The Connecticut Corpse Caper

3 What Were They Thinking!?

3

What Were They Thinking!?While I’d never actually written film or TV scripts, I had penned a few five- and ten-minute specials, primarily on national travel, and health and beauty tips. But being a film writer had always lingered in the back of my mind, kind of like a scar from a childhood fall off a family apple tree. Creating a “mental” script happened at the oddest moments . . . like now.

REY

(eyeing her cousin over her drink, running a long finger along the rim)

What’s with the bags under Jilly’s eyes? Hasn’t she heard of concealer?

She hasn’t lost that artsy look she’s had for too many years. Look at all that black: pants, turtleneck, and those weird shoe-boots. Does she think she’s in the Outback? At least she got rid of “Goth girl”. She was too even-tempered to play the part twenty years ago, and she doesn’t seem much different now.

Smart move growing her hair shoulder length and putting burgundy highlights in that raven-black hair. Now, if she only added color to those high cheekbones and Angelina Jolie lips.

(sips thoughtfully)

What about that Adwin? She obviously turned his head. He’s kinda cute:Justin Bieber meets Criss Angel. So not a perfect couple, but at least they’re together. Other than a handful of two-week stands, I haven’t had a relationship in three years. Linda says I’m too demanding, high-strung and high maintenance. Screw that. I’m an actress for effing’s sake! My three exes -- doorknobs -- didn’t learn that quick enough.

LINDA

(eyeing the port)

Shoulda opted for rye and ginger like Rey. Who needs a fortified liquid sugar overload? Dang-crap. When Rey had said “fun in picturesque Connecticut”, I was expecting galleries and shops and restaurants, not a sleepy countryside and stuffy mansion. Jeez, the place smells like someone died here. Hey, wait a sec. They did!

MAY-LEE

(looking guardedly from Percival to Prunella)

This promises to be an intriguing affair, especially with the Sayers:Miss Nutbar and Mister Weird.

ADWIN

(putting his glasses back on)

I’d rather be perfecting my latest mousse cake: acai-goji berry surprise.

Maybe I should go with less cognac the next time.

(glances at Jill)

She looks sleep-deprived, which means she’ll give another new meaning to the word “b***h”.

PAN OUT. BEATRICE THE MAID lumbers across the room as if she weighs three-hundred pounds instead of one hundred and starts to replace an empty bottle of Australian Shiraz with a new one. THOMAS SATURNE grabs it before it touches the sideboard.

Thomas, whose eyes are as dark and shiny as Bela Lugosi’s cape, refills his glass while PERCIVAL SAYERS exchanges a glance with his sister, PRUNELLA SAYERS, and then watches her stroll to the sideboard to refresh whiskies and sodas.

THOMAS

(gazes circumspectly around)

What a long and dreary stay this is going to be. Damn, why is Matty making me partake of these shenanigans? I’m too old for this, and much too professional.

The woman had always been a wing-ding and I rather liked that about her. She was Fruit Harvest cereal to bland porridge when it came to the perpetually boring clients I’ve had to deal with.

Thomas loosens his tie, scratches a red-flecked neck and sits in one of two fabric-arm accent chairs. He regards a man strolling into the room.

THOMAS

At least there’s one person I can relate to: Jensen Moone. He reminds me of Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. Maybe it’s that melancholic or haunted look about him, like a man of great knowledge and experience who has suffered more than his fair share over the last half century or so. Or maybe it’s that huge gold crucifix protruding from that stiff shirt. Strange. What is it about that face -- that’s it. He looks like he sucks prunes all day -- a result of the stodgy London legal arena, no doubt -- but at least we can chat law.

JENSEN

(nods at Thomas and reclaims his drink from a long marble mantelpiece)

That man is too moody, much like an old brooding bachelor-uncle stuck in a somber postwar household, and eating too much Bubble’n’Squeak from the looks of those tubes around his belly. And why hasn’t he applied ointment to those bizarre blemishes on his neck and face? He’s sitting there scratching himself like a flea-infested mongrel. No, make that walrus.

If the chap isn’t going to wear tailor-made suits, he could make an effort to press and coordinate his ready-to-wear attire. What was the man thinking when he tucked that two-sizes-too-small sky-blue shirt into those clay-brown trousers? And where did he purchase that hideous brown-and-cream tie? Marks & Spencer . . .1974?

(nods at Prunella, who slips past with a demure smile)

Now there’s a striking woman. Nicely shaped. Energetic. Rather Laura Ashley, though, for someone of her years. The long braid and Birkenstocks really must go. But striking, to be sure.

PERCIVAL

(noticing Jensen’s appraising glance)

I’ll have to keep an eye on that one. Prunella is too pretty and much too ingenuous for her own good. Better she keeps her sights on her feathered friends and sticks with her associates at the Plume & Bill Guild. Matty’s brother-in-law is too moneyed and sophisticated, and way too serious for his own good. Why, Mr. London Barrister looks like he sucks on lemons -- no, make that prunes -- all day and is suffering from the repercussions of doing so. s**t. I can’t wait for these seven days to be over and done with.

PRUNELLA

(hands her brother a glass with a huge grin)

This is going to be so much fun, I just know it. Matty always threw parties to die for!

PERCIVAL

(smiles gaily and downs the drink)

Shi-it.