Vernier's Palace
"This is it, Hedy, my love," the old man said, tossing the newspaper into the trash. "I have to close the place because of this pandemic. We're not an essential business. And without paying customers, I might be forced to shut down for good."
In truth, part of him was glad for the news. Verner's Palace of Wax had been bleeding money for years, and he had been loath to pull the plug on it. Unless the pandemic passed quickly, he would have no choice.
"I'm sorry, but I've spent every cent I had to keep this museum afloat. I can't even sell my house because it's mortgaged to the hilt."
Born on October 24, 1929 (a date remembered as "Black Thursday"), Augustus Vernier had the misfortune to come into the world the same day the stock market crashed. Although his parents were loving, hardworking people, they were also poor. Thus, his early life had been one of deprivation and hunger, worthy of a novel by John Steinbeck. Zefram Vernier frequently left home in search of work, going wherever the limited job market took him.
With his father gone so often, young Augustus was left with his mother. In the evenings, when her work was done—like her husband, Faye did what she could to earn money—she would teach her son how to draw. The boy had a real talent for art; however, sculpting became his passion. He would spend hours molding and remolding his modeling clay, making figures of cats, dogs and eventually humans. His skills did not go unnoticed. When he entered school, his teachers encourage his interest in art.
"That boy is a prodigy," the school's principal told Faye. "He ought to be properly trained. It would be a pity to see him waste his life on some factory assembly line. There's an art school in the city. It's one of the finest in the country."
"My husband and I haven't any money for lessons. We can barely afford to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads."
"I'm fairly certain, given your boy's talent, he could get a scholarship. There's just one problem. The school is too far for him to travel to every day. He'll need to live closer."
"But our home is here. We can't just up and move."
"That wouldn't be necessary. I have a sister in the city. She could take the boy in—at no expense to you. If you will allow him to go, that is."
"He's only ten. That's too young for him to be away from home. And with my husband off building roads with the WPA, I'd be left all alone."
"Well, the decision is yours, of course. I'm sure you'll do what's best for your son."
After the principal left, Faye returned to her sewing. Piecework did not pay much, but at least it brought some money in.
Is this what I want for my boy? she wondered as she worked the needle in and out of the fabric. To spend the rest of his life working for peanuts?
"What is it you want?" she asked her son, after telling him of the opportunity that had presented itself.
"I want to be an artist," he cried.
"It will mean going away and living with strangers."
"But I can come home on holidays, can't I? Dad does."
"Yes, I would imagine so."
"Then I want to go to art school."
Brushing her tears away with her apron, she made the unselfish decision to let her son go.
Fifteen years later, hoping to take advantage of the postwar economic boom, Augustus borrowed money from the bank to open Vernier’s Palace of Wax in the ever-expanding suburbs outside the city. He began his collection with figures from history (Abraham Lincoln, Napoleon, George Washington, Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I) and more modern leaders (Winston Churchill, Harry Truman and Franklin Delano Roosevelt). The most popular exhibits were those of Hollywood celebrities such as James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Bette Davis, Clark Gable and his personal favorite, Hedy Lamarr.
Over the years, he added new figures. Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Marlon Brando and Rock Hudson joined Elizabeth Taylor, Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn. In addition to Hollywood stars, he sculpted John and Robert Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Charles Lindbergh, John Glenn and Babe Ruth. Always willing to adapt to changing times, Augustus responded to his customers’ demands for a chamber of horrors and created a subterranean display area, which he called the Palace Dungeon, that featured Dracula, Frankenstein's monster and the Wolfman.
For more than fifty years, Vernier's Palace of Wax prospered and grew. The building was enlarged to three stories plus the dungeon, and the number of wax figures grew to more than three hundred. Along with the new millennium, though, came a drop in business. Despite increased advertising, the number of paying customers decreased. Augustus took out a loan to pay for new multimedia entertainment, similar to that offered at Madame Tussauds. Sales did increase but only temporarily. No matter how much money he put into the business, it continued to die a slow death.
And now he was faced with having to close because of COVID-19.
* * *
"You do realize you'll be lucky to break even if I sell this place," realtor Dolly Stamphill said when Augustus decided to put his house on the market.
"I know, but I want to cut my losses before I drown in them."
"If you don't mind my asking, where will you live if the house is sold? Retirement communities can be quite expensive."
Dolly had a kind heart and a pronounced soft spot for senior citizens. She would hate to see a man in his nineties homeless.
"I intend to live with my family," he told her.
"That's good. A lot of elderly people move in with their children."
Augustus, who never married, had no children. His "family" consisted of his wax creations. Once his house, his furnishing and most of his personal belongings were sold, he would sleep on the sofa in his studio. There was a small refrigerator and a microwave in the adjoining lunchroom where he would prepare his meals, and he would perform his daily ablutions in the museum's men's room.
"My social security check will cover whatever food and personal hygiene items I need," he told the always attentive Hedy Lamarr. "And I'll turn off all the power except in my studio. My only concern is not being able to pay the taxes when they come due. Oh, well. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."
Thanks to Dolly Stamphill's efforts, he netted five thousand dollars when his house was sold. Auctioning off everything else brought in another thirty-five hundred.
"If I live on ramen noodles for the next six months and pinch every penny until Honest Abe screams out for mercy, I just might get through this crisis, providing I live that long."
At ninety-one, Augustus did not take tomorrow for granted. Although he looked twenty years younger than he was and felt like a man of forty, he knew all that could change without warning. He considered himself lucky when he woke up in the mornings and knew full-well he might be dead before the day ended.
Back in '93, he had the opportunity to sell the museum to a large entertainment conglomerate for a considerable sum of money. He could have taken their offer and retired in comfort. But like many senior citizens, he believed if he stopped working, he would go downhill. He had seen it happen so often before. Besides, what would he do with his so-called golden years? Play bingo? Take up golf? Sculpting was more than a profession; it was his life.
"It's you and the others that keep me going, Hedy. Without you all, I would most likely have gone to the grave years ago."
Once his house was sold, Augustus moved his clothes and cherished family mementos into the studio.
Home sweet home, he thought as he hung his parents' wedding photo on the wall.
Like many elderly people in the COVID-19 world, the old man practiced strict social distancing. He self-quarantined, rarely venturing outside the Palace. During the daytime hours, he worked on a new figure, one of Julius Caesar. At night, he read books he borrowed from the library's bookmobile. Finally, when he turned the studio lights out at eleven, weather permitting, he would stare at the moon and stars through the overhead skylight.
It was a warm, summer night, as he lay awake gazing up at the full moon, waiting to fall asleep, that he heard the blaring sound of a smoke detector. He jumped out of bed, threw the master switch that controlled all the lights in Vernier's Palace and opened the studio door. The distinctive smell of burning wax immediately hit him, and he followed the scent to its source. The recently completed figures of married couple Nico Tallis and Mae Richter, two of Hollywood's brightest young stars, had somehow caught fire. Their costumes burned away, the wax melted down into puddles and all that remained was their metal armature.
He grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and quickly put out the remaining flames before they could spread to the scenery.
"How the hell did you two catch fire?" he asked rhetorically.
The sculptor asked the police the same question when they responded to his 911 call.
"It looks like someone climbed up the fire escape and broke in through the emergency exit door on the second floor," the senior of the two officers informed him once he had the opportunity to investigate. "Kids, most likely."
"Yeah. Since this quarantine has been in effect, they've been getting into all sorts of mischief," his partner added.
"It was a good thing you were here tonight. If you hadn't been, the whole place might have burned down."
The thought of his life's work going up in smoke frightened the old man. He had never seen the need for a security system except for locks on the doors. Maybe he should look into having alarms installed. But could he afford them?
When he returned to his studio, he lay on his couch for hours, looking up at the sky and wondering what would become of his family after he was gone. Would someone buy the wax figures and give them a new home or—God forbid!—would they all be destroyed? Would nearly seventy years of hard work result in nothing more than a hot mess of melted paraffin?
"Not my darling Hedy!" he cried out. "Of all my creations, I pray that she will be spared."
It occurred to him that he should have drawn up a will. He may not have any money to bequeath and no living relatives, but perhaps he could leave the figures to another museum, with the specific request that his Hedy Lamarr not be altered in any way.
"That's what I'll do," he vowed, as sleep finally came to him. "Tomorrow, I'll write out my will."
When he closed his eyes and drifted off to a peaceful slumber, he had no idea that the following day would bring a drastic change in his life.
* * *
Augustus woke the next morning and turned on his electric coffeepot. As he waited for his morning dose of caffeine to brew, he debated whether to continue with Julius Caesar until it was completed or to re-sculpt Nico Tallis and Mae Richter first.
"I don't suppose it matters much, Hedy," he said to his beloved wax figure that stood in its place of honor in the studio. "I don't know when or even if the museum will open again."
The news on the radio was grim. The number of COVID cases was rising at an alarming rate. Like Vernier's Palace, restaurants, theaters, gyms, amusement parks and other nonessential businesses were closed.
As he added the non-dairy creamer and sugar to his coffee, the newscaster changed topics.
"And in Hollywood today," he announced, "tragedy struck. Nico Tallis and Mae Richter were killed when their Malibu beach house burned to the ground."
What an odd coincidence! Augustus thought.
After finishing his coffee and a store-brand toaster pastry, he went to the museum's red carpet section to assess the damage done by the fire. Although the two figures had been completely destroyed, the scenery behind them could be salvaged.
All it needs is a good cleaning or repainting to get rid of the smoke stains. It means more work for me, but at least I won't be bored during this quarantine.
He took a step back and bumped into the wax figure of Buster Amos, an actor who was due to star in the next Martin Scorsese film. The sculpture teetered and fell in such a way that the right arm broke off.
As if I didn't have enough work to do. Now I've got to mend this as well. Thank heavens, it was just an arm. I'd hate to have to redo another whole face and body.
Losing an arm may not have been a big deal for a wax sculpture, but to an action star like Buster Amos, it was devastating. Within moments of his paraffin likeness crashing to the floor, the Oscar winner was in a motorcycle accident, during which his right arm was ripped from his body. When Augustus heard the news, he was stunned. He was reminded of the old song "My Grandfather's Clock," in which the clock "stopped short, never to go again, when the old man died."
"Are my children"—a word he often used to refer to his wax creations—"being damaged and destroyed because the people that inspired them were maimed and killed? No," he quickly decided. "When John Lennon was shot and killed outside the Dakota, no harm came to his wax likeness."
An illustrator often draws a light bulb above the head of a cartoon character to indicate that the character had a brilliant idea. If his life were a comic strip, a giant light bulb would surely have appeared above Augustus's head at that moment.
"I might have gotten it all wrong! Maybe the damage to the wax figures was not a result but a cause. My figures may not have melted because Nico Tallis and Mae Richter died in a fire. It may have been the other way around. The same can be true with Buster Amos. He lost his arm because his wax figure did."
If there were only some way he could test his theory. He supposed he could deliberately set one of his figures on fire, but then he might kill an innocent person in the process.
"I don't necessarily have to kill anyone. After all, Buster Amos isn't dead. Maybe I can just slightly damage one of my children and see what effect that would have on its human counterpart."
Augustus walked through the corridors of the museum, trying to choose a test subject. He did not bother entering the sections devoted to historical figures since all the subjects within it were deceased.
"I don't want anyone with too high a profile," he decided as he quickly walked past Tom Hanks, Al Pacino, Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep."
He stopped in front of Desdemona (no last name), a pop star diva, who appeared in one movie, which despite her lack of acting skills, was a box office success. The singer-turned-actress was not exactly pretty but she had an incredible head of hair that she had dyed a deep, rich red similar to the color of ripe pomegranate seeds.
Hair can grow back, he thought as he removed the scarlet locks from the wax figure.
Augustus had to wait two days before learning his hypothesis was proved correct. The news reported that through a freak accident with a mislabeled hair coloring agent, Desdemona's hair had come out by the handfuls, leaving her completely bald.
"Do you know what this means, Hedy?" he asked excitedly. "I literally hold the power of life and death in my hands!"
* * *
When Vernier's Palace of Wax was finally allowed to reopen, August had to comply with the state's regulations concerning customer capacity and take the necessary health and safety measures. The former was easy since there were few customers. The latter was more costly since he not only had to purchase disinfectants but also had to hire a part-timer to help him keep the place clean.
"Honestly, Hedy, I'm losing more money than I was when the place was closed down!"
After using the last of his stimulus money to pay the electric bill, the old man was officially broke. His monthly social security check would not cover his operating expenses.
"There's no way out of this financial mess. And with no one to turn to and nowhere to go, I'll be homeless. Hell, I don't even have a car I can sleep in."
Augustus turned his tear-filled eyes toward the wax figure of Hedy Lamarr. Her beautiful face had not changed in the more than half a century since he had sculpted it. When the bank foreclosed on his loans, they would seize his assets including his pride and joy.
For the first time in his long life, he contemplated suicide. He had no religious beliefs, so he did not fear eternal damnation.
I've had a good long life. Why shouldn't I end it now? But how would I do it? he wondered.
He did not own a gun. The thought of hanging from the end of a rope seemed too barbaric. And forget about slitting his wrists; that was far too messy and painful.
I suppose I could ingest something poisonous. Or, he thought with a bitter chuckle, I could create a wax figure of myself and then break its head off.
It has often been said that all things come to those who wait. His reversal of fortune came the following week. A leading story on the nightly news was that suspected mob boss Angelo Lucchese was about to go on trial for racketeering. His brother-in-law and long-time second-in-command, Luigi Martinelli, had agreed to testify against him. If convicted, Angelo would spend the rest of his life behind bars.
Now, it just so happens, Augustus knew the Lucchese family. The crime boss had grown up on the same block where the sculptor once lived. The old man knew the mobster's parents and his grandparents. Although he did not approve of Angelo's criminal past, he still felt sorry for him.
"I don't suppose all his millions will get him out of this mess. A bit of his ill-gotten gains could sure help me, though."
Another light bulb moment occurred.
"A quid pro quo!" he exclaimed. "I can help him, and he can help me. But how difficult will it be for me to meet with him?"
The old man had no hope of trying to contact the mobster through his lawyer or one of his many henchmen; so, he appealed directly to Angelo's mother, who was still living three doors down from Augustus's old house. The meeting was held four days later at her home.
"I agreed to see you at my mother's request," Lucchese said, "and because I remember you as a nice old man who gave out good candy at Halloween."
"Snickers bars," Augustus recalled with a smile.
"Yeah, full-size, not those bite-size ones. So, what can I do for you, Mr. Vernier?"
"It's what we can do for each other."
"I don't want to offend you, but what can a guy who owns a wax museum do for me?"
"Is it true that the state's whole case against you is based on Luigi Martinelli's testimony?"
Angelo's face darkened with anger.
"What is this?" he asked warily.
"Look, let me be perfectly honest. I'm sinking in debt. By this time next week, I'll probably be living on the street. If I can see to it that your brother-in-law never testifies against you, will you help me out financially?"
"And how are you going to do that? Throw him into a vat of hot wax like Vincent Price did in that old movie about the wax museum?"
"Not exactly. But"—Augustus lowered his voice despite there being no one else in the room—"I will have to kill him."
"Lotsa luck! He's in the Witness Protection Program; nobody knows where he is."
"Let me worry about that. Just answer me. If I succeed, will you help me?"
"You kill that rat bastard brother-in-law of mine, and you'll never have to worry about money again. You got my word on that."
* * *
Working under a deadline, Augustus used the torso and legs intended for Julius Caesar rather than create new ones. In record time, he made a pair of strong, muscular arms and a thick, beefy neck. Then, working from recent photographs of the burly former hitman, he carefully sculpted a head and face. Despite being rushed to complete the figure, no detail was omitted.
"Warts and all, as Oliver Cromwell once said," speaking to his work-in-progress. "Or, in your case, scars and all."
When the face was completed, all that remained was the hair. Normally, he would take hours to insert individual human hairs into a warm wax scalp; but he did not have the time to spare. Instead, he found a salt-and-pepper wig that he trimmed down to resemble Luigi Martinelli's receding hairline and thinning hair. After a minor adjustment, he stepped back to admire his work. The likeness was incredible. It was doubtful even Luigi's family could tell the figure apart from the living human at first glance.
"It's almost a shame I have to destroy it."
Rather than burn the completed figure, he chose a more dramatic form of death for the stoolpigeon gangster, a bit of pièce de théâtre. He had recently reread Arthur Miller's The Crucible and decided Angelo's treacherous bête noire would receive the same form of punishment as accused witch Giles Corey: peine forte et dure; he would be crushed by heavy stones.
After securing the wax figure on a metal dolly, Augustus rolled it to the elevator and took it down to cellar where the backdrops for the exhibits were created. He laid the figure on the floor, face up, and covered it with a sheet of heavy plywood. Although there were no stones available, there was an assortment of bricks.
"These ought to do the trick," the old man said.
One by one, he placed the bricks onto the plywood. It took more than two hours of labor for the weight to finally crush the figure beneath the wood. Although the face, hands and feet were still in one piece, the rest of the body was reduced to broken chunks of wax and bent armature.
"That's taken care of, Hedy, my love," he announced when he returned to his studio. "Now, we wait and see what happens."
* * *
It was Angelo Lucchese's mother who phoned Augustus two days later.
"You and I had such a nice visit the other day," she said, not wanting to reveal any incriminating information in case law enforcement had put a wiretap on her phone. "I thought we would do it again. Would tomorrow be too soon for you?"
"Not at all. I love visiting the old neighborhood."
"Good. I'll make a cake, and we can have coffee."
When Augustus returned to Angelo's childhood home, the mobster was already there.
"I understand condolences are in order," the old man said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes. My brother-in-law has passed. Good rest his soul. It was a freak accident. A brick wall fell down on him. I don't suppose you know anything about that?"
"It's a dangerous world we live in."
Angelo leaned forward, lowered his voice and asked, "Was it your doing?"
"Yes."
"How did you manage it?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
The mobster's voice was chilling.
"I made a wax figure of Luigi Martinelli and then crushed it under a pile of bricks."
A panoply of emotions played across the mob boss's face as he considered the old man's explanation. Finally, a smile appeared.
"Kinda like a voodoo doll, huh?"
"Exactly."
When Angelo reached into his jacket pocket, Augustus felt a moment of fear. When the mob boss's hand came out, however, it held an envelope filled with cash, not a gun.
"Here. This is yours."
"This is too much," the sculptor uttered.
"Nonsense! You deserve every penny of it!"
When Augustus entered his studio, he felt like a victorious king returning to his castle after vanquishing his enemy.
"We're home free now, Hedy, darling! Vernier's Palace of Wax won't close as long as I'm alive."
That evening, after dining on surf and turf delivered by DoorDash from a nearby restaurant, Augustus sat on his couch with a glass of wine and thumbed through the real estate section of the newspaper. It was high time he moved into a house again and slept on a real bed. Maybe he would take Hedy with him.
He was reading the description of a three-bedroom Tudor less than a mile from the museum when he heard the whir of the elevator.
"What was that?" he wondered, fearing kids had come back to the museum to vandalize his precious children.
Once the elevator stopped, he heard a scraping sound as though something heavy was being dragged down the hall. He reached for the phone to call the police. Suddenly, the door burst open.
"Good God!" the old man screamed when he saw the wax face of Luigi Martinelli above the flattened metal armature.
As the bent and broken figure neared him, dragging a useless left leg behind it and shedding bits of wax as it moved, Augustus cowered in fear.
"This can't be happening! That thing is not human."
Human or not, the face of Luigi Martinelli wore a malevolent grin as it wrapped its wax fingers around the old man's throat and squeezed. The last thing Augustus Vernier saw before death ended his ninety-one-year reign on earth was the beautiful, never-aging face of Hedy Lamarr.
"My Grandfather's Clock" (originally titled "Grand-Father's Clock") was written in 1876 by Henry Clay Work.
Image in upper left corner is of Hedy Lamarr.
Madame Tussauds in London once made a giant figure of Salem. They got rid of it when they noticed all the Cadbury Dairy Milk bars were missing from the gift shop.
