Yvette Vickers, a Playboy Playmate and B-movie star of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman and Attack of the Giant Leeches, was discovered dead and mummified in her Beverly Hills home last week. Yvette was 82.
The authorities believe that Yvette might have been dead in her home for about a year. Not one soul checked in on Yvette until her neighbor Susan Savage noticed that something in the milk wasn’t clean. There were cobwebs all over Yvette’s front door and a stack of mail had started to yellow. Susan broke into Yvette’s house and found her. This leads me to quietly type out an extra long “the heeeeeeeeeeeell.”
The L.A. Times reports that the coroner is trying to determine a cause of death, but her mummified state tells them that she most likely passed away a year ago. They don’t believe foul play had a part in Yvette’s death.
Susan told the Times that when she broke into Yvette’s house through a window, there was stuff everywhere and when she entered a room upstairs she found a completely unrecognizable Yvette on the floor. The cordless phone was knocked off of its cradle and a small space heater in the room was still on. Susan says that the entire neighborhood has been crying and feels awful that Yvette died alone. Susan added, “She kept to herself, had friends and seemed like a very independent spirit. To the end she still got cards and letter from all over the world requesting photos and still wanting to be her friend.”
There are so many questions jumping through my head over this one. Who was paying the bills (damn you, automatic bill pay)?! Why didn’t the postman ring twice when he noticed that Yvette’s front door area started to look like the inside of an IRS agent’s office (complete with cobwebs and that sinking lonely feeling)? What brand of space heater did Yvette use, because it’s sort of impressive that it stayed on that long? Is Susan a New Yorker to the core, because who doesn’t check on their neighbors when their front yard starts to look like an accidental homage to The Munsters mansion? Most neighbors would knock on the door, but not because they want to see if the person is alright. But because they want to yell at them to mow their lawn before property values start to drop.
What a shot of sadness. But I’d like to think that Yvette went peacefully. I’d also like to think that after you die, you really don’t give a shit that you died alone since you’re playing Jenga with the angels up in heaven.
Rest in peace, Yvette.