by R. T. Jordan
Polly once again reached into the fishbowl. “Honestly, did you think I was talking about his big …” She stretched out each word. “Massive. Powerful.” She paused. “Brain?” She’d had the audience from the moment she’d walked onto the stage, but now they could go home completely satisfied that they’d experienced Polly’s famous bawdy sense of humor in person.
Polly held the next card in her hand and began to read aloud. “‘Laura Crawford is dead. Are you ready to join her?’”
The audience was warmed up and ready for anything. They tittered self-consciously, not sure whether or not it was a joke or a sincere question. Polly, too, wasn’t certain. She reread the card to herself. Deciding to make light of a mean, if not threatening situation, Polly said, “Like dear Peggy Lee sang, ‘I’m in no hurry for that final disappointment.’” The audience applauded as Polly said, “However, if I get my hands on whoever wrote that question, they’ll be swapping stories with Laura Crawford.”
Taking a serious stand, Polly looked out into the audience and said, “Sweetums, whoever you are, you’re under the false impression that I’m easily intimidated. Hell, I’ve worked for sociopathic numbnuts publicity executives like Shari Draper at Sterling Studios. I can certainly handle a psycho who thinks he, or she, is being a clever killer. I’m this close to making a positive ID, so watch this space for a big revelation very soon. I’ll get you long before you get me. Guaranteed!”
An instantaneous wave of applause from the audience erupted like a geyser and washed over Polly. “It’s true!” she said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Polly bowed gracefully then put her hands to her heart. “I adore all of you. Except the killer of course, who might be in this room right now. Oh, Mr. Killer,” she sang. “Please stand up and let us get a good look at you. Make it easier on yourself.”
Again, the audience applauded and murmurs of “Yeah! You tell him! Polly’s not afraid of anything or anyone, except critics,” spread through the crowd.
Suddenly, people began to notice a man quickly leaving the small auditorium and started pointing to him. Polly saw that it was Cori Berman. She called out, “Join me for champers sometime soon, Cori.”
Cori stopped and turned around. “I’m in AA, and a dozen other programs. Or don’t you read the Peeper?”
Several people recognized his voice and spread the word. “It’s that child star, what’s his name, all growed up.”
“I’ll join you for a cup of coffee. If you live another day,” Cori said.
“Call for me at noon. Tomorrow,” Polly said. “I promise to be breathing.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss that note card and question if I were you,” Cori continued. “There are a lot of loony tunes aboard this ship. Just look around this room.”
“Who’er you calling screwy?” one woman called up to Cori.
“Turn up your hearing aid, ma’am. I said ‘loony.’”
“Same thing. And you’re the one who was in rehab, not us loonies.”
“I’m just giving our wonderful hostess a friendly warning, that’s all,” Cori said, and started to walk away.
A woman in the audience uttered to a friend, “He’s probably the killer.”
Her voice was loud enough for everyone, including Cori, to hear.
Cori turned around and demanded to know who had spoken those words. “Was it you?” He pointed an accusing finger at a gray-haired woman with a fixed pout on her lips. “Or you?” he addressed another old woman. “If I hear one more slanderous accusation from anyone, you’ll wish you never booked this cruise. Remember, I’m dangerous. The tabloids say so. Which is why I never worked again on television.
“As for you, Miss Perfect Polly Pepper,” Cori continued, “be careful! You should be very afraid.”
When Cori had finally exited the theater, Polly looked at her audience and said with mock trepidation, “The little pisher is jealous because he was never even nominated for an Emmy, and I’ve got ‘em crawling out of my …” Polly caught herself and said, “I’m used to tripping over them!”
As Polly left her backstage dressing room and began walking down the inside deck toward the elevator, she heard the sound of someone running toward her and then a male voice called out her name. Polly cautiously turned around just as a good-looking young man dressed in khaki slacks and a button-down dress shirt caught up with her. Slightly out of breath, and more gregarious than Richard Simmons playing patty-cake with Martha Stewart, he said, “Hi, Miss Pepper! I’m your cruise director, Saul Landers.”
Polly smiled and reached out her hand to shake Saul’s.
Saul shrank back almost imperceptibly. “Sorry, I don’t shake. Did you know there are about a trillion bajillion germs on cruise ships? Everybody brings something icky aboard!”
“I seriously doubt that I’m incubating anything so gross that the World Health Organization would be interested!” Polly said.
Saul laughed and then explained that he’d received great feedback about Polly’s reunion show, even without Laura Crawford being alive to participate. “There is one problem, however. Can we go somewhere private to talk?”
“If this is about my darling son and his little infatuation with that hunky Italian deck officer …”
“Which one?” Saul said. “All of the Italian crew members are hunky.”
“No one,” Polly said. “If you’re after Placenta, I know you probably have rules about the entertainers fraternizing with guests, but please don’t blame Placenta. She can’t help falling for guys who play piano.”
Saul cocked his head. “Um, not quite sure what you’re talking about, but if you’re referring to the guy you dragged through the mud yesterday …”
“Never mind,” Polly said. “Let’s chat in my stateroom. We’ll have a bit o’ bubbly while I unwind before dinner, and you can tell me all about this problem of yours. Although I suspect it’s about to be my problem. Follow me,” Polly said as she turned and headed for the glass elevator.
When the car arrived, Saul gallantly stood aside and waited for Polly to step inside. He then pulled a tissue from his pocket and used it as a barrier between his finger and the button he pressed for Coral Deck. Polly did her best to make small talk as the two rode to her deck and then wended their way to her cabin. “Have you been working for this cruise line for a long time?” she asked.
“Seven years.”
“Do you get many murders?”
“Mainly suicides.”
“Ever spot a sea monster?”
“Lauren Bacall was on board once.”
“We’re home,” Polly said as she withdrew her key card from her clutch and inserted it into the door lock. “Don’t mind the mess, the place is much smaller than I expected. In fact, Laura Crawford got the veranda Penthouse suite that I was supposed to occupy. Of course now it’s off-limits. Crime scene and such. It’s not as though I’d disturb any evidence. Jeez, I just want a bigger place to hang my chapeau, so to speak. Be a gent and open the champagne,” she said, pointing to the ice bucket with the neck of a bottle peeking out from under a white towel. “I’ll just be a sec.” Polly disappeared into the bathroom and turned the sink taps on full blast.
In a moment she reappeared, drying her hands with a towel. “Now you’ve got me thinking about infectious microorganisms.” Polly spied the two flutes of bubbly that Saul had poured and picked one up. She swallowed half the contents, poured a refill, and raised the glass to her visitor. “Now I’m fortified for whatever it is you have to tell me. Do sit down.”
As Saul sat on a chair beside the combination makeup table and writing desk, Polly settled onto her bed. “Spill it,” Polly said.
Saul took another sip of champagne and said, “I like to laugh as much as anyone else.” He let out a shrill sound to prove his point. “But murder isn’t funny.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s even less funny when someone tries to exploit the dead person.”
Polly gave Saul a look of confus
ion. “Is someone using Laura’s image to promote snail paste skin care products, or massages to die for?”
Saul reached into his back pocket and produced a copy of the Daily Wave, the ship’s newsletter. “Luckily our editor caught this before it was circulated. I’m hoping to keep the captain out of the loop.”
Polly took the newsletter from Saul. She looked at the masthead, then read the headline, which roared: PP PISSED. IN THE DRINK.
CHAPTER 13
Tim and Placenta soon arrived and were at Polly’s side. They listened in horror as Saul read aloud the short article. It described the fictional suicide of Polly Pepper. When Saul finished reading, he apologized profusely on behalf of the cruise line. He looked at Tim and Placenta. “I hope this matter doesn’t prevent you from filling in the ‘Extremely Satisfied’ circle on the cruise evaluation form,” he said.
“Let’s think rationally,” Tim interrupted. “The article must be a sick-o practical joke. Maybe a crew member wrote it. That’s it. Someone who contributes to the daily newsletter was goofing around and, like a disgruntled secretary who sends an e-mail to a colleague about her horrible boss, then accidentally cc’s the entire company. They didn’t mean any real harm. Surely the writer of this article didn’t expect the copy to be picked up and printed. It was a mistake. Yes?”
“I write most of the copy,” Saul said.
“Someone certainly has a wild sense of humor,” Polly said. “‘PP wore pearls to her suicide.’ I’m not like that fool of an old woman in Titanic, the idiot who intentionally tossed her expensive lavaliere overboard. Dolphins may be smart enough to appreciate good taste, but sharks are as bad as scavengers in an alley Dumpster. As for the so-called eyewitnesses to my demise, my fans are not going to believe that I fell over at seven A.M. They know I don’t rise before nine!”
Placenta poured Polly another glass of champagne and one for herself and Tim too. As she sipped the effervescing cure-all, she suggested whoever wrote the piece was not an innocent prankster with too much time on their hands. Rather it had to be someone connected to the murder of Laura Crawford. “Only someone afraid of Polly revealing them to be the killer would want to scare or maybe actually kill her,” Placenta said. “There’s no other explanation because the entire world loves Polly Pepper. She’s right behind puppies, pandas and iPods.”
Polly agreed, and as she took another sip from her glass, she recalled Cori Berman’s threat during the lecture period that afternoon. “I’m not saying he’s guilty of anything,” Polly said. “But I’m not saying he’s innocent either. Perhaps he wrote this silly newsletter piece. He’s known for whipping up a soufflé of trouble.”
“One of the reasons he was kicked off Highway to Heck when he was a teenager was because he sold a story to the Peeper about the show’s guest star, Jane Seymour. Remember?” Tim recalled. “Jane supposedly started feeding peanuts to the squirrels on the Sterling Studios lot. Then, after a few days of gaining their trust, one by one she grabbed the greedy little rodents by their neck and twisted their heads off. It was all a lie, of course! But PETA still boycotted the show until the Sterling Network execs kicked Cori off.”
“Cori may also have been fooling around when he gave me a halfhearted warning today,” Polly said. “The audience taunted him and suggested that he was probably Laura’s killer. Oh, and one of the questions in my fishbowl was, ‘Are you ready to join Laura Crawford?’ Maybe he wrote that question as well.”
Tim slapped his knee. “Cori’s a total bad seed. Always has been! The drugs …”
“He said he’s in AA,” Polly reported.
“The arrests for DUI, and brawls at the Viper Room. And possession of illegal firearms,” Placenta added. “Not to mention the expensive prostitutes.”
“Charlie Sheen made it sort of chic to spend nearly a hundred grand on Heidi Fleiss’s high-class hookers,” Polly said.
“It wouldn’t surprise me to find that Cori Berman’s the killer,” Tim continued. “It’s no news that Laura didn’t like him. Plus, he’s got an arrest record a mile long. I’m shocked that Homeland Security didn’t tear up his passport.”
Saul made a face. “One of my jobs is to create games for the passengers. They love the usual standbys: bingo, charades, the hairy chest contest. As an expert, I sense that perhaps this edition of the Daily Wave could be a psychopath’s game of Truth or Dare.”
Polly, Tim, and Placenta were intrigued.
Saul continued. He looked at Polly. “A question in your bowl asked if you were ready to join the dead actress who used to be on your show. Maybe the killer is daring you to come out into the open with the truth. Obviously, not the truth that you thought was true yesterday—the Lawrence Deerfield debacle. That was pretty lame, but perfect for the killer. Now, when you’re ready to reveal the perp, no one will believe you. Then wham, the killer takes you out, quick and easy!”
“Maybe not so quick,” Placenta cringed.
“Maybe not so easy,” Tim added.
“Sweetums,” Polly said, “what am I supposed to be, the cornered mouse to someone’s bloodthirsty cat?” She rolled her eyes and held out her flute to Placenta. “I’ll find the killer, all right, but on my terms. Polly Pepper is never a victim.”
“Even when she’s unexpectedly slapped with divorce papers,” Placenta agreed.
“The only things about that dumb headline and the bogus story that’ll make me jump overboard are the prepositions at the end of the fourth and seventh sentences, as well as the grammatically challenged writer’s dangling participles!”
Saul came to a decision. “I’ll have every last copy of this blasted newsletter destroyed within the hour. I’ll make an announcement and simply say that due to technical difficulties, the Daily Wave won’t be published tomorrow. We’re the only ones who’ll ever know that such a mean-spirited joke was made at your expense. I promise.”
“But if this isn’t a joke, and Laura’s killer is responsible for the article, he’ll know that something went wrong, and won’t come forward to make sure I jump or slip overboard, or however he plans to handle my death,” Polly said.
Polly placed her hand on Saul’s shoulder. “Hmm. Perhaps distribution of the Daily Wave isn’t such a bad idea.”
“The captain’ll have my head,” Saul insisted. “I’d probably lose my job!”
“Where’s your humanitarian spirit? I’m the one who’s in jeopardy, and all you think about is your income.”
“My wife and kids depend on it.”
“Wife?” Polly said, and shot a look at Tim. She tried to stifle her incredulity that Saul was married—to a woman.
“Are you thinking that if someone took the time to infiltrate our press room, and write spurious copy about you and your demise, they want the newsletter to be up-to-date when it’s placed under all the stateroom doors in the morning?” Saul said.
“We might be able to catch the killer tonight if he thinks the paper’s going out as scheduled,” Polly protested. “I’m in favor of letting him fall into his own trap. Now that we know what’s in store for me, we can catch whoever tries to do something crazy.
“Speaking of crazy!” Polly suddenly bolted out of her chair. “I’m scheduled to meet Dorian at seven.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Time’s up. Everybody out. I need to shower, put my face on, dress, and be ready for my date.”
As Saul, Tim, and Placenta filed out the door, Saul called back, “I’ll have a security detail following you all night long.”
Tim said, “If Polly isn’t out of Dorian’s cabin by two A.M., no matter what time they arrive, barge in with a faux emergency. She’s getting a little tired of Dorian Dawson anyway.”
Now it was Saul’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, him.”
“Him?” Polly asked.
“Dorian, you said? He’s being a pest to our art gallery manager. He brought pictures of Warhols and Hockneys and wants appraisals.”
“I’ll give the guy an appraisal that’ll make him take the leap on
his own into the Pacific, if he’s not careful,” Placenta said.
“Scoot,” Polly added, and closed the door.
When Polly was dressed and coiffed and glittering with jewelry, she looked as radiant as any screen queen. She couldn’t have looked any more glamorous if she was facing paparazzi on a red carpet at Cannes. Arriving at the elegant Nautilus Grill dining room, she was escorted by the maître d’ to Dorian’s table. As she passed the other diners, Polly left a trail of whispers.
“Psst. Mental case at three o’clock.”
“Get her autograph before they send her to the asylum!”
Arriving at her table, Dorian put down the emery board he was using. He stood up and grazed his lips against Polly’s cheek. When she was seated, the waiter, Ernesto, withdrew an open bottle of champagne and poured a glass for Polly. She looked at the glass, then at Dorian, and then at Ernesto.
“Something wrong?” Dorian asked.
Polly grimaced. “Would you think I was a dreadful diva if I made a teensy-weensy observation-slash-request? Look at those poor baby bubbles.” She pointed at the few lethargic beads taking their time moving through the amber liquid to their demise on the surface. “There should be a million of those little suckers trying like hell to beat the others to the crown, like in those old-fashioned sex education films we watched in school. I really hate to make a fuss, but we sorta need to try this again. Don’t you think so?”
Ernesto looked to Dorian for guidance.
Dorian nodded his head in complete agreement. “Um. Yes. A new bottle, please.”
As the waiter reached for the champagne ice bucket, Polly lifted the white linen napkin that was concealing the bottle and looked at the label. “Oh, Sweetums, there’s the problem!” Polly said, sounding as if she just found the answer to the mystery of why Nicolas Cage is a star. “It’s domestic.” She looked at the table and picked up the wine list. Polly opened the folio and drew her finger down the page on the left-hand side. She stopped at “Krug, Clos du Mesnil” and pointed for Ernesto to see. Without looking at the price, she said, “Please be a very darling garçon and ask the sommelier to make sure the bottle is well chilled. Absolutely no colder then forty-three degrees, but no warmer than forty-eight degrees. Si? Por favor and gracias, Señor Ernesto.”