A Talent for Murder

by R. T. Jordan

  “Yeah, because she was popular and the ratings would have tumbled,” Tim said.

  “Every show I’ve ever worked on had a Laura Crawford,” she sighed. “I thought that Thane Cornwall was ours, but now I suspect it was either one of the contestants or, more than likely, Lisa Marrs, as the police are saying.”

  “I’m still shocked,” Lyndie Smith said. “I mean, I only met Lisa Marrs once, and I confess she seemed to have a lot of ambition, but I would never have suspected that she was a killer. As for the contestants, I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to be famous badly enough to kill for it.”

  “You’ve never wanted to be famous, so you don’t know the extremes to which others will go for success,” Brian Smith snapped at his wife. “You don’t know what it’s like being somebody, and then have it all end, but you keep trying to get the celebrity back. Some people would kill to live in a big house like this one.” He looked around the elegant room. “You set the bar on success in your life pretty low.”

  Shocked, everyone looked at Brian, and then at Lyndie, who was mortified.

  Lyndie picked up her champagne glass and took a long silent swallow. When she set her flute down on the table she turned to Polly. With a calm and reassuring voice she said, “I never had an ego that demanded everybody pay attention to me. As for setting the bar too low, perhaps Brian is right. I should have expected that the man I married would never humiliate me in public.”

  There was a good reason why Polly Pepper was considered a gracious hostess. Not only were her parties fun and entertaining, but also she had a great talent for making even the most distressing social situation seem of little consequence. She now put the full force of her powers to work. She raised her champagne flute to Lyndie and said, “At last! I have a new lifelong friend who knows that fame and fortune are hardly all they’re cracked up to be. Those poor kids on the show think that getting their names in the newspapers will solve their self-esteem issues. Only therapy, and a lot of drugs, can do that! Am I right, Lyndie? Or am I right!”

  Polly looked around as all glasses, except Brian’s, were simultaneously raised to her. “Hear! Hear!” Placenta said. “What good is fame unless it comes with a poop load of money? Preferably in euros. God knows the U.S. dollar is in the crapper!”

  Brian looked at Lyndie. “It was the champagne speaking. I’m never rude in public. You know me. I’m sweet. I make brownies to bring to work!”

  “Tell it to Michael Richards,” Lyndie said.

  Tiara turned to Lyndie and said, “I love your brownies. Sometimes Steven brings a few home. But there’s no use in pretending that you don’t do the baking! With all the time that Brian and Steven spend at the studio, neither has time for anything domestic.”

  Lyndie managed a slight laugh. “Brian’s actually a very good cook. And since he only has to go to the studio on Fridays for the show, he has plenty of time to stir up Rice Krispies treats … if nothing else.”

  Tiara gave Steven a searching look and said, “I guess the hours are a lot different for the host. Stevie’s never home.”

  Polly exchanged curious looks with Tim. “I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous clearly would have been the ideal show for me,” she said. “Working just one day a week was swell. And the money was pretty great. That schedule could have given me time to earn a few bucks and still volunteer in the psoriasis ward at Cedars.”

  “I suppose that being the host of a show is much more time consuming than judging the contestants,” Tiara said. “Sometimes Steven doesn’t get home until well past the time I’ve gone to bed.”

  “Ah, the hours one keeps in order to maintain a level of success,” Polly agreed. “If I have one regret it’s that I worked all the years while Timmy was growing up. But I had my career. I couldn’t let family get in the way.” She looked across the table at her son. “Do you hate your legendary mommy for being away so much of your childhood?”

  Tim rolled his eyes. “We’ve had this conversation a bajillion times,” he said to the room. “Sometimes Polly thinks she should have stayed home and baked cookies for my Cub Scout troop. Trust me, if she’d baked anything, there would have been fatalities!”

  “Speaking of fatalities, I hope we’ve seen the last of ‘em. Among our group, I mean.” Michael reached for the champagne bottle resting in an ice bucket on a stand to the side of his chair. “Four contestants remain. I remember Thane telling me that answering stupid questions was not going to produce a winner. The one who found the right key would easily trample the other competitors.”

  Steven Benjamin gave Michael a lethal look. “Actions speak louder than words, eh?”

  Michael shrugged. “During one of the few times that Thane actually spoke to me, rather than scream, he said, ‘Sterling Studios better have their accidental death and dismemberment insurance policy premiums paid up.’”

  Polly shifted in her chair, and the others at the table leaned forward as if to better hear what Michael was saying.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian Smith asked. “Did Thane anticipate his death or Danny’s?”

  Michael continued. “I think he just knew that there’s no place in Hollywood for losers. He predicted that Richard Dartmouth had inadvertently, or maybe not so inadvertently, created a diabolical show. He said that as each contestant tried to outdo the others in the despicable-deed-to-succeed department, there would be a domino effect of everyone trying to outdo the others, and someone was going to get hurt. Or worse. But he also said that if any of them had brains, they’d figure out the one thing that would bring them the big prize.”

  Tiara Benjamin clasped her hands together and leaned her elbows on the table. She looked at her husband. “I remember Thane saying precisely that, before you two had your—”

  Steven interrupted. “I’ll bet he never expected to be the one that a contestant used to win the game. It’s obvious that one of the kids killed him. Any wager that it was that scumbag Ped-Xing?”

  Michael countered. “Ped is definitely serious about becoming famous in Hollywood, but I wouldn’t bet the house that he’s a killer. He looks the part of a maniac, but I don’t believe that murder is his bag.”

  Brian Smith cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Richard Dartmouth, the producer himself, got rid of Thane.”

  In an instant, everyone else at the table simultaneously said that was absurd, idiotic, stupid, wild, and …

  “Actually, Richard shouldn’t be ruled out as Thane’s murderer either,” Steven said. “Not only did he not want Thane on the show in the first place, he didn’t waste any time filling Thane’s job with his own butt in the judge’s chair.”

  “Steven’s the one who convinced Richard to give Thane a shot in the first place,” Tiara said. “I remember that Richard was definitely opposed to Thane. He wanted someone who was already a big star in America. Someone that the audience demographic would tune in to watch. Isn’t that right, Kitten? Steve and Thane were friends … used to be friends … from way back when they were both working for the modeling agency that represented me.”

  Steven said, “Thane was the publicity marketing director when we first met. I was starting out as a model and we became friends. I know that things didn’t end well for us, and I’m sorry as hell that we didn’t make up before he died. Of course we all want whoever killed him to be caught and executed. He or she should die the way Thane did.”

  Polly took another long swallow from her champagne flute. “What would Richard’s motive be for doing away with Thane?” she asked. “Why not accuse Taco Bell? Or Amy Stout? It seems to me that they’re the ones with more reason. Oh, and Miranda, too. Thane treated them all so shabbily on live network television.”

  Steven shook his head. “I’m just saying … I’m taking a wild guess,” he said. “Sure, the others are just as high on the list of suspects, but the way Richard behaves … He has Barack Obama’s titanium cajones knocking around.”

  As Placenta stood up to clear away
the plates, she said, “If you ask me, they probably have the killer in jail right this minute.”

  Tim stood up to assist, and picked up his mother’s empty plate. He added, “The Beverly Hills Police Department has made a few errors in the past, but all fingers still point to Lisa.”

  “Mine, too,” Steven said. “She’s probably guilty. After all, she was caught on the scene. She had the weapon. And a motive. She was a jilted lover.”

  Polly raised an eyebrow. “Then I’m guilty, too.”

  Tim and the others around the table looked intently at their hostess.

  “Guilty of being a poor judge of character,” she said. “I liked Lisa Marrs. I even liked Richard Dartmouth. And I don’t have a real problem with any of the contestants. So don’t come asking me for an opinion on who killed Thane or Danny. I’m simply not equipped.”

  Tim nodded. “Mom has many talents. Feminine intuition is not one of them, unless it’s the next fashion trend. Dessert?”

  Chapter 19

  “Not one of our better dinner parties,” Polly said as she stepped out of her heels and plopped her tired body onto the sofa in the great room. She held out her glass for a refill. “Where’s Michael?”

  As Tim refilled his mother’s glass with a cold bottle of Veuve, he said, “We should’ve had the 1-800-Dentist guy. As for our so-called guests, we go to the trouble and expense to feed and entertain a possible killer, and he or she doesn’t have the proper etiquette to offer their wrists for handcuffs. I’d say it was a wasted evening. Michael went to bed.”

  Placenta joined Polly on the couch and slipped her shoes off, too. She rubbed her tired feet. “I’m with Tim. You drag those stiffs to our home, they guzzle our champagne and chow down on our vittles. What do we get in return? One broken Waterford goblet, more stains on the tablecloth than there are on the reputations of Disney teen stars, and a stopped-up toilet. Who the hell doesn’t know you can’t flush those paper guest towels?”

  Polly took a small sip from her glass. “You both whine too much. Look on the bright side. So we lost an expensive glass. The gash in Tiara’s hand didn’t require stitches. And th ecleaners may hate to see you coming with that nearly ruined heirloom tablecloth, Placenta, but when you explain that Barbara Walters and Rosie O’Donnell were here for dinner and had a little disagreement, they’ll be thrilled to see famous laundry from Polly Pepper. As for the plumber, we’ll get Timmy’s favorite sexy drain opener here tomorrow. He’ll be happy for the Sunday overtime, and Tim can help by holding his snake. So it’s a win-win for all of us.”

  Suddenly, the door to the great room creaked open and everyone quickly turned their heads. Michael stood there wearing Tim’s pajama bottoms and a white muscle shirt over his slight frame. Polly exhaled loudly. “Ovaltine time?”

  Michael smiled. “I just wanted to say good night. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard all the positive things you just said. You really are as nice as everybody says.”

  “Skip the obvious, dear,” Polly said. “Tim, pour another glass for our guest.”

  As Tim reached for a champagne flute from the cabinet behind the bar, Michael came into the room and settled onto the twin sofa opposite Polly and Placenta. He took a small sip from the glass that Tim handed to him, then made a face. “It doesn’t mix well with Listerine.”

  “Next time, gargle with champagne. No chemical burn and you can swallow!” Polly said.

  “The party was terrific,” Michael said. “I totally expected that I’d go to swank Hollywood dinner parties eventually, but I thought it would be way in the future, when I’m a famous screenwriter. This makes it twice in as many weeks. I hope I used the right spoon for the soup!”

  “You did very well, sweetums,” Polly said. “I’m de-lighted that you enjoyed our wee repast. And I guess it really was a Hollywood dinner party, wasn’t it? I never think of our little gatherings as such. But I suppose a gajillion people would kill for an invitation to be at my table. Many others—two of whom are in this room as I speak—don’t understand my market value.”

  “You’re ‘the catch of the day,’“ Placenta growled.

  After a moment during which Tim was weighing whether or not to compare his mother’s fame to the price of a barrel of crude oil, Michael said, “Steven Benjamin has a bit of a problem, don’t you think?”

  All eyes turned to Michael. Polly said, “Um, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Just so that I’m clear with my own suspicion, what’s your take on the evening?”

  Michael took another swallow of his drink. “The dude is pathetic. Every time someone suggested that so-and-so was probably Thane’s killer, he agreed. He doesn’t have a clue. Can’t make up his own mind about anything.”

  Polly considered the comment and recalled that indeed, when the topic of who murdered Thane came up, Steven suggested it had to be one of the contestants. “He was particularly suspicious of Ped-Xing. Then, when Brian Smith suggested that it might be Richard Dartmouth, while everyone thought it an absurd idea, Steven was the only one who said that it made sense. And when Placenta pointed out the police probably had the killer in custody, Steven again agreed. It’s weird.”

  Placenta said, “Maybe he’s just an idiot who needs his wife to do the talking for him. After all, he used to be a model.”

  Polly finished her glass of champagne and said, “I’ve never known anyone who was successful in Hollywood to be stupid. You can’t get to where Steven is without a brain. Or at least a talent for strategy. Yes, I’ll give in and say that even Rob Schneider must have a few functioning neurons. Nah … I take that back.”

  Tim emptied the last of the champagne into Michael’s glass and sat down beside him. “You see Steven all the time at work, what do you think of him?”

  “Again, weird comes to mind. I mean, the guy is supposed to be Mr. With-it and sophisticated. That’s just an act for television, I guess. In person he’s like one of those mice in a maze. Ya know, running around scared to death that he isn’t going to find his piece of cheese. In Steven’s case he’s probably afraid of never getting another job.”

  Polly said, “The other surprise of the evening was Mr. Resentment.”

  “You mean Brian Smith,” Placenta said matter-of-factly. “Yeah, that was astonishing. I didn’t know anyone could harbor so much bitterness about no longer being a Pip. Jeez, man, get another life!”

  “No doubt it didn’t help that Thane treated him like a complete failure,” Polly said. “Castigating him in front of the whole television audience for his lenient critiques of the contestants. Snarling that he was irrelevant to the show, and show business in general, would make anyone resentful and want to kill the bully.”

  “Nice guys are said to be a volcanic mass of neuroses ready to erupt without warning,” Placenta added. “After Brian’s performance tonight, I’m almost ready to put him at the top of my list of suspects.”

  Polly nodded. “Their wives seem to be lovely. Although how they put up with their men is another mystery I’d like to solve.”

  Michael smiled. “Girls go for dudes like Steven with money and power. Unless they have low self-esteem, in which case they go for guys like Brian.” After a beat he said, “And I need to get some sleep. I’d better be off.” He stood and wished everyone a good night’s rest.

  “We’re right behind you,” Polly said, and made an air kiss “Mwah” sound. She picked up Michael’s champagne flute and poured what remained into her own glass. “Pleasant dreamies.”

  When the room was once again their own, Placenta said, “Sweet kid. I’m glad we rescued him.”

  Tim nodded. “He’s smart, too. And fun. We’re going clubbing next Friday night.”

  Polly looked around. “He’s a breath of fresh air in this musty, old, world-famous mansion. He’s also semi-cute and cuddly. But there’s something not quite right. Did either of you notice that he didn’t indict Miranda at dinner this evening?”

  Tim and Placenta looked at Polly with perplexed expressions.


  With a shrug, Polly said, “I just thought it was strange that after his altercation with Miranda last week—here in our backyard—he didn’t bring her name up as a potentially more appropriate suspect than the others.”

  Tim knitted his eyebrows. “Hmm. Now that you mention it…”

  Placenta added, “Perhaps I’ve been too quick to presume that champagne bubbles have marinated your brain cells.”

  Polly stood up and said, “Sleep on it. Let me know what you think in the a.m. Now I’m really going to bed. Big day tomorrow. We’re going to interrogate Michael.”

  The late August early morning sunshine over Bel Air was enough to draw Michael to the Pepper Plantation garden, long before anyone else in the house was ready to face the day. As he wandered over the property, which was still moist with dew, he admired the roses, peonies, vine-covered arbors, and the trickling waterfall flowing into the koi pond. He found the park bench by the garden wall and took a seat to simply absorb the luxurious tranquility. At that moment, in the midst of the warm air scented by flowers, and the only sounds being the buzzing of busy bees, and twittering of birds, and gurgling of the waterfall, he knew what it was like to be Cinderella.

  As he thought about having to eventually leave the mansion and return to the rooming house where his small space was defined by blankets hung over a clothesline, Michael was nearly catatonic with grief. He simply sat and stared into his future impoverishment. As he looked around, he became indignant over the fact that he had nothing in his life, not even a car. “Why do some people have everything, and I have nothing!” he spat. “Life is unfair.” His reverie was shattered by a shadow that crept over him. He looked up.

  “D’ja ever find what you and that Miranda girl lost last week?”

  It was Sergeant Sandy, standing with her thumbs hooked over the waist of her beige uniform pants.