by R. T. Jordan
Tim lowered his glass to his lips and took a sip of the cold golden potion. Placenta and Polly followed his lead and savored their drinks as if it was the first of the evening.
Placenta said, “That was lovely, Tim. I know that’s what your Mama would have said had she not been so choked up.” Placenta looked over a Polly who had still not uttered a word since returning to the room. She reached out for Polly’s hand. “Sit down, hon. It’s okay to express your emotions and to say what’s on your mind. You’re among family.” Placenta had a great gift for comforting others during a time of grief. She had nursed Tim through more than a few broken hearts, and now her protective and mothering traits came into full force again. “Tell us what you’re feeling, sweetheart,” she said, patting Polly’s forearm.
Polly looked into Placenta’s kind eyes. She turned to Tim and forced a tight smile. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “There might be a slight problem.”
Tim took hold of Polly’s hand and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. You’ll get another job. This isn’t the end of the world. For Dana, maybe. And Sedra for sure. But not for you. Plus, your name’ll be in all the papers. I’ll bet this triggers a ton of publicity.”
Polly heaved a cryptic sigh.
Placenta took a closer examination of Polly’s face. “I’ve seen this look on you before,” she said, her compassion waning. “Like the time you taped that mean-spirited comedy sketch parodying Mary Higgins Clark, and the day before it aired Redbook came on the stands with an article she’d written about how she considered you a national treasure as well as her favorite star. Remember how you freaked and made the network destroy that bit of film, then splice in a replacement segment from a portion of an old program with Steve and Eydie—and that was in black and white! So what’s up this time?”
Polly looked away, avoiding eye contact. She looked at the ceiling. Then she looked at her Emmy Awards on the bookshelf. She glanced at the grandfather clock.
“Mother,” Tim said, “this question may sound like a nonsequiter, but I’d like you to tell us again how much you like Detective Archer. You think he’s pretty nifty, don’t you. ‘Cute’ you said. So how much did you try to impress him? How helpful were you to his investigation? You’re hardly one to keep your opinions to yourself, so what did the rich and famous celebrity tell the impressionable fan about her theories regarding a certain person of interest in the case?”
Tim and Placenta leaned in close to Polly. With four eyes boring into her soul, Polly made a loud swallowing sound. She stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and touched one of her People’s Choice awards. Finally she turned and said, “I might have…probably not, but I might…somewhere along the line…have repeated stuff that’s common knowledge.”
“Common knowledge?” Tim repeated.
“Only that Sedra had tons of enemies,” Polly said.
“Such as Duane the security guard,” Placenta encouraged.
“Right,” Polly agreed.
“And…” Tim pursued the line of questioning.
“Um, Stella the costumer,” Polly added. “Oh, and Adam’s assistant Judith.”
“And the screenwriter, Ben Whatshisname,” Tim said.
“What about Lauren the stand-in?” Placenta said, shaking her head in disbelief.
Tim prompted his mother again.
“And…oh, I don’t know, I think maybe I alluded to something about Missie and Jack and…Detective Archer may have jumped to the conclusion that Dana Pointer was capable of not only stepping over bodies, but creating the bodies in the first place. That’s all,” Polly said. “Nothing terribly tragic.”
Placenta said, “If the detective jumped to conclusions, you pushed him. What did you say to make him leap? Pretend you’re under oath, ’cause baby, something tells me you’re going to be a star again.”
Polly’s dour expression turned to a wan smile.
“A star witness in a murder trial, is what I mean,” Placenta said sternly.
“I don’t remember, what I said. Not exactly, anyway.” Polly clammed up.
“Mother, if you used your influence as Hollywood royalty to get Dana arrested…What if she’s innocent?”
“So, a jury’ll decide,” Polly said. “Like getting signatures for a ballot measure. Then you let the public vote.”
Tim was practically apoplectic. “Juries aren’t always fair, Mother! They don’t necessarily care what the verdict is. They just wanted to go home. That’s what juries are like!”
“But Dana’s a celebrity,” Polly debated. “You can’t compare some boring federal income tax evasion trial with a juicy Hollywood murder mystery, can you?”
“A jury actually acquitted O.J.,” Tim reminded, to which Polly grimaced.
Placenta took center stage. “Polly,” she began, “Tim and I have pulled you out of enough scrapes to make us honorary caped crusaders. But if you influenced the detective into casting Dana in the role of killer, and she’s not, I don’t know how we’re going to get you out of this mess.”
“I’m going to bed now, ’cause I’ve had way too much champagne, and way too much bad news for one day,” Polly said.
Placenta demanded, “First thing tomorrow we have got to find out if Dana is really guilty, or if you’ve just ruined a young girl’s career.”
“Her career would have been over after this movie anyway,” Polly sniped.
Placenta continued. “Tomorrow…you…the legendary Polly Pepper…are going to come down off your high horse of celebrity and mingle with the plebes and find out if Dana is guilty or not.”
“I’m not going to interfere with the police investigation,” Polly said adamantly.
“You already have,” Tim said. “So maybe Dana is a cold-blooded killer. But maybe she’s not. We have to find out. Otherwise, your karma is screwed for the rest of eternity.”
The next morning, when Polly arrived at the patio breakfast table, she was perturbed to find that the only items on the glass top were a scattering of bougainvillea petals. There was no place setting and no ashtray, and her badly needed Bloody Mary wasn’t waiting for her. In fact, there wasn’t any sound coming from the kitchen, and it appeared that Placenta wasn’t around. Polly steadied herself with a hand on the back of a wrought-iron chair and looked around the back yard of her estate. She squinted at her wristwatch, then complained aloud, “Where’s Hector today? And most importantly, where’s my breakfast?”
Polly tottered back into the house and entered the kitchen. She noticed that coffee was brewing and the dishwasher was going through its rinse cycle. The morning edition of the L.A. Times was on the island in the center of the room, but appeared not to have been opened. She looked around then called out Placenta’s name. There was no response. Polly called again and moved from the kitchen down the hallway toward the Great Room. She called for Placenta again, but was greeted with silence. Then, as she passed the Scarlet O’Hara Memorial Staircase, she saw Tim and Placenta coming down the steps. Again she looked at her watch.
“It’s not even ten o’clock,” she said, addressing Tim. “You’re up and dressed rather early, aren’t you?”
When Tim and Placenta reached the foot of the staircase, they both gave Polly a look that said, Don’t you remember what day this is?
Tim carried a yellow legal note pad and the three-ring binder that the production assistant had given Polly, which contained contact information for the entire cast and crew of Detention Rules! “We’ve gotta get started,” Tim said.
Polly looked slightly confused and exasperated. “I thought the production was shut down indefinitely.”
“You’re not working on set,” Placenta said. “You’re visiting Dana in jail today.”
Polly heaved a heavy sigh of irritation. “The girl hasn’t even been arraigned. I doubt that the police would let me in to see a criminal before she’s faced the judge. Anyway, I want breakfast, and it’ll take me hours to put myself together.”
Placenta put her hands on
her hips and said, “Mr. Coffee’s ready, and I’ll make toast after you’ve showered and made up. You’ve got thirty minutes. As for seeing Dana, put on your most endearing Polly Pepper persona and you can get yourself in anywhere. It’s time that you used your celebrity for something better than getting freebee theater tickets.”
Polly started to object, but Tim cut her off. “We haven’t got all day, Mother. In fact, I’m calling Detective Archer this minute and you’re going to charm him into getting you in to see Dana.” Tim flipped open his cell phone and punched in the numbers on the detective’s business card. The line rang and Detective Archer answered with a curt, “Yes?”
Tim said, “One moment for Miss Polly Pepper, please,” and tried to hand the mobile to Polly who waved it away as if she were shooing a swarm of flying termites. He pushed the device into Polly’s hands and whispered, “Your boyfriend’s on the line. Charm the man the way you did on the set!”
With a petulant look that she usually displayed after reading a bad review of her work, she accepted the phone. It took her a moment, but eventually, as if flipping a toggle that blasted a sports stadium playing field with effulgent light, Polly beamed and spoke superlatives into the mouthpiece. “Detective Archer! How are you? I’m calling to congratulate you on cracking this nasty case. You’re brilliant, simply amazing! How you deduced that Dana Pointer was your mystery killer is beyond my comprehension. You’re a sharp one! But I guess that’s why you’re assigned to protect us all from the monsters in Hollywood. Where were you when I was stuck on a dais next to Oliver Stone? Ha, ha, ha. Of course, I’m absolutely devastated to find that someone I actually knew and admired and cared for deeply, a colleague no less, is in jail for murder!”
Polly stopped and listened for a moment. “Don’t be silly. The world won’t stop revolving if you’re wrong,” she offered, hearing his misgivings about a lack of evidence. “Don’t think twice about what I said before…the rumors I heard, etcetera! You’ll find tons of proof, I’m sure of it. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling, aside from needing to hear your warm, thoughtful, intelligent voice.”
Polly listened and seemed to melt from whatever Archer had said. “Well of course, I’d love that very much,” she replied. “I was going to ask you if you didn’t pop the question first.”
Tim and Placenta both looked at Polly with exasperation.
Polly saw the frustration on their faces and reeled herself in. “There’s one other thing, Randy,” she cooed. “I’m all yours. To help with the investigation, I mean.” She giggled again and turned away from Tim and Placenta. “It’s a little crowded here at the moment. Call me later and we’ll discuss the particulars. Lovely. Ta…”
Polly was just about to disconnect the line when Tim and Placenta called out in unison, “Dana! You want to see Dana!”
“Oh, one more thing, Randy! Would you be an even greater dear…as if that’s possible…and arrange for me to visit Dana in her cell today? Oh, please? It would mean so much to her to know that someone on the outside cares. She was a colleague, even if it was only for a short while. She must be extremely frightened and lonely.”
Polly smiled. “Oh, I’m not really that much like Mother Teresa. Maybe Oprah. But thank you. I do try only to find the good in everybody.” She looked at Tim and Placenta and ignored their smirks. “Two o’clock?” Polly said to Detective Archer. “Lovely! I’ll be there. We’ll chat again tonight, shall we? Lovely,” she said again. And then Polly signed off.
“Satisfied?” she said with a hard edge to her voice as she slapped the phone into the palm of Tim’s hand. “You’ve both put me in the most untenable position. Not only do I have to go to that scummy jail house, but Detective Archer misunderstood my views on the case and now even he is having second thoughts about Dana’s guilt. Damn! Who ever listened to me before?”
Chapter 15
Apolished Rolls-Royce parked in front of the Beverly Hills police station is no more unusual than finding cocaine powder dusting a supermodel’s nose. When Polly Pepper and her entourage swept through the doors at the station on Santa Monica Boulevard, however, even the policewoman with the baritone voice and Adam’s apple was impressed. “Miss Polly Pepper, as I live and breathe!” said the recently minted woman from behind the reception desk.
“Surprise!” Polly called out, taking on the persona from one of her favorite sketch characters: a sarcastic bouncer at The Voodoo Room.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the policewoman said without a smile.
“It must be a surprise to receive a celebrity who’s not here for fingerprinting and a mug shot,” Polly said. “I suppose I’m a novelty.”
“But it’s such fun to see what they look like on a bad hair and make-up day,” said the policewoman. “Too bad we didn’t get Glen Campbell. Love that mug shot they took for his DUI. Looked like that Wichita Lineman got sparked by a lightening bolt shot up his hiney! I live for the day Paris Hilton drops in with her little mutt.”
Then she pushed a buzzer next to her desk to unlock a reinforced steel plate door at the far end of the room. “The sergeant will take you back to the prisoner,” she said.
Polly whispered to Tim, “Reminds me of Sylvester Stallone in an Eva Gabor wig.”
Polly and her tribe strode confidently through the open doorway, and a Rob Lowe lookalike in the requisite BHPD blue uniform met the trio. The officer smiled and nodded at Polly, knowing full well who she was. Then his green eyes locked with Tim’s and his smile grew wider with delight. He scanned the locally famous party planner from head to toe. “I’ve seen you in 213,” he said, referring to a freebee gossip paper in Beverly Hills. Tim was equal parts embarrassed and flattered by the obvious cruising. He returned the flirt and looked at the policeman’s name badge. “Sergeant Walker,” he said, smiling devilishly. “Is it my imagination, or is the Beverly Hills Police Department cast by the Abercrombie and Fitch advertising department?”
Sergeant Walker raised an eyebrow and in his barely beyond choirboy voice said, “Rich people pay for pretty things ’round here.”
Tim agreed. “We are kind of fussy about who arrests us for being under the influence of too much money.” He forced a laugh.
Polly and her troupe arrived outside an interrogation room. Walker unlocked the door and ushered the VIPs inside. There, seated forlornly at a long metal table, with her wrists in cuffs, and wearing an orange jailhouse uniform that nearly matched her red eyes, was Dana Pointer. Her once oft-copied hairstyle was now pulled into a ponytail. It looked as greasy as Brett Butler’s when she was on a five-day bender. Her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying.
“You’d never catch me or any of the other officers looking like that,” Sergeant Walker sniped, especially for Tim’s benefit. When Tim didn’t respond, Walker figured correctly that he just lost points for his lack of tact. He backed out of the room and closed the door.
Dana looked up, and for a moment she appeared dazed and uncertain about whom her visitors were. Then a small smile crossed her lips. “Polly? Tim?” she said. Dana acknowledged Placenta too but couldn’t remember her name. “Thank God you’re here! Get me out of this Wes Craven movie! I don’t know what I’m doing in this scene in the first place!”
“Darling, girl,” Polly cooed, spritzing the atmosphere with concern. “This is absolutely the most horrid misunderstanding. I’m sure of it. I can’t even bring myself to speak aloud the words that the press has used to discredit you. It’s appalling. I mean, geeze Louise…Crack whore. Slut. Harlot. Murderer! All in the same sentence. It’s too rude!”
Dana wailed, “No! I’m none of those things. I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m innocent! I’ve never harmed a fly! All those stories of misbehavior were created by my stupid publicist to make me look tough. I would never have touched a synthetic black hair on Sedra’s wigged head. I swear it! I’m innocent!”
Tim gazed at Dana with more pity than he’d ever looked at anyone—other than John Goodman for whom he had once
felt incredibly sorry for having to work with Roseanne. Dana was definitely pathetic. If she was indeed guilty, Tim thought she’d obviously been studying Susan Hayward’s Oscar-winning performance in I Want to Live! He stood next to Dana and said, “The papers report that the police have evidence against you. The corpse—er, Sedra, I mean—even had strands of your hair in her hands. If you didn’t commit the crime, who do you think did it? And why would the police think that you’re responsible for such a monstrous act?”
“They haven’t got anything on me!” Dana bawled. “They can’t because I’m not guilty! I loved Sedra. Okay, not loved. Not even liked. But we had a special bond. And just ‘cause you think someone is a conniving wicked bitch who deserves to die in a shark infested bathtub doesn’t mean you necessarily want them dead. Well, usually it does, but you’d never do it yourself! Christ, I’m not Robert Blake! Do I even look like a Menendez brother? You’ve gotta help me!”
“That’s exactly what we’re here to do,” Polly said, sounding as confident as Alex Trebek gleefully telling a “Jeopardy!” contestant that their answer wasn’t in the form of a question and it was dead wrong anyway. “But you’re going to have to help us in order for us to help you. Tell us why we should believe that you’re innocent.”
Dana began to weep. “Because I am!” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jump suit. “You’ve just got to trust me,” she said. “Shoot! I’m going to end up a forgotten nobody, like that old woman who played a mystery writer on television every Sunday night for like…forever!”
Polly thought for a moment and was then taken aback. “‘Murder, She Wrote’? Angela Lansbury?’”
“Whatever,” Dana said. “Grandma got a TV gig, big deal. I’m in the movies! The big screen. I don’t want to end up like her!”