by R. T. Jordan
Chapter 14
The alarm clock in Polly’s boudoir buzzed at 6:00 A.M. Soon thereafter, Randy quietly closed the bedroom door behind him. With his shirt halfway buttoned and the tales untucked, and his ruddy face in need of a shave, he crept down the long corridor to the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. As he descended to the main level of the house he looked around, baffled about how to leave the palatial residence without setting off the security alarm system. The last thing he wanted to do was to summon the Bel Air Patrol. But if he returned to Polly’s bed to ask for the security code he’d inevitably end up crawling back under the sheets beside her.
“‘To service and protect,’ eh?” Placenta’s voice came out of nowhere and startled Randy as he stepped off the stairs and into the cavernous living room of the still dark house.
“Jeez, Placenta! Give a guy some warning before you pounce on him! And it’s “to serve and protect.’ That’s the official motto.”
“Mmmm.” Placenta offered with a wry grin. “Coffee’s on. I’ll make breakfast.”
Archer hadn’t bothered to eat the night before and he was hungover from too much champagne and a long stretch of making love to Polly. Although he was due at his station at eight, his body needed fuel if he were to survive the morning. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was all the incentive he needed to follow Placenta to her domain.
“Have a seat at the island,” Placenta said, pulling out a bar stool for Archer to sit on. She poured two mugs of coffee and set one on the granite countertop before her guest. “Milk and sugar are there.” She pointed to a silver tray on which a small ceramic cow filled with milk stood next to a small barnyard rooster, the back of which was hollowed out to hold sugar cubes. “Egg whites? Toast? Blueberry pancakes? Your choice.”
“Real blueberries?”
“Comin’ right up.” Placenta opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of premixed pancake mix. She supposed the blueberries were probably processed or genetically engineered, but like a can of Pringles potato chips, who cared if they were real potatoes, or if the blueberries were bits of laboratory-made nuggets containing artificial flavoring and purple dye number 12? “You and Polly have patched things up?” Placenta said, although the answer was obvious. “After that row you guys had the other day, we thought things may have cooled down.”
Randy nodded. “She realized that she has to be rational. I’m trying to keep her from getting hurt.”
“Rational? Polly?” Placenta sniffed. “You’re dating the wrong legend if you want common sense and analytical reasoning in your woman. Don’t get me wrong. Polly’s as bright as a Jeopardy! winner, but she doesn’t live in the real world. No one in Hollywood does. At least not the ones who have made it big the way she has. Her image is that of a totally down-to-earth star—and she is—but heaven forbid Polly ever has to use an ATM card at a grocery checkout. She’s used to having me and Tim, or anyone else she can find, do the mundane things that everyone else on the planet does as a matter of course every day. Do you know that Polly’s never learned to fill her gas tank? Nor has she ever had to wait for a table at Spago. So maybe you can understand her frustration when she was told by you to keep her nose out of this case. She’s not used to anybody, including big-time directors, telling her what to do.”
“I’m sort of the same way. I mean, I pump my own gas of course, but I don’t like having anyone tell me what to do either. Especially when I’m told to do something that I intuitively know isn’t right.”
“That’s Polly,” Placenta said. “She has a sixth sense about people and in this case, she’s sure that Sharon Fletcher is innocent of murdering Karen Richards. Do her a big favor, will you?”
“Anything.”
“Find out what the police are doing about evidence to corroborate Sharon’s claim that she wasn’t in the theater at the time of Karen’s death. Have they done background checks on all the cast members, the tech crew, and especially Jamie Livingston? Find out if there’s anything unusual about these people—other than the fact that they’re actors.”
Placenta heated the griddle and opened the container of batter. “The woman often gets things mixed up because she doesn’t pay attention to what people have to say—unless they’re saying something about her. But according to what she revealed last night, Gerold and Jamie were talking about her. So I believe that she’s onto something.
“I had terrible dreams last night about Polly being attacked in the theater—and it wasn’t by the opening night critics,” Placenta continued. “I couldn’t see who the assailant was, but Polly kept trying to yell for help and no sound came from her voice. We all thought she had just forgotten her lines and that the chase scene was in the script of whatever play she was doing. Now that I think of it, the simple interpretation of the dream is that Polly’s trying to tell us something, but no one is listening.”
Placenta looked at Randy. “I’m glad the nightmare didn’t cause me to check on her during the night to see if she needed protection. I’d have likely had worse nightmares had I stumbled onto whatever you two were up to.”
Randy smirked. “She and I both should have had protection last night.”
Placenta dropped her spatula on the floor for effect and slapped her hands over her ears. “TMI!” she squealed. “I don’t need details, please! Just drink your coffee and spare me the visuals!” Placenta cackled. “At least someone in this crazy house is getting a little nookie.”
When Polly eventually came down to breakfast at eight o’clock, Tim and Placenta were waiting to take her to the Ginger Rogers Dance Studio in North Hollywood. “I can’t dance today,” she moaned. “I’m exhausted. Randy and I—”
“What time did he finally leave?” Tim asked. “You two were still swilling champagne when I hit the sack after Jon Stewart.”
Polly glanced at Placenta, who gave her a knowing look.
“Eat your pancakes, drink your coffee, and get dressed,” Placenta ordered. “I hear that Tatanya Morgan is a choreographer who throws fits that would make Jerome Robbins pee in his BVDs, and we would not be starting on the right foot by being late.”
En route to the dance studio, Placenta teased Polly. “Must be mating season.” She smirked. “I could hear the bucks mounting doe out in the garden.”
Tim complained, “If we start having deer problems again, Hector’ll have a fit. They thrive on his plants!”
Polly glared at Placenta, who simply sniggered and then pretended to be interested in the traffic as they turned off Sunset Boulevard and climbed serpentine Laurel Canyon and on down through Studio City to North Hollywood.
North Hollywood was in the San Fernando Valley of Southern California, over the hill from the more famous Hollywood. It was a city with a multicultural mix of mostly blue-collar workers, and where the billboard signage in Spanish beat English two to one. The dance studio and rehearsal hall was in a less desirable part of an already undesirable low-rent city. “I always forget how much I loathe the Valley,” Polly scoffed as they arrived at the studio. “It’s so flat! The buildings all look alike. How many Pay-Day Advance stores does a city really need? Park up front, hon,” she said to Tim.
Tim reluctantly parked the Rolls in a space that boasted a large sign that declared RESERVED FOR GINGER. “I suppose she won’t be needing it.”
As the trio stepped from the car, Tim popped the trunk latch from a button on his key fob and reached inside for Polly’s Capezio dance bag. The zippered pockets and flaps of the well-worn bag contained everything from tap shoes to pointe ballet slippers, leg warmers, leotards, towels, makeup, and bottled water. Tim slipped the strap over his shoulder and began to follow his mother and Placenta up the steps to the rehearsal halls.
As he turned and pointed the key fob at the car to transmit the lock signal, he noticed a black Honda slowly pulling up and parking on the street outside the dance studio lot. The car looked like the same one they had seen with Hiroaki behind the wheel, and outside Hiroaki’s Reseda apartment.
As furtively as possible Tim whispered to Placenta, “Try not to look like you’re looking, but over there, the car with the smashed front. Isn’t that…?”
“Yep,” she said to Tim. “Let’s get your mama inside quickly.”
Once inside the old one-story building, they stopped at the reception window and asked for Tatanya Morgan’s room. “I’ll catch up with you guys during lunch break,” Tim said, handing over Polly’s dance bag to Placenta and sending them in search of room number 4 and the nefarious Tony Award–winning choreographer. The walls along the corridors boasted dark paneling decorated with movie posters from not only the fabled career of the studio’s late owner, but old movie posters from many MGM, Paramount, Warner Bros., and Republic Pictures films. “She has as much junk on the walls as we do at home,” Polly said, thinking that perhaps it was time to redecorate the upstairs landing of Pepper Plantation.
Tim cautiously peeked out of the screen door and saw that the black Honda was no longer parked beside the building. He stepped out on the porch for a better view. Still, he didn’t see Hiroaki or the car. He shrugged his shoulders and moved back to the Rolls to steal a nap while his mother was working her butt off under the dictatorial reign of Stalinist Tatanya.
When he arrived at the vehicle and unlocked the door, he noticed a white envelope pressed to the glass under the driver’s-side windshield wiper blade. He removed the envelope and slipped into the car. He yawned, desperate to close his eyes for twenty or thirty minutes. But the envelope, which was addressed to MISS POLLY PEPPER. PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, intrigued him. He looked around afraid that whoever left the envelope could be watching him. He dared not open it while in plain view of possible voyeurs.
Tim stepped out of the car and headed back into the dance studio. He nervously searched for rehearsal room number 4. When he found the thick double doors, behind which he could hear the title song from Mame blasting through a sound system, he hesitated a moment, but then slowly opened the door wide enough to peek inside. First he spotted his mother. She looked like someone wanting to be put out of her misery by a firing squad. Tatanya the Terrible was yelling loud enough to be heard over the blare of the famous Donald Pippin musical arrangements. Tim scanned the room of ballet bars, folding chairs, and mirrored walls and finally spotted Placenta, who looked concerned for Polly, who was being verbally beaten up. He caught Placenta’s eye and motioned for her to meet him in the hallway.
Soon Placenta exited from another set of doors down the hall and came to Tim’s side. “Tatanya makes Caligula look like a Miss Congeniality winner. It’s taking all of my efforts not to pummel the witch. What’s up?”
Tim held up the envelope.
“So?”
“So, this was on the windshield of the car.”
“It’s addressed to Miss Polly Pepper. Give it to her at lunchtime,” Placenta said.
“It could be a fan letter, but it could also be related to the case. Hiroaki’s car was gone when I went out again, so I’m thinking that he left this for her.”
“Or Century 21 is advertising new homes in North Hollywood and an underpaid delivery boy slipped it onto the car like a parking ticket.”
Placenta sighed and grabbed the envelope out of Tim’s hand. “As Polly’s maid and personal assistant, I can open and read her fan mail.” She slipped her forefinger under the sealed flap and tore the envelope open. She withdrew a sheet of paper and in an irritated tone began to read aloud: “‘Dear Snoop Sister. If you want Sharon F. to beat this charge, and your show to go on as scheduled…’” Placenta’s manner instantly changed as she continued to read but now with a far slower and more sober enunciation. “‘…come to West Hollywood Park tonight at eleven sharp. Bring one of your Emmy Awards and leave it in a brown paper bag under the water fountain outside the park’s restrooms. In exchange, information about Karen’s killer will be forthcoming.’”
Tim and Placenta both looked at each other with fear in their eyes. “Of course, it’s not signed,” Placenta said. She looked at the letter again. “There’s a postscript. ‘P.S. Come alone, and don’t mention this letter to anyone. Or else…’”
“First off, Polly would never let one of her cherished Emmy Awards out of the house, let alone give it away in exchange for information that could save Sharon Fletcher’s life,” Tim said.
“Your mama’s a friend indeed to a friend in need, but her Emmys are her most prized possessions. Giving one to a stranger just for life-and-death information is almost the ultimate price to pay.”
“Merely holding one without asking permission is an invitation to getting one’s hand slapped,” Tim added. “I propose that we not say a word about this to Polly and call Randy.”
“But the letter clearly states that no one else is to know!”
“It said that Polly wasn’t to tell anyone. She doesn’t even know the letter exists, so technically she’s not responsible. Go back inside and keep an eye on Polly. Make sure she doesn’t accidentally on purpose fracture Tatanya’s instep. I’ll call Randy.”
Chapter 15
Tim found a quiet place in the men’s dressing area of the dance studio and speed-dialed Detective Archer’s cell phone number. In a moment he was connected with voice mail and left a message begging for an immediate callback. Tim sat on a long bench surrounded by metal lockers. He waited impatiently for Randy to return his call.
After a half hour, Tim placed another call and again had to speak to an automated voice mail system. “This is really important, Randy,” Tim said. “Polly could be in deep trouble. Please call me!” He left his phone number in case Detective Archer hadn’t entered it into his speed dial. More time passed and soon Polly was on her lunch break and morosely walking down the corridor. She looked as though she were dragging an invisible bag of bricks.
“Kinda tough, isn’t she?” Tim said when his mother passed by en route to the ladies’ dressing area. “But she’s a rising star in Broadway choreography circles. This show’s lucky to have her.”
“I’ll be lucky if I live to dance on her grave,” Polly barked. “Run along to the kennel and bring me back an angry pit bull. Or take me to lunch.”
Just then, Tim’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and flipped open the lid. “Personal,” he said to Polly. “Go and change. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Polly shuffled on toward her locker.
“Randy?” Tim said. “Polly’s received an extortion letter. What do we do?” He listened for a moment. “Nope. No money. An Emmy. She hasn’t seen the letter. Placenta opened it. Well, it wasn’t sent by the United States Postal Service, so what’s the crime? You’re splitting hairs. I’m bringing it to your office after I take Polly to lunch.”
Returning to the dance studio at 5:00 P.M., Tim met Polly and Placenta on the front steps of the building. Polly was so exhausted she could hardly walk. Helping Placenta ease his mother into the car, and then settling in himself, Tim proceeded to drive back to Bel Air.
Although Polly was used to hard work, and generally enjoyed physical activity, she was angry with both Gerold Goss and Tatanya. “This is not the original Onna White choreography that I’ve danced to a thousand times,” Polly said with a voice that sounded as worn out as she felt. “I’d say they’re trying to sabotage me and my performance in the show.”
Polly put her head back against the brown leather seat and closed her eyes. She whispered, “Wake me when my bath is drawn.” And then she was asleep.
After a long moment to make certain that Polly was indeed unconscious, Tim whispered to Placenta, “Archer has a plan.”
Placenta, who was nearly as tired as Polly, perked up. “He saw the letter?”
“It’s going to take our help—naturally—and Polly might lose an Emmy in the process, but he actually had an interesting idea. Remember Lauren Gaul? The stand-in from Polly’s last picture?”
Placenta yawned. “Sure. We saw her on CSI recently. Looks like her career has picked up since all the fuss about two dead st
ars on Polly’s movie set. She’s acting now, instead of just being a prop for the DOP. What’s she got to do with this plan?”
“Archer and I contacted her this afternoon. She’s going to stand in for Polly at West Hollywood Park tonight. We’re taking one of Mom’s Emmy Awards, placing it in a Gelson’s paper sack, and loaning her the Rolls for the evening. She’ll make the connection.”
Placenta was intrigued by the strategy. “Is she willing to face a killer?”
“She sounded excited and sees this as an adventure. Plus, she claimed that Polly was the only star who ever thanked her for doing the boring work of standing in for her on set. Said she’d do anything to help Polly out. The fact that I promised to pay her two thousand dollars was sort of a good incentive too.”
Placenta held out her hands, palms facing the ceiling. “Let’s see, rent for a month, and maybe a new pony, or knife through my heart? Hmm. Tough choice. Is she nuts?”
“Archer’s men will be stationed at various points around the park. He’ll do his best to not let anything happen to Lauren. The important thing is that Polly won’t be there! In fact, she shouldn’t even know what’s going on. Now we just have to think of a way to smuggle an Emmy out of the house, and figure out an excuse for Archer to borrow the Rolls.”
“I’ll put your mama to bed early tonight, which I don’t think will be a problem. Maybe you should hit as many potholes as you can to keep her awake now, so she’ll be out like a light as soon as she steps out of her bath.” Placenta paused. “Is the threat for real?”
“It’s authentic all right. Randy’s very concerned. He thinks that whoever sent the letter might be the killer. If what Polly overheard at the theater is true, then someone thinks she knows too much about the case, and believes it’s time to take her out of the equation.” Tim was quiet for a long moment. “Placenta, I’m really scared.”