by R. T. Jordan
Amelia smiled and shook hands with each of them. She then showed off her manicure and said, “I’ve received tons of compliments!”
As Polly and her team strolled through the Promenade Deck toward the bar, Placenta said, “No offense, but a five-year-old really did paint that red line on a canvas, right? The artist’s kid got into his studio and he had a deadline for a commission and said, ‘Screw it, this is what’ll I’ll turn in.’”
Amelia said, “As a matter of fact, it’s an Eelz.” She looked at blank faces. “Gregory Eelz? Hmm? Well, he is to contemporary art what Ben Tyler is to modern literature, and he’s equally reclusive. He’s an artist’s artist.”
“Which means he doesn’t make a dime, and nobody will ever hear of him,” Placenta said.
Amelia nodded. “That’s the way it is in the art world. Unless you’re Thomas Kinkade, you only make money after you’re dead.”
As the leader of the pack, Polly escorted her troupe into the Coral Lounge. The hostess greeted the group warmly and led them to a small table. “I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent over right away,” she said, as aware as everyone else that Polly Pepper lived for her bubbles.
Polly smiled and affectionately touched the hostess’s arm. “I’ll depend upon you to make sure it’s something nontoxic.”
“I’ve read that you can’t get André past your lips. I understand.” The hostess grinned. “I feel the same way about my husband.”
As the quintet awaited the arrival of their libations, Polly held court and talked about how much fun she was having aboard the Intacti. “The food is decent. The drinks don’t keep me sober. And my audiences have been grateful for my appearances. I should cruise more often.”
“Polly always has a good time when there’s a murder to be investigated,” Tim said. “It’s too bad that this time the victim is a family friend.”
“Please accept my condolences,” Amelia said as she withdrew an emery board from her purse and unconsciously began filing her nails. “You’re holding up pretty well, considering …”
“Considering, that I’m not the one who had a razor-sharp DVD saw through my neck, I guess I am doing well,” Polly said as a champagne bucket was placed beside the table and a cocktail waitress uncorked a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Polly kept track of how many glasses were filled and decided there wouldn’t be anything left for seconds. “I guess we’d better have another one right away,” she said to the waitress who had turned the empty bottle of Dom upside down in the ice bucket.
After a long swallow, which drained half the champagne in her glass, Polly made a contented sigh and reached out to take Amelia’s hand. She admired the nails and nodded to Sharri. “Lovely job, dear. We’ll get back to mine a bit later.” She looked at Amelia and said, “Try not to chew your nails anymore, Sweetums. You’ll get poisoned by the polish.”
Amelia looked at Polly and said, “Ick. Never. That’s a nauseating practice. I generally keep them well maintained.” She blew on her nails and put the emery board back into her purse.
Polly looked at her own unfinished nails. “They were a disaster when Sharri got hold of them.”
Amelia examined Polly’s nails. “I can see that she still has a ways to go.”
“I mean, your nails,” an embarrassed Polly said, placing her hands on her lap. “Sharri said that your nails looked as though they’d gone through the garbage disposal.”
Sharri put down her drink. “I was simply bragging about my ability to handle tough projects.”
Polly continued her line of questioning. “How did your poor little nails come to resemble something that had been run through a wood chipper?”
Amelia flushed. “I hardly think …” She looked at Sharri.
“And you had dried blood embedded …” Polly continued.
Amelia picked up her champagne flute with a shaking hand, took a long swallow, and set the glass down. “Blood?” she said, cautiously.
“Human blood,” Polly guessed, but made it sound as though she was one hundred percent certain.
Amelia took another sip from her glass. “The truth is … my suitcase.”
“Suitcase?” Polly jumped in.
“A carry-on. Cheapie. The zipper was stuck and I had to wrestle with the damn thing. I pulled back and forth on the zipper until finally, I got it to move. But my fingers were in the way, and when it came free, the teeth ran over my nails. My index finger bled like crazy.”
Polly deflated. The story made sense. She’d had her own suitcase zipper problems in the past and had seen how easily Amelia could be injured. “Darn! It wasn’t Laura Crawford’s blood under the nails.”
Amelia was jolted. “What? I should have known the moment you walked into my lecture that people like you weren’t interested in art!” Amelia stood up and knocked over her chair. “On this cruise I’ve seen what happens when Polly Pepper gets involved in a murder investigation. Innocent people, with no more relationship to the crime other than the fact that they may have breathed the same air as the victim, have their lives ruined by innuendo!”
“Please, dear, sit down and finish your drink. Dom is like a mind. It’s a terrible thing to waste,” Polly insisted.
Amelia started to walk away, then turned and said, “If we’d had a little more time together, I might have told you about a man who came to one of my lectures. Yes, he was quite the chatterbox, too. Your name came up several times during our conversations, as did Laura Crawford’s.”
“Who?” Polly asked.
“Is there an owl in here?” Amelia laughed with disdain. “You’d like a name, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not about to let some other innocent passenger find himself the center of your aberration. From what I’ve heard, and now seen, in your world everyone is guilty until proven innocent. You’ll keep making false accusations until, through the process of elimination, a shipload of passengers and crew is humiliated. Even then, you may not find your killer. There is such a thing as the perfect crime.”
Amelia then walked away. When she reached the exit, she bumped into Dorian, who appeared distraught. Polly watched, as Amelia pointed to Polly. Dorian nodded and headed for Polly’s table. “Oh, happy day,” Polly said facetiously, as Tim, Placenta, and Sharri followed her gaze.
“Who is it?” Sharri asked.
“Polly’s new beau,” Tim joked.
Sharri made a face that read, “You must be kidding.”
CHAPTER 21
“Call me crazy,” Polly said.
“Loca!” said Placenta.
“Bananas!” said Tim.
Polly held out her string of pearls for Placenta to help fasten around her neck. “Dorian’s harmless. You heard the poor man. He’s genuinely sorry that he caused you the slightest bother outside my cabin.” She looked at Tim. “If I’m willing to forgive and forget … Heck, we only have another two days.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Do you remember when I was dating that stud from Desperate Housewives?”
“There have been so many,” Polly said, impatiently.
“Um, the one you invited to the Plantation for dinner …”
“Again …” Polly thought for a moment. “Oh! The one with the Teri Hatcher fetish. Or so I’d hoped. But all he did was kneel at the altar of Marcia Cross.”
“I didn’t want to listen when you and Placenta told me to break it off with him ASAP.”
“He wasn’t stimulating,” Placenta said.
“That’s what you think!” Tim smiled.
“Plus he had ulterior motives for hanging out with you.”
Tim nodded. “I thought that I was enough. I couldn’t see that what he was really after was a chance to try on one of Polly’s Bob Mackie gowns.”
“You’re so naive,” Polly cooed, and tickled her son under his chin.
“The thing is,” Tim continued, “Dorian gives off a strong negative vibration.”
“There’s definitely something odd there,” Placenta agreed. “I don’t trust overly polite fans. They don�
��t have opinions of their own. They never dissent from what you say and have to agree that Jon and Kate Plus 8 was quality television, when of course it was shameless exploitation! The truth is, he makes my skin get all itchy.”
Polly checked her hair in the mirror and smiled to see if any lipstick had smudged her teeth. “See Dr. Girard for a bottle of calamine lotion,” she said. Polly turned around to her family. “I know that Dorian is a nerd and a bore, but I can tolerate him for a little while longer. I can’t very well be rude to a man who venerates me.”
“Fine,” Tim said in resignation. “But try this when you see him. Tell him how much you adore A-Rod.”
“Another rap so-called artist?”
“Good one,” Tim sniggered. “Actually baseball. Yankees. But tell Dorian that you adore A-Rod’s band. Text me what he says.”
Placenta reached into her bra and withdrew a wad of cash. She placed a twenty-dollar bill on the coffee table. “I’ll wager that Dorian says something like, ‘I have all his albums.’ Or, ‘I’ll take you to his next concert.’”
Tim matched the wager and gave his mother a good night kiss. “I’m staying up until I receive your text!”
The Polar Bar was jammed when Polly arrived. Dorian was already seated, and he waved from across the room. Polly wended her way past couples who were dancing and others who were pointing at her. Dorian was standing when she eventually made it to his side. “Perfect timing,” he said, and offered a continental air kiss to each of her cheeks. Then he held out the chair for Polly to be seated. “The champagne is just the right temperature,” he said, and poured too much into her glass. It frothed and spilled down the side of the flute. “I’ll get the hang of it someday.”
Polly gave a tolerant smile, raised the glass to her lips, and took a tentative sip. “Another domestic bottle, eh?” she said as she simultaneously thought, No. He’ll never get the hang of it.
Dorian frowned. “Sorry. I should have ordered something more expensive.” He raised his hand to signal a cocktail waitress, but Polly stopped him. “This is absolutely fine, Sweetums,” she insisted. “One of the important things to know about my nature is that I’m very flexible about almost everything. I’m trying very hard to realize that not everyone on the planet has my heightened sensitivity and aversion to mediocrity.” She took another sip from her glass. “Yummy,” she lied, and tried to ignore the jarring antiseptic taste. “Tell me, what did Miss Art Creature say to you earlier in the Coral Lounge?”
“Amelia Aimsburry? She just gave me directions to your table.”
Polly nodded and looked into Dorian’s eyes. “She was certainly upset with me.”
“Who could be angry with you?” Dorian said. “She was probably having a bad day. I’m sure that she didn’t mean to be indignant with a star of your caliber.”
As Dorian regurgitated stories about how well-liked Polly Pepper is, and how she may have misinterpreted Amelia’s temper, Polly thought about what Tim and Placenta had said of Dorian being a disingenuous lackey eager to please her just because she was a celebrity. “Unfortunately, I think Amelia is right about me.”
“There’s always that possibility, too,” Dorian agreed.
“Perhaps I should forget about finding the person who murdered Laura Crawford and just leave it to the police,” Polly said. “After all, I’ve had zero success, and I’ve made terrible accusations about innocent people.”
“Presumed innocent,” Dorian corrected. “You had your reasons for calling out Lawrence and Dangelo and Saul and Rosemary and whoever else has been on your list of suspects. You did what you thought was best. No one can blame you for that. But maybe it is time to just enjoy the rest of the short time we have left on this voyage, and let the dead take care of themselves.”
“By the by, how do you know the dear art expert?”
“I attended her lecture yesterday. She’s quite the brainiac when it comes to contemporary art,” he said.
“Did she show you that five-year-old’s painting?”
“That’s an Eelz!”
“So I heard.”
Dorian paused for a moment. “I’ll bet if you saw something more representational, like his iconic series titled ‘Watching Paint Dry,’ you’d rush to include anything by the master in your own contemporary art collection. I had his Nails on Chalkboard—actual human fingernails glued to a blackboard! But I had to let it go.”
Dorian suddenly fell quiet. Polly patted him on the hand and cooed, “If you loved this artist so much, I’m sure you’ll eventually find the funds to buy another piece.”
Dorian smiled. “Absitively. Posolutely. Somehow, I’ve always had the ability to get what I want. Right now, I simply want to have fun with you. Shall we take our drinks to the Promenade Deck and look at the stars?”
Polly picked up her champagne flute and her clutch purse. “Since I didn’t die this morning when I was scheduled to, I guess I’m safe.”
Dorian escorted her out of the lounge to the glass elevator. When they stepped out of the car and onto the deck, the sea breeze played with Polly’s hair and ruffled her sparkling bugle-beaded blouse. “I should have brought a wrap,” she said, and instantly wished she could take her words back as Dorian wound an arm around her and pulled her close to his side. She stiffened, but Dorian didn’t seem to notice.
“Isn’t this romantic,” Dorian purred as he slowly guided Polly along the deck. “It just shows to go you that in America anyone can grow up to meet Polly Pepper and spend time on an intimate ocean cruise with the legend herself.”
Wedged tightly between the vise of Dorian’s arm and the side of his body, the position made it impossible for Polly to walk casually. Her rigid body was growing more uncomfortable with each step. Finally she shrieked, “Oh, look! A shooting star!” She extricated herself from Dorian’s grip and dashed to the railing along the edge of the deck. “Darn, you missed it.”
“You’re the only star I want to see,” Dorian said as he sidled up to Polly at the railing. “I hope your invitation to visit Pepper Plantation is still a go. I’m eager to see your famous home. And your art collection.”
“Ah, the not-so-famous can,” Polly said. “I don’t know why you’d care about such a dreary subject for a painting.”
“Far from dreary!” Dorian objected. “If you don’t like it, maybe I can take it off your hands.”
“I’d have a difficult time explaining that to my decorator,” Polly said. “She designed the entire room around it. Matching cushions on the sofa. Even the rug was made es-specially to pick up the colors of the canvas. I’m afraid it’s staying right where it is.”
“I was kidding, of course,” Dorian said, not sounding too convincing. “But maybe when I visit, you’ll have a dinner party and invite David Hockney to join us, so he can tell me all about that canvas of his that you own.”
“Mmm,” Polly said, vaguely. She yawned and said it was time for her beauty rest, and would Dorian mind awfully if she called it a night. “We’ll have brunch tomorrow.”
Dorian looked at his wristwatch, obviously disappointed. However, he said, “Absitively. Posolutely.”
Polly shivered at hearing that ridiculous phrase again, but pretended it was the chilly night air that caused her to shudder.
Dorian began to walk Polly back to the inside deck when she insisted that he stay out and enjoy the star-filled night. “I can certainly find my way back alone.”
Suddenly, Dorian became testy. “Are you tired of me? If you are, it’s fine. You can be tiresome too. But I’d like to know where I stand.”
Polly gave Dorian a blank look. “It’s been an exhausting day. I had very little sleep last night, you may remember. Also, Polly Pepper is many things, but never tiresome. She’s—rather, I’m—the life of the party.”
Dorian instantly checked himself. “I’m so sorry, Polly. That didn’t come out the way I intended. Of course you’re never tiresome. I have to face the fact that we’re from two different worlds, and compared to
your exciting showbiz friends, I don’t have very much that’s interesting to talk about. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Polly said. “One can’t help being a fireman or a computer programmer or—a shoe salesman. Just as I can’t help being an internationally acclaimed, multi-Emmy Award-winning superstar with a new DVD collection of all-time greatest hits musical/comedy sketches from my long-running television variety series which is syndicated in forty-two countries.”
Dorian leaned in to give Polly a kiss but she turned her cheek to his lips. “I have done something to change your mind about me,” he said, coldly. “Will you keep our brunch date, or blow me off with an excuse that you have a headache or some other such transparent lie?”
“Sweetums, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with mock sincerity. “You’re a lovely man, and I’m happy that we’ve had this opportunity to get to know one another. I’ll see you at brunch.”
Polly turned and disappeared into the ship. She rode the glass elevator to her deck and quickly moved along the corridor to her deluxe veranda suite.
As she was about to insert her key card into the door lock, a voice from behind startled her. “Don’t turn around,” a man with a New England accent spoke. “I have a message for you, Miss Pepper.”
Polly wanted to say, “Not Miss Pep-pa. It’s Miss ‘Pepper.’”
“It comes from the grave. Laura Crawford’s grave.”
“She’s in cold storage, not in a grave.” Polly found the temerity to speak.
“Splitting hairs,” the voice retorted. “Do you want this information or not?”
Polly didn’t answer.
“Laura Crawford said to tell you that the man who killed her is probably …”
“Probably?” Polly scoffed. “The dead are supposed to be omniscient. Doesn’t she know for sure who killed her?”
“Jeez, lady, do you mind if I talk?” The voice lost its accent. After a moment, the accent returned. “The killer is probably a man she double-crossed….”