A Talent for Murder

by R. T. Jordan

  Camera number two found Steven Benjamin solemnly nodding. “Indeed, Thane was someone I’ll never forget.” He instantly switched gears and broadcast a wide smile. “Tonight we also welcome the equally lovely and overbearing—and I mean that with all sincere admiration—the loquacious Trish Saddleback!”

  As applause erupted from the audience Polly spat, “Motor mouth. I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about the contestants’ lack of talent.”

  The camera captured a smiling and radiant Saddleback. She looked into the camera and said, “Polly, if you’re watching, I, too, am just keeping your seat warm.”

  Polly harrumphed. “Damn, I wanted to hate her, but I can’t!”

  Steven Benjamin explained that owing to the untimely demise of Danny Castillo, the number of contestants had dwindled down to an even four. “But before we begin this week’s competition, we’d like to pay tribute to Danny with this short clip.”

  The screen was suddenly filled with images of Danny Castillo from the cattle call audition in which each of the final six contestants had been selected. The visuals of Danny goofing off, making faces at the camera, and then launching into a song made Polly and Placenta audibly sigh. More behind-the-scenes footage showed Danny at his makeup mirror punking out his hair and adding black eyeliner around his eyes, and black polish to his fingernails. A clip of Danny’s performance from the debut show flashed onto the screen, followed by Thane Cornwall excoriating him after his performance of “Abra-cadaver.” Danny simply stood before the judges and didn’t show any emotion. When Thane was finished ripping him apart, Danny bowed and moved backstage.

  “Whoa!” Tim said when the film clip switched to Danny in his dressing room. Danny was out of control, screaming and breaking furniture. He threw a chair into the vanity mirror and yelled, “You’re a dead man, Thane Cornwall!”

  The camera returned to Steven Benjamin, who looked surprised. “I’m sure the good folks at Sterling Studios are cooperating with the investigation into Thane’s murder. I’d say Danny is a good place for the police to start! We’ll return after these messages.”

  Cars. Diets. Sissy Spacek in Depression Era rags for a “Hallmark Hall of Fame” weeper. “Side effects may include …” As commercials played on the screen, Polly, Placenta, Tim, and Raul commented on the first few minutes of the show. They all agreed that a tribute to a murder victim probably shouldn’t have included his last rant.

  “You may hate your mother, but at the funeral you only say nice things,” Raul said.

  “Timmy loves his mother!” Polly said.

  “Of course Tim loves you,” Raul said. “Everybody loves you.”

  “Welcome to the family!” Polly said, and patted Raul on the cheek.

  Placenta added, “One has to wonder why they chose to put in that clip. D’ya think the editor or director or someone wanted to throw suspicion for Thane’s death clearly on Danny Castillo? The kid’s not around to defend himself.”

  “A good imitation of that scary Rush guy on that radio station I try to avoid,” Polly added. “Anyone with his anger issues needs his meds—oh, wait, didn’t I read that he was an addict? Poor baby. What he needs is a long session on the couch. The same with Danny C. If I were investigating the murder, which I’m not, at least not officially, I’d be looking at Danny too. Smashing that makeup mirror was not a good move. Seven whole years of bad luck! Or in his case not quite seven days.”

  “Quiet,” Placenta said. “We’re back to the show.”

  Steven Benjamin continued the broadcast as if nothing had changed from the previous week. He introduced Miranda Washington, who walked down the tall staircase and found her place center stage with a microphone headset taped to her cheek. To a cheering audience and a rapt panel of judges Miranda began to sing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

  Fifteens seconds into the song Polly blurted out, “My God, I can understand the lyrics!”

  Tim, too, was mesmerized. “Ella Fitzgerald would be thrilled with her delivery!”

  The group watched with surprise and delight as Miranda ended with a plaintive “… oh how I need someone to watch over me.”

  Polly and her troupe cheered along with the audience. “Damn! The one night someone shows promise and I’m not there to gush!” Polly said.

  The contestants who followed Miranda each failed to reach her level of achievement. Ped-Xing sang “My Cherie Amour,” and by the time he reached the boring “La la la la la, la la la la la” ending, Polly found herself slipping into Thane mode and trying to come up with words that, without destroying Ped-Xing’s practically indestructible ego, would convey she thought he sucked.

  Unfortunately, the shimmering costumes worn by Taco Bell and Amy Stout did nothing to camouflage their hopelessly inadequate vocal abilities. Taco and Amy, singing “Save the Best for Last,” and “The Morning After,” respectively, showed that it’s not easy to be Vanessa Williams or Maureen McGovern. They didn’t have “it.” And the judges tore them apart.

  After another long series of commercials about bladder control issues, restless legs, and a cure for toe-nail fungus, Steven Benjamin returned. “The night isn’t over yet,” he said. “Despite any contestants’ lack of stage presence and talent, winning the competition doesn’t hinge on how well they performed, but on how far they’ll go to reach the top. Let’s bring out our contestants and let the judges begin their interviews!”

  Taco Bell was the first to face the trio. Steven said, “Let’s begin with our lovely Trish Saddleback.”

  The camera focused on Trish. “You were darling!” Trish began. “I see a lot of talent in you, more than in some of my colleagues with whom I argue every day on The Shrews, or the pathetic guests we invite on the show. So, tell me, Ms. Bell, hypothetically, you’re driving down the 405 freeway. The traffic is hell. You’re late for an audition for a movie with Meryl Streep. The job, which your agent says is practically yours, will completely change your life. You’re crawling along looking at your watch and screaming something vile that includes taking the Lord’s name in vain. Suddenly, sweet, dear Jesus Christ the Lord Almighty Himself appears in your side-view mirror. You shout, ‘Glory and amen!’ You figure that you’re being divinely guided to the audition!

  “But just then, that eighteen-wheeler with an unsaved and asleep-on-the-job redneck trucker who’s been kissing the bumper of your junky ‘85 Honda for the past ten minutes crawls into the driver’s seat with you and changes your plans. In the last instant of your unaccomplished and futile little life, do you ask Satan to drag the sleeping driver who is responsible for your early demise to hell? Or do you take one last peek in the mirror at the smiling and benevolent face of our dear Lord and thank Him for the thousands of joyous, if fruitless, auditions that reaped nothing more than a non-speaking atmosphere role in ‘High School Musical: Pimples and Puberty’?”

  Taco Bell stood with her arms folded and her mouth hanging wide open.

  “You only have a minute to answer the question,” Steven prodded.

  Taco Bell sighed, pursed her lips, shook her head, and said, “I’m sending that freakazoid trucker who drove over me, and my dreams, straight to an eternal vacation on the Lake of Fire! He’ll be roasting on an open flame forever. Ain’t nobody getting away with keeping me from starring with Meryl Streep! Who is this sorry-assed trucker, anyway?” she asked. “I have a mind to drag him out of his cab right after this show and have the Blessed Virgin make sure he doesn’t ruin any other dream of mine!”

  Polly stared at the screen as Taco Bell went on her tirade. “She’s serious.”

  Trish Saddleback looked annoyed at Taco Bell. “Please calm yourself, dear. There is no trucker. It was a fictional scenario. Except that dear, sweet, Republican Jesus is always in your mirror, guiding you. Welcome to Hellywood.”

  While Tim, Placenta, and Raul laughed, Polly steamed. “Isn’t there supposed to be a separation between church and television? Who does St. Saddleback think she is, touched by an angel?”

>   “This is exactly what Sterling and the network want, Mother!” Tim said. “It’s a show that caters to the same demographics as American Gladiator and female mud wrestling. Go with it. Have fun. The contestants don’t really mean what they’re saying. They just need the voting audience to think that they’ll climb over bodies to get ahead. It’s what they expect from wannabe stars.”

  Steven Benjamin thanked Taco Bell, and summoned Ped-Xing back to center stage to face the judges. It was Brian Smith’s turn to interview a contestant. “Heya, bro,” Smith said. “Awesome good song. Did an awesome fine job. But let’s get serious for a moment.”

  Polly nudged Placenta.

  * * *

  Brian said, “Celebrities are known for saying pretty lame things sometimes. Remember when Mariah Carey said…” he looked at a four-by-six-inch card, then read aloud, “ ‘Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can’t help but cry. I mean, I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff.’“ Brian giggled. “Or Anna Nicole Smith, who said of suicide bombers, ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ Or the lame guy who said, ‘If we’re not supposed to eat animals, why are they made out of meat?’

  “Now, let’s say that you win this competition and become famous. Alex Trebek invites you to appear on Celebrity Jeopardy. It’s the Final Jeopardy round and you’ve wagered a fortune on the category Classic American Playwrights. The answer is, He wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Say something stupid that you’d regret seeing on Google and YouTube for the rest of eternity. Prove to us that you’re dumb enough to be a big celebrity.”

  While the audience giggled at the idiocy of the question and, by association, the man posing the question, Ped-Xing stood looking at Brian trying to figure out whether the judge was calling him stupid or if Brian was in earnest. Ped-Xing instantly decided to reply with a response that would sound like Paris Hilton trying to sound profound.

  Ped-Xing shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Would you repeat the Jeopardy answer, please?”

  “He wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “Who is Dr. Seuss?”

  A few snickers could be heard among the audience of mostly young adults, but it seemed that few understood what Ped-Xing had revealed about his wit.

  “Thank you, my man,” Brian said as Ped-Xing moved off the stage. “But I think you should have gone for an incorrect response. You were supposed to say something you’d regret.”

  Steven Benjamin made a show of slapping himself on the cheek in a mock effort to return to the moment. Then, with a large smile, he said, “Let’s welcome back Amy Stout!” He turned to Richard Dartmouth and said, “She’s all yours.”

  Richard smiled. “Oh, if only that were true.” The audience made wolf calls. Richard held up his hands to quiet the crowd and said, “I’m no Thane Cornwall …” To which Amy smiled and said, “Amen!” “… but I have to say…” He paused for dramatic effect. “That I think Thane would have said something like ‘Your performance tonight made me think that crawling into a cage of skunks would be preferable to the stench of your voice.’“ Amy’s smile vanished.

  “But that’s not what I would say,” Richard said. “Now. For your interview question. You’re on a date with our lovely host Steven Benjamin…. That’s not too hypothetical, is it, honey?” he said with a wink and a sideward glance at Steven. “Instead, let’s say that you’re on a date with … me …”

  Camera number three caught Steven Benjamin looking bewildered and angry.

  “… and you’re hit on by the head of production at Twentieth Century Fox. Who do you screw … I mean, what do you do … to get ahead?”

  Amy took a deep breath. “First of all, been there, done that. I’d have an affair with both of you. Turn out the lights and maybe there wouldn’t be much of a difference. If I was on a date with you, and even if the impossible happened and I fell in love with you, when a bigger fish comes along, I have to go swimming. I’ve only been in Hollywood a little while, but I see the wives and girlfriends of stars and movers and shakers all looking for the next step up the ladder to security and social status. I can do what they do.”

  Polly sighed and held out her champagne flute for a refill. “Raul, darling, in your work you must see a lot of Bel Air ladies, and I use that term loosely. How do they catch their rich husbands? Larry King’s easy, but what about the others?”

  “Just as this Amy girl says.” Raul nodded. “They’re always on the lookout for the guy who needs a diversion from his family and career. At least that’s how they start out. Men are pretty much easy targets. And if the woman’s sexy enough, and cunning enough, there’s not much the present wife or girlfriend can do. Although, whenever I hear about a young so-called actress gone missing or discovered dead, I think it’s probably the work of the wife who had her husband tailed and then got rid of the competition with professional help. Happens all the time.”

  “In my day, we only had to worry about other stars interloping,” Polly said. “Sedra Stone, may she rest in peace, took not one, but two of Tim’s daddies from me. But at least she was from the same social circle. Well, sort of. I think she killed a few people on her way to destroying my heart. But today, they let almost anyone into this business. Just look at the riffraff on this show! I’m loath to say this, but mediocrity rules.”

  Steven Benjamin looked into the camera. “And we’re back. After one more interview question, it will be up to the voting viewers to decide who stays on after next week, and who gets the axe!”

  “More blood,” Polly said.

  “Without further ado, welcome back Miranda Washington!”

  Miranda made her entrance down the long flight of stairs that graced the stage and wandered up to the microphone and the panel of judges.

  Steven Benjamin said, “During the commercial break the judges decided to let Richard Dartmouth have the final question for the evening. Do you feel lucky?”

  “No, but what can I do?” Miranda said.

  “At least you’re honest,” Richard said, “which is no way to win this game, but have it your way.” He stared at Miranda for a long moment. “Everybody has a dark side to their personality. Some otherwise very nice people suddenly snap and kill a noisy neighbor. Or the quiet guy at the office gets one e-mail too many and shoots his colleagues. If you were this close to being famous, but someone smarter or more talented… or younger got in the way, what would your dark side reveal?”

  Miranda pursed her lips and rubbed her nose. “I’ve got a mean streak a mile long, all right,” she said. “I sent my dumb-ass boyfriend to the ER for constantly leaving used Kleenex around in piles. I suppose if I were faced with someone about to steal my limelight, it would be like they were taking a parking space I’d been waiting a long time for. If they pulled into my fame space, I’d have to whup their sorry butt. Ain’t nothin’ gonna keep me from winning this game, and becoming the famous person I was meant to be. I’ve got dreams, and I mean to make ‘em come true. My voice alone will take me where I’m going.”

  “To the unemployment office,” Polly said. “Yikes! What a lousy show! I may not go back, even if they ask me!”

  Just as Placenta was about to turn off the television, Steven Benjamin looked into the camera and said,”Join us next week when one of our contestants will say adios to all their dreams of becoming famous. And we’ll have extra security on hand, just in case a poor loser takes aim at one of our wonderful judges. Don’t forget what we, who have important Hollywood jobs, always say, ‘When the going gets tough, the tough take out their rusty razor blades and carve up anyone who gets in their way!’ See you next week!”

  Placenta turned the lights on in the media room as Polly stood up and yawned. “It’s time for a nightcap,” Polly said, looking at the four empty bottles of Veuve left on one of the chairs in the room. She put her arm around Raul’s waist and said, “Are you sober enough to drive, or shall I ask Placenta to dust off the sheets in one of the guest rooms?”
/>
  “I had another dreadful night,” Polly complained when she arrived at the patio breakfast table Saturday morning. “Which one of our friends does a commercial for sleeping pills? I’m getting desperate. Kelsey?”

  “I think he’s irritable bowel syndrome,” Placenta said.

  “Cybill?”

  “Menopause.”

  “Whosy Whatsy, from Northern Exposure?”

  “Janine? Nah. She used to do a commercial for that dry-eye disease. I think it’s off the market like the stuff that Dorothy Hamill hawked.”

  “Well, what does Sally sell? She always looks young and well rested. She must have a pill!”

  “Osteoporosis, I think. Just go to Dr. Feel Good. He’ll prescribe anything you want,” Placenta said.

  “Drugs are too damned expensive! I just want a sampler to get me through an afternoon nap. Tonight’s important, and I’m going to be a wreck if I don’t get some shut-eye!”

  “Speaking of tonight, Tim has hired a guard to keep us safe from those murderous contestants you’ve invited to dinner.”

  Polly looked up from sipping her Saturday morning mimosa. “What’s his name?”

  “Sandy.”

  “As in hunky Orange County surfer? Leave it to my Timmy.”

  “As in Sandra. Tim hired a female security guard.”

  Polly rolled her eyes and poured another mimosa from a juice pitcher. “If she’s anything like Officer Betty down at the jailhouse, I feel safer already.” She looked around, then glanced at her wristwatch. “Speaking of Tim, he’s got a ton to do before tonight. He can’t sleep the day away.”

  Placenta cleared the breakfast table. “Timmy’s long gone. He and Raul … no, he didn’t spend the night … were meeting for coffee. Apparently, Raul has access to the files that SOS kept on Thane Cornwall.”

  Polly took another sip of her drink. “Sounds a tad unethical. I knew I liked that young man. I’ll bet he knows the secrets and mating habits of every celebrity in Bel Air.” She paused. “If SOS has a file on Thane, surely they have one on us! That’s not good.”