by R. T. Jordan
Placenta added, “Don’t forget the murder weapon. It doesn’t make much sense that Captain Sheridan would have the new boxed set collector’s edition DVDs of The Polly Pepper Playhouse.”
Polly gave her an indignant look. “I have ardent admirers in every society and station in life.”
“If he was such a fan, why would he take one of his precious discs and sharpen the hell out of it, then leave it in Laura’s neck?”
Polly raised an eyebrow.
Tim leaned forward and picked up the champagne bottle. He refilled his mother’s glass and Placenta’s, and then filled his own. Marc and Stephen waved a pass. “Before we waste time trying to figure out if the captain had a motive for killing Laura, we’d better make sure he’s a legitimate suspect. We’ve got to find the memory card and see if Laura’s dead body is on any of the frames.”
Marc looked at Tim. “You know how small that thing is. You’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
Tim nodded. “First things first. We’ve got to get in to see Dr. Girard. Find out what he knows.”
Polly coughed, then felt her head for fever. “I’m getting dizzy,” she moaned. “I have an earache, too.”
“Mmm, mmm.” Placenta nodded. “All the symptoms of Infectiouschronicosis!”
Tim looked at Marc and Stephen. “You don’t need a vaccination. But we’d better get Polly to the infirmary, pronto.”
Dr. Girard was tall, rugged, and wore a luxurious mane of prematurely gray hair. His teal-colored V-neck scrub top couldn’t conceal his packed chest, and the short sleeve of the shirt showed off muscular forearms. Tim wasn’t the only one instantly smitten. Polly and Placenta were tonguetied as they tried to explain the symptoms of Polly’s malaise.
As Polly kept Dr. Girard occupied with taking her temperature, feeling the glands in her neck, swallowing, sucking in deep breaths for the stethoscope, and giving a list of medications she was currently taking for high blood pressure and cholesterol, Tim and Placenta surreptitiously scoped out the clinic. Although they didn’t know where to begin, they felt the pockets of white lab coats, opened desk drawers, picked up stacks of papers and even opened the instrument-sterilizing machine. Nada.
Suddenly, Placenta had a scheme. She opened the door to the private examination room and announced, “You’ve saved a star’s life! Bless you, Doctor! I’ll make sure that she gets rest and drinks plenty of fluids.”
Dr. Girard was startled by the intrusion and annoyed that Placenta, followed by Tim, would barge into the examination room while he was performing a medical checkup on a patient. Placenta buttoned Polly’s blouse and helped her off the exam table. “Miss Pepper would love to have a photograph of the two of you together,” Placenta said. “And I’m sure you’d love one too, for your wall of fame, which I see you don’t have yet. But what better legend to start with than the one highest on the heap!”
Tim quickly caught on. “Oh, darn,” he said. “I left my camera at home.”
“Dr. Girard must have a good digital camera on hand,” Placenta said. “You never know when a passenger might come down with Werewolf syndrome, or bubonic plague makes a comeback and you need photographic evidence to e-mail to the CDC. Yes?”
“Hardly,” Dr. Girard declared testily. “I don’t need pictures of passengers with a case of Montezuma’s revenge.”
“Of course, that would be creepy!” Placenta continued. “But please let us thank you with an autographed picture! She doesn’t have any recent eight-by-ten headshots on hand, so we’ll have to play photographer. Timmy’s an expert. He shoots a lot of Hollywood A-list stars.”
Polly played along. “Do let me have a picture of the man who made me well,” she said.
Dr. Girard gave Polly a suspicious look. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Because you’re a great healer! You should have seen me an hour ago! You are Mayo, Johns, and Hopkins all rolled into one great medicine man.”
Weary of this trio, Dr. Girard sighed and said, “I’ll get my camera.” He left the examination room, and Tim slyly shadowed him as he retreated through the main infirmary and into his private office. From a distance, Tim watched as Dr. Girard withdrew a key fob from the top drawer of his desk and selected a key to a filing cabinet. He opened the drawer and withdrew an ultrathin chrome-colored Kodak camera. Tim quickly backed up and raced to his mother’s side arriving seconds before Dr. Girard.
“Ever use one of these before?” Dr. Girard asked Tim, hesitant to let a novice use his expensive camera.
“Just like the one I have,” Tim said. As he arranged his subjects side by side, in front of a poster depicting the human heart, Tim pushed the On button. “Um, what am I doing wrong? It’s not working. Are you sure it’s charged?”
Dr. Girard sighed and stepped forward to take the camera out of Tim’s hand. “I thought you knew how to work this!” As he attempted to turn on the camera, he discovered that it really wasn’t working. “There goes our picture,” he said, making no attempt to hide his lack of distress.
Tim snatched the camera out of Dr. Girard’s hand. “I had this problem last week. Yeah, my memory card was full and I had to replace it.” Tim opened the slot for the chip and said, “Just as I suspected. Empty. You’re as forgetful as I am.”
Dr. Girard rolled his eyes and left the room. As before, Tim shadowed him to his private office. This time, a key on his chain unlocked a heavy metal box that Dr. Girard picked up from the floor and placed on his desk. He looked around before opening the lid, quickly took out a memory card, then locked the box again and proceeded back to the examination room. Dr. Girard took the camera from Tim’s hand and inserted the memory card into the slot. “Now try it,” he snapped. “And let’s get this over with fast. I’m a busy man.”
“Absolutely,” Tim said as he again arranged Polly and Dr. Girard side by side with the big plump heart as a backdrop. Tim found their images in the LCD frame, instructed them to “Smile big,” then he pushed the Shutter button. “Excellent!” he said, looking at the image in the LCD. “One more for insurance!” He shot another picture and showed it to his subjects. Then he pushed the Off button and turned around to leave.
“Thanks again for taking such good care of Polly,” Placenta said as she hugged Dr. Girard, who stiffened but accepted the gesture.
“From me too,” Polly declared, and gave the doctor a long tight squeeze.
“Am I next?” Tim asked, handing the camera back to the unsmiling physician.
“Toodles, Sweetums,” Polly called back as the trio left the infirmary and Tim said, “Run!” The threesome dashed back to Polly’s veranda suite. When they were safely inside the room, Tim locked the door. “Better open another bottle,” he said. “I’m to be congratulated.” He reached into his pocket, held out a fist, turned it over, and opened his palm. There, resting on his life-line was a digital camera memory card.
“I knew you’d do something clever!” Polly squealed with delight as Placenta opened another bottle of champers and poured three flutes. “Bravo, my love!”
Tim exchanged memory cards in his own camera and viewed all the new images. “Oh, gross! I’m going to vomit!” He finally put the camera down.
“I don’t want to see her in that state,” Polly declared. “I can’t bear to look at a squashed cat on the road, let alone a colleague butchered by that horrible man!”
“No, it’s not Laura,” Tim said. “It’s Captain Sheridan in a Speedo bathing suit.”
Polly snatched the camera off the table and looked at the LCD screen. “It’s always the people who shouldn’t remove their clothes in public, who do,” she said, with nausea that matched Tim’s. “Have another glass of champagne. It’ll keep down whatever’s in your stomach.”
After taking a fortifying sip, Tim looked through the rest of the photos. “Uh-oh. It’s not pretty.”
“Captain Sheridan posing in the nude?” Polly said.
“Laura Crawford in a body bag.”
; CHAPTER 19
Tim ran to his cabin and quickly returned to Polly’s suite with his laptop computer. He connected the USB cable between his camera and the computer, uploaded the images of Laura Crawford, and saved them in a new file folder that he named “IRS Audit.” He figured that if anyone accessed the computer they would never think to look for photos in a file with the bone-chilling title “IRS.” When the upload was complete he said, “How am I supposed to get this memory card back to Dr. Girard without him knowing that I pocketed the little sucker?”
Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. Polly panicked and said, “Sweet Lord Jesus, he’s here!”
Tim slapped the top down on the computer, disconnected the cable, and placed the machine under a cushion on the sofa. In an instant, he exchanged Dr. Girard’s memory card in his camera with his own. “Sit tight. Here are your roles: obsequious hero worshippers,” he said to Polly and Placenta.
Another more impatient knock occurred. “It’s Dr. Girard. I’m checking up on Miss Pepper’s recovery.”
Tim opened the door and gave the doctor a wide smile. “A house call?” he said. “That’s so Kool Kroozy of you.”
As Dr. Girard gave Tim a suspicious look, he walked into the room and was greeted by Polly’s famous loud singsong voice, “He’s hee-er!”
Dr. Girard was immune to special attention from a celebrity, but he forced a smile. “I wanted to make sure that my patient is comfortable and on the road to recovery.”
Polly raised her glass. “I’m as good as new, and we’re celebrating!”
“Birthday? Anniversary? Our special photos?” He looked at Tim.
Polly said, “To the great good fortune I had to be treated by a talented physician who must have been first in his class at Stanford or ER or Grey’s Anatomy, and who will probably go on to invent a cure for that sweet girl who has dozens of orgasms every day, or that poor Indonesian man who has a fungus that’s turning him into a tree. I watch The Discovery Channel. Between your medical magic and the natural healing properties of Mr. Champers here”—she lifted her glass—“I’ll definitely live another glorious day.”
“No doubt,” Dr. Girard said with an edge to his voice.
Placenta went to the wine cooler and withdrew another bottle of Veuve. She popped the cork, poured a glass of champagne for the doctor, and topped off Polly’s and Tim’s glasses, as well as her own.
As Dr. Girard looked around the massive veranda suite and nodded his approval of the accommodations, his eyes stopped and focused on the glass-top coffee table. “I thought you left that at home,” he said, pointing to Tim’s camera.
“Um. Er, I meant this is home,” Tim said.
Dr. Girard picked up the camera and noticed the cable still attached to the port. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the computer which had to be nearby. “Same as mine,” he said, looking at the brand and model. He pushed the On button and the lens automatically emerged from its casing. He pushed the button again and the lens retracted. “Yep, we could exchange cameras and neither of us would be the wiser.”
“A switched-at-birth scenario, eh?” Polly giggled. “By the way, how is my dear dead friend Laura Crawford’s body holding up?”
“Non sequitur,” Tim sang between clenched teeth. “Danger, Will Robinson.”
Dr. Girard grinned. “How do you think a body that’s been lifeless for four days is holding up?”
“It’s a simple question,” Polly said, perturbed by the derisive tone in Dr. Girard’s voice. “What I’m getting at is, did her head come off, or is she in one piece? I haven’t been given the opportunity to visit the dearly departed, so I don’t know what shape she’s in.”
Dr. Girard softened his attitude. “The body, er Miss Crawford’s remains, looks as well as can be expected. The trauma was severe but the attack was so brutal, and probably occurred so fast, that she was unaware of what happened to her. For that, you can be grateful.”
Placenta scoffed. “Small comfort. I’m actually shocked that our intrepid captain hasn’t returned to port, or that the Coast Guard hasn’t been aboard to investigate Laura’s murder. O.J. promised to spend his life tracking down Nicole and Ron’s killer, but did about as much as the skipper of this Kool Krooz is doing to find Laura’s murderer. What’s he hiding?”
Dr. Girard took a long swallow from his champagne flute then set the glass down. “Don’t blame the captain. He has a lot on his plate.”
“But I do blame him,” Polly retorted. “When we dock in Juneau, the killer may disappear into the disembarking crowd.”
Dr. Girard acted as though he hadn’t heard Polly’s response. He wandered toward the balcony. “Mind if I step outside for a bit of fresh sea air?” he asked, not waiting for an answer.
“Give him a push!” Polly whispered to Placenta, as they watched the doctor gazing at the sea and the stars.
When Dr. Girard finally turned around and stepped back into the room, he said, “They don’t make many days as beautiful as this one. I feel like taking a walk around the Promenade Deck until I have to report back to the infirmary.”
Polly stood up and again told Dr. Girard how grateful she was for his attention to her medical problem. “When I have my next emergency, I’ll know precisely who to call.”
As Tim opened the cabin door and said good-bye, he looked at what Dr. Girard was holding in his hands. “You do have one of your own.”
“Huh? Oh, your camera!” Dr. Girard said as he handed the camera back to Tim. “See you around.”
After he left, Tim said, “Aside from his arms, his chest, and long hair, he’s weird.”
“I do not get a good vibe from that man!” Placenta said.
“He’s also a thief,” Tim added, looking at his camera and the open flap of the memory card compartment. “He stole my photos!”
“He obviously figured that you stole his, so he came to get them back.”
“Ha! I switched out the cards. I still have his. When he finds out that he’s taken the wrong memory card, he’ll be back, and we’ll be in deeper trouble than before. I think he also knows I’ve uploaded the images to my computer. I saw his eyes focus on the USB cable.”
Polly shrugged. “So why don’t you just give him back his thingamajig?”
“Because I don’t want him to know that I took his ‘thingamajig’ in the first place! Darn. He’s in for a big surprise. Thank God he’s a doctor. When he looks at what’s on my card, and sees all the anatomy, he shouldn’t be too shocked. Well, at least not until he gets to the files of … Oh, damn! He could make more money from the tabloids with my pix than the dreary ones of dead Laura!”
“Am I in there?” Polly asked, concerned that Tim’s constant fooling around with his camera and getting candid shots of her without makeup, or in her bubble bath, or asleep on the couch with half a dozen empty champagne bottles by her side, might be seen by the public.
Placenta moved to the couch and withdrew Tim’s computer from under the cushion and placed it on the coffee table. As Polly and Tim looked on, Placenta lifted the desktop screen and pushed the On button. She typed in a password, selected a file, then double-clicked on an icon. She said, “Mmm, mmm. With stuff like this for the good doctor to select from, you don’t have to worry your pretty dyed-red head about Polly Pepper being caught in a candid moment of disrepair.”
Polly and Tim moved to the coffee table to see what Placenta had brought up on the screen. Polly instantly burst out laughing. “Is that …? And the other one?” She laughed again. “The execs at The Disney Channel will have one big collective stroke if they see their latest and most expensive moppet singing superstar in the tabloids doing that!”
Placenta giggled. “Oh, Tim’s got a million more that are even more hysterically amusing and ripe for blackmail!”
Tim, on the other hand, was not so giddy. He looked at Placenta. “How do you know my password?” he asked. “I change it frequently.”
“It isn’t hard to figure out,” Placenta said
. “RicosThel. TaylorsThel. JasonsThel.” Placenta ticked off the names of Tim’s crushes over the past six months. “It didn’t take an Enigma Machine to break your puppy love codes.”
Tim was visibly miffed. “Is there no privacy anymore?”
Placenta rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It’s not as though I check your e-mails from those online dating sites, for crying out loud. By the by, you should do something about your username: ‘BigLegendsSon’ is a bit self-aggrandizing. Even Jason Gould’s is more subtle. Oh, and your profile has a few errors. For instance, you’re not twenty-two years old!”
“It’s called AOL years. Everyone lops off five years. And I’m not excusing you for disturbing my personal space!”
“Sometimes I just need to look at the pretty celebrities and wannabes who drop their clothes at the parties you’re invited to,” Placenta said. “It’s the voyeur in me.”
Tim folded his arms across his chest and smirked. “As a matter of fact, I know darn well that you peek at my pictures file. I don’t need photographic mementos of models and young TV stars splashing around together in Ashton Kutcher’s pool. I’ve seen them so often that I’m inured. They no longer excite me. I take those shots expressly for you!”
“I know that you know,” Placenta bragged. “Very much appreciated, too.”
Polly closed the cover of the computer and said, “When was I going to be included? I do all the work, and you two have all the fun.”
Placenta waved her hand dismissively. “It’s just a game that Tim and I play. We have to do something in between our Mr. Rights. You have Randy Archer, Beverly Hills police detective extraordinaire. We can’t keep a guy hanging around for more than a few weeks.”
Tim lifted the computer monitor lid again. “Be my guest,” he said to Polly. “Have a long look-see. Just don’t die from laughing when you see some of your old friends, or their spoiled rotten kids, displaying their inappropriate behaviors at Malibu beach house parties. But if those shots get out to the showbiz rags, we’ll have to leave the planet!”