by R. T. Jordan
“It’s not smelly, it’s not junk, and I don’t need an alibi. You’re insulting me. Wait’ll I tell Nana!”
Polly continued gazing at Rosemary, who was wiping her hands on a towel. “Of course you aren’t the killer. I never thought so. But what about that Talia person? D’ya think she saw anyone who might be suspicious?”
Rosemary chuckled. “As I said, the spa was closed. The so-called client that Talia was with was some rich guy. With every voyage she finds someone new to have an affair with. Cameras are everywhere, so she can’t go to their rooms. It’s easier to have her rendezvous here. Talia makes so much noise on her own, it’s a miracle she even heard Miss Crawford scream.”
Polly sat up and set her feet on the floor. She immodestly dropped the sheet as she reached for her clothes and began to dress.
Rosemary reiterated, “I swear, I had nothing to do with Miss Crawford’s murder. Maybe the killer surprised his victim and she didn’t have time to make a sound.”
Polly finished dressing and remembered to take her rings from the seashell. “Dear, I’m not insinuating anything about you and Laura Crawford. I just want to get my facts straight. A friend is dead and getting freezer burn down in the meat locker, and I want to know why she died and who committed the evil deed. If you say you had nothing to do with it, I totally believe you. I’ll even give you an extralarge tip.”
Polly handed Rosemary her key card and said, “Charge it. And add enough to buy the new boxed set of The Polly Pepper Playhouse. You’ll make Nana’s and Grandpy’s Christmas.”
CHAPTER 5
A successful massage should have the effect of making one relaxed and lethargic. Polly, however, was ramped up as if she’d guzzled a four-pack of Red Bull with a double espresso chaser. As she strutted her way back toward her cabin, her attention was divided between recalling Talia’s testimony of witnessing Rosemary running from the scene of the crime, and wondering what miracles cream of snail pulp would perform on the wrinkles under her eyes.
Could Talia be a killer? Polly wondered as she moved along the corridor. She was certainly a pushy person, popping into the massage room during a private treatment. “Utterly unprofessional and probably unethical as well,” Polly muttered. “She never apologized for the interruption.” Was Talia pointing a gossipy finger at Rosemary? Could the disruption have been her way of planting the seed for a theory that Rosemary was involved in the death of Laura Crawford? Perhaps she needed to deflect any thoughts of her own involvement.
Or, maybe the paramour Talia was reported to have been entertaining sliced the life out of Laura. Was this supposed rich passenger also famous? God knows the ship was crawling with more bottom-of-the-barrel celebrities than the contestants on Dancing with the Nobodies. Suppose that Laura had recognized Mr. Moneybags when she tried to get him booted out of the salon; he may have gotten scared, especially if Mr. Seven Digits knew of Laura’s penchant for making extra bucks as a spy for the National Peeper.
As she envisioned Laura’s last moments, Polly imagined her former costar settling down on the massage table waiting for Rosemary to return, calm and collected, to finish her assignment. Perhaps the door to the massage room opened and Laura, with her face down in the headrest, mumbled an apology for her venomous sputum. But suppose, instead of the healing touch of an understanding masseuse, the killer yanked Laura’s head up by a fistful of L’Oreal “I’m worth it” tresses, and then quickly and deftly drew the sharpened DVD deep into the soft flesh on Laura’s neck. Although Polly hoped for a mercifully rapid demise for Laura, the images in her head triggered horror stories of eighteenth-century guillotined French nobility still blinking their eyes in shock and confusion, and babbling “Mon dieu! Que la baise?!” as their disembodied heads rolled into woven baskets to the cheers of the bloodthirsty, cake-deprived citizens. Polly shuddered at the horror and closed her eyes in deep revulsion.
In that instant, she suddenly collided with another passenger who was exiting a stateroom. Polly wailed, “Sorry! My fault … Do forgive … I’m a clumsy …”
“Mother!”
Polly looked at Tim, then at the cabin number, and smiled evilly. “Cozier accommodations on this deck, Sweetums? Or perhaps you’re taking in the sights. God knows both our heads have been turned by more than a few points of interest on this ship,” Polly said as she continued walking toward the elevator.
Tim fell into lockstep beside his mother. “It’s not what you think,” he said.
“Silly boy. It’s exactly what I think,” Polly sniggered. “We’ve both come from a massage … in a manner of speaking. Anyway, I’m far too busy to be envious of your fun and games.” She stopped and looked at her son. “Is that a bald patch I see on your crown, darling man? I think you’re receding.”
“Bald! What? No!” Tim protested. I’m too young….”
Polly shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time to have the Rogaine talk with your doctor.”
As the pair continued along the carpeted hallway, an image in the distance suddenly caught Polly’s attention. She stopped short and grabbed hold of Tim’s arm. As she peered down the corridor, Tim followed her gaze.
“Placenta!” they both called out in surprise as Polly’s maid and best friend closed a cabin door behind her. Placenta turned toward the voices as Polly and Tim sidled up to their friend. For an instant, she looked embarrassed. However, she quickly crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “As Miss Mae West said, ‘To err is human, but it feels divine.’”
Back in her stateroom, Polly gave Tim and Placenta a rundown of what she’d discovered during her hour of massage therapy. “Laura’s only been dead for a day and already I have three possible suspects!” she beamed.
Placenta huffed. “Get a copy of the passenger list and you’ll probably find a dozen more,” she said, pouring three flutes of champagne. “I’ve already seen Peggy Lipton, Liz Smith, and Jane Curtin in the gym. They’re nice ladies, but I’ll wager that Laura wasn’t on their Facebook friends lists.”
“What about Deena Howitzer?” Tim said. “We love her to pieces, but she did threaten to kill Laura. And, she wanted to do it with a knife.”
“I chatted with Deena. She wasn’t in mourning, but she also had a reasonable alibi. Drinks with the captain all evening long.”
Polly accepted her champagne that Placenta handed her. “My last sip. I have a show to do in an hour,” she said as she lifted her glass. “I’d say Daddy Warbucks is the most promising of my suspects.”
“You don’t even know he exists,” Tim said. “And why would he kill someone he doesn’t know? Furthermore, why do you think Talia might be a suspect? What’s her motive? Even Rosemary doesn’t have a good enough reason, that you know of, to hurt Laura.”
Polly ignored Tim. “If I could find out who he is, the gazillionaire I mean, I’ll wager that we’d be closer to solving the crime.
“By the by,” Polly said, “since when do we keep secrets from each other about our carnal diversions? Who the hell were you two making whoopee with at this relatively early hour of the day?”
Tim and Placenta both exchanged smiles. “You go first,” Tim said.
“No, you go first,” Placenta countered.
“Ladies before gentlemen,” Tim insisted.
Placenta sighed. “I swear I was minding my own business. Sort of. You know I’m a sucker for a man who—”
“Has a pulse,” Polly interrupted.”
“Who has musical talent!” Placenta snapped. “I was walking through the atrium this morning, on my way to Cartier to pick out what you’ll be buying me for Christmas, and I was drawn to the piano player. He was cute. Played unusual chords.” Placenta’s thoughts drifted back to seeing the pianist dressed in a tuxedo, with a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. “His fingers were long and bony. The backs of his hands were as smooth and white as the piano keys.”
Tim interrupted. “Short, feather-light hair? Prematurely darkish gray and combed just so? Sort of an aristocratic face, with
a deep cleft in his chin? British accent?”
“Er …” Placenta said warily.
“Lawrence Deerfield.” Tim dismissed the man. “Been there.”
“This time he smiled at me, not at you!” Placenta continued. “At first I thought he was just happy to have someone pay attention to his playing. But then …”
“He played ‘Love Is a Many splintered Thing,’” Polly teased her maid.
“At least there’s still one man alive who notices that I’m alluring,” Placenta said. “And he’s only one degree of separation from us. That is, he once worked with Laura Crawford. Actually, he almost worked with her. The witch had him fired from a production of Follies. According to Cute Stuff, er, I mean Lawrence, Laura couldn’t memorize the songs so she took her frustration out on her accompanist. It’s been months and he’s still upset.”
“Sondheim’s lyrics can be a bitch,” Polly agreed.
Tim chuckled. “Same thing almost happened to Dangelo! The getting fired part. He worked with Laura, too. Sorta.”
Polly and Placenta both looked at Tim. “Beverly D’Angelo is aboard?” Polly said, excited by the prospect of seeing another old acting friend.
“No. Dangelo Vincente. One of the deck officers. Italian.” Tim smiled and winked. “It’s strictly forbidden for crew and passengers to interact but he couldn’t help himself.”
“You’ll corrupt the entire Kool Krooz fleet before this voyage is over.” Polly nudged her son.
“Dangelo said he learned English by watching reruns of The Polly Pepper Playhouse in his village. He became a huge Laura Crawford fan. When he discovered that she was on this cruise, he disregarded the rules and went to meet her in person. He just wanted to tell her how much she meant to him as he was growing up. But she wasn’t the clown he expected. According to Mr. Modesty, when Laura got a look at him, she threw herself at his biceps. When she was satisfied, she threatened to have the captain put him out on the first iceberg that floated by.”
Polly frowned. “Laura, a black widow? No way, José. Unless he was ill equipped.”
Tim shook his head. “Trust me! The problem was that he took a snapshot of her.”
“One stupid picture?” Placenta said.
“A variation on Britney Spears’s vagina monologue.”
Every star, even one with Laura Crawford’s less-than-stellar place in the cosmos, knows that a salacious sexual tryst with photo-ops can be a career breaker. Laura had enough of those in her lifetime, and she wasn’t about to let another opportunist sell her down the river to the National Peeper.
“Are you hearing each other?” Polly looked at Placenta. “Being fired from a job is one of life’s most humiliating experiences. A lot of people go nuts when it happens to them. Laura Crawford got your boyfriend’s tushy canned, and you said he’s still holding a grudge!”
“He’s not my …”
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Motive for murder!” Polly called out like a carnival barker awarding a cheap plush-toy prize. Turning to Tim, she said, “Now that Laura’s dead, your latest bff still has a job. Bingo! Bull’s-eye! Bonanza!”
“I guess death can be a good thing for some people,” Tim admitted.
Polly polished off her glass of champagne and poured another. She looked at her watch. “Just a teensy taste,” she said, filling the flute to the rim. “Ten whole minutes until show time. We now have five suspects!” She reconsidered. “Actually, we’re down to your two. Mine are pathetic.”
Placenta exclaimed, “Lawrence couldn’t …”
Tim interrupted. “Dangelo wouldn’t …”
Polly said, “They’re men! Make no mistake. No Y chromosome can stand a bitchy X, especially if the X humiliates the Y—or thinks she has the upper hand.” Polly turned to her family and said, “Skip the show tonight. It’s your duty and responsibility to get back to your respective chromies and suck out as much info as you can!”
Polly Pepper was used to the miasma of whispers that occurred when she entered a room. The Tsunami Grill was no different. Heads turned and the star nodded in acknowledgment of their attention, as she and her entourage walked past tables of fans. As Polly, Tim, and Placenta seated themselves near the outside deck, a waiter quickly arrived with a bottle of Moët immersed in a bucket of ice. He set three flutes on their table. “Perfect timing, Sweetums!” Polly trilled, and affectionately touched the waiter’s arm. “We’ll need another in about ten minutes.”
The three lifted their glasses to each other. “Lovely audience tonight,” Polly said, “with the exception of that little pisher, Cori Berman.”
“Making trouble again?” Placenta said.
“What else?” Polly complained, and took a long swallow of her champagne. “He made a big deal about not being able to see the entire cast from The Polly Pepper Playhouse. I sorta lost my PP persona and yelled out, ‘One of us is dead!’” Looking at Placenta she added, “You’re supposed to vet the damn question notes before I reach into the fishbowl for the completely spontaneous and totally improvised spur-of-the-moment Q&A’s.”
“I had another ‘mission accomplished,’” Placenta reminded her, and set her flute down. “You should have used the cards from yesterday’s appearance.”
“I didn’t appreciate Mr. Berman bringing up that old Tiffany vs. Pepper lawsuit,” Polly said.
“Are you sure it was Cori who wrote that question?” Tim said. “He’s probably kind of young to remember all that collection agency stuff.”
Polly waved away the old problem. “Anyway, Tiffany doesn’t mean anything anymore. They’re in shopping malls, for crying out loud. I’m forever devoted to my dear Cartier. And soon, when royalties from the new DVDs start pouring in, I’ll be able to shop there again.”
Suddenly, a forced whisper from behind Polly startled her and nearly made her drop her glass. “I see everything,” the voice insisted as the trio instantly turned around.
“Sorry, hon, did I mess with you?” A smokey-voiced woman holding a martini glass pulled up a chair. Uninvited, she joined Polly and her crew. She reached out her hand to shake Polly’s. “You probably know me as Madame Destiny. The ship’s fortune-teller and clairvoyant.” She shook Tim’s hand and then Placenta’s. “You can call me Marsha. Marsha Scott. That’s the name on the measly paycheck they deign to hand me.”
Marsha was one of those people who instantly made friends with strangers, and Polly was no exception. From the way Marsha carried herself, it was obvious that very little impressed her—except Polly Pepper. “As I said, I see everything that you do. On screen that is. Even that dreadful Detention Rules! musical mush you did with those slutty Miley and Vanessa clones.”
Polly gave Marsha a warm smile. She clinked her flute to Marsha’s martini glass. “Yeah, that was a flop waiting for financing. You’d think the nut jobs in charge of green-lighting films at the studio could tell from the damn script that no amount of preteen sex on the screen can save a story about high school football stars who sing and dance, and lay the most seductive cheerleader, while being voted valedictorians too.” A thought occurred to Polly. “As the kids say, ‘OMG!’ Since you’re such a well-respected—or at least employed—clairvoyant, tell me something interesting about Laura Crawford’s murder case.”
“Oh, that old saw?” Marsha said. “Literally. No offense. I know that she was a friend of yours. At least an acquaintance of long standing. Madame Destiny knows a heck of a lot more about a heck of a lot of things than she ever tells any living and breathing soul. The idiots who run this fleet of rust buckets pay me to be a novelty act. If I ever revealed what I really see when my gifts kick in, I’d be fired and sent back to the phone bank at the Psychic Network. Nobody wants to hear the truth about their fate.”
“I know I’ll have a happy ending,” Polly said, and gave Marsha a friendly nudge. “We’ll get you another drink. Then you can tell me all about that incredibly lucrative job that’s coming my way, and name the tall, dark, and handsome stranger who is about to enter my life
.”
Marsha smiled as she raised her hand to attract a waiter. When the foursome were once again set up with fresh drinks, Marsha looked at Polly and said, “As a matter of fact, you are going to meet someone who will change your life.”
Polly smiled. “Smart? Sexy? Sense of humor? I’m not too old for Hugh Jackman.”
Tim choked as he accidentally inhaled champagne.
“Shush,” Marsha said, glaring at Tim and taking another sip of her drink. “This is exacting work. I need to concentrate.” Returning her focus to Polly, she said, “This stranger isn’t the romantic type.”
“Oh, good God, he’s not one of Liza’s ex-husbands, is he?” Polly pleaded.
“You’re not that retarded.” Placenta chuckled and gave a fist bump to Tim.
Marsha was now looking past her hosts, staring into a future that only she could see. “You have a perfectly fine relationship with another man. A guy/guy. Sports. Hunting. I see a badge. Boy Scout? Hmm. No. Unless you’re making out with a minor. I saw the same thing when I did a reading for Deena Howitzer. No, the man who is soon to draw your attention is serious about Polly Pepper.”
“Goody!” Polly enthused.
“Not so goody,” Madame Destiny said.
“In other words, not exactly soul mate material?” Polly said. “Another fan? I love ‘em all, but I was hoping for something a little more cuddly than the pandas and koalas who list me as a friend on their Facebook pages.”
Marsha was silent for a long moment. “I also feel that Laura Crawford was in deep stinky doo-doo long before she died.”
“It was snail paste,” Polly said. “But it did have the faint smell of Rush Limbaugh’s breath.”
Marsha came out of her trance long enough to give Polly a condescending look and take another sip of her martini. Back in her reading zone, she said, “I mean, Laura Crawford did something to piss someone off.”