A Talent for Murder

by R. T. Jordan

  Lying on the chaise beside Polly’s Puddle, the name she gave to her elegant Olympic-size swimming pool at Pepper Plantation, Polly reread the I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous contestant bios. “A live television show is just too exciting for words,” she said to Tim, who was also soaking up the UVs, but paying more attention to the perspiring landscaping crew than to his mother. “This is going to be like stealing money!” Polly said. “I get paid fairly well just for critiquing a few kids who are trying to sing, then asking them nosy questions that are supposed to reveal how nutsycuckoo they are. Why didn’t someone invent this concept for throwing cash at celebrities sooner?”

  Tim divided his attention between his mother and his favorite gardener, Fernando. “I read the outline of what’s expected of you,” he said. “It seems as though we’ll be on the go most of the week. You’re required to give interviews and to tape promos for the show. I saw something in there about personal appearances at malls and stores and clubs where the demographic audience hangs out. And Fridays sound grueling. They can keep you at the studio from ten a.m. until midnight. Remember how tough shooting days were for your own show?”

  “But this is a live broadcast, dear, so the program can’t last more than two hours,” Polly said.

  There was indeed more work to do to prep for the debut of I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous than Polly had anticipated. The rest of the week was punishing.

  Along with the other judges and the host Steve Benjamin, Polly spent three days taping a series of national television commercial spots, and being interviewed for TV Guide, Parade, Redbook, People, O, and the National Peeper. She appeared on the talk show circuit and visited Leno, Conan, and Craig Ferguson. When Polly finally got to Ellen, she brought a gift beautifully wrapped in wedding paper. “For you and Portia. A little late, but then I wasn’t invited to the nuptials.” The studio audience laughed when they saw the gift was a copy of Polly’s old record album, Priceless Polly. The low point came when she was ushered by limo to the Snake Pit, for a live local news interview at 11:00 p.m. The Snake Pit was a trendy bar on Sunset Boulevard, made famous by a string of drug-related deaths among young up-and-coming actors and models. The establishment was indeed a pit. It stank of alcohol and mildew, and other odors that Polly identified with her trip to Calcutta in the dead of summer. The so-called music was heavy on bass, and light on understandable lyrics. It was so loud that Polly had to communicate with Tim and Placenta by writing on cocktail napkins.

  “When I was their age, we had real music,” Polly cheerfully yelled out to the Channel 7 reporter who was covering her club visit for the Eyewitness News broadcast.

  “Um, Mother, you’re insulting the very demographic audience the show wants to reach,” Tim loudly whispered into her ear.

  Embarrassment played across Polly’s face and she immediately laughed and said, “There I go, sounding like Methuselah—or Diana Ross. Personally, I love all the new music and stars! I keep Big Bow Wow’s CDs on a leash! Usher, and that pretty what’s-her-name—Mary O’Blige, too.”

  When the reporter turned the broadcast back to the studio anchor, the too-perky-for-television newsgirl said, “Polly Pepper. She’s history.”

  By the time Thursday night finally arrived, Tim and Placenta returned Polly to Pepper Plantation and had to help her ascend the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. At last in the sanctuary of her luxurious bathroom, she immersed her tired body in the hot, scented, sudsy, and curative waters of her Jacuzzi jet tub. There, with a glass of champagne resting on her bath caddy, she listened to precareer-crashing Whitney Houston piped throughout the house sound system. “Didn’t I say that J.J. is a lying beast? He promised easy money. What a crock! I haven’t even had time for a date with Randy this week!”

  Tim reminded his mother that it was actually she who had expected a big payoff for nearly zero effort. “As for Randy,” he said, “you haven’t even mentioned him since melting over pretty boy Richard Dartmouth.”

  Polly waved Tim away. “Can I help it if I have excellent taste in God’s own works of human art? Anyway, Randy’s a keeper. I wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship for anything. At least not at this early stage in the game. And don’t tell me that you didn’t have the exact same response to Mr. Sterling Studios executive boy wonder as you did to James McAvoy!”

  Tim blushed. “He’s just okay. At least he took your mind off Thane Cornwall.”

  Polly took another therapeutic sip from her champagne flute. “I’m more than a little concerned about blowing my image if Mr. Cornwall attacks me while we’re on the air. I’m not one to easily step away from an altercation, especially if I’m in the right.”

  “Which is always,” Placenta said. “After tomorrow’s show, things will calm down.”

  “We’ll get into a comfortable routine, and life will once again be sunshine and lollipops,” Tim added.

  “Then we’ll invite Richard D. over for a little tea and sympathy,” Polly said. “Now, please refill Mummy’s glass and allow her to die in private.”

  Chapter 3

  Although the morning sun had been shining over Pepper Plantation for hours, the mistress of the manor and her son were still tucked in their respective beds, each of them dreaming—of Ryan Seacrest.

  When Placenta knocked on Polly’s bedroom door, pulled down the bedsheets, and swatted her boss’s behind to wake her up, Polly complained, “Nightmares come true. You’re still in the house!”

  “Su casa mi casa!” Placenta said. “Rise ‘n shine, Golden Oldie! Breakfast is on the bed stand: two Advil and a Bloody Mary.”

  Polly groaned in protest, but managed to lean over and retrieve her drink and pills. Within an hour she was showered, dressed, coiffed, and seated behind Tim in her Rolls-Royce. Placenta, too, was enjoying the ride, and completing the New York Times crossword. The trio arrived at Studio B on the Sterling Studios lot just as the gloved hands on Polly’s Mickey Mouse edition Cartier wristwatch pointed to the inlaid diamonds that indicated it was time to put on her meet ‘n greet face.

  With the exception of her appearances on talk shows, it had been years since Polly had set foot on a televi sion studio soundstage. Now memories of practically living on the set of her own show, The Polly Pepper Playhouse, flooded back to her. She consciously inhaled the scents wafting through the cavernous stage. She absorbed the hullabaloo of the tech crews running microphone and lighting checks and testing the strength of the staircase from which the contestants would descend when introduced by host Steven Benjamin.

  Polly blinked as if she were a camera lens shutter, capturing all the visual information for replay. It was an exhilarating moment for her. And for Tim and Placenta, too. They knew what this opportunity meant to Polly. She was where she belonged.

  However, that peace lasted only a fraction of a moment. Before Polly had an opportunity to say how very Norma Desmond she felt, Thane Cornwall flounced onto the soundstage, shouting at a skinny young man with large glasses, a freckled nose, and a losing battle to keep up with Thane’s pace. Tears were trickling down the young man’s cheeks as he tried to take notes on a pad.

  “You’re incompetent!” Thane roared. “When Richard Dartmouth calls, I’m not available. Why wouldn’t you know that?”

  “Because he’s the boss.”

  “I am never to be summoned like a common mutt! I may as damn well say it, you’re as thick as a brick!”

  Polly and her troupe watched in horror. “I’m trying to do the best I can!” the young man begged.

  Thane stopped, turned around, and looked down at the young man. “Trying is not doing!” Thane bellowed. “And stop your girly crying! I can’t be the first with the guts to tell you the truth, that you’re a hopeless twit! Your parents? A high school teacher? Someone must have held a mirror up to you! Just go away and bring me coffee! And, Michael, don’t ask me again how I like it! I hate repeating myself. But if it isn’t right… so help me!”

  As the young man scurried away, Thane noticed Po
lly and her entourage staring at him. “What?” Thane roared. “He’s an idiot. I don’t have time for fools! This amateur show assigned a dimwit to be my assistant. A worthless piece of…” He paused and took a deep breath. “Okay. I lost my temper. But it’s his fault. When he comes back, if he comes back, send him to my dressing room.” Thane Cornwall stormed away, yelling, “If he brings me anything latte, I’ll kill him.”

  Polly, Tim, and Placenta watched dumbfounded as Thane left the stage. “I’ve worked with more than a few bombastic nuts in my time, but he definitely tops my Paul Lynde vicious list!” Polly said.

  At that moment, a cheerful older man with a walkietalkie and a clipboard appeared at Polly’s side. “Miss Pepper? I’m Curtis Lawson. Your director,” he said. “We weren’t properly introduced at Monday’s meeting.”

  Polly’s smile grew wide as she held out her hand to greet Curtis. “That was entirely my fault,” she cooed. “You’re an extremely busy man. I should have pursued you. In fact, I wanted to tell you how much I adored your last feature film … that Disney thing … with the talking tarantulas. … So cute! So big! So hairy! So John Travolta.” Tim had Googled Curtis Lawson and tried to get his mother to memorize his credits.

  Curtis’s pleasure was obvious. “And I’m a huge fan of yours, from way, way back,” he gushed.

  “That far, eh?” Polly deadpanned. “The Natural History Museum is exhibiting my bones next month. I can get you a VIP pass.” She forced a laugh. “Speaking of bones, I have one to pick with that Mr. Thane Cornwall. Did you see the fuss he made a moment ago?”

  Curtis lost his smile. “I’ve had just about enough of

  Mr. Ego Cornwall, and those misfits they call contestants,” he said. “If I get one more demand for rose petals to be floating in the ladies’ dressing room toilets, or minibars to be stocked with something stronger than Mountain Dew, I swear I’ll jump off the Sterling Studio’s water tower!”

  “Hold off until you need a ratings boost,” Placenta encouraged.

  “I haven’t got the cojones anyway,” Curtis admitted. “I’m not really complaining. Jobs are few and far between these days. But the lack of respect from these kids, and the crass Thane Cornwall—even Richard Dar—” Curtis abruptly stopped. “Never mind. I’m just exhausted. It’s been the week from hell, but we’re finally to show number one. If we’re a hit, then all the chaos and ghoulish experiences will have been worth it.”

  “What’s on the agenda?” Polly asked. “Any more interviews today?”

  “Channel Seven may want you after the broadcast. For now, you can relax. I’ll show you to your dressing room,” Curtis said. He cocked his head toward the backstage area and cautiously escorted Polly and her troupe across the studio set, and over a floor that was booby-trapped with thick black electrical cables snaking everywhere. He looked at his watch. “If all goes well, the audience will be let in at three o’clock. Then we’ll do the blocking and camera queues and have the run-through by four o’clock. Then we go live at six and judge the demons.”

  “What about the questions and answers segment?” Polly said. “I haven’t received my script.”

  Curtis gave Polly a blank look. “That was covered in the material that production sent to you,” he said. “They’re supposed to be extemporaneous.”

  “You mean I have to make up my own?” Polly said as they stopped in front of a door labeled with her name on a gold star. “There should be writers for this sort of thing!”

  “Can you say, ‘cheap-o network’?” Placenta said.

  “What should I ask? I’m not prepared,” Polly panicked.

  Curtis suddenly looked as nervous as his star judge. “Um, er, you can ask them anything you want. Just make the questions as provocative as possible. Encourage the contestants to tell a ton of lies about the lengths to which they’ll go to get the most votes and thus win the grand prize.”

  Tim asked, “What exactly is the big payoff? A million dollars? A new Lamborghini? A shopping spree with Carson Kressley?”

  Curtis smiled. “At the end of the summer, the contestant with the most votes from the judges, combined with the television audience’s votes, will get a totally legal Get Out of Jail Free card. It’s redeemable at their first misdemeanor court appearance in Hollywood.”

  “Exactly what every star needs these days,” Placenta said.

  “God knows how many off-their-pedestal celebrities would have killed for such a card! Randy Quaid could have kept his career,” Polly added.

  “That’s a pretty nifty prize, especially since, from what I’ve heard, this group of contestants is one step below schizophrenic,” Tim said. “But isn’t there something more fun, like a ticket to one of Britney and Jamie Lynn Spears’s Family Values seminars? Or a date in the Los Angeles County Prison’s laundry facilities with Kiefer Sutherland?”

  “The winner also gets an appearance on Good Morning, America,” Curtis said with pride. “To be interviewed by Diane Sawyer.”

  “Oh dear, what questions will I ask these kids? I need darling Bruce Vilanch to write my material!” Polly fretted. She thought for a moment, then turned to Tim. “To become famous, would you be willing to auction off your kidneys on eBay?”

  He played along. “Duh! Ever hear of dialysis?”

  Polly turned to Placenta. “Would you kidnap a studio executive and ransom him for a role on Grey’s Anatomy?”

  “As fast as you can say, ‘B-bye, Isaiah Washington’,” Placenta harrumphed.

  Again Polly looked at Tim. “Costar in a film with Rob Schneider?”

  “Um, that’s going too far even for the most desperate wannabe,” he said.

  “That’s it!” Curtis said. “Just ask insane questions like those and you’ll be home free! Now, I’ve got to get over to Cell Block D, otherwise known as the contestants’ dressing rooms. I’ll send a PA to escort you to the set when we’re ready.” He shook his head and his face turned white. “God, give me strength.” Then he left the room.

  When the door had closed behind Curtis, Polly plopped herself down on the love seat. “Tiny bubbles,” she began to sing, which was Placenta’s cue to pop the cork from one of the champagne bottles she always carried in her temperature-controlled backpack. Polly picked up a copy of Architectural Digest that was lying on the coffee table. She unconsciously flipped through the glossy pages depicting homes that were inferior to her own. She thought about the live, unscripted, flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants television program with which she had found herself involved. I’ll just say nice things to each performer and be as encouraging as Sally Field pitching an osteoporosis pill, she said to herself.

  “You’re my personal savior,” she said as Placenta handed her a plastic cup filled with her effervescing amber cure-all.

  A knock on the dressing room door brought Polly out of her reverie. “Makeup!” a voice called from the corridor. Tim opened the door and cast his beaming smile on a petite young woman with a mop of unruly red hair. He couldn’t help thinking that she was Bernadette Peters—in a Bozo the Clown fright wig.

  “I’m Katie,” she said, holding out her hand and staring longingly at Tim. “You’re Tim Pepper. You’re even better looking than the pictures on your mother’s official Web site.”

  As Tim’s smile increased, so did the depth of his dimples.

  “You’ve obviously got good genes. And I don’t mean your Levi’s,” Katie joked, her Brooklyn accent becoming more pronounced. After a long pause during which she looked adoringly at Tim, she turned and looked to Placenta and Polly. “Look at the star lady!” Katie enthused as she moved toward Polly. She smiled at Placenta, who looked Katie up and down. “Ach! You don’t need me!” Katie said to Polly, and nudged Placenta for her to agree as she scrutinized the star’s face. “Perhaps a little rouge here, a bit of mascara there. You’re very well preserved!”

  Polly smiled. “Every night after I brush my teeth and slather my face with a tube of imported monkey semen, my darling maid, Placenta, pumps my vei
ns with formaldehyde. Then she and Tim tuck me into my satin-lined Red Cross-approved blood bank refrigerator. By morning I’m as fresh as Doris Day.”

  Katie’s jaw dropped. “That’s some awesome beauty regimen! Certainly does the trick! You big stars know all the secrets. Someone should pass that one on to Cybill Shepherd. At least the formaldehyde part. She’s already got the icy temperature thing down pat.”

  Polly, Tim, and Placenta all exchanged looks of amusement.

  Katie stopped examining Polly’s pores and wrinkles. With her arms crossed, she said, “Before we get started, I need to make myself clear about something. I don’t play games.”

  “We weren’t mocking you, dear!” Polly said. “We simply thought your summation of Miss Shepherd to be right on the money. She’s a dear old friend of mine. We all know her well. Her icicles, too.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Puleez! I’m not talking about your silly private jokes at the expense of my self-value. You can laugh behind my back all you want. I’m a pro. I’ve plastered the puss of practically every putz in the biz. Nothing bothers me. Except…” Katie paused. “Let’s just go back to my rule about no games. And I don’t mean ‘Hangman’ or ‘Pin the Tail on Queen Latifah’s Weight Watchers hiney.’ You must be civil toward me. Not necessarily nice, but at least treat me as a member of the human family.”

  “Egalitarian is my middle name!” Polly protested.

  “That’s not how the contestants of this soon-to-be-canceled show, or the despicable Mr. Cornwall, are treating me. I can’t work with them!”

  “Then I’m the last star standing. I’ll have you all to myself!” Polly smiled.

  “Practically,” Katie said. “I’ll make up the darling Brian Smith. And I suppose our cutie host. But the Neanderthals they have caged up in the contestants’ wing of the studio are a different animal!”

  Polly stood up and put a hand on Katie’s shoulder. “What did those nasty trolls do to you?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a malevolent vibration that permeates all their dressing rooms,” Katie said. “I feel as though I’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up in a Wes Craven horror flick: The Walls Have Eyes. Oh, and before you hear any rumors, that Miranda chick deserved my cuticle stick up her nose!”