by R. T. Jordan
“Ugh! She was always doing something stupid to tick people off.”
“Before you interrupt again, no, it’s not a fan she snubbed or a celebrity she had a fight with.”
Polly kept her back to the voice, but folded her arms across her chest. “Laura Crawford seems to be sending you a lot of vague signals. Can you be more specific about what she did to make someone so angry that they’d slice and dice her?”
“I’ll say this much. A fragile ego seeks revenge.”
“An actor?” Polly guessed.
“Don’t you listen? I said he wasn’t a celebrity!”
“Excuse me,” Polly said in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe the killer was jealous of one of her lovers.”
“With all the weight she’d packed on, do you really think she had a stream of men flowing in and out of her life?” The voice was now impatient. “Forget it. In fact, forget that I tried to help.”
“No!” Polly begged. “I’m at my wits’ end and need all the help I can get to solve this crime. What else do you know?”
“Laura Crawford wants me to tell you that if you’re not careful, you’ll die for the same reason that she did. Be wise.”
“Is that really Laura giving me a warning, or are you simply trying to scare me and redirect my investigation, or stop it altogether?” Polly demanded.
The voice stammered. “Look, I’m sorry. I had nothing to do with Laura Crawford’s death but I think I know who did.”
“Tell me! I promise I won’t tell a soul. About you, I mean. You won’t be in trouble,” Polly implored. “I’ll protect you.”
“You can’t promise that! Anyway, I’ll be considered an accessory for not coming forward. I just can’t speak on the record. You’re going to have to find out for yourself!” The voice cracked in fear. “But you’re closer than you think.”
“Please, please, please!” Polly begged. “At least give me a hint. A really good one, ‘cause I’m not so hot with riddles.”
A loud but resigned sigh came from behind Polly. “What can I say that won’t implicate me? Okay. Um. Maybe this will help. A book. A movie. I guess a play, too. Oh, and an Oscar nomination for A.L.”
Polly rolled her eyes. “How can I play charades if I can’t see your signals? A book? How many words in the title? How many syllables? Sounds like? You have to tell me if I’m getting hot or cold. This is totally dumb. Why don’t we go to the Polar Bar for a drink and sort this out?”
Silence.
“The champagne is on me.”
Silence.
“You can’t pass up champagne! Oh, but you’re right. We can’t be seen together. But I can’t let you into my cabin either, because for all I know you may be the killer and you’ll do to me what you did to Laura.”
Silence.
“Are you the killer? Would the real fiend who murdered Laura Crawford as she prepared to have a relaxing massage, please stand up. Please?”
Silence.
Polly slowly and tentatively moved her head to look over her shoulder. The corridor was empty. Polly turned around and looked up and down the hallway. She turned back to her door and slipped her key card into the lock once more. “Damn. Maybe I do talk too much.”
“To yourself.” Tim’s unexpected voice gave Polly a start.
Placenta said, “Why so jumpy? Dorian’s frightening, but …”
“I was just talking to … Did you see anyone in the hallway as you came down?”
Tim and Placenta looked up and down the corridor. “Just us chickens.”
“That’s me,” Polly sighed. “A chicken talking to a ghost.” She pushed the door open and entered her stateroom.
“Ghost? Anyone we used to know and like?” Tim mocked.
“I’m serious!” Polly said, expecting a glass of champagne to be placed in her hand right away. “Thank you, dear,” she said as Placenta fulfilled her duty. “I was outside the stateroom, just about to unlock the door when the voice from the Pepperidge Farm commercials spoke to me. He had a dire warning.”
“That the Keebler elves are baking something illegal in their cookies?” Tim teased.
Polly gave him a scornful look. “He had a message from the grave. Laura’s grave.”
“She doesn’t have a grave,” Placenta said.
“Splitting hairs. He said he thought he knew who killed Laura!”
“Who?” Tim ask.
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Jeez. You’d think the spirit world would repay the living for all the people who help guide the losers into the light,” Tim said.
“A prankster who was having fun at your expense,” Placenta said as she poured herself a glass of champagne. “He was probably getting back at you for all the finger-pointing that turned out to be false.”
“I’m not so sure.” Polly defended her phantom. “There was something legitimate in his voice.”
Tim took Polly’s glass from her hand and took a sip, then handed it back. “We’re on a ship filled with actors. Any one of them could have changed their voice, slipped into ghost character and, as Placenta said, had a big ol’ laugh at spooking Polly Pepper. Look for it on ‘The Intacti’s Funniest Kool Krooz Videos.’”
Polly swallowed the remainder of her champagne and waited for a refill. “Now I’m depressed. I’m at the end of my rope. Like David Carradine. But without the added entertainment.”
“Or as much behind-the-corpse sniggering,” Tim teased.
“The voice. No, I never saw who it belonged to.” Polly answered the question before it could be asked. “However, he said that Laura double-crossed someone, and that if I wasn’t careful, I’d die for the same reason that she did.”
“We’ve been hearing that all week,” Placenta snorted. “You were supposed to go overboard hours ago. Look who’s still drinking.”
Feeling devoid of any hope that she would ever find the killer, Polly sighed and folded herself onto the sofa. “This has not been a very good vacation. Not to speak ill of the dead, but it’s all Laura Crawford’s fault. As usual. Right from the moment she got me involved in this cockamamie scheme to earn a few extra bucks, and up to the moment she got herself ripped apart, it’s been a nightmare for me. And God knows I haven’t sold nearly as many DVDs as Laura promised I would!”
“It hasn’t exactly been a Carnival Cruise for Laura either,” Tim reminded.
Polly shook her head. “In some ways, she’s better off. At least she doesn’t have to live with my guilt.”
Placenta heaved a heavy sigh of frustration and then tried to comfort Polly. “The only thing you’re guilty of is calling my beau a sociopathic serial killer who, if not immediately locked up and kept under tight security, would have every celebrity aboard this Kool Krooz slaughtered before he finished playing the Rodgers and Hammerstein songbook.”
Tim agreed with Placenta. “Add a heaping scoop of guilt for scaring away my one and only true love-of-the-week. Without Dangelo I’m an old maid at twenty-seven, with absolutely no hope of finding everlasting love on the high seas during the last forty-eight hours of this voyage. You’ll be paying for years of therapy for me after this.”
Polly looked at her family with the condescension they deserved. “I’m talking about the guilt of not being able to solve the murder for Laura. I’m a failure!”
The room remained quiet for a long moment as the trio sipped champagne and thought about the ordeal they’d all endured over the past five days. Finally, Polly said, “Who’s up for a game of charades?”
“It’s too late,” Tim said.
“We don’t have enough people,” Placenta added.
Polly stood up. “My ghost and I were playing, when he suddenly vanished.” Polly opened her palms and held them up.
“Oh, Lord, we’re stuck in game mode,” Tim said.
Placenta gave in with a loud moan. “A book,” she said, recognizing the charade clue to indicate a book title.
Polly nodded in excitement. She then curled her fingers to her thumb and m
ade an O, which she brought up to her eye, while using her other hand to pantomime cranking a handle.
“A movie,” Tim said halfheartedly.
Again Polly nodded effusively. She then stretched out her arms and placed the backs of her hands together in front and pushed them in opposite directions.
“Swimming!” Tim said. “Swimming with Sharks!”
Polly shook her head.
“You’re parting something,” Placenta said. “Tall grass, like in the savannahs of Africa. Pushing away grass to see a lion.”
“The Lion King! Out of Africa! Tim wailed excitedly.
Polly shook her head firmly and tried another clue. She held out her palms and raised them up as if lifting a heavy object.
“Levitation!” Placenta said.
Polly shook her head. She then clenched her fists around an invisible rope and acted as though she were straining to hoist a heavy pulley.
“You’re raising a flag!” Tim said.
Polly shook her head.
“Hand over fist!” Placenta said, getting into the fun. “A book from a movie that brought in money, hand over fist!”
“What’s the clue for a play?” Polly said.
“You not supposed to talk!” Placenta snapped.
Polly gestured zipping her lips. She thought for a long moment and then stood perfectly rigid and as still as a statue.
“A guard at Buckingham Palace!” Tim said.
Polly pinched her thumb and forefinger together.
“Small!”
Polly nodded.
“Miniature guards. Toy soldiers!”
Polly frowned. She pretended to place something heavy in the crook of her arm and cradle it.
“Rosemary’s Baby!” Tim shouted.
Again Polly looked through the O of her fingers while turning a crank.
“Movie. Baby. Toy Soldiers.”
Polly was clearly frustrated and repeated looking through a viewfinder, standing rigid for a moment, placing something in the crook of her arm.”
“Oscar!” Tim suddenly called out loudly.
Polly excitedly pointed to her nose.
“A book that became a movie and a play and won an Oscar,” Placenta said. “We’ll be here all night.”
Polly would not give up. She pinched her thumb and forefinger together again.
“A short word,” Tim said, excitedly. “A. And. The.”
Polly shook her head and pinched her thumb and forefinger still again.
“Smaller word?” Placenta asked. “Initials?”
Again Polly tapped her nose.
After Tim and Placenta had finished going through the alphabet fifty-two times, they finally had the correct initials.”
“Well?” Polly finally spoke.
“Well, what?” Tim said. “What does A.L. stand for? Abbreviation for Alabama?”
Polly shrugged. “All the clues that my ghost—oh hell, the idiot who was trying to scare me—gave me were: book, movie, play, Oscar nomination, A.L.”
“Come again?” Placenta said, irritated. “You don’t even know the answer yourself!”
“Why do you think I started playing this stupid game? I was hoping you two would figure it out. Name movies with the initials A.L.”
Tim instantly said, “Amityille … Something. Alien … Whatever, Avalanche … Lane … Lodge … Lake, Auntie Mame. Close but A.M., not A.L.”
Tim went to his computer and checked the Internet Movie Database, as well as Rotten Tomatoes, The Razzies, and even Robert Osborne’s TCM Web site. “Your visitor is an idiot, all right! There’s not a single movie with an A.L. title! Are you sure that’s what this specter said?”
Polly shook her head. “I don’t know now. It’s been too long and it’s all your fault anyway.”
“My fault?” Tim protested.
“You scared him away!” Polly said. “I was just gaining his confidence. He would have given me the killer’s name and address and I could have solved the mystery if you hadn’t come along when you did. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t see him when you pounced on me.”
“Perhaps because ghosts are invisible to we mere mortals.” Placenta defended Tim. “And we didn’t pounce! We saw Dorian wandering the Promenade Deck by himself and figured he’d either thrown you over or you escaped back to your stateroom.”
“Rather than make any unfounded accusations, the way some people around here do, we thought we’d better check on you first,” Tim said.
“You’re welcome for our concern,” Placenta cracked.
Polly slumped down onto the sofa and sighed. “I’ve screwed everything up. I’m the boy who cried wolf, or would be if I had Chastity Bono’s operation.”
“Try the star who cried murderer,” Placenta said. “If someone hasn’t called the National Peeper by now and filed a story about Polly Pepper’s lunatic ravings en route to Alaska, I’ll be surprised.”
“Gossip was so much easier to control before cell phone cameras and the Internet made everything immediate and traceable,” Tim said. “All it would take is for one passenger to snap a picture or stream a homemade video of the squeaky clean Polly Pepper, accusing harmless law-abiding people of killing a fellow passenger, and e-mailing the pictures to TMZ or Perez Hilton or Access Hollywood, and you’re on YouTube for eternity.”
Polly looked dejected. “In my rush to find a killer, I’ve become my own personal Salem Witch Hunt.”
“Or a Duke University stripper filing false charges against the lacrosse team,” Tim added.
“Good grief! Make me feel even worse!” Polly cried. “Next you’ll be calling me the lame ass Limbaugh of the Intacti!”
Tim and Placenta sat down on opposite sides of Polly and put their arms around her. “Everything will be all right,” Placenta cooed. “You’re under a ton of stress, and you haven’t had much rest. Shall I put you to bed and sing a lullaby? Maybe Tim will rub your feet.”
Polly calmed down. “What would I do without you two, my fame, and a bottle of champagne? We need another. I’d be lost. That’s where I’d be.”
With one hand, Tim kneaded the back of Polly’s neck. “You’re tight.”
“I haven’t had that much to drink.”
Tim playfully squeezed harder. “I mean you have a knot in your neck, silly. And I’m sorry for comparing you with that Duke U. tramp.”
Polly tilted her head back and enjoyed Tim’s strong hands on her neck, while Placenta massaged her fingers and hands. As she closed her eyes and let the healing energy permeate her soul, Polly’s thoughts drifted. She thought about Laura Crawford and the terrible way she died. Images of the people who, over the course of the past few days, had seemed to be ripe for arrest, but who turned out to be blameless, accumulated in her mind, as did eyewitness accounts of Laura’s last night alive.
Polly thought of Talia and the acrimonious telephone call that she claimed Laura had made prior to her massage with Rosemary. Then she thought of old Mrs. Hardy, and her recalling that Laura received a cell phone call during dinner. Suddenly, Polly sat up straight, which jolted Tim and Placenta who followed suit. Polly looked at Tim. “What did you say about cell phones?”
“That they could spread gossip faster than Nancy O’Dell.”
“Why didn’t we think of this before?” Polly said triumphantly.
Tim and Placenta were too tired to ask questions. Instead they simply listened to what Polly had to say.
“Rosemary and that other masseuse said that Laura was having an argument on her cell phone when she came to the spa. If we can find her cell phone, we can probably find the number of the person she was talking to. I’ll bet all of my People’s Choice Awards that the person she spoke to is the killer.”
Tim and Placenta were intrigued by Polly’s idea. “All of Laura’s personal effects are in storage,” Tim said.
“You’ve burned your bridge to the captain,” Placenta reminded. “He’ll never give you permission to go anywhere near Laura’s things.”
&nb
sp; “I’m Polly Pepper. I don’t need a permission slip from the principal’s office to look through the lost and found department.”
CHAPTER 22
Within minutes, Tim and Placenta were reluctantly following Polly down the corridor to the glass elevator. “It’s nearly midnight,” Tim complained. “You’d better be surprising me with a visit to Anderson Cooper’s cabin!”
Stepping into the elevator car, Polly said, “Galleon Level, dear.”
Tim pushed the button. “The infirmary again? You’re finally going in for a much-needed lobotomy.”
When the car stopped, the trio stepped out and found themselves in a quiet corridor. Polly pointed to a red arrow under the universal sign for hospital. She took a deep breath and reached into her clutch for a Kleenex. “How do I look?” she asked Placenta.
“Like a woman who hasn’t had much sleep in a week.”
Polly smiled. “Give me more of that methamphetamine insomniac look.” Placenta mussed Polly’s hair and made her look as distraught as she was tired.
“Follow me,” Polly said. “And pray that Dr. Girard doesn’t work twenty-four-seven.”
As Polly led the way toward the infirmary, she started to cry.
“Oh, I get it,” Placenta said with zero compassion.
At first Polly merely sniffled; by the time she reached the door to the clinic, her chest was heaving with deep distress, and her mascara was running in rivulets down the creases in her face. She stood outside the door and sobbed into her son’s shirt as he embraced her.
In moments, a woman came out to see what was causing all the noise in the corridor. Wearing a white smock with a name badge that said, PAT SMALLEY, R.N., the woman said, “Poor baby. What’s wrong? Tummy hurt?”
At the sound of Nurse Smalley’s voice, Polly’s blubbering became louder.
Tim looked at the nurse. “Mother … Polly Pepper … has been this way for the past few days. We’re hoping you have something to calm her down.”
Nurse Smalley instantly recognized Polly and the reason for her distress. She ushered the trio into the infirmary and insisted that Polly take a seat on the leather chair beside the desk. She poured a glass of ice water and handed it to Polly.