to the side of the room and plopped herself down in my favorite rocker. Then she dumped the contents of her scruffy little purse into her lap and began applying new layers of paint to her face. Martha was right, this was the whore of Babylon.

  “What have I wrought?” I cried to deaf ears. Then I remembered that I’d been given an actual speaking part in the movie, and my mood picked up considerably. I, Magdalena Yoder, not known for having been the prettiest girl in high school, was going to be on the big screen. Imagine that. And I had yet to see my first movie in a real movie house. Gloria Swinehart, with your bouffant hairdo and panda-bear mascara, eat your heart out. You were the meanest to me in eleventh grade, and now where are you?

  “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” said the author of Ecclesiastes, and he was as right as rain.

  Chapter Four

  The first day of filming, we had shoofly pie for breakfast. We don’t normally eat pie for breakfast, but the film crew was expected to arrive at six, and anyway, we were all too excited to care what we ate.

  “Save a piece of that for Arthur,” admonished Freni. She meant the Arthur Lapata. For some strange reason, my Amish cousin and the Hollywood whiz kid had hit it off. Not that Freni approved of the movie being made, or of any movie, for that matter. If I had to guess, I’d say it was because Arthur Lapata bore an uncanny resemblance to Freni and Mose’s only son, John.

  “Well, of course I won’t eat any more,” said Susannah with a meaningful glance in my direction. “My role in the movie calls for a svelte, trim body. My character’s name is Rambling Rhonda, not Big Mama Miller.”

  “It’s just Mama Miller,” I said for the umpteenth time. “There’s no ‘big’ in front of it.”

  “You’re both as thin as sticks,” said Mose. There was concern in his voice. Ever since Papa was killed in that mishmash of sneakers and milk, Mose has been a surrogate father to Susannah and me.

  “Are you sure you have everything under control here?” I asked Freni.

  Reels and Runs Productions had hired Freni, independently of the inn, to cater for them. Of course Freni would use the inn as her base, but still, it was an enormous task for a seventy-three-year-old woman, even one with as much spunk as Freni. Mose would help out, but I still needed him to take care of our two dairy cows and the flock of chickens.

  “Don’t you worry about me, Magdalena. I’ve already checked, and there aren’t any vegetarians this time.”

  “Good.” I said a
silent prayer of thanksgiving. Freni has a hard time classifying foods, and assigns the less obvious ones (for her these include eggs, grains, and dairy products) to the category of the food with which they are commonly served. Don’t ask me to explain how, but over the years cheese has become a fruit, and eggs a vegetable. “Of course the English do have some funny ideas.”

  “What do you mean this time?” To Freni, everything about the outside world was an enigma. Even Susannah was beyond comprehension now that she wore sleeveless dresses and makeup.

  “Well, Magdalena, this Arthur is a very nice boy, but he wants me to boil his ties for him.”

  I mentally scratched my head. Granted, I don’t have both feet out into the world like Susannah, but I do read a lot. “Did you tell him there’s a dry cleaner in Bedford?”

  Freni frowned. “This is about more than just cleaning the ties, Magdalena. I think he eats them afterward.”

  “Come on!”

  Suddenly Susannah began to howl with laughter, and that really is the only word to use in this case. Of course that rat-size pooch of hers was activated by Susannah’s yowls and began contributing some pitiful pips of its own. Together they sounded just like the dog pound in Somerset at hose-down time.

  “Get a grip on it, Rambling Rhonda,” I said. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  “But it is!” screeched Susannah. “Arthur Lapata doesn’t eat ties. He eats Thai!”

  “I hate riddles,” grumped Freni.

  I explained to Freni that Thai cooking, the cuisine of Thailand, was quite popular in the outside world. “I ate it myself once in Pittsburgh, when I went to visit the Mystery Lovers Bookshop in nearby Oakmont.”

  “Your mother would have had a fit,” said Freni. To Freni, even a quick stop at McDonald’s is enough to jeopardize one’s soul.

  “Leave Mama out of it, you—” I started to say pleasantly, but was interrupted by the arrival of the film crew.

  By seven o’clock that morning all the day’s extras, the “window dressing,” as Steven Freeman called them, had been assembled at the inn to see makeup and wardrobe. There were about twenty of them altogether, but Steven quickly split them into two groups, the “Executive Extras” and the “Regulars.” Supposedly the Executive Extras, which included the Biddle sisters, little Sherri Hall, and Martha Sims, were to be used in more scenes than the Regulars. This, of course, flattered all the Executive Extras, but angered the Regulars.

  The Regulars mumbled and grumbled while the Executive Extras primped and preened. Susannah mumbled and grumbled the loudest because she hadn’t been included in either group.

  “But I’m Rambling Rhonda,” I heard her remind Steven. “My character even has a name. Why haven’t I been included with the Executive Extras?”

  Steven smiled. “Because you’re not an extra, that’s why. You’re a stand-in.”

  “What’s that? What do you mean?”

  Steven smirked. “Arthur seems to think you look like Darla Strutt. They’re going to use you to block in the scenes for the lighting crew before they do the actual shooting.”

  I could tell that Susannah was torn between ecstasy and agony. She was undoubtedly ecstatic that the director thought she looked like the star, but in agony because as a stand-in she wouldn’t be on film at all. Even the most Regular of the Regulars would imprint more celluloid than she would.

  “Why do I have to be only a stand-in?” she whined. “I mean, couldn’t I be a stand-in and an Executive Extra? Even a Regular Extra?”

  Steven shrugged. “That all depends on how much you’re willing to put out.”

  “What?”

  “Effort, I mean.”

  “Sounds like sexual harassment,” I said. “I don’t watch TV talk shows, but I know harassment when I hear it.”

  “Then your hearing definitely needs to be checked,” scoffed Steven.

  “Magdalena, stay out of this,” snapped Susannah. She turned to Steven. “Who is Rambling Rhonda? I mean, why does a stand-in get that name?”

  Steven snickered. “Rambling Rhonda is the industry’s code name for Darla Strutt. Her heels are so round, she needs to wear orthopedic shoes just to stand up.”

  “You mean she’s loose?” I asked.

  Steven sucked his lower lip. “Let’s just say that there’s a sign above her bed saying ‘Two Billion Served.”’

  Susannah flapped several yards of fabric in annoyance. “Well, I may look like her, but I don’t act like her. I’m still saving myself for that one special man.”

  “So is Michael Jackson,” I couldn’t help saying. I may not watch TV, but I’m not above sneaking a quick peek at the tabloids when I’m in the checkout line. After all, one can’t properly fight evil if one is uninformed.

  But Susannah had business on her mind. “I want to speak to Arthur about this. I’m really very talented, you know. There’s no reason I couldn’t be a stand-in and an extra. You wouldn’t even have to pay me more.”

  Steven scowled. “Arthur is a busy man. You don’t go disturbing the top director about little things like this. Tell you what, I’ll arrange for you to speak to Don when we break for lunch. But of course I’ll expect a little extra cooperation in return.”

  “My middle name is cooperation!”

  “It’s Sister Cooperation,” I said quickly. “That’s the name they gave her at the convent.”

  Steven stalked off without another word.

  For the next half hour, the makeup and wardrobe departments did their job on us. The results were mixed. The Biddle bimbos had been made to look even bimboier, which I wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Little Sherri Hall had been made to shed her gold foil cones for a junior, bimbette version of the above. Martha Sims, the minister’s wife, had been transformed into a senior bimbo—a senior bimbo in a bathrobe, no less—a style that plainly does not suit most women over forty. As for Susannah and me, we came out looking virtually the same as our former selves.

  “That’s because they typecast us,” explained Susannah. “I already look like Darla Strutt, and you, well, you look sort of like a Mennonite.”

  I patted my sister lovingly on the back for having said such a sweet thing. I am proud of who I am, but not so proud, mind you, that it’s a sin. Susannah, on the other hand, has totally rejected her roots. Not only has her apple fallen far from the tree, it has rolled into a different orchard altogether. Mama would be mortified if she were alive. So, out of loyalty to Mama, I patted Susannah hard enough to make Shnookums yelp. Then the three of us set off to search for the movie stars.

  By eight o’clock that morning, there were three big trucks and seven trailers parked on the lawn. At least two of the trailers served as dressing rooms for the film’s real stars, Darla Strutt and Rip Oilman.

  “Isn’t he just to die for,” moaned Susannah when Rip emerged from his metal cocoon for the first time.

  I grunted something vague. Rip was good-looking, if you like that sort of slick type whose best friend is his comb, and who undoubtedly smells like that new cologne department they put in next to menswear at the Somerset Sears.

  We were standing at the parlor window, which had the best view of Rip’s trailer, but even so, our glimpse of him was fleeting. A crowd of groupies, most of them Bedford girls, mind you, had closed around the man like the waters of the Red Sea. When Rip finally did make it to the house, his mood was in need of improvement.

  “What the hell is going on?” he shouted at Arthur. “My contract clearly states that I’m to be shielded from the civilians. Either you get some security out there, or I’m walking.”

  Arthur merely nodded, first at Rip, then at Don.

  Don, the hairy one, took Rip aside, but Susannah and I were unable to hear what they said. Whatever it was, it didn’t calm Rip down any. If anything, he became more agitated, and a few swear words, which I shall not repeat, polluted the air.

  Arthur then nodded at Steven. Steven shrugged and seemed to approach the two men wa
rily. Again we couldn’t hear the conversation, but whatever Steven said was effective. In no time at all, the three men were slapping each other’s backs in what is apparently some sort of male-bonding ritual. Peace had been restored.

  At least until Darla Strutt made her entrance. I don’t watch movies, but Susannah does, and suddenly it was crystal-clear who Susannah was patterning her life after. At five foot four, Darla Strutt was five inches shorter than Susannah, and a good ten years older, but otherwise they might have been twins. Like Susannah, Darla Strutt flowed into the room trailing yards of fabric. Unlike Susannah, Darla Strutt carried her little pooch, Fifi, out in the open. In her arms, the way God intended.

  “Mommy, it’s her!” shrieked little Sherri Hall, who had been sitting quietly in a corner with her mother despite Rip’s somewhat dramatic entrance. The pudgy prepubescent girl jumped off her chair and rushed the swirling star.

  Like Susannah, Darla Strutt rolled her eyes in annoyance and stamped an unseen foot. “Arthur, must we have a child on the set? Children can be so tedious, you know.”

  Norah Hall sprang into action like a tigress who had seen her cub threatened. “Sherri is not tedious! And she’s not a child! She’s a very talented young lady who’s going places.”

  “Off this set, if I have my way,” snapped Darla Strutt.

  “Hit it!” cried Norah reflexively.

  “Like a virgin,” crooned Sherri, but without the bobbing foil cones, it just wasn’t the same.

  “Arthur! I demand that they be banned from the set!” But Arthur Lapata was so engrossed in conversation with a sound technician that he couldn’t hear Darla Strutt’s demands. Don did, however. Like a big hairy dog, he was all over her, except instead of barking, he was muttering things. And salivating. It was a disgusting thing to watch.

  Even Darla Strutt seemed to be disgusted by the assistant director. “Give me some space, Don!” she gasped.

  Don managed to step back without looking taken aback. “Sure thing, hon.”

  “Now tell her what you told me,” coached Darla Strutt. She was pointing to Norah Hall.