by R. T. Jordan
Just as Ernesto was about to retrieve the unacceptable glass of champagne that he’d originally served, Polly neatly intercepted the glass. “Waste not, want not.” She shrugged and took a long swallow before relinquishing the glass.
Dorian smiled and reached across the table to take Polly’s hand. “The stories are true.”
“Of course they are. The good ones.”
“You are indeed a woman of exquisite culture and refinement.”
“It’s amazing what one picks up from watching old movies. Cary Grant was the best teacher on screen. I just copied what he or Deborah Kerr did in fancy restaurants.”
Dorian deftly released Polly’s hand. “I’ll try my best not to be intimidated by the ghost of a Hollywood legend.”
“Nonsense. I learned just as many bad habits as good from the movies. I’ve been known to investigate strange sounds in the basement with only a candle for light when the electricity unexpectedly goes out. Dumb, I know. I suppose that during an attack by zombies, when my full round of ammunition doesn’t stop the undead, I’d probably throw my empty gun at the beast, knowing full well that wouldn’t do any good. However, I’m not a complete idiot. I never picked up smoking from watching Bette Davis!”
Dorian was enchanted. “If I hadn’t met you on this cruise, it would be the most dreary voyage imaginable. Ah, the champagne is here.”
The sommelier arrived with the bottle of Clos du Mesnil and smiled warmly. “I had to meet the discerning passenger with the elegance and refinement—and bank account—to request such an extraordinary vintage,” he said. “I’m delighted to find that the order wasn’t a mistake or joke.”
The sommelier’s fuss led Dorian to suddenly feel that something wasn’t quite right. Either the Clos du Mesnil was the last bottle of champagne on the planet, or it was the most expensive one. Polly picked up on his unease. “Not to worry, Sweetums,” she said, patting Dorian’s wrist. “I also learned from a Queen Latifah movie that nothing is too good for one’s last night on Earth.”
When the foil wrapper was removed from around the twisted wire hugging the bonnet, the sommelier poured an inch of champagne into Polly’s flute, and then into Dorian’s. After their respective sips, and nods of acceptance, he filled their glasses three-quarters of the way. The couple clinked their flutes together. “Up yours!” Polly said.
“Cheers to you, too,” Dorian added. “Now, what was that remark about this being your last night? We have three more enchanted evenings to go before we dock in Juneau.”
Polly looked into Dorian’s clear eyes. “Never mind. It’s silly. I’m just supposed to die tonight, that’s all.”
“You’re funny. No wonder you’re famous. You make me laugh.”
“No joke,” Polly said as she pulled a small bit of warm bread from her dinner roll and slathered it with butter. “I read my own obituary in the ship’s newsletter. Pathetic, really. The writer didn’t even bother to mention my record number of Emmy wins. Just referred to Polly Pepper as ‘the famous celebrity.’ Redundant.”
Dorian was bug-eyed. “Where is this newsletter? Surely you’re being protected by the ship’s security personnel.”
“After yesterday’s debacle, I’m not exactly on the captain’s list of indispensable passengers. He’d be happy to see me disappear. The cruise director wants to keep the obit hush-hush. He’s afraid of another black eye on this particular boat, and is hoping it’s a hoax. He said that the publicity department at the Astral Cruise Line company—which owns the Kool Krooz ships—is already working overtime on damage control following the last couple of incidents. You know, the disappearing act pulled by that old couple, and the bride whose husband claims she slipped over the railing of their terrace. And El-Stupido, who was sitting on her terrace railing with a drink in hand when a gust of wind sent her sailing solo for the rest of her life. Not to mention the murder on this voyage.”
The mood at the table had changed. What had begun as an evening of lightheartedness had drifted into awkwardness. When Ernesto returned to take their dinner orders, Dorian said that he was no longer hungry. “Perhaps too much champagne,” he explained. He ordered an appetizer.
Polly looked at him and shrugged. “I could eat a whale,” she said, and ordered the herb-crusted turbot, fennel and leek ragout. She reached out and touched Ernesto’s wrist. “Sweetums, would you please make sure there are two Amaretto crème brûlées left for dessert? Perhaps we can convince Mr. Hunger Strike here to join my palate for a teensy bit of pleasure. Merci and gracias,” she said, and returned her attention to Dorian.
Polly folded her hands on the tabletop and sighed. “My apologies for beginning the evening on such a macabre note. By now you’re thinking that I’m a crazy Hollywood legend who is dazed, confused, and thinking she sees Elvis strolling the Lido Deck. I’m changing the subject and we won’t speak again of my very bizarre day and the equally weird death to follow.” After a moment’s silence, Polly clapped her hands together and said, “Art! I’m told that you’ve been visiting the ship’s fine art gallery, and that you’re interested in all that modern stuff. When we return to Los Angeles, you’ll have to drop by Pepper Plantation for a drinky and look-see at my Warhol.”
Dorian perked up. “Warhol. Campbell’s,” he said.
“If you want to call that art,” Polly scoffed. “Talk about practical jokes. I mean, really. Someone paints an ordinary can of soup or a Brillo soap pad box, and it gets into a museum? I wonder who was the first dork to call it ‘art.’”
Dorian took a long sip from his champagne flute. “I hear that you also have a Bachardy. And a Hockney.” He appeared to be salivating.
“And when this stupid recession or depression is over, I’ll get my Lichtenstein back from Christopher Plummer!”
Ernesto arrived with Polly’s turbot and Dorian’s crab-stuffed mushrooms.
Dorian was now more animated and decided that he was hungry after all. “I’ll have what Miss Pepper is having,” he said to Ernesto, who looked perplexed but wrote the order on his pad and shuffled away.
“Art talk gives me an appetite,” Dorian said, spearing his fork into a stuffed mushroom. “I thought that MOMA had all thirty-two of Warhol’s cans,” he said. “How on Earth did you obtain one?”
Polly gave Dorian a grin. “Everybody thinks there were only thirty-two, one for each soup flavor offered by Campbell’s at the time. Tomato. Chicken Noodle. Clam Chowder. Andy actually did a thirty-third can. Puree of Poo-poo Chien. It was a joke, and obviously, it didn’t fit in with the other flavors, so he chucked it.”
Dorian nodded. “You know that’s worth a freaking fortune! And your Bachardy is a nude. And the Hockney is one of his pools.”
Polly offered a warm smile. “You’re a closet case. I mean, you lead a double life. Mild-mannered shoe salesman by day, and at night you become a connoisseur of art and an expert on the private world of Polly Pepper.”
“When one has a boring job that they loathe, one must find an activity that’s totally different from what brings home the bacon. I found modern art.”
“This so-called art found me,” she said. “A showbiz colleague needed quick cash a while back and sold me a few of her treasures for pennies on the dollar. I knew she hated to lose those pieces so I called up a friend who teaches art at Beverly Hills High and got one of his students to paint copies for a hundred bucks each. A win-win. The student made his gas money for the month, and my acquaintance could walk around her house, look at the walls, and pretend she wasn’t the complete failure that she really was, and I had an instant art collection. What fun!”
Polly and Dorian finished their entrées and soon the crème brûlée arrived. Ernesto poured the remaining champagne into Polly’s glass and Dorian made a final toast. “To bubbles! May they never burst!”
CHAPTER 14
Dorian begged Polly to join him for a nightcap in his stateroom. She vacillated. For a moment she considered that since her time on the planet was rumored to be up in a f
ew hours she should take advantage of what would be a last hurrah for intimacy. However, more than desiring to be alone with a man, she wanted to make herself available to find out who, specifically, had plans to knock her off the ship.
At the glass elevator by the atrium, Polly promised Dorian that she’d do everything in her power to live another day. “Either we’ll chat by phone in the morning, or you’ll have to hire the ship’s clairvoyant, Marsha, to communicate with me.” She laughed and gave Dorian a kiss good night. “Ciao, bella,” Polly said, before being whisked to the Promenade Deck for a stroll under the stars.
Now, as she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth against the night air, she was intensely alert to the sounds around her: the American and Intacti flags slapping in the breeze above the smokestacks, the ocean as the ship cut through the surface. As she passed the lifeboats rigged to the side of the ship, she inhaled the sea air. As a sense of anxiety washed over her, she slowed down and came to a complete stop next to the metal stairway leading to the next deck.
Suddenly she spat, “Placenta! Are you wearing my Chanel No. 5?”
Instantly, from out of the darkness under the stairs, two sets of hands reached out and grabbed Polly by the waist, and dragged her into the vice of four arms.
“As for you, Timmy, your Dolce isn’t very subtle,” she said.
“You’re being followed,” Tim’s voice whispered.
“Anyone interesting?” Polly retorted.
“If you’re interested in Cori Berman. And Rosemary from the spa. And Dangelo, too.”
“He’s all yours, Sweetums,” Polly said.
“Nah, that’s over,” Tim said, accidentally speaking without muting his voice.
“Darn,” Polly whispered without much conviction. “There’s still Neil Patrick Harris. You know darn well that I want him to be my son-in-law. You promised you’d at least try.”
Placenta interrupted Polly’s fantasy of seeing her son married to the one man in show business who she felt would be the perfect match for her son. “Dorian’s hanging around the deck, too. Careful. He’s getting closer. Where the hell is security?”
Polly tried to peek out from the cloak of the shadows, but she was pulled back into the fold of Tim’s and Placenta’s arms. The trio watched as a few pairs of passengers strolled by. When they could see Dorian approach, they held their respective breaths. Cori, too, walked toward Polly’s hiding place, and when he was mere inches away, he stopped, sniffed the air, and caught the scent of perfume.
“Nice night,” Cori said.
Polly almost answered but was interrupted by another voice, which Polly instantly recognized.
“Skip the Twitter.”
It was Rosemary’s voice. “When does she cash in?”
Tim quietly wrapped his arm tighter around his mother and drew her a few inches deeper under the stairs.
“A change of plans,” Cori said.
“Cold feet?” Rosemary sneered.
“A warm heart. He needs more time to get it right. But the fish has nibbled on the bait.”
Cori and Rosemary moved on, and Tim cautiously peered out from their place of hiding. “All clear, I think,” he said, and took Polly’s hand. Placenta held Polly’s other hand. They moved in tandem and retraced their steps back to the inside of the Promenade Deck. Walking briskly past the atrium, to the bank of elevators, Tim suggested that they use the stairs for a faster return to their cabins. With his mother sandwiched between him and Placenta, Tim began the descent.
“I’m in heels, dear,” Polly said as she tried to keep up with her son. Tim slowed down, but when he arrived on upper Deck Seven, he wanted to dash for the safety of Polly’s stateroom.
Just as the trio arrived at Polly’s cabin door, a familiar voice bellowed down the corridor. “Polly Pepper!”
Polly and her team turned around and found Captain Sheridan, the cruise director, and two uniformed officers from the ship’s security team.
Polly was dead tired. However, she turned on her smile and waited for the ship’s staff to reach her. “If it’s about the champagne, I don’t recall any restrictions in my contract about what I’m allowed to order at dinner. You can check with my adorable agent, J.J.”
“I just want to try and fathom what you think you’re doing on this ship,” Captain Sheridan said.
“Aside from feeling that you’re a mean-spirited bully, I’ve been hired to perform a job,” she said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “Frankly, your disposition has been pretty fierce ever since we arrived here. What’d I ever do to get on the wrong foot with you?” She stopped for a moment and said, “Oh, right.”
Captain Sheridan looked at Polly for a long minute. “You rich and famous and pampered celebrities …”
“Icons,” Placenta corrected.
“… are always looking for publicity stunts to keep your name in the public eye. Twice on this voyage you’ve gone too far. First with the false accusations about Mr. Deerfield’s involvement in the murder of Laura Crawford. Now, with the phony obit in our daily newsletter.”
Polly’s smile faded. “If you continue to impugn my integrity I’ll have no other choice than to call in a few favors from my nearest and dearest in the cruise line industry. You’ll be swabbing the decks instead of running the bridge!”
The captain harrumphed. He looked at Polly and flatly stated, “I intimidate the passengers. Not the other way around.”
Polly laughed. “You obviously don’t read the National Peeper or catch TMZ. If you did, you’d know that hard-boiled studio heads cringe when they have to deal with me—or more precisely, my agent. I can play the sweet, lovable, lady-next-door while J.J. pushes publicity department senior VPs to tear off their own fingernails. But don’t underestimate my own ability to handle myself in a crisis.”
Tim stepped forward. “In other words, P.P.’s J.J. has titanium cojones the size of bowling balls.”
Polly chuckled. “Timmy exaggerates.”
“But not in this case,” Placenta said.
Polly turned to Saul. “I thought we were going to keep the newsletter mess away from Herr Poseidon,” she said.
Saul looked down to avoid eye contact with Polly. “I didn’t have a choice. As a matter of fact, Captain Sheridan sent a special unit of the ship’s security to keep their eyes on you. After reading the Daily Wave, he was genuinely concerned for your safety.”
Polly’s attitude melted. “Concerned? For moi? You’re too sweet. All right. If I was slightly insane a few moments ago, keep in mind that I seldom say what I really mean. I’m really a pussycat. I just regurgitate dialogue from old Barbara Stanwyck movies to sound tough. Joan Crawford comes in handy too. You’d be surprised how often I can get away with lines from Alec Baldwin’s famous phone call rant to his daughter!” Polly took what she thought was a tough-guy stance and quoted, “‘In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns!’”
Tim nudged his mother. “Um, that’s from The Godfather.”
Captain Sheridan crossed his arms and said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Polly made a face. “Question? Oh, publicity stunts, et cetera. Let’s step into my stateroom. The walls have ears, and too many cameras.”
Tim inserted his key card into the lock and led the way for his mother, Placenta, and the team of maritime personnel to crowd into the room.
Placenta uncorked a bottle of champagne and looked at the captain. “You’re out of luck. Housekeeping doesn’t provide enough glasses.” She then poured a drink for Polly.
“I’d share,” Polly said, “but Saul was telling me all about the icky germs people bring aboard ship. I wouldn’t want you to come down with some hideous virus that I may have brought from Hollywood.”
Captain Sheridan was exasperated. “There’s always at least one passenger on every voyage who I have to keep an extra eye on. This time, it’s you. From the moment we set sail, you’ve been at the center of every storm. First your cabin wasn’t
big enough. Then your girlfriend was murdered. Then you started a monsoon of accusations subjecting an innocent man—an employee of the ship—to the embarrassment of having people think he was a killer. I’m forced to add another demerit to the file of one of my best deck stewards because he’s spending more time playing with your son than serving the passengers. And now, our cruise director has to announce that the Daily Wave contained a belated April Fools’ Day joke because you didn’t die.”
“You’d be happy to see me die?”
Tim took a sip from Polly’s glass and said, “It’s early yet. The paper said she goes overboard at seven in the morning.”
The captain straightened. “Which brings me to why we’re joined by masters-at-arms Ronson and Garner.” He pointed to the two seamen dressed in the white uniform of ship’s officers. “They will be stationed outside your door. I’m confining you to this cabin until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Polly swallowed the remainder of the champagne in her glass and set the flute down for a refill. “I’m a victim, not a criminal!”
Tim stepped in. “Mom, I think it’s for the best. You’ll be protected.”
“Lockdown is not the way to protect me,” Polly said. “Anyway, I haven’t actually been threatened by anyone.”
Placenta added, “It’s just for the night, Polly. You’re ready to go to bed anyway. When tomorrow comes, and you’re still breathing, we’ll regroup and investigate Laura’s killer.”