by R. T. Jordan
“I feel completely guilty,” Polly added. “Those boys don’t deserve what they’ll probably get from that monster Captain Sheridan. Wouldn’t it be marvelous if Sheridan actually had something to do with Laura’s death? He’s certainly strong enough to have ripped her head off. And God, he’s got a mean streak!”
“I just hope that you haven’t sent those two cuties to their deaths,” Tim said. “Now let’s get the deck steward to get you a new cabin.”
“One as gorgeous as Laura’s! Restitution for all the mental trauma I’ve suffered,” Polly said.
After supervising the transfer of the contents of Polly’s stateroom to an upper deck veranda suite, the trio set out to collect as many of her most stalwart fans as possible and invite them to meet personally with the legend herself. With each hesitation to accept the offer came the same question, “Am I going to be accused of not tipping enough? Or of cheating at bingo?”
Following her four o’clock appearance with Arnie and Tommy in the theater, Polly raced to the Coral Lounge where Tim and Placenta had assembled thirty of her fans for this special meet ‘n’ greet. Among the collection of mostly elderly women, there were also a few men. While everyone held a glass of champagne in their hand, Polly made a brief speech about her appreciation of their support over the many years of her career, and how much she valued each and every one of them.
Then Tim took the floor. He explained that as a dear friend and colleague of the late Laura Crawford’s, Polly had a very personal interest in finding the person who’d snuffed out Auntie Laura’s life. “Therefore, would everyone present please put on their thinking caps and try to remember if they had seen or heard anything about that terrible night that might offer a clue as to who the killer might be.”
Although there was a lot of murmuring in the crowd, no one raised their hand. Tim persisted. “My mother is so distraught about what happened to her very best friend on the planet, that she hasn’t been quite herself since our first day at sea. You’ve brought Polly Pepper enormous joy and pleasure for many years. And she’s done the same for you. She loves you as much as you love her. Don’t we want to help the people we love? Of course we do. Therefore, even the smallest bit of information that you might have about Laura Crawford’s death may mean more than you think. If you have anything to mention, even something that you think is dumb or insignificant, please let Polly know. There’s a reward, too.”
At the sound of the word reward, six hands reached into the air. Tim smiled warmly and called on the woman closest to him.
“How much?” she demanded.
Tim was taken aback. “Um, that depends on how useful the information is.” He called on another old woman.
“I want cash.”
“Do you have information that could lead to the arrest and conviction of Laura Crawford’s killer?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether or not you pay me in small bills.”
Tim was becoming increasingly frustrated but forged ahead. “Is there anyone here who loves Polly Pepper, and maybe even Laura Crawford, enough to be of service? Sure there’s a reward, but isn’t it in our natures to do the right thing even if there’s no monetary compensation?”
The room was quiet. Tim gave up. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I know that Polly wants to say thank you, too.”
Polly stood in the center of the bar and smiled her famous overbite smile. “I certainly do adore all of you. If any little memory about this case creeps into your heads, you know where to find me. I’ll be all ears. Cheers!” She raised her glass and, speaking out of the side of her mouth to Tim, said, “Little memory is all they have collectively. This was a waste of time.”
As the fans shuffled out of the room, Polly, Tim, and Placenta sat down to finish off the bottle of champagne. Placenta poured and Polly raised her glass again. “What would Jessica Fletcher do if she were in my shoes?”
“At eight fifty-five she reveals the killer,” Placenta said. “We still have time to solve the mystery before the end credits roll.”
From the corner of her eye, Polly could see a figure slowly approach the table. She turned and found a shrunken woman with a widow’s hump reaching out to touch Polly’s shoulder. Polly smiled as Tim gallantly stood up and retrieved a chair for the woman.
“You have a very polite son,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Hardy. I want to tell you how much I love you and your old show.”
Polly put her hands to her heart and sighed. “Dear Mrs. Hardy. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say those words. Don’t I know you? Are you in that commercial? ‘Clap on! Clap off!’ No. Of course not. That old woman probably clapped off ages gone. May I offer you a glass of champagne?”
Mrs. Hardy shook her head but smiled. “I stopped doing drugs and alcohol years ago.”
Polly said, “I hope you don’t think less of me for enjoying a small glass now and then.”
“Heavens, no,” Mrs. Hardy said. “It’s your liver!”
Placenta tittered.
Polly frowned. “Would you like an autograph, dear?”
“No thank you,” Mrs. Hardy said in her soft and easygoing manner. “I just wanted to unburden myself of guilt about that dear dead girl Laura who used to be on your show.”
Polly straightened up and took a long sip from her flute. “What would a dear old, er, sweet woman such as yourself have to feel guilty about?”
“I think I sent her to her grave.”
Polly, Tim, and Placenta were now facing Mrs. Hardy so closely that they could smell her dusting of lilac talcum.
“I was having dinner in the Tsunami Grill on our first night out,” Mrs. Hardy continued. “I travel alone, so I’m generally seated at an orphan’s table. I heard a commotion at the maître d’s stand and I instantly recognized Laura Crawford, even though she was fatter than when she was on your show. The next thing I know she’s being seated next to me! I remember she grumbled and said, ‘Can’t even get a decent table in this dump!’”
Tim nodded. “That’s Laura.”
“Anyway, the poor thing ignored dining room etiquette and answered her cell phone,” Mrs. Hardy continued. “She was instantly agitated. Her hands were shaking, as if she hadn’t had a ciggy in days. I asked her what was wrong and she said, ‘Roaming charges. They’re killing me. And mind your own business.’”
Placenta said, “Yep.”
“Finally, after a Manhattan, she loosened up. Said she was upset by the call, and that she had some unpleasant business to attend to.”
“What business?” Polly said.
Mrs. Hardy said, “Laura knocked back her drink and signaled for a refill. Then she said, ‘I have to meet a man about an empty can of soup.’ I patted her hand and told her to order the chicken noodle, and that everything would work out fine. She gave me a look, as though I was off my rocker and said, ‘No it won’t. My life is over.’
“That’s when I suggested tha t she treat herself to a massage before her tryst. I assumed ‘an empty can’ is young people speak for something clandestine. I said that a full body massage would loosen her up better than alcohol. For the first time she gave me a small smile. She said I had a good idea and that she wasn’t hungry anyway, she was just killing time until her appointment. Then she left the table. I watched her leave, and saw that she grabbed her second Manhattan off the waiter’s tray as he passed by. She drank it down and then disappeared out of the restaurant.”
Polly and her team were less than enthusiastic. However, they expressed sincere appreciation to Mrs. Hardy for taking the time to share her memory of meeting Laura Crawford. Polly promised to send a complimentary special collector’s edition boxed set of The Polly Pepper Playhouse with commentary and color photo booklet, as an expression of appreciation. When Mrs. Hardy stood to leave, Polly, Tim, and Placenta politely stood as well.
As the old woman shuffled away, the trio exchanged looks. “Laura was a recovering alcoholic,” Pol
ly said. “A couple of Manhattans would have knocked her on her butt. But maybe she didn’t care if she fell off the wagon.”
“She ate junk,” Tim added. “I never think of her as the type to order soup.”
“But she did go to the spa for a massage as Mrs. Hardy suggested,” Placenta said.
“Everyone knows that Laura was murdered there,” Polly said. “It’s not a stretch to think that Mrs. Hardy imagined that she and Laura Crawford shared a few moments together on the last night of Laura’s life. Oh, I don’t know what to think!”
Just then, Tim looked up and said, “Here’s what I think—that I should be leaving. Dorian just entered the room.”
“Good grief,” Polly said before switching to “Polly Pepper the legend” mode. She smiled warmly and accepted Dorian’s kiss on each of her cheeks. “Dear me,” she said, “I think it’s high time you met my lovely family. This is Placenta….”
“A pleasure,” Dorian said as he extended his hand to hers.
“And my little Timmy.”
Dorian and Tim stood perfectly still, their eyes locked on one another. Finally, Dorian nodded his acknowledgment and simply said, “Son.”
“You’re just in time to buy me another bottle of veuve,” Polly giggled.
Tim nudged Placenta and said, “We have that thing to get to.”
“That doesn’t start for another hour.” Placenta smiled wickedly.
“All the good seats will be taken,” Tim insisted.
Polly said. “You two run along. Dorian and I don’t want to bore you with art talk, which seems to be his topic du jour every time we meet. I’m so glad that I found another passenger with more on his mind than wet T-shirt contests! Off you go.”
Before Tim was out of the lounge, he called back, “Don’t forget who we’re meeting at seven.”
“Who, dear?” Polly asked.
“Frick and Frack,” Tim said conspiratorially.
Polly looked into Dorian’s eyes. “By the way, Tim once decked his father #2 for calling him ‘Son.’”
CHAPTER 18
“The captain’s a killer!” Marc Garner wailed.
“He’s a cutthroat!” Stephen Ronson cried.
“Knew it!” Polly clapped her hands as she eagerly ushered the two men into her elegant new veranda suite stateroom. She handed them both flutes of chilled champagne. “Of course, I suspected it all along. That ratty rug of curly hair on his head. The dumb mustache over his thin lips. Those deep-set beady brown eyes. He’s a dead ringer for a police sketch I once saw of a serial killer!” Polly turned to her maid and extended a hand with her empty glass. “We’ll open another bottle to celebrate our finally pinning down Laura’s nefarious butcher. Captain ‘Ahab’ Sheridan!”
Stephen and Marc exchanged horrified looks. “No!” Stephen shrieked. “I mean, yes, the captain’s an executioner, but I’m not saying he slaughtered anyone. Just our careers.”
“And egos,” Marc added. “I’ve never seen Captain Sheridan more angry. He’s relieved us of duty.”
“Fired?” Polly said.
“He’s holding us personally liable for any witness or evidence tampering that may have occurred during the hours that we were guarding your cabin. He said that he suspects that you have something to do with Laura Crawford’s death and he’s calling the Coast Guard to question you when we reach Juneau.”
“Of course he would accuse someone of note,” Polly said, “especially if he’s trying to divert attention away from himself. ‘He who smelt it, dealt it!’”
Tim grimaced. “Or words to that effect. What exactly happened when you met with the captain?”
“It was ugly,” Stephen said. “My ears are still ringing. I didn’t know if I should hold my sphincter or my tears.”
“In a nutshell, Sweetums,” Polly encouraged. “Less editorializing.”
“Um, other than we’re idiots, he said what we already knew, that a killer roams this ship. He also said that he suspects Polly Pepper of being involved. By the way, he’s going to monitor each of you, and your every move, until we reach port,” Stephen said. “We’re to be tailed, too.”
“We’re under surveillance?” Placenta said. “Then the captain is sure to know where you are right now, and with whom. Maybe you are idiots. Kidding. Sort of.”
Polly was suddenly and uncharacteristically enraged. She stood up from the cheap knockoff of a Barcelona chair on which she had strategically seated herself to be the center of attention. Grabbing her head of red hair with both hands, she stepped out on her balcony and screamed maniacally into the sea air. “You want my blood? Take my blood!”
The room became deathly silent as Stephen and Marc looked on in shock and surprise at the woman whose legend for being a great star was matched by her reputation for always being as pleasant as Felicity Huffman. They were equally surprised to see Tim and Placenta quietly sipping champagne, oblivious to the meltdown taking place.
Polly returned to the living area and paced the room. After a moment of watching her, Placenta lethargically clapped her hands and dryly said, “Brava, diva. When in doubt about what to say in any situation, there’s always a quote from a movie.”
Tim said, “That was Polly’s impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson. From The Negotiator. She does a great Sly Stallone. And Schwarzenegger, too.” He looked at his mother. “Say ‘California’ the way our governator does.”
Polly plopped herself back down in the chair. “I’m frustrated with this case, and angry that Captain Sheridan dares to impugn my integrity and character.” She looked at Stephen and Marc. “What else did that nautical Neanderthal say? Anything that might suggest that he’s hiding something or protecting someone? Maybe himself?”
Stephen and Marc exchanged looks. “He mostly yelled and called us words that we can’t use in front of ladies,” Stephen said.
“Ain’t no ladies here,” Placenta teased.
“Get this,” Marc continued. “After we were dismissed, we went to the infirmary.”
“To throw up,” Stephen said.
“And to score a couple of Xanax,” Marc said. “While we were there, we overheard Dr. Girard saying something like, ‘Of course she’s locked up, sir. Tight as a witch’s …’”
Stephen abruptly nudged his colleague.
“Sorry, Miss Pepper,” Marc said.
Polly waved away the apology. “Placenta’s the prude.”
Placenta harrumphed. “I watch South Park religiously!’”
Stephen added, “The doc also said, and I quote, ‘A little freezer burn, but otherwise, as fresh as the day we rolled her into storage.’”
“Oh, and he said something about a memory card being safe,” Marc said.
Stephen looked at Marc. “What do you think he meant when he chuckled and said, ‘You’ll make another killing with that, sir’?”
“Sounds incriminating to me,” Polly said and took a sip of champagne. “Especially the killing part.”
Tim hedged. “A murder victim is in the crisper section of the fridge to keep her fresh for the autopsy. The captain is right to make sure the body is under lock and key.”
“What about the reference to another killing?” Polly said. “And what’s a memory card? Another nauseating Hallmark greeting?”
Tim reached for his digital camera that he’d left on the coffee table, and withdrew an object the size of a foil-wrapped chocolate mint square. “This is a memory card,” he said. “It’s what digital pictures are stored on.” He passed it over to Polly.
As she examined the tiny article, Polly shook her head in amazement. “All those party and vacation pictures you take are on this little thingamajig? Anything from last week’s pool soirée at Jason Priestley’s? I’d like to squeeze his Charmin.”
Tim snatched the memory card out of his mother’s hand and quickly reinserted it into his camera.
“What if …” Stephen started to speak then changed his mind.
“What if what, dear?” Polly encouraged. “The
re are no stupid questions. Only stupid people.”
Stephen gathered his nerve. “What if the captain took pictures of the dead celebrity and has plans to make money by selling ‘em to the National Peeper? Therefore making ‘another killing’ as Dr. Girard said.”
Polly shook her head. “It’s a fabulous idea, but I don’t think it’ll fly. Captain Sheridan’s not a complete moron. To do something so sinister, repulsive, and unethical would be to jeopardize his entire career. By the by, can you scam a couple of Xanax for me?”
“The captain’s career is already in jeopardy,” Marc said. “He’s certainly not foolish, and if I were in his position, facing the possibility of getting booted out of my job just before retirement, I’d keep something of value around for insurance. Either something to sabotage the company I’ve given my life to, or something that would provide an annuity of sorts.”
Stephen said, “What would be better than dead celebrity pictures, fresh from a brutal crime scene? There’s always a market in any number of tabloids. Or on gossip Web sites. Perez Hilton or TMZ would probably cough up a fortune. If they pay multimillions for the rights to publish pictures of celebrity babies coming into this world, it stands to reason they’d pay a bundle for pix of celebs leaving the planet. Especially if it’s in a particularly ghastly way.”
Polly wondered aloud, “Hypothetically speaking, if Captain Sheridan indeed had photos of a dead Laura Crawford, and wanted to sell them, wouldn’t he think that such material might somehow link him to her death? Or, if he actually were the killer, why would he keep photographic souvenirs? Maybe to prove to someone that he knew a celebrity—dead or otherwise.”
For a few moments the stateroom was quiet as everyone considered the previously unthinkable possibility that Captain Sheridan, a lifelong sailor and dedicated commander of cruise ships, might have had a hand in the murder of Laura Crawford, or at least in reaping rewards from her death.
Polly cleared her throat. “Let’s think about this rationally. What would be his motive for killing Laura? They didn’t even know each other. On the other hand, if anyone could get in to any room on this ship, including the spa, without attracting suspicion, it would be the captain. But why would he risk his career?”