by R. T. Jordan
Tim started to explain, “Keith and I …”
“Never mind,” Polly said as she washed her Tylenol down with a large sip of her Bloody Mary. “Keith’s giggles weren’t the only reason I couldn’t sleep. It occurred to me that I’m being taken advantage of by Laura. Again.”
“Duh!” Placenta cracked.
“Just because Polly Pepper is supposed to be everybody’s favorite legend, and a good ol’ sport, too, doesn’t mean that I have to play the pushover!” She looked around the room. “This is where being pleasant has gotten me.”
A knock on the door interrupted Polly’s martyrdom. “Good God, I haven’t finished my molding breakfast and they’re here to take it away already,” she complained.
Placenta opened the door and was met by two of the ship’s uniformed security officers. “May we come in?”
Placenta shrugged and stepped aside.
Polly continued her tirade against Laura. “Laura Crawford has used me for the last time. She was always an albatross around my neck. But it takes two to tango, so I’m fifty percent guilty.”
“Guilty, Miss Pepper?”
“Another BM, ASAP, Sweetums. You may take away the tray and bring a double …” Polly’s eyes suddenly landed on two inordinately attractive men in uniform. “You’re welcome to finish off my muffin,” she said seductively.
The taller and more dimpled of two men announced, “I’m Sergeant Skyler. This is Officer Brown.” They simultaneously held up ship security badges.
Placenta stepped forward and snatched the identification away from Brown, the more menacing-looking of the two men. “You’re obviously not here for an autograph,” she said. “What’s up?”
“The captain wants to see the three of you right away,” Sergeant Skyler said.
Polly’s look of confusion instantly turned to gaiety. “It’s about time! I knew I could trust him to do the right thing about this horrid situation!”
“It doesn’t get much worse,” Officer Brown agreed.
“Darn tootin’!” Polly said. “Laura Crawford finally gets what she deserves!”
Sergeant Skyler looked at Polly with undisguised outrage. “I know you’re from Hollywood, and you’re used to debauchery of every variety, but nobody deserves this!”
“It’s either her or me,” Polly said as she finger-combed her hair and reached for her Bloody Mary. “I may be famously pleasant, but I couldn’t let that little slut get away with what she was doing.”
Sergeant Skyler reached out and took away Polly’s Bloody Mary. “I don’t think you should say another word until you see the captain,” he admonished.
Placenta instantly stepped in between the two and wrenched Polly’s BM away from Skyler. “If the star wants an innocent breakfast drink, you’re the last person to judge where she gets her protein,” she snapped.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see the look on Laura’s face!” Polly giggled as she finished off her drink and handed the empty glass back to Skyler. “She’ll simply drop dead when she gets what’s coming to her.”
The two security men looked at each other, then looked back at Polly.
“Um, I think we’d better get to the captain’s quarters right away,” said Sergeant Skyler.
Tim looked at Sergeant Skyler. “This isn’t about Laura Crawford’s stateroom, is it?”
“Not unless you count the fact that Miss Pepper’s fingerprints are all over the place,” Officer Brown said smugly.
“A thorough cleaning before I move in?” Polly hedged.
“Preserving potential evidence,” said Officer Brown.
“Evidence?” Tim managed to say.
Polly, Tim, and Placenta each looked at each other with growing apprehension. Placenta swallowed hard. “Has there been a crime?”
“You should know. You just stated that the victim got what she deserved,” Officer Brown said.
“Victim?” Polly brought a hand to her lips.
“Is Laura …?” Placenta couldn’t bring herself to complete her thought.
“Yep.”
“I was going to say, ‘Is Laura going to miss a show or two?’”
“Same answer,” Office Brown said.
“How many?” Polly asked, remembering Laura’s comment that if the entire troupe wasn’t on stage, they wouldn’t get paid.
“How many shows are you doing?” Skyler asked.
“Seven.”
“That’s your answer,” he said. “Get dressed. The captain is waiting.”
CHAPTER 4
A big ship is like a small town, and soon the details of Laura Crawford’s death swirled like gossip and hair-spray at the Clip ‘n Curl beauty salon. Word quickly spread throughout the ship that Laura’s body was discovered on a massage table in the Starfish Spa. Her carotid artery had been slashed. The weapon of choice: a DVD, the edge of which had been filed to the sharpness of Sweeney Todd’s razor. The bloodied title on the disc: Season Six of—The Polly Pepper Playhouse.
Despite being associated with the implement of execution, no one would ever suggest that the universally beloved Polly Pepper was in any way connected with, or capable of, a murder. In fact, there was an outpouring of genuine compassion for the legend in her own time/mind. As her colleague and one-time costar took up space in the crisper section of the morgue’s refrigerator, strangers queued up to buy Polly as much sympathy champagne as she could swallow.
In exchange for picking up the bar tab, Polly left her fans with a souvenir sheet of damp Kleenex. It wasn’t easy coaxing compassionate tears for Laura Crawford. To put on a plausible performance of grief, Polly had to dig deep into her actor’s bag of tricks and retrieve genuine moments of sorrow in her life: Karen Carpenter’s untimely death. The day her mother spitefully threw away her copy of How to Become a Famous Movie Star. The earthquake that rattled one of her Golden Globe Awards off the display shelf and cracked its cheap-o base. When she thought of those experiences, her eyes welled sufficiently to imitate heartache.
“You survived those two dreadful husbands, and the horror of Vicki Lawrence taking your Emmy Award home the year that the Academy made a mistake!” said a female fan who was comforting Polly with a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck. “You’ll get over this tragedy, too, sweetie.”
With each new acquaintance telling her how sorry they were about Laura’s death, and how she must be feeling the terrible loss more deeply than anyone, Polly became genuinely morose. She realized she wasn’t responding appropriately to the tragedy. “Why do I have to force tears?” she complained to Tim and Placenta.
“Probably because you know that Laura Crawford was a mean-spirited harridan who used you and your fame to get ahead in her own career,” Tim said. “She diminished your stardom by convincing you to perform on this has-beens cruise.”
“Maybe you’re not as nice as you and the whole wide world think you are,” Placenta stated matter-of-factly. “A friend is dead. Murdered. It’s not natural to be as unmoved as you are.”
Polly was silent for a long while as she considered Placenta’s words. Finally, she nodded. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked. “Although I feel bad about how Laura died, I’m not sad that she’s gone. You’re right. I’m not nice!”
“That’s not altogether true,” Tim said, comforting his mother, and handing her a flute of champagne. “You’re very nice—for a diva. I’ll bet Alec Baldwin and Christian Bale and Vanessa Hudgens and Lindsay and Shannon and … well everybody who isn’t you, wishes they had your reputation. Laura Crawford pretended to be the girl next door with a Mary Tyler Moore turn-the-world-on-with-a-smile personality. You saw through her. She was a phony baloney. How many times have you told me that Laura’s sole agenda in those early days on your show was to get her own variety series and to become a bigger international star than you? It’s not your fault that her post-PP life was a mess. Her career stalled because she was difficult to work with. The National Peeper only kept her in the public eye because people got a sick giggle out of reading about her
multiple divorce wrecks, and that bank-draining palimony suit filed by that lady golfer, and the stints in celebrity twelve-step basket weaving clinics.”
Polly shook her head and said, “Placenta’s right. I have no feelings. Subconsciously I must be holding Laura responsible for making me feel washed up in the biz.” She took another sip from her glass. “I’m going to make it up to her.”
“It’s a little late to become girlfriends,” Placenta said.
“There’s nothing to make up,” Tim said. “Heck, when she was really down and out you purchased a few pieces from her art collection to help her get by. So what if you bought the Warhol, Bachardy, and Hockney at garage sale prices? She needed the bucks and you came through.”
Polly looked at her son and Placenta. With sudden resolve, she knocked back the champagne in her flute with one long swallow. “There’s still one more thing I can do for her,” she said.
Tim and Placenta exchanged looks of unease. “The best thing you can do for that dead woman is to let her chill, and allow the ship’s police or the Coast Guard or whoever handles crimes on the high seas, to do their job without your interference. Say something genuinely heartfelt about her at the beginning of your next lecture. She doesn’t rate anything more than that.”
Polly wasn’t listening. “How does my skin look?” she asked as she opened her purse and looked at her reflection in a hand mirror. “It’s been ages since I had a facial. Hear that sound?” She waited a beat. “It’s my pores begging to be exfoliated. I could use a full body massage, too. My back’s been aching from sleeping on that god-awful mattress.”
Placenta poured more champagne into Polly’s flute. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Drink this, and a couple more. Tim and I will rub your back and your neck and your scalp and your toes. I’ll even dust your navel.”
Polly reached for the telephone beside her bed and pressed 0 for the operator. “The Starfish Spa, please and thank you,” she said. In a moment she was making an appointment with Rosemary.
Polly hung up and looked at the two faces giving her reproachful stares. “What?” she asked. “I’m simply going in for a little R&R. While I’m trapped on this floating cemetery, I may as well enjoy the amenities.”
Polly took the glass elevator from the Coral Deck to the Anemone Deck and stepped out into a quiet corridor. She followed the engraved placard that pointed to the Starfish Spa. At the opaque glass door she turned the knob and was instantly met with the scent of flowers and the soft plinking sound of Celtic harps. The music instantly made her miss the time she toured Ireland in Spuds: The Musical. And the aroma took her memory back to one particular warm spring night in the Hollywood Hills—a time when she had been deeply in lust with the chief makeup artist on her show. The air outside his home was filled with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, and Polly now sighed as she remembered their furtive assignations, and how much she missed his physical touch.
While thinking about her long-lost lover, a door to the inner sanctum opened. A young woman with short-cropped dark spiked hair, and lips the shade of bubblegum, reached out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pepper. My name is Rosemary Thyme. Please come in.”
Polly eagerly followed Rosemary into a small room. “You’re only missing parsley and sage,” she joked.
“They’re my middle names. It’s what comes from having parents who worshipped Simon and Garfunkel.”
The room was the size of Polly’s tiny cabin. A massage table was covered with a starched and ironed white sheet. The lilting music filled this room, as did the seductive floral scent, which she could now see came from glowing candles.
“Hang your clothes there.” Rosemary pointed to a hanger on the back of the door. “Rings or other jewelry can go there.” She pointed to the colorful abalone shell on a stand beside the massage table. “Get comfy, and call me when you’re ready.” Rosemary left the room and closed the door behind her.
Polly took off her clothes while looking around for any indication of Laura Crawford having been there. Disappointed that the place seemed to be evidence free, she slipped under the sheet, which felt as though it had just come out of a warm clothes dryer.
Rosemary entered and instructed Polly to lay facedown on the table, with her arms over the sides. As she rubbed warm scented oil into the palms of her hands, she said, “If I’m too rough, let me know. I’m stronger than I look. Some people like to be nearly pummeled. Others want a sensitive touch.”
“The harder, the better,” Polly said as Rosemary began her treatment. With every stroke of Rosemary’s hands, Polly moaned in ecstasy. “I’ll take you home with me.”
“I’m available for adoption or foster care,” Rosemary joked. After a moment of quiet she whispered, “I trust you won’t mind me telling you how much my grandparents loved you and your show.”
Although her face was deep in the well of the massage table’s headrest, Polly rolled her eyes. Would another murder in the spa make any difference? she thought.
“You can’t imagine how that makes me feel,” Polly managed to say. “I’m sure they’re proud of you and your talents, too. You make me feel as though I’ve died and gone to heaven. Just like Laura Crawford. She hasn’t a clue about what she’s missing. Or does she? I hope that her masseuse gave my dear dead darling the special VIP treatment.”
Rosemary went from the warmth of sunny Ann-Margret, to the coolness of a Clinton under congressional questioning. “Yes, such a waste of life and talent,” Rosemary said in a steely tone. “No doubt the good Lord Himself joined St. Peter in the golden welcome wagon.”
Just as Rosemary was about to knead Polly’s lower back, a quick rap on the door was followed by an uninvited head peeking in. “Sorry ‘bout last night, hon,” a female voice said to Rosemary. “That crazy Crawford creature waltzed her chubby calves into my room and expected me to evict the client I was working on. Said she was in a hurry. I knew you wouldn’t mind one last customer. We all need the tips. Frankly, I’m surprised she heard me, what with her barking at her cell phone, and me giving her the bum’s rush out the door. I noticed you couldn’t get away quickly enough. Can’t blame you! After that bloodcurdling scream, I thought someone was being murdered. Oh! Ha! I guess they were! Gotta go. Call me. Ciao!”
As the door closed, Polly lifted her head and opened one eyelid to look at Rosemary whose face had turned red.
Rosemary explained, “That was Talia, the nosy masseuse. She loves to start gossip. Yes, Miss Crawford was my client—she screamed like someone had stuck her with a white-hot poker. After I washed her face and slathered her flaking and puffy skin with my own special revitalizing emollient, she pinched her nose as if she smelled rotting eggs, and demanded to know all of the ingredients. That’s when she had a major meltdown.”
“Cream of fish entrails and red tide seaweed?”
“Garden variety hairy tree snails. Fresh from the Florida Everglades,” Rosemary said. “I shell a couple dozen of the critters, mash their gummy little bodies in the Cuisinart, add a few other secret natural ingredients to the paste, and voilà! The way Miss Crawford yelled and slapped me—like she was swatting at a swarm of bees—you’d think I’d just plastered her puss with leeches! That’s a whole other recipe. She was so scary that I threw her a wet towel and scrammed out of the place! That’s what Talia heard and saw.”
Drats! Polly thought. A semiplausible story! “I’ll take a big jar of your snail pulp before I leave,” Polly said and lay back down to continue her massage. “You have to understand something about Laura Crawford. She was terrified of snails.”
Rosemary liberally sprinkled sea salt crystals over Polly’s back, and with the circular motion of the palms of her hands she scrubbed the top layers of the star’s skin. “This will make you tingle for days,” Rosemary bragged.
Although Polly wanted to completely give in to the sensual pleasure of the treatment, her thoughts were divided between snails and a killer loose on the ship. As Rosemary rea
rranged the sheet over Polly’s body to expose her left butt cheek, Polly asked, “Doesn’t a murder in this very room make you nervous about being alone with a client?” Polly felt Rosemary’s hands squeeze her bottom just a bit harder than necessary as she worked her thumbs into the tender flesh.
“As a matter of fact, I am being extracareful,” Rosemary said. “I’m only accepting appointments from celebrities I know. Or in your case, who my grandparents can vouch for. I called them for a reference.”
Polly’s buttocks involuntarily clenched.
“Sorry. Too hard?”
“You think that celebrities are incapable of murder?” Polly asked.
“Nah! I watch E! just like everybody else,” Rosemary sniggered. “I know you all have your share of maniacs out there in La-La Land. But you guys are more likely to kill each other. Oh, and Miss Crawford got the ax in the room next door. It’s been sealed until we get to port and the police can do an investigation.”
For a moment, Polly felt gypped that she wasn’t recreating Laura’s massage experience in the same location as her demise. “What if the killer thinks you saw him … or her? Doesn’t that scare you?”
Rosemary stopped and thought for a moment. “As I told the captain and the chief of security, I didn’t see anything. I left the room because I felt in danger of Miss Crawford.”
“Did you report the incident to anyone?”
“Not at the time. The spa was actually officially closed. I was leaving when Miss Crawford arrived. I only agreed to take her because she tried to pull rank with one of those ‘Don’t you know who I used to be?’ threats, and said she knew people who knew people. How many times have I heard that line? Anyway, when she had her little fit about the face cream, I skipped out as fast as I could and went for a walk. And no, I didn’t see anyone I knew along the way. Then I came back and found …”
Polly raised herself up on her elbow and pulled the sheet over her bosom. She looked at Rosemary. “So you don’t have an alibi. Tell me, did you smear Miss Crawford’s face with that smelly junk on purpose because she was a difficult patron?”