The Valley of Heavenly Dreams Chapel and Mortuary, with its meticulously landscaped gardens and myriad fountains, nestled sedately in the Holmby Hills.
And within its whitewashed walls, Emerson Waldie lay at peace in his bronze coffin.
The chapel bell had just chimed eight times on this sunny morning, but even at this early hour a record number of people had already filed past the open casket.
For most of the people attending Emerson Waldie’s funeral, it wasn’t so much a case of paving their last respects as it was to make certain that Emerson Waldie was, indeed, dead.
“The minute I heard over the radio that Waldie had bought it, I chartered a private plane and flew all the way from New York,” commented a prominent producer.
“But you detested Waldie,” a friend of his replied.
“Exactly,” the producer said, smiling and moving on.
Emerson’s widow, Enid, stood in the doorway greeting people as if at a garden party. She’d arranged the funeral so that it would be over early in the morning. She didn’t want it interfering with anyone’s schedule for the day.
As for herself, she didn’t want her day interrupted, either. She was not about to miss her usual Tuesday Bridge game or her wash and set afterwards. And, of course, she would be opening her home that evening for a gathering of intimate friends. About seven hundred and fifty intimate friends.
Enid was resigned to the fact that she’d have to spend some part of the day dealing with the caterers and making sure they got everything right. She’d also have to look into getting the right band. At such late notice, most of the good bands were already booked.
What she had in mind was some fabulous South American rhythm so that the conga line would be truly memorable. She wondered if Xavier Cugat might be available.
By eleven in the morning, people were still pouring through the mortuary to view the body. Enid had given the attendants strict instructions that the coffin was to be closed by eleven-fifteen so that the procession of cars and limousines out to Forest Lawn Cemetery could begin soon afterwards.
“It’s eleven-fifteen, Mrs. Waldie,” one of the attendants mentioned to Enid just as she was getting into a deep conversation about winter fashions with Mrs. Gary Cooper and Mrs. James Cagney and Mrs. Louis B. Mayer.
“Oh, yes,” Enid said, and then in a louder, almost singsongy voice: “we’re closing the coffin everybody, we’re closing the coffin. If you want to say one final bye-bye to our dear departed Emerson, this is the time to do it.”
When everyone had had their fill of Waldie and were satisfied his death wasn’t just a rumor, Enid approached the bier and allowed out of tightened jawbones, a “bye-bye Emerson,” before lowering the top of the coffin herself.
“Okay, everyone,” she said cheerfully. “You all know the way to Forest Lawn. And if you don’t, just follow Emerson.”
Emerson Waldie, his countenance never again to be viewed, was wheeled out of the chapel and down a series of halls to what was known as the “waiting room” from where he would be wheeled into the back of a waiting hearse.
Only the hearse wasn’t waiting. Apparently it had a flat tire that was now being fixed in the mortuary garage.
The two attendants whose job it was to load the deceased for the final journey were told that it would only be a matter of five or ten minutes before the hearse would be ready. Which was roughly the amount of time it usually took the mourners to reach their cars and get ready for the trip.
“Time for a smoke,” one of the attendants said, heading for the staff room with the other attendant following.
There had been a period in the mid-thirties when Emerson Waldie had made a dozen or so horror films such as The Coffin Creaks and The Zombies of Zanzibar and The Creeper. But none of them had a story line or visual shock element that could compare with the moment when the dead man in the coffin in the “waiting room” at the Valley of Heavenly Dreams Chapel and Mortuary lifted the lid of his own coffin and sat up.
“Where the fuck am I?” grumbled Emerson Waldie who, although he’d been pronounced dead once at his offices and once again at the hospital, was anything but.
Climbing out of the coffin, Waldie let the lid drop and went sliding across the highly polished floor in his stocking feet. It was the policy of this mortuary never to bury the dead in shoes as the corpse’s feet weren’t visible to viewers, hidden as they were under quilted padding.
In his garish white makeup and formal tails, and obviously mis- diagnosed as dead, Waldie opened a door leading to the hall and went through it.
The hall was deserted as was this part of the building. The mortuary staff was busily attending to the many guests who’d come here to be part of the Waldie funeral, the largest, and in the words of one guest, the most “awaited” funeral in Hollywood.
Waldie was extremely groggy from his ordeal which had been caused by a cataleptic seizure. Although rare, this malady was a known medical condition, characterized by a heart rate and pulse that seemed nil. A person suffering from certain forms of catalepsy almost always appeared to be dead. He or she might not stir again for days, often when six feet under.
But Waldie had awakened from his trance-state earlier than usual and was, at this very moment, shuffling toward the side exit of this mortuary, instinctively wishing to be away from the building.
Once outside, Waldie made straight for the road and was walking along when a pickup truck screeched to a halt.
“Hey, old timer,” called the driver of the truck, a young gardener, “can I give you a lift?”
Waldie, not yet functioning, climbed into the truck and let himself be removed from the grounds of the Valley of Heavenly Dreams Chapel and Mortuary.
A few minutes later, his coffin was loaded onto the hearse by the attendants who commented on how “light” this particular body was.
“Damn near got a hernia carrying that Fatty Arbuckle onto the wagon that time,” one of them said.
“Know what you mean,” the other replied.
The funeral possession began shordy after, the Cadillac hearse leading at least one hundred cars to Forest Lawn Cemetery where the empty coffin was duly buried.