by R. T. Jordan
“Toss in a bit of Dusty Springfield, a pinch of Petula Clark, and a dash of Diana Ross, and I’m a very happy man.” He held out his hand to shake. “I’m Dorian.”
Polly accepted Dorian’s hand. “I spoke at Dusty’s funeral. So sad.”
After a moment in which the two absorbed each other with their eyes, Dorian said, “Let’s hit the Carpathia.”
“The Germans already did that.”
Dorian uttered an involuntary laugh. “A quick drink and a memorial toast to dead singers we’ve loved and lost. That may take us to dawn.”
“Dawn, as in, Tony Orlando and?”
In a fraction of an instant, a thousand thoughts about not accepting candy from strangers and never picking up hitchhikers raced through Polly’s mind. However, none of the warnings were persuasive enough to outweigh the allure of a glass of champagne with an attractive and friendly gentleman, and listening to what she called “real music.” The fact that Dorian got Polly’s joke about the Carpathia cinched the deal.
When Tim and Placenta knocked on Polly’s stateroom door the next morning, the usual call to “Entrez vous,” didn’t come. After a few more knuckles to the door, and a long gulp of coffee from a stainless-steel carafe on the corridor floor, Tim used the spare key card to enter Polly’s cabin. In the pitch-blackness of the stateroom, Placenta felt along the wall for the light switch by the door. When the room was visible, she and Tim saw Polly in bed, lying in repose on her back. Her pink silk monogrammed sleep mask covered her eyes. “It’s Evita Perón in her glass coffin,” Placenta cracked. “How the heck can anyone sleep as long as she does?”
“It’s in the family genes. I’d still be in the sack, if you hadn’t barged in on me …”
“… and Dangelo!”
“You should have arrived sooner. He’s in deep doo-doo for missing his five o’clock call. I need more java.”
Placenta looked at her watch. “It’s way past breakfast time in the dining room, and she’s dead to the world.”
“Undead,” Polly moaned, but did not move.
“It’s alive!” Tim cried out in his best Gene Wilder impersonation, and moved to sit on the edge of Polly’s bed. He picked up his mother’s inert hand and let it drop back onto the mattress. “What’s up?”
“Late night?” Placenta teased.
“Mmm.”
“Henry Winkler happened along and you made babies until all hours?” Tim said.
“Mmm.”
“She played nurse to Patrick Dempsey’s Dr. Shepherd,” Placenta added.
Polly was silent.
Tim chuckled. “Nah. Polly would be more likely to go for Richard Dean Anderson. I think he’s aboard.”
Polly remained silent.
Suddenly, Tim looked at Placenta. Then he looked at his mother. He looked back at Placenta. Together they cried, “Oh my God!”
“You’re the ones who suggested I find a friend,” Polly said flatly.
Tim and Placenta exchanged momentary looks of confusion before they reacted with simultaneous wide smiles. “Who is he?” Tim demanded, like a kid wanting to know what surprise was waiting for him in a gift box. “A deck officer? The cruise director’s assistant is hot. Not one of the chorus boys from Ha-Ha, Hollywood!”
“The captain?” Placenta added, expecting that any man that Polly had met had to be someone more important than a cabin steward.
Polly lifted the sleep mask from over one eye and squinted at the bright light in the room. “Which chorus boy?” she asked Tim.
“Never mind,” Tim said. “What’s going on?”
Polly groaned as she sat up in bed and adjusted the pillows behind her back. “Obviously, I’m not going to get any sleep with you two Katie Courics waiting for a news headline.” She looked at an uncorked bottle of champagne in the ice bucket. “Anything left in there?” she asked.
Placenta poured what little remained of the champagne into a water glass and handed it to Polly. “I’ll call room service.”
Polly drank the now-flat champagne and handed the glass back to Placenta. She sighed. “Yes, I met someone. Yes, he’s very nice. Yes, I stayed up all night long. No, we did not exchange body fluids. At least as far as I can remember. Anyway, you two probably had a much hotter time.”
“As a matter of fact …” Tim started to say.
“Things are …” Placenta interrupted him.
Polly looked at her son and then her maid with an expression of bewilderment. “Familiarity breeds contempt, eh?”
Placenta picked up the telephone to reach room service. “Don’t get me wrong, Lawrence is a man of many talents. But he can’t let go of Laura Crawford denting his ego. Get over it. The woman’s dead, for crying out loud!” She returned to the operator and said, “Dead? Yes. 911? No.”
Tim nodded in agreement. “Dangelo is everything a shipboard fling should be, except …”
“Last night you were all sweaty and into each other,” Polly said.
“But it seemed that he spent more time telling me Laura got what she deserved, instead of giving me what I deserved. I need …”
“… a security blankie.” Polly chuckled. “Poor baby. You should have hung around with me a while longer last night. Like Forrest Gump’s chocolate box, you never know what you’re going to find on a cruise ship.”
“And a large pot of coffee, please,” Placenta completed her room service order.
“Whatever happened would not have happened if we’d hung out with you,” Tim said. “And you haven’t answered our question. Who?”
Polly was now as animated as a fairy-tale princess awaking from a deep sleep and finding that the ogre had turned into Ryan Reynolds. She crossed her legs Indian-style on her bed and welcomed Tim and Placenta to sit closer to her. “He’s just a guy,” she said.
“Cute?” Tim asked.
“As cute as sixty-two can be,” Polly sniggered. “I’m sure he was more attractive forty years ago!”
“Rich?” Placenta asked.
Polly shrugged. “There was an air.”
“Gigolo,” Tim said.
“We like a lot of the same things.”
“Your Facebook page doesn’t hold back many secrets,” Tim continued. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled that you finally met someone on this floating crime scene, but you’ve gotta be wary of good-looking, single men of a certain age. Does he wear a mustache?”
“No.”
“Drats!” Tim said. “There goes my image of a grease-ball slime bucket.”
Suddenly, there was a knock on the cabin door. “Champagne and coffee,” Placenta said, and went to open the door. The steward holding the tray gave her a warm smile and set the tray down on the small dressing table. He handed her an envelope and said, “This was outside your door.”
Placenta nudged Tim and rubbed her thumb against her fingertips. “Tip the man,” she said, and handed the envelope to Polly. On the outside was hand printed: P.P. “I’ll open the bottle,” she said.
As Tim poured himself a cup of black coffee, Polly opened the sealed envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper. After a quick read she said, “Timmy, you’re better at riddles than I am. What’s this supposed to mean?”
Tim took the paper from Polly and read aloud. “‘You’re as warm as Laura is cold.’” He handed the note to Placenta.
“Yikes! Someone’s telling you that you’re close to finding the killer. D’ya think?” Placenta handed the note back to Polly. “Maybe it is Lawrence Deerfield. As I was starting to say earlier, his obsession with how poorly Laura Crawford treated him is really weird. If only he didn’t cuddle so well. Still, he’s not the catch I thought he was. And speaking of boxes—we weren’t, but I’m changing the subject—I found the special deluxe edition boxed set of DVDs in his cabin. Guess which disc is missing? Number six! I peeked. He might be your match for murder. Just let me have a couple of more nights before you have him arrested.”
Tim made a face and shook his head. “I was going to say the
same thing about Dangelo. Talk about being neurotic over Laura Crawford. The guy is amazing in—”
“Save it for Grandma,” Polly reminded her son.
“But my gosh, I want to hear about how adorable I am, not all the lascivious things he did to convince Laura Crawford to drop her formal complaint against him.”
Polly looked at her son and maid and held up the note. “So, is this a threat, or an indication that I’m close to solving the crime?”
“Maybe it’s from your new boy toy, er grandfather joy,” Placenta said. “How warm did the two of you become last night?”
“Nah. If the note came from Dorian, he’d have signed it,” Polly said.
“Dorian?” Tim and Placenta chuckled in unison.
Polly laughed too. “Some parents can be mean. Imagine going through life with a name like Dorian or Track or Trig or Kal-el or Puma or Moon Unit? We had a set of twins in school named Tamara and NotTamara. Your father #1 insisted on Tim for you because the experts at the time said that a one-syllable name was very masculine.”
“Joke’s on him!” Placenta teased.
Tim gave her a playful shove. “But seriously, an anonymous note is not something to take lightly.”
“I don’t see anything sinister about this one,” Polly quipped. “Whoever sent it is probably a fan who is simply expressing what everyone knows, that I’m a warm human being.”
“Or, maybe the writer knows who killed Laura Crawford and wants you to know that you’re on the right track,” Placenta added.
“But I’m not on the right track,” Polly complained. “Other than your two beaux, I haven’t a clue who knocked off Laura Crawford. I don’t think it’s Rosemary from the spa. However, I’d still like to talk to the client that Talia was supposedly massaging. I want to corroborate that at the time of the murder she was servicing Mr. Moneybags, as she claims.”
Polly stepped out of bed and slipped into her bathrobe. “Meet me on the upper Tundra Deck in an hour.”
“Shouldn’t you get some sleep?” Tim asked.
“I’m too wound up. I’ve gotta find out who wrote this note, and have the captain arrest Lawrence Deerfield.” She looked at Tim. “And perhaps your cutie too. So much to do!”
“One more night?” Placenta begged.
“And give him an opportunity to do to you what he did to Laura? Forget it!” Polly said. “If Lawrence suspects that you looked at his DVDs, it won’t take him long to realize that you know he’s missing the murder weapon!”
Placenta sighed. “Why is there something seductive about bad boys?”
As Polly scooted her son and maid toward the cabin door, she said to Tim, “Which chorus boy from Ha-Ha, Hollywood!?”
Tim shook his head and gave his mother a kiss on her forehead. “Tundra. One hour.”
CHAPTER 10
“Sorry I’m tardy,” Polly said as she arrived ten minutes later than expected at the appointed place on the Tundra Deck. “Ali MacGraw cornered me by the animal balloon exhibition for kiddies. She wanted my opinion about a Love Story sequel, and should she reunite with Ryan.
“I laughed too quickly and had to spend five minutes explaining that if she’s looking for obese, past their sell-by-date costars, Jim Belushi or Drew Carey would be far better-known choices than the widower O’Neal. I have to learn to keep my big mouth shut because I then spent another five minutes apologizing for quoting someone who said, ‘Age mellows some men. Others it makes more rotten.’ I swear I wasn’t talking about Ryan or anyone in particular. But dear Ali wasn’t buying it. I had to accidentally on purpose pop the dachshund balloon she was wearing on her head to escape.”
Placenta waved away Polly’s excuse. “Tim and I have some unsettling news. There’s no one named Dorian on the ship.”
“We checked at the information desk,” Tim said. “Did you get the guy’s last name?”
Polly looked confused. “That’s embarrassing. I spent the entire evening calling him Dorian. Maybe he was just being a gentleman by not correcting me. Where on Earth did I come up with Dorian? Maybe it rhymes with another name.”
Tim shook his head. “Tried that. Historian. Victorian. Kerkorian. Even Ecuadorian. Nobody on this cruise has a name similar to Dorian.”
“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,” Polly said. “We’re having drinks after the show. I’ll come right out and demand clarification.”
“We’ll join you,” Placenta insisted. “And don’t put up a fuss, otherwise you’re not going at all!”
“Yes, Mother,” Polly said. “In the meantime, I’ve given a lot of thought to the fact that Lawrence purchased my DVD collection on the day we sailed, and you say he’s missing the disc of season six. Can you get me into his cabin? We need to find more evidence before going to the captain.”
Placenta smiled and withdrew a key card from her blouse pocket. “He gave it to me. Thought I might want to surprise him one night. First, let’s make sure he’s on duty. He should be at the piano in the atrium.”
The trio returned to the inside deck and raced to the Promenade Deck railing overlooking the wide atrium. There, ten floors below, was Lawrence Deerfield playing “Memory” from Cats. “Yep, we’re safe. Let’s get to his cabin, fast,” Placenta said.
Accommodations for the ship’s entertainers and staff were far below the other passengers on what was affectionately called the Derrière Deck. It was barely more suitable than a slavehold. When Placenta inserted the key card and opened the door, Polly looked at the cramped space and said, “Eww. There’s not enough room for the two of you.”
“You’d be surprised how little space two people need.” Placenta smiled. “Plus when I’m here I’m not paying attention to the size … of the room. There!” She pointed to the small built-in table below the wall-mounted television. “The Polly Pepper Playhouse deluxe collector’s edition boxed set sitting out in plain sight.”
Polly picked up the box and withdrew the jewel cases in which the discs were stored. “Got him! Disc six is missing!”
“Careful of fingerprints!” Tim said as he plucked a tissue from a box on the floor by the bed and used it to open a drawer in the desk/makeup table. “A Bible. Pens. Passport. Chitty Chitty Gang Bang porn DVD.” He closed the drawer and opened the closet, which was crammed with clothes. Pushing aside the hangers, he checked the shelf behind the shirts and pants. He retrieved a shoe box and removed the lid. “Disposable camera. A bunch of cocktail napkins with names of men and women, and cabin numbers. What’s this?”
Tim set the box down on the bed and took out a theater program. “Follies.” He read the title aloud. “Rancho Grande Arts Festival. Isn’t this the place from which Lawrence got fired? Laura had him canned.” Flipping through the pages, he came to a bio of Laura Crawford. Her picture had been defaced with inky black eyes, scars, and devil’s horns. “I thought she was fired too.”
Polly looked at the program. “Small theaters often print these things in advance of the performances.” She looked further and found a paper insert. “‘The role of Carlotta Campion will be played by Tracey Edison.’ That was supposed to be Laura’s role. Why would Lawrence keep this?”
“What’s that on the back?” Tim said, noticing something written in hand.
Polly turned the page over. “Synonyms for L.C.” Polly went down the list “Oh, my! Can’t say that word aloud. Or that one. Or that one!” She handed the paper to Tim who raised an eyebrow and passed the paper to Placenta. “Where have I heard those words before?” she gloated. “Ah, yes. Through a certain adjoining stateroom wall. Apparently, they’re also terms of endearment!”
“Let’s just hurry and get out of here,” Tim panicked.
“Not until we have more evidence.” Polly frowned. “A missing DVD and a few naughty words about Laura Crawford are far from sufficient to nail this guy!”
Placenta’s eye spotted something on the floor next to the overflowing wastebasket. “Looks like the housekeeping staff doesn’t get around to cleaning
up after the ship’s performers. She picked up a pincushion that looked like a miniature plush toy of Dick Cheney. She pushed a finger into its rotund belly and made a squawking noise out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll never be able to look at Lawrence again.” She returned the toy to where she found it.
Tim bent down to pick it up again. “All the pins are in its neck. Except for this one in the back.” He withdrew the pin that held a folded fortune-cookie-size bit of paper. He unfolded the paper and read, “‘L.C.’”
“A voodoo doll!” Polly announced.
“D’ya think?” Placenta said, hopefully. “Maybe the pins are meant for Cheney.”
Tim shrugged. “L.C. could stand for Laura Crawford. All the pins are in her neck, which is where she was attacked.”
“The initials could also refer to Lynne Cheney. Or Lynda Carter, for that matter,” Placenta said.
“I’m willing to bet this is the evidence we need,” Polly said triumphantly, and placed the pincushion in her purse. “Let’s get out of here! Take the DVDs and the Follies program. I’ve got the scary voodoo veep.”
As the trio exited the cabin, they looked up and down the corridor for anyone who might see them. With the coast clear, they raced to the elevators and punched the Up button with repeated jabs. Finally, the car arrived and the three stepped in. “To the bridge!” Polly insisted. Tim pushed the button for the Navigation Deck. Without speaking to each other they all had the same thought. We’ve got ourselves a killer!
Security on the Navigation Deck was as tight as the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station. The instant that Polly stepped from the elevator car, two ship’s officers blocked her way and insisted that she and her party return to an unrestricted area.
Instantly morphing into her queen of television mode, Polly gave the officers her most effulgent and endearing smile. “Silly me. I know that I should have made a reservation. But it’s urgent that I see the captain.” After a moment of explaining that she had information about the murder of Laura Crawford, one of the officers unhooked a walkie-talkie from his belt loop and radioed the captain. In a moment, a third officer arrived and escorted Polly, Tim, and Placenta through a series of locked portals. Finally, they were ushered into a small conference room. “Captain Sheridan will be with you shortly.”