by R. T. Jordan
Polly slumped in defeat. “The Emmy’s gone. Whoever’s behind this farce didn’t keep his end of the bargain. No exchange of information? I see. I could have told you so. Now some freak-o fan has a bit of Hollywood television history sitting on their coffee table. Mad? Ha! Why would I be mad?” Polly closed the cell phone and handed it over to Tim.
“What about Lauren?” Placenta said. “Is she all right?”
Polly shrugged. “Pour me another glass.”
Tim sidled up next to his mother on the sofa. “Trust Randy. He’s a good cop. He has your best interests at heart. Wait’ll he gets back and gives you the details before you decide to ruin a good relationship.”
Polly waved away Tim’s explanation. “I’m sure he did the best he could. If it’s at all possible, he’ll get my property back…eventually. Still, I don’t know if I can go on seeing someone who isn’t comfortable enough with me to be up front and honest. I’d have given him full permission to do whatever he felt was best. But to enlist the help of you two, and not even consider that I might be as eager as anyone to ferret out the killer, well, I’m just at a loss for what to think.”
Tim put a hand on his mother’s arm. “We should have been more discreet.”
“More loyal!”
“I take full responsibility,” Placenta said. “If I’d just handed you your mail instead of taking it upon myself to play secretary…”
Polly picked up the letter. “What did you two see in this message that made you so concerned?”
“For one, they called you a ‘Snoop Sister,’” Tim said.
“That’s so derogatory!” Polly agreed.
“For another, they threaten that your show won’t go on unless you follow their stupid demands and hand over an Emmy,” Placenta added. “I’d say extortion is a fairly reasonable excuse to get the police involved.”
Polly stared off into the distance. “The letter referred to me as ‘sister.’ Only another woman would think of me as ‘sister.’ And why would the price for information about Karen be something as specific as an Emmy Award? Why not a million dollars? Or the new boxed collection of The Polly Pepper Playhouse, season two?”
Tim and Placenta both stared at Polly.
“Charlotte Bunch was awfully keen to have Sharon bring in her Emmy Award for show-and-tell,” Tim said. “She’s sort of Emmy-crazy, and would love to get her mitts on one of those awards, even if she didn’t earn it.”
“No,” Polly said. “I’m thinking that Angela Lansbury has gone nuts and decided to steal an award that she rightfully should have received for every year of her Murder, She Wrote series.”
Chapter 17
“It got a little scary when a man who lives in a cardboard box a few yards from the restrooms thought I was Carol Burnett,” Lauren said, with a soft chuckle. “I sort of made a big deal that I was the legendary television icon Polly Pepper, for the benefit of whoever was making the pickup. I wanted them to know that I was there, or rather that you were there, just as instructed. I guess it worked because after I explained to the poor homeless man who I was, er, who Polly Pepper was…is…when I turned around the bag was gone. Now I realize that the grungy fellow must have been part of the operation. I mean, the snobs in WeHo don’t allow homeless people in their town! He certainly succeeded in distracting me. How could I have been so stupid?”
Polly nodded her head in agreement. Then she turned to Randy. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you caught the thief on surveillance tape.”
Randy hung his head. “I’ll check tomorrow, but I’ve heard that the West Hollywood Police Department’s budget cuts have eliminated video surveillance.”
“And how many of your men, out of the legions assigned to watch me, er, Lauren, saw anything out of the ordinary?”
“At the very moment that Lauren walked into the park, we got a call to break up a fight at Rage, just up the street. I wasn’t leaving Lauren alone for anything, but the other guys had to hustle. I was distracted for a moment. And that’s when they swooped in for the kill…so to speak.”
Polly rolled her eyes. “And he might very well have killed me, er, Lauren. You’re obviously not a father, otherwise you’d know you can’t take your eyes off a child for even the briefest of moments, otherwise they could wind up with a plastic bag over their head, or fall out of a penthouse window.”
“I’ve disappointed you, and that’s the worst thing about this whole mess,” Randy said.
“No, the worst thing is that I’m out one Emmy! I promised to leave them to Debbie Reynolds’ Hollywood Museum upon proof of my demise.”
“Speaking of death,” Placenta said, “no one was hurt tonight, and what we should really be talking about is how grateful we are for this miracle.” She turned to Polly. “Now, change the subject and tell Randy your latest hypothesis.”
All eyes turned to Polly as she readjusted herself on the sofa. She held out her champagne glass and waited for someone to fill it. After a long pause she finally said, “It’s the same subject—my Emmy! But I’ve come to the conclusion that Charlotte Bunch is your man.”
Randy nodded his head. “Could be. What specifically makes you peg her?”
“It’s this letter,” she said, waving the paper in Randy’s face. The salutation. I’m referred to as ‘Snoop Sister,’ which sounds rather like I’m part of a category, or an alliance, to which the letter writer also belongs. Just a guess. Plus, Charlotte gets goofy about Emmys. Remember, Sharon said that Charlotte had specifically asked her to bring her statuette to the theater because she wanted to see a real one. And the person who promised information about the case was willing to exchange information for an Emmy. Anyone else would have insisted on a suitcase full of gems or my For New Kate gold record.”
Everyone in the room simultaneously nodded.
Placenta said, “But what about Gerold and Jamie? You heard them plotting against you in the theater last night.”
Tim interrupted. “There isn’t necessarily a connection between Charlotte and Gerold and Jamie. It’s possible that Charlotte has information about Karen’s death independent of the other two.”
“Which brings up an interesting point,” Polly said. “Perhaps more than one person knows what happened to Karen. On Matlock, silent witnesses often came out of the woodwork after danger had passed, or when there was something for them to gain by passing on information.”
“Six major suspects in this case,” Lauren said. “That’s a fairly good number.”
“That’s one too many,” Polly corrected, counting on her fingers. “Charlotte. Jamie. Gerold. Mag. Hiroaki.”
“And Sharon,” Randy said.
“Nope! Not Sharon,” Polly insisted. “I refuse to believe that she had anything to do with Karen’s death. Even with her bloodstained Emmy, she’s innocent. And if you can’t help me prove it, then I’ll…”
Randy gave Polly a hard look.
Polly huffed. “I’ll sign you up for dance classes with Tatanya Morgan. Believe me, you’ll regret not helping me.”
Polly realized she had to report to Tatanya at the dance studio in only a few hours. She looked at Placenta. “Any rooms available at the inn?”
“As a matter of fact, the Cleopatra Jones Suite has fresh sheets. But the Englebert Humperdinck Room and the Donny Osmond Suite are a mess, and of course the Natalie Wood water bed needs a refill.” She smiled evilly.
Tim and Randy looked at each other and simultaneously froze.
“We’ve got dozens of other guest rooms,” Tim said.
“I’m not that tired after all,” Randy said. “It’s not that far to my apartment.”
Polly, Placenta, and Lauren each exchanged looks of amusement.
Tim caught Polly’s smirk and realized they were teasing. “It’s not that I have anything against sharing a bed with straight policemen,” Tim said. “On the contrary…”
“No, of course not. Me either,” Randy said, trying to be as politically correct as possible. “It’s just t
hat I snore and thrash around a lot. I end up monopolizing the whole bed.”
“Not a problem. It’s a king,” Tim said. “I roll around a lot myself.”
Polly stood up and declared, “It’s settled. You boys will have a sleepover. You can tell ghost stories with a flashlight under the sheets.”
Randy gave in. He was too tired to try to find alternate arrangements. He followed Placenta, Lauren, Tim, and Polly up the staircase. When they reached the second-floor landing, Randy leaned over to Polly and whispered, “Can’t I please crash with you for the night?”
Polly smiled weakly. “I’m exhausted. And I haven’t totally forgiven you for losing my Emmy. Plus, I look abominable. We’ll talk in the morning. Timmy can be just as much fun. You’ll see.” Polly gave a wide smile and said good night to all.
As Placenta escorted Lauren to her room, Tim guided Randy to his own. When the two men reached their suite, Randy said, “What do you sleep in?”
“The bed, of course,” Tim replied.
“No. I mean…?”
Tim laughed slyly. “What about you?”
“Generally, um, um…”
“Generally, um, me too,” Tim said, removing his shirt and tossing it onto the love seat beneath the window. “Top or bottom?” Tim smiled as a flustered Randy made an audible swallow. Then Tim opened a drawer in his highboy and withdrew a pair of silk pajamas and tossed them at Randy. “Take both.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll brush in the guest bathroom,” Tim sniggered and began undressing, the sight of which caused Randy to turn and walk to the bathroom. “Fresh toothbrushes are in the top vanity drawer,” Tim called out.
By the time Tim returned and slipped out of his bathrobe and into another pair of pajamas, Randy was pretending to be sound asleep.
“Go away! Let me die in peace,” Polly complained when Placenta woke her at 7:00 A.M. “I’m too tired and too hungover to dance today.”
“You can’t call in sick,” Placenta demanded. “Polly Pepper doesn’t let choreographers push her around. Now rise and shine and take a shower. Coffee’s on but you’re not getting a cup until you come downstairs. Now get your famous fanny in gear!”
Polly groaned and slowly pushed the bedsheets and comforter away with her feet. She dangled one arm over the side of the mattress and tried to recall what had happened the night before to make her so exhausted. She knew that she’d gone to bed at an early hour and…
“My Emmy,” she softly cried out as she raised herself into a sitting position with her legs over the side of the bed. She hung her head in both pain and sadness. “Why go on living if just anyone can come along and take your hard-earned status symbols of success? I’ll be damned if I’ll sit by and wait for the Beverly Hills Police Department to do the jobs for which I pay my outrageously high taxes.”
With new resolve, Polly stood up and dragged herself to the bathroom. By seven thirty she was dressed and entering the kitchen. Tim and Lauren were seated at the breakfast table and being served crepes Lucerne, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, melon balls, English muffins, and black coffee. “Morning, all,” Polly called, pretending to be as bright and energized as Ellen DeGeneres when an especially exciting movie star guest was scheduled to appear on her program. “Did we all sleep well? Placenta, coffee, please, and a BM. Pronto.”
“Like a log,” Lauren said, enjoying the lavish array of food set before her.
Tim wasn’t nearly as awake as the others. The most he could manage was a monosyllabic “Ugh.”
Placenta set a Bloody Mary and a mug of coffee before Polly and surreptitiously laid two Advil tables on a napkin beside Polly’s plate. Polly looked up at her maid and formed the words thank you with her lips. Placenta nodded and went back to the stove to retrieve more crepes.
Polly looked around. “Where’s the other one?”
“The other one what?” Placenta countered.
“There was another man in the house last night. His name is Mud.”
“You mean Tim’s roommate?” Placenta teased. “He got up and out early to try and make amends for letting your Emmy slip through his fingers.”
“I always wake up alone,” Tim said.
“Guess it’s true that there’s no such thing as a completely straight man.” Placenta elbowed Tim as she passed by with a plate of English muffins.
Polly furtively popped the Advil into her mouth and chased them with a long pull from her virgin Bloody Mary. “I owe the National Peeper a scoop on the latest gossip. A story about the Beverly Hills party planner and his cadre of LAPD sex slaves should satisfy them until Jennifer Anniston gets engaged and dumped again.”
Placenta slapped the back of Tim’s head, and took Polly’s empty Bloody Mary glass. “We’re late,” she said. “Brush your teeth and get in the car.” She looked at Lauren. “Feel free to hang out here all day long, if you like. Use the pool. It’s supposed to be a scorcher.”
Lauren smiled and thanked Placenta and Polly and Tim, but insisted that she had a million things to do and would leave at the same time as the rest of the family when they drove off the estate.
After another grueling day at the hands of Torquemada, Polly lethargically dragged herself out of the dance studio and into her waiting Rolls. “When Jerry Herman sees what Gerold Goss is allowing this woman to do to his masterpiece he’ll have a bigger cow than when Lucille Ball stomped all over the movie version of Mame,” Polly said. “We’ll never make it to Broadway once the critics get a look at the techno trash that she’s come up with.”
From the driver’s seat Tim said, “Speaking of trash, Gerold messengered this over from the theater.”
“What is it?” Polly took a number 10 business envelope from Tim’s hand.
“I don’t read your mail anymore. For all I know it could be a letter bomb. Better that you open it than me or Placenta.”
Polly leveraged her thumb under the envelope flap and ripped through the fold. She withdrew a note and read silently. “Well, this really sucks!” Polly handed the letter to Placenta.
“It’s the rehearsal schedule,” Polly said to Tim. “We’re starting twelve-hour days on Saturday.”
“So much for our party,” Tim said.
“Change it to Monday, our day off,” Polly said. “These kids today party all the time. For them, a night off from rehearsal just means a night without anything to do. No one will give up an opportunity to visit Pepper Plantation.”
Tim heaved a heavy sigh. “At least Randy will be happy to hear of your extended rehearsal days. There’s less time for you to get into trouble.”
Polly yawned. “Nonsense. We all have twenty-four hours a day. The trouble we get into depends upon how we use those hours. In fact, we have another six left in this one. Take the Los Feliz exit and let’s drop down to Hollywood and pay another visit to Charlotte Bunch. I think she may have something that belongs to me.”
Chapter 18
As Tim parked the car across the street from Charlotte’s dilapidated building on Gardner, he and Placenta were still complaining that they’d had just as long and hectic a day as Polly, and they wanted to go home. However, their grousing was met with Polly’s reasoning that they should be doing all they could to help rescue her Emmy Award. “If either of you had endured the backstabbing competition that I did to get one of those babies, you’d know how much they mean to me. How would you like it if one of your siblings went missing?”
Placenta turned to Tim. “Shhh. Don’t let the others know that one among their ranks isn’t merely away being polished.”
Tim looked in the rearview mirror and saw his mother’s lack of mirth. “So, what’s our excuse for unexpectedly popping by Charlotte’s place this time?”
“Let’s try the truth,” Polly said. “I’ll simply say that we want to personally make sure that she knows that we’ve changed our party to Monday night.”
“The truth indeed,” Placenta huffed. “Charlotte’s not dumb enough to display stolen propert
y as a centerpiece on her coffee table—next to the colon irrigation kit she bought at Betty Hutton’s estate sale.”
“Perhaps all that junk in her apartment is stolen. Anyway the truth is that I want to know what’s going on at rehearsals.”
Polly opened her door and stepped out of the car. Her entourage followed and in a moment they were once again standing at the door to Charlotte Bunch’s one-bedroom apartment. Polly pressed the bell. “Charlotte, darling!” she called through the door. “It’s Me. Polly. Pepper. Just dropped by to see how Gerold and company are treating you, and ask if you’ve seen the theater ghost.”
The sound of someone moving about in the apartment could be clearly heard from outside, but no one answered the door. Polly looked at Tim. “She’s running around trying to hide the evidence. Once we get in, you two distract her while I rescue my baby. Drag her out to the car and lock her in the truck if you have to.” After a moment Polly once again rang the bell. “Charlotte, lamb, I’ve brought a bottle of bubbly from Mary Steenburgen’s estate sale.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mary,” Tim said, hoping he was right about one of his favorite stars.
“We can use your Alexis Smith champagne flutes. We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. I Promise.”
Tim flipped open his cell phone and scrolled down to Charlotte Bunch’s number. He pressed SEND. In a moment, the trio could clearly hear the phone ringing inside the apartment, but it went unanswered. “She’s ignoring you,” Tim said. “All the more reason to think she’s guilty of something. Can we please leave now? I’m hungry.”
In that moment, Charlotte Bunch’s cheerful voice called out from the sidewalk behind Polly. As the trio turned around in surprise, they found Charlotte coming through the chain-link fence gate, carrying a plastic bag of groceries from Von’s in one hand, and another sack from The Liquor Locker in the other. “Perfect timing!” she announced.