by R. T. Jordan
Gerold’s heavy fist slammed onto the table and echoed out from the stage and into the auditorium, causing the startled cast to jump. “How’s that for strong! Miss Pepper, check your contract. The days of you having director and cast approval are long gone. Patti LuPone you’re not! If I’m unacceptable to you, then you’re unacceptable to me. However, as much as I’d like to say good-bye to you, the theater has already invested far too much coin advertising your appearance in this show. And while I’m loath to admit it, based on your name value, the box office is actually doing brisk business.”
Polly smiled with self-satisfaction.
“Still, if you feel that we can’t work together, by all means return to your Pepper Plantation,” Gerold said. “But I assure you that by the time you reach the monogrammed gates, a team of attorneys will be waiting for you. The breach-of-contract lawsuit should keep you out of any other work for a very long time.”
All eyes turned to Polly Pepper, who swallowed hard and stared into Gerold’s black beady eyes. “As a matter of fact, I’ve only worked with two directors during my career who were of much use. I’m usually expected to simply speak my lines, sing a little, and use my celebrity to draw audiences. I can do it again, without anyone’s help or support from you.”
Gerold was silent for a long brooding moment, and then opened his notebook. “Moving on. With Sharon Fletcher in the slammer for murdering Karen Richards, she’ll be replaced by Mag Ryan.”
“Now, that’s actually a brilliant idea,” Polly said. “Everyone loves Meg Ryan! We’re old friends. She’ll be sensational!”
Gerold shook his head. “I said Mag Ryan. Not Meg.”
“Who the hell is Mag Ryan and why can’t she get her own name?”
The cast sniggered.
“I don’t expect you to know her work. She’s relatively new. But she personifies the Gloria Upson character, which she’ll be playing.”
Then, not looking up to face the rest of the cast, Gerold turned the page of his notebook and said, “Charlotte and Hiroaki? Nothing personal, but I’ll messenger your final paychecks to your homes.”
“We’re fired?” Hiroaki said.
“‘Replaced’ is how the trades will report it,” Gerold said. “We’re going in a different direction with these characters.”
“The characters are what they are and always have been. What do you mean by ‘going in a different direction’?” Hiroaki asked.
“I don’t really think you want to fire me,” Charlotte said in a calm voice. “I suggest you give your decision a little more thought…considering, um…everything.”
Gerold was quiet until Hiroaki interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve already learned my lines,” the actor complained. “I need this show for my Equity insurance!”
“Don’t look at me as the bad guy.” Gerold tried to sound contrite. “The decision to replace you was made the first day of rehearsal. Karen was supposed to tell you yesterday morning. Her death doesn’t change anything.”
“Karen Richards cast me. She knew I was perfect for the role,” Hiroaki whispered.
Everyone around the reading table was aghast. With as much dignity as they could each muster, Hiroaki Goldfarb and Charlotte Bunch rose from their folding chairs. Charlotte blew a kiss to her now former cast members, and she and Hiroaki began to walk off the stage. “Things aren’t always as they appear,” she said, looking back at her colleagues.
“This appears to suck,” Hiroaki spat.
“I’ll call you,” Polly yelled out as they disappeared into the wings.
Chapter 6
During the drive back to Pepper Plantation, Polly steamed in silence. When Tim finally turned the car onto the estate grounds and parked under the front portico, Polly got out and climbed the two steps up to the front door. She pushed the keypad to disarm the alarm system and opened the door. Tim and Placenta followed behind as Polly made straight for the great room and the wine cooler.
As she withdrew a bottle of Krug and handed it to Tim to open Polly exclaimed, “I loathe bullies! Gerold Goss is the adult male version of Mandy Montevecci, my personal bête noire from Hollywood High. For no reason whatsoever she hated my guts from the moment I walked on campus. After I became famous I tracked her down, mainly to rub her nose in my success, but I also wanted to find out why she treated me so poorly all through school. You know what she told me? She said she didn’t know why she hated me, but that she just did. Then she said that she hated my show too.”
“But she must have watched it to make that judgment,” Tim said.
“Gerold has the same problem as Mandy,” Polly continued. “He hates that I’m popular and talented and he’s a big fat garbage bag. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, diet on Ding Dongs and Twinkies and become small-time regional theater directors or critics!”
Tim poured three flutes of champagne and handed one each to his mother and Placenta. He raised his own to theirs. “Gerold never said one word that suggested how sorry he is about Karen’s death, or that we should think positive thoughts for Sharon. It’s weird that he didn’t declare a moment of silence, or insist that Sharon was innocent until proved guilty. Even if it’s true that she was responsible for Karen’s death, you’re supposed to pretend to hold out hope that the real killer will be found. Even O.J. promised to track himself down.”
“Everybody grieves in his own way,” Polly said. “But you’re right that he should have at least suggested that we support Sharon. I mean, just because her car was at the scene of the crime around the time of Karen’s death, and that her Emmy was the murder weapon, and her cell phone was discovered beside the body, and that Sharon and Karen’s phone logs show that they were in communication with each other that morning, despite the fact that Sharon lied about being at the theater, doesn’t mean that she’s guilty. We’ve got to hear her side of the story.”
Polly stood up and walked to the cordless telephone that was resting in its charging station on a chrome and glass desk by the bay window. She picked up the handset and pushed the numbers on the keypad to connect with her paramour, Detective Randy Archer of the Beverly Hills Police Department. In almost an instant, Polly seductively cooed, “Hey, you.” In a childlike voice she said, “Are we still on for Friday night?” She chuckled. “Ooooh, you’re too naughty. Say that again.”
Tim and Placenta looked at each other and smiled as they eavesdropped on what was obviously lovers’ podgy-woo chatter. After years of watching Polly’s lack of interest in dating, they were happy to see that she was finally realizing that just because she was a woman of a certain age, that didn’t mean she wasn’t still alluring and able to take a handsome lover.
Polly continued her conversation but cleverly steered it in a different direction. “You’ve obviously heard the horrible news about my director’s death. Would you do me a terribly big favor? I need to check on Sharon Fletcher, the girl who’s been arrested for Karen’s murder.”
Polly stopped and listened for a moment. “I promise, I’m not getting involved with the crime investigation. I swear! I just want to see how Sharon’s doing in that horrible jail cell.” She appeared to listen a moment longer, then added, “Scout’s honor, I won’t interfere one teensy bit. But if you could get me in to see Sharon, I’d be awfully grateful. How grateful?” Polly paused and whispered something into the phone and then sniggered. “You’re good when you’re bad. Is today too soon? Brilliant. Yes, of course I remember where the jail is. I’ve spent rather a lot of time there over the past few months. Thank you, Precious Buns.” Then she hung up the phone.
“Let’s go!” Polly slugged back the rest of her flute of champagne before walking out of the great room. “We’re off to visit Sharon.”
Sharon Fletcher’s physical appearance was what one would expect from a guest of any jail. She was disheveled. Gone was her makeup, which had hidden a freckled nose. Her lacquered nails were clipped and stripped of polish. Her shoulder-length hair was no longer L’Oreal “I’m worth it” silky smoo
th, but rather Brillo pad “I’m a wreck, and don’t I show it?” In other words, she looked like a troll doll on suicide watch.
Polly was momentarily taken aback by Sharon’s unflattering new look. “We can’t touch or hug,” Polly finally said, “so please accept this.” She blew a kiss to Sharon, who forced a smile and would have returned the gesture if her hands weren’t shackled by a pair of cuffs and chained to her chair. “My dear,” Polly began, “I don’t believe for one instant that you killed Karen Richards. But why did you tell all those lies to the police? I personally saw your car at the theater.”
Sharon bowed her head. After a long moment of silence she said, “All my life, whenever I thought I might be in trouble, the first thing I do is try to cover my butt. That was my natural reflex when the police showed up. I figured that no one would have believed me if I’d admitted to being at the theater apparently moments before Karen was killed. So I played dumb and pretended to have a cold and said that I’d been sick in bed all day.”
“What about the fact that the police found your Emmy with Karen’s blood all over it, and your cell phone next to the body?” Polly asked. “It had your fingerprints and Karen’s all over it.”
Sharon began to explain. “I was mad at Gerold Goss and threw my phone at him. It bounced off his big grizzly bear body and Karen must have picked it up after I stormed out of the theater.”
Polly did a double take. “Gerold Goss was in the theatre? You saw him?”
“It’s hard to miss a man who looks like Pavarotti’s fatter twin brother.”
Polly heaved a deep sigh. “But Gerold said he was…” She stopped herself. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me what happened and why you were at the theater so early in the first place.”
“I received a call from Karen at seven,” Sharon began. “She asked if I could come to the theater before the rest of the cast arrived because there was something personal she wanted to discuss with me. She said it wasn’t good news but that she wanted to talk to me about it in person. With all the animosity between her and Gerold, I thought maybe she was quitting and wanted me to be the first to know. It never dawned on me that I was getting fired.”
Polly blanched. “Why were you being let go? You and I are the only real names in the cast.”
“Don’t be naive,” Sharon scoffed. “It’s the oldest reason in the book. The horny artistic director wants his little Lolita to have the role. Someone helped me that way once. I guess it’s payback time.”
“But you’ve got an Emmy! Or at least you did until the police got hold of it,” Polly said. “What does Bambi or Barbie or Beebee have that you don’t?”
Sharon stared at Polly as though she were an idiot. “She’s young, and Gerold’s not. Need I say more? I don’t know how my Emmy ended up with Karen’s blood all over it. I don’t ever want that thing back in my house. I could never look at it again without thinking of this horrible nightmare.”
Polly looked as perplexed as Tim and Placenta. “How the hell did your Emmy find its way to the theater in the first place? I have a house full of those precious darlings and I won’t even let my own mother have one to display in her assisted living home, let alone take them out for show-and-tell.”
“That’s exactly what it was doing at the theater,” Sharon said. “Charlotte Bunch coaxed me into bringing it in. You can ask her. On the first day of rehearsal, she said that she’d watched the Daytime Emmy Awards and was thrilled to know a winner. She said she’d never in a million years have one of her own, and asked if I’d bring mine in and let her hold it. I agreed. I wrapped it in a towel the night before and placed it on the hall table by the front door, next to my car keys so I wouldn’t forget it. On the way out to see Karen I grabbed the keys and the Emmy and off I went. Karen was interested in the Emmy too, so I let her hold it before wrapping it back up.”
“More fingerprints,” Polly said.
“After the argument I left the theater and forgot to take the award with me.”
“You argued with Karen about being terminated?”
“No, Gerold. That detestable SOB,” Sharon said. “Karen was just about to tell me that I was being let go when Gerold walked in with his jailbait, Mag Ryan—imagine that name! He asked what was I doing there. He’d apparently instructed Karen to take care of the ugly firing business the day before. When he figured things out he made fun of Karen for not being man enough to tell me that I’d been replaced. Naturally, I was shocked. That’s when I threw my cell phone at him. I was upset, but not enough to kill anyone. I swear it! I left the stage, went to the ladies’ room, and cried my eyes out. I didn’t want to run into any of the kids in the show, so I ran out of the theater and drove home. I sobbed all the way.”
Polly cooed in understanding. “Charlotte and Hiroaki got the boot from Gerold this morning. They’re being replaced, just as you said.”
“How did they take the news—for the second time?” Sharon asked.
“No tantrums or disgruntled employee threats.”
“I never thought that my neck would be on the chopping block,” Sharon said. “Guess none of us are indispensable. Except you, Polly.”
“Trust me, dear. If Gerold could get rid of me, he would,” Polly said. “He’d love for me to quit. But I’m here for the run of the show. I’ve worked with some of the most angry men on the planet, like Jerry Robbins—who at least had talent. Gerold’s a mere pimple on the butt of life for me. And an amateur at that!”
Polly sighed. “Who else had motive to clobber the director?”
Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “She was too divine. I can’t imagine Karen having any enemies.”
“Except Gerold Goss! There was no love lost between those two.”
Sharon thought for a moment. “Gerold’s got a mean streak a mile long, but do you think he’d actually kill someone? People are more apt to want to kill him.”
Polly shook her head in confusion. “I swear, if I live to be a thousand, I’ll never understand human nature. But don’t worry, sweetums, we won’t let you fry in the chair without a battle.”
Sharon’s facial expression instantly changed from hope to fear.
Placenta said, “Don’t scare the poor kid any more than she is already. This is a lethal injection state.”
Chapter 7
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Polly said to Placenta as Tim drove the Rolls along Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills, heading home. “Who’s lying? Sharon says she quarreled with Gerold, but Gerold swears he wasn’t in the theater—although we saw his car in the parking lot.”
Tim glanced at his mother and Placenta in the rearview mirror. “You heard Sharon. Whenever she thinks she’s in hot water, she tries to cover her hiney. In other words, she’s a liar.”
“Human nature,” Polly tut-tutted. “How many times have I given an interview and had to call Lindsay or Christina or Barbra and insist that I was quoted out of context? It’s called ‘The Blame Game.’”
Placenta harrumphed. “I vote for Gerold being the super-sized Fib Monster.”
“Yeah, I don’t buy Shamu strolling the streets of Glendale for exercise at eight in the morning,” Polly said. “The only activity that man gets is reaching for Little Debbie—and I don’t mean the snack cakes. We need more personal info about that Yeti—and Sharon too. Turn right at Sunset, hon,” she instructed Tim. “Let’s pay an unexpected visit to dear ol’ Charlotte Bunch.”
The Beverly Hills stretch of Sunset Boulevard was wide and bordered on both sides by tall palm trees and immense neo-Renaissance-style mansions of unimaginable expense. Estate after ostentatious estate, the grandeur became so commonplace that after a while one hardly noticed the homes. As Tim chauffeured his mother and Placenta east toward Hollywood, he entered Charlotte Bunch’s address into the car’s GPS and followed the voice directions. After forty-five minutes the voice chip finally announced, “You have reached your destination.”
Tim double-parked the Rolls on Gardner Street,
opposite a two-story, four-unit apartment building with a sign on the front wall that announced TUSCANY VILLAS. LUXURY ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENTS. VACANCY.
Polly frowned. “Luxury? Maybe compared to a cave in Afghanistan.”
The building was a disaster, with curb appeal that only a demolition contractor would appreciate. The stucco was probably white at one time, but was now Purina Puppy Chow beige with layers of dirt and smog that had filtered through the air and settled on the paint. The balcony decks on the second level were slanted and looked unsafe to hold even a Hibachi grill. One unit was decorated with a string of Christmas lights around the front door, and a paint-on-velvet portrait of the Virgin Mary, which was hung like a holiday wreath—in July. “God, this could almost be the apartment I grew up in,” Polly said. “Except that ours had Elvis on velvet.”
Placenta shook her head. “We should have called first. Charlotte’s going to be embarrassed when she opens the door and finds the rich and famous Polly Pepper standing on her cracked concrete front step.”
“We don’t have time for social etiquette,” Polly snapped as she opened the car door.
Tim complained that the parking situation looked bleak. “Even if I find a place, it wouldn’t be wise to leave a Rolls-Royce unattended in this neighborhood.”
“That’s why we have insurance. Park it in that driveway.” Polly pointed to a narrow lane between Charlotte’s building and the even more squalid apartment units next door. “If someone needs access they’ll honk.”
“Or shoot,” Placenta warned.