by R. T. Jordan
Polly listened for another moment and then shook her head. “I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. I’m utterly exhausted. We’re just at the gates now. We have ten hours of rehearsal tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. Shall we say eight? Starbucks. The one across from the theater. Be more specific. Brilliant. Yes, much love to you too.” She flipped the cell phone lid closed as the car rolled onto the estate grounds.
Tim looked at his mother in the rearview mirror. “It’s too soon for an official cause of death. Just because he hit his head doesn’t mean he didn’t lose consciousness first. Stroke. Heart attack. Let’s wait before we jump to any conclusions.”
Polly was peeved. “Two dead people. Just like on my last film location. Sure, George was old. Of course it’s always possible that he simply ran out of change for the meter. But I don’t believe it. No, he had lots to live for…if only to tell me who murdered Karen. That alone would have kept him alive. The guy was knocked off. Be sure to get my DVD collection back tomorrow!”
“Gerold Goss?” Tim asked.
“Who else?” Polly affirmed. “He overheard our conversation this morning. He obviously realized that he hadn’t covered all of his tracks. Just like the police, he had totally forgotten about George being in the theater when Karen died. He realizes that there was a witness.”
Tim shook his head. “If you’re right, then we could all be next in line for a toe tag.” He stopped the car under the portico and looked around, suddenly paranoid.
Polly stepped out of the car. As she headed toward the front steps she said, “I’m this close to exposing the murderer. I know it! I feel it! I’m getting the same chill up my spine that I suppose Miss Marple feels when she’s about to confront someone with proof that they stuffed the vicar’s insufferable mother-in-law under a couple dozen Hungry Man TV dinners in the deep freezer. But even if I were one hundred percent certain, and could point my bejeweled finger at the SOB right this instant, I can’t jeopardize the opening of my show! The curtain goes up in three nights. I have to have concrete evidence about who the killer is before I blow the whistle. Otherwise I’ll be getting reviews for defamation of character.”
Placenta punched in the security code to unlock the front door. Once the trio was safely inside the house, Polly touched Placenta’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I promise not to let anything happen to my precious family. Now run along and open a bottle. We all need a glass or two to clear our heads. I’ll meet you in the great room.”
Tim tossed his car keys into the cloisonné bowl on the foyer table, and begged his mother for a promise. “I don’t expect you to turn over this case to the police department, or to Randy in particular, but you’re too young to join June Allyson at the Pearly Gates, so please don’t do anything that could get you—or me—killed.”
Polly pooh-poohed Tim’s concern. “I’m not afraid to die. But I am afraid of never setting my heels on a Broadway stage. In other words, sweetums, my career hiney is on the line and I promise not to screw it up by dating the Grim Reaper.”
“I’m feeling better already. Not,” Tim said as he and his mother walked down the hallway toward the waiting champagne.
“Why am I no longer tired?” Polly said, looking at Tim and Placenta, who were both nodding off on the sofa. “I was fading fast while talking to Randy. Oh, I hope I’m not tiring of him already! I’m full of pep. Must be the champers. The good stuff makes me giddy. Now that I’ve got my second wind I should call up Randy and apologize for being rather distant when we spoke from the car.”
“Telephoneitis,” Placenta charged. “You get a little high and you want to telephone everybody. It’s too late! Randy is bound to be where you should be, in bed! That’s where I’m going right now.”
“Me too,” Tim said. “If we’re getting up early enough to catch Randy at Starbucks, we should all be sound asleep now.”
“Nonsense,” Polly called out as Tim and Placenta began to leave the room. “An important idea came to me a wee bit ago, and I need your help.”
Tim and Placenta both heaved heavy defeated sighs and returned to their seats on the sofa. They drowsily looked up at Polly, who was pacing the floor.
“You may as well pour yourselves another round, because we need to toast my brilliant plan,” Polly said as she held out her own glass for a refill. “Think back to early this morning—”
“That’s now yesterday morning,” Placenta corrected.
Polly continued. “When we arrived at the theater, George insisted that we sign in. He said that he was very meticulous about keeping track of everyone who came into the theater, and when they left. Before Gerold gets the same idea and destroys the evidence, we need to find the roster for last Tuesday.”
“What ‘evidence’?” Placenta complained.
Polly was deep in thought as she continued speaking. “I figure that if Gerold forgot about George in the first place, he probably forgot about absconding with the sign-in register too. First thing in the morning, we’ve got to get hold of that paper! Tim, while I’m onstage, go through his file cabinet and grab that page!”
“What if there’s a new door man in George’s place?” Tim asked.
“The guy just died. Who’re they going to get so soon?”
Coffee with Randy lasted fifteen minutes. Polly was anxious to get to the theater and made no apologies for her eagerness to be on her way. “Now, don’t start feeling as though I’m giving you short shrift, my dear. But I’ve got a show to rehearse. We open the day after tomorrow. Please be patient with me.” As she and her troupe departed the café, she finger-waved to Randy, then made the universal sign for “Call me.”
“You’re getting tired of Randy?” Tim said to his mother.
“Of course not,” Polly replied. “But some things are more important than small talk. We have a job to do and he’s got to get used to the fact that I have an important career. I understand that he has to be at work all hours of the day. He must understand my situation too. Now let’s get those files.”
As the trio approached the stage door entrance, they noticed a mock police car in the parking space next to where they’d left the Rolls. With a bar of red, blue, and white lights on the roof, the vehicle was white with blue lettering on the front doors that announced: MAYDAY SECURITY. Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked at each other with trepidation. Then Tim opened the artists’ entrance door for his mother. As she stepped inside, followed by her maid and Tim, they found two men dressed up as wannabe policemen in dark blue uniforms. One was seated in George’s chair; the other was nursing a mug of coffee and straddling the side of the desk. Both looked up at the new arrivals and put on their best pseudomilitary demeanors.
“La! It’s our brave soldiers for inner-city peace,” Polly trilled, using her most disarming and winning smile. She looked at the one with the coffee mug. “Such attractive medals,” she said, touching his badge. “Would you be a dear and get me a cuppa? No cream or sugar. I like an unadulterated punch this time of morning.”
Both men looked down at Polly as if she were a criminal who should be busted and taken to jail. “Who are you?” the one with the coffee mug said.
“Just your average everyday international superstar legend.” Polly smiled and held out her hand. “Think Madonna without the corny cone titties and African babies. You can call me Polly.”
The man seated in George’s chair smiled and punched his partner on the calf of his leg. With a southern accent, and as if Polly weren’t present he said, “Hey, this one’s famous. I recognize her. Mama’s favorite star. What’s her name? Ya know, the one with the red hair and the funny old TV show?”
Polly was slightly ticked off, but made certain that her smile remained frozen on her face. “Such darling boys. I’ll save you the brainpower. Yes, I’m Mama’s favorite star, Polly Pepper.”
“Now I’ve got it!” the security guard said. “Carol Burnett. Yep, that’s who you are. Can’t wait to tell Mama that I met Carol Burnett. Can I have your au
tograph?”
Polly practically keeled over. Recovering with the help of Tim, who helped to steady his mother, Polly replaced her look of shock with a half smile. “I’m flattered that you’d think I was that other fabulously gifted red-haired legend. To be confused with Miss Burnett is a high honor.”
The guard who had misidentified Polly said, “Shoot! I thought we had us a real live star.”
Tim was by now as annoyed and as impatient as his mother. “Miss Polly Pepper is a star. She’s the star of the musical that opens in this theater tomorrow night.”
The second guard tried to make amends. “No disrespect intended. Luther Ray here meant a real star. One who’s been on TV.”
Placenta came to Polly’s rescue. “Mr. Bubba here can rest easy,” she said. “Miss Pepper is a legend directly from television. Before your time by at least a few decades.”
The guard who was standing looked at Placenta and corrected her. “His name’s Luther Ray. Not everyone from Texas is named Bubba.”
Placenta looked at the man’s name badge. “Excuse me…Orvine…” she said in a mock apology. “We’re late for rehearsal, so keep an eye on the door. You never know who might drop by. Perhaps Carol Burnett. She’s a dear friend.”
As the trio began to move away from the doorman’s desk, Luther Ray called out, “Ya gotta show identification and sign in to get to the stage area.”
Tim was perturbed. “Since when does an international legend have to show ID?”
“Since this creepy old theater has become a hotbed for murders,” Orvine said and pushed the sign-in roster toward Tim.
Polly was flummoxed. “Will my picture on the show’s poster do? I don’t generally carry…or need…any other form of identification.”
“A driver’s license or green card will do,” Luther Ray said.
By now, members of the chorus who had been summoned for an early rehearsal were beginning to line up behind Polly. They were becoming edgy because the choreographer, Tatanya Morgan, would have a fit if they weren’t in their places on time. Finally one of the fearless boy dancers turned on the guards. “Listen, you phony police academy rejects, this lady is the star of our show. She’s a great big famous celebrity. If you don’t have the brains to know this, then you should be working at the Budweiser plant instead of a theater. Now let her pass so we can get to rehearsal.”
Luther Ray was mortified by the chorus boy’s spot-on analysis of his career path. He merely nodded his head to indicate that they all could go to their dressing rooms, or any place else in the theater.
Always concerned about the impression that she left on her fans and the public alike, Polly leaned over and held out her hand again for Luther Ray to shake. “You’re doing a marvelous job of keeping out the riffraff,” she cooed. “I for one am grateful that you have our little acting company’s best interest at heart. We’ll catch up later, the three of us.” She looked at Orvine. “Same to you, my dear.” Then she whispered to Tim, “Stick around. Make friends with Tweedledum and Tweedledee. And get that roster!” Then she followed Placenta and the dancers to their respective dressing rooms.
After the others had disappeared down the hallway, Tim picked up the clipboard. “I’ll sign in for my mother,” he said as he wrote Polly’s name on the seventh line. He looked at his wristwatch and jotted down the time. “I can tell that Mother adores you two. Trust me, she’ll be inviting you to her mansion before the week is out.”
Both Luther Ray and Orvine smiled when they heard the word mansion. Although neither man had heard of Pepper Plantation, they certainly knew that there were a lot of rich stars in Los Angeles, and that it was just a matter of time before they met one.
After that, Tim easily insinuated himself into their dreary lives and held court with showbiz stories that kept the guards entertained on an otherwise boring assignment. When Tim felt that he finally had their confidence, he suggested that the two go out for coffee, instead of drinking the supermarket brand that they’d made in George’s coffeepot. He gave them a ten-dollar bill and told them where to find the nearest Starbucks. “I know this theater like I know my mother’s mansion,” he said, watching their eyes sparkle. “It’s in good hands with me, so take your time. Have an apple fritter to go with the joe.”
The moment that Luther Ray and Orvine closed the door behind them, Tim began rifling though the filing cabinet searching for last week’s sign-in rosters. He found folders dated as far back as 1968 and marked with the names of such popular shows as The Music Man, Hello, Dolly!, The Pajama Game, and The King and I. Every once in a while he’d stop and look at names on those pages. He recognized Vince Edwards, Denholm Elliott, Judy Carne, Donna Reed, Mildred Natwick, and Paul Lynde, among many others. As hard as it was to tear himself away from all the original autographs, he had a job to do and couldn’t spend his time looking at the names of dead…or near dead…actors. When Tim had exhausted all the filing cabinet drawers, he opened George’s desk. There he found more recent files, and finally: Mame.
Tim was tempted to take the entire manila folder but realized that if the police—or the killer—decided to look for the rosters, one missing page could be considered misfiled, but an entire folder gone would be highly suspect. As he went backward in the dates, starting from last night, he carefully scrutinized the pages. But just as he arrived at Monday, July 10, he heard voices approaching from the dressing room area. He closed the drawer and sat back in the chair pretending to read a magazine.
Gerold and Charlotte entered. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?” Gerold said. He looked at Tim with suspicion. “She’s crying her eyes out in her dressing room. Guess I shouldn’t have compared her performance to Tammy Faye Bakker’s mascara-smudged sermons.”
Tim was suddenly angry. “You know, Gerold, Polly and Placenta and I have tried to be nice to you. But you’re a louse. You’d get a hell of a lot more out of your performers if you treated them with respect and consideration. Polly will do anything her director tells her to do, and it always pays off with a brilliant crowd-pleasing performance. That’s why she’s a legend and why she’s lasted so long in this business. You don’t know a cross fade from a cutout or a rostrum. You don’t belong in the theater. You should be hauling trash for the city.”
Gerold was perspiring with anger. He looked at Tim with disdain. “Get out of my theater.”
“I’m with your star, Mr. Mucky Muck. I ain’t leavin’.”
Gerold looked around. “Where’s security? I’ll have you thrown out!”
“One call from me to the producers and you’ll never work in this theater again,” Tim parried.
Gerold’s eyes blazed as he stood looking down at Tim with contempt. He knew that as the star’s son, Tim would hold sway with the producers. He was also aware that the producers were putting together next season’s schedule and hadn’t consulted with him about the shows they were considering. This was not a good sign. He presumed that his days as the artistic director of the Galaxy were numbered. Gerold didn’t want to ruffle their feathers in case there was still a chance that he’d be asked to renew his contract. “I need a file,” he finally said. He moved toward the desk and opened the drawer.
Tim sat in horror watching as Gerold pulled out the folder marked Mame. He wanted to grab it away from Gerold and flee the building. However, he realized that would be futile. He’d be accused of stealing theater property. Instead, Tim pretended to not care or have any idea why Gerold wanted the folder.
Gerold closed the desk drawer. He slipped the folder under his arm without bothering to look at the sheaf of papers inside. He gave Tim another withering look and began to walk away with Charlotte. Then the stage door opened and the two security guards walked in laughing and joking between themselves. Gerold yelled, “You’re fired! You’re supposed to be watching the door, not going in and out of it.” He looked at their Starbucks cups. “We provided you with coffee. You deserted your post for no reason. You’ll be hearing from your boss. Now git!”
> The men were speechless. They looked at each other, and then looked at Tim.
Tim stood up from his desk and faced Gerold. “I gave them permission to take a break. They’re allowed fifteen minutes every four hours. Unless you want trouble with their labor union, in addition to all the trouble you’re in here at the theater, you’d better back off.”
The security guards grinned at Tim’s bravado and handed him a paper cup from Starbucks. “We brought one back for you,” Luther Ray said.
Gerold stormed out of the backstage area. Tim presumed that he was headed for his office. Although he wanted to get to his mother’s side as soon as possible, it was imperative that Tim rescue the folder from Gerold. He didn’t know what to do. “That SOB just stole theater property,” he said to the security men. “Important documents. Somehow I’ve got to get them back.”
“Man, it’s sorta his theater,” Orvine said. “I mean, he’s the director and all.”
Tim looked around for the switch to the intercom system. “If we can hear from the stage, there should be a way for the stage to hear us,” he said. Then, on the wall behind the Mr. Coffee machine, he found two ancient toggles. Neither was labeled. Tim flipped one and heard ambient noises coming through. He realized that was the switch to listen to the performance and any instructions that the director might want to send back to the stage doorman. The other switch was obviously for the stage doorman to make announcements to other parts of the theater. Tim looked up at the guards who were now more or less his buddies. “Do you guys see a microphone anywhere? It’s probably a really old thing that looks like—”