A Talent for Murder (3 page)

“Please don’t tell me that you have grandparents who watched my show,” Polly teased, only half joking.

He reached out to shake Polly’s hand and introduced himself as Richard Dartmouth, president of unscripted programming for the Sterling Network. “It’s so cool that you’re on our team,” he said.

“Yes. Cool. And you’re …
muy caliente
!”

“Mother!” Tim whispered harshly as he poked Polly’s ribs with his elbow.

“I meant ‘tall,’“ Polly backtracked. “I’m learning Spanish. I get confused,” she said.

Richard Dartmouth smiled and shrugged. “Gotta blame my otherwise perfect parents for something,” he said. “Let’s get this boring bit of business out of the way so you can do something more meaningful with your magical life.”

Still blushing, Polly smiled broadly and finger-waved to everyone seated around the table. She took the one empty leather chair, while her entourage found seating in the back of the room.

“I’ll keep this short.” Richard Dartmouth began his meeting. “I just wanted you to get to know each other before the first show on Friday. I’ll start by saying that I have complete trust that
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
is going to be a ratings winner. I expect that we’ll be picked up for a full season after we end our summer run in September. Of course we have to be a hit from the get-go, but with the media blitz, plus our amazing contestants, and of course the luminous Polly Pepper”— he nodded to the star—”as well as the charming Brian Smith”—he acknowledged the second judge—”Thane Cornwall, and our host, Steven Benjamin”—he smiled at both men—”we’re going to be a Friday night fave.”

Polly tried not to stare at Dartmouth. That, however,
was impossible. Not only was he articulate and bright, but he presented an air of absolute confidence. He also wore a neatly trimmed shadow of a beard, and an amazing mane of dark, feather-soft hair, which he frequently tossed with an unconscious whip of his head. Without looking over her shoulder, Polly knew that Tim and Placenta were equally rapt.

Polly surreptitiously looked at the ring finger of Richard Dartmouth’s left hand. It was bare.
No one that good looking is single
, Polly thought to herself as she looked at his green eyes. Then she heard her name and realized that she hadn’t been paying attention to what was being discussed. Polly intuited that introductions were being made, so she reanimated her smile and modestly thanked Richard and the others for the opportunity to join their show.

Dartmouth continued the introductions, giving brief comments about each person at the table. “You all remember Brian Smith from his work with Gladys Knight.”

“No one remembers that,” Brian said. He was modest—and right.

“What they also might not know is that for the past decade you’ve been running the Actors’ Workout Fitness Center,” Dartmouth continued. “So he’s eminently qualified to judge a talent competition. He’s also the best darned cook in Hollywood.” Dartmouth pointed to a paper plate on which rested a pyramid of chocolate brownies. “Brian made treats for us.”

“Double fudge,” Brian boasted.

“Our other judge is, of course, the famous—or, as some would say,
infamous
—Thane Cornwall.” Richard chuckled goodnaturedly as all heads turned to look at the smug man with his arms folded across his sweatered chest. Thane’s body language suggested boredom and arrogance. However, he forced a tight smile and shrugged.

“Infamy. Yeah, that works for more than a couple of people in this room.” He nodded to Polly and the others.

“You’re British?” Polly asked Thane innocently. “I haven’t seen ol’ Queenie in decades. Did she ever replace those ancient bathtubs for stall showers at Buckingham Palace? Do you think the evil Prince Phillip did you-know-what? Wink, wink.”

Thane sniggered. “Fascinating observation about my accent. You’re certainly a bright bulb. As for Elizabeth, I quite like her. And Phillip is … Well, princess killer or not, he’s done well for a short man. Wink, wink, yourself.”

Polly camouflaged her annoyance by smiling even more broadly. “I’m not exactly a royalist. I know what those inbreeds are capable of doing. As Anglophiles, you and I are bound to have a ton o’ fun on this show. I’ll be Anne Boleyn to your King Henry!”

“You wouldn’t be the first to lose your head over me,” Thane said.

Everyone laughed. I know that we’ll
all
get along
very
well,” Richard interrupted. “Speaking of losing a head, I have a bit of bad news. We’ve lost one of our contestants.”

“Lost, as in misplaced, departed, or … deceased?” Brian Smith asked.

“Yes, and no. Jewell Jones was picked up by the FBI this morning for the murder of her grandmother in Georgia,” he said. “Someone saw her on one of our television promos and snitched. When they cuffed her she kept screaming that she should win our competition anyway because when Granny wouldn’t lend her the money to come to California, she did what she had to do to get it, which, she said, proves that she’ll do
anything
to become famous.”

“Very resourceful,” Thane Cornwall agreed. “She’s set the bar high as far as I’m concerned.”

Polly gave Thane a look of disbelief. “Do you have a granny? Would you do something sinister to her in a bid to make your own showbiz dreams come true?”

Thane stared at Polly. “Save the Dr. Laura judgments for the contestants’ Q and A, Miss
Used to Be
.”

Polly gave Thane an equally icy stare that chilled the entire room. “I don’t know you, and yet I’m getting a very disturbing vibration.”

“Old motors make odd noises.” Thane smirked. “When was the last time you had your engine tuned up?”

Polly looked at Thane with contempt. “As a matter of fact, I get serviced regularly.”

“Okeydoke. Let’s call it a day,” Richard declared. “Be sure to review the rules of the show and your individual responsibilities before coming to rehearsal on Friday. And it’s important that you
not
become friendly with the contestants. We don’t want a Paula Abdul situation on this show. At least, not until we need tabloid publicity.”

With that, the meeting was adjourned, and Polly reached for one of Brian Smith’s double fudge brownies. “I need something to take away the slimy taste of that annoying Thane person,” she said with her mouth full. “May I have three?” she asked Brian. “My herd over there”—she pointed to Tim and Placenta—”will do to me what Jewell Jones did to her poor granny if I don’t put something sweet in their feeding troughs.”

“They’re all yours,” Brian said. “Nobody else touched ‘em.”

Polly stopped midbite. “No E. coli? Ebola? Tetanus?”

“FDA approved,” Brian said. “Unless you’re allergic to Duncan Hines.”

“In the spirit of reciprocity, you’ll come to dinner at the plantation before the next lunar eclipse,” Polly said as she pushed the plate toward Placenta. “And bring
another Pip or two, or three or four. How many are you, anyway?”

As Tim and Placenta joined Polly and began to follow the others out of the conference room, Steven Benjamin, the dimpled-for-days and boyishly sexy soap stud-turned-reality show-host, wheedled his way into the group. “Miss Pepper,” he called.

Although Tim was the big fan, Polly knew that Steven was someone of note from the world of pop music radio and daytime drama. She smiled and gave Steve a warm hug, then intimately pushed a bit of Brian Smith’s brownie into his mouth. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said.

“Double Dutch chocolate, or judges who hate each other?” Steve said, swallowing the morsel of brownie.

“All of the above. But if Mr. Cornwall thinks he can intimidate me, he’s way off base,” Polly said. “I survived Trish Saddleback when I was a guest on the dumb-ass daytime coffee klatch show
The Shrews
. Still, this Jewell Jones tragedy is upsetting and Thane’s lack of respect for the dead is just plain weird. Isn’t it amazing what one will do to court the limelight?” Polly said as she unconsciously played with an ostentatious diamond dragonfly brooch on her jacket. “What do you make of that dreadful refugee from the U.K.?”

“Danger,” Steven said with a roll of his eyes. “Just ignore him. He hates everybody, including me. And I’m totally lovable!”

“You are indeed,” Placenta said. “I adored you on the radio, even when your picture on the back of that bus caused me to crash my car. And I have the DVD of that movie you made with Jessica Alba!”

Steven Benjamin gave Placenta an even wider smile that showed off his beautiful white teeth and twin dimples. “That bus poster ad campaign wasn’t a very good idea. You’re just one of hundreds of hit-and-runs. I have
a face made for radio, not marketing,” he said, pretending that he didn’t know he was considered one of the sexiest men on the planet.

Steven looked at Polly. “You’re going to be a terrific judge. Also, I’ve met the kids and they’re pretty awesome … if a bit creepy.” He shuddered. “Oh, forget what I just said. I don’t want to be accused of influencing a judge!” he chuckled. “Chin up. Don’t let the creatures, er, contestants, bite. And don’t lose any sleep over Thane Cornwall, of all people! Although, judging by your response to someone else in the room this morning, I imagine that any sleep you get will be filled with dreams of a tall, too-handsome-to-be-real stud with a smile as insincere as an undertaker’s.”

Steven Benjamin made a hasty retreat into the crowd and sidled up to Richard Dartmouth. Polly and her troupe watched as the two walked away, giggling like sorority sisters.

Polly sighed. “Why must they be so young and attractive? And what the hell was that Thane altercation about? I was only trying to be the friendly star that everybody expects me to be.”

“You just touched a sensitive nerve,” Tim said.

“Nerve is all he’s made of. And what’d Steve mean when he said the contestants are creepy? How does he know? We’re not supposed to interact with them.”

“Everyone we’ve met here is creepy, including your heartthrob Richard D., who looks like he was manufactured rather than born,” Placenta said.

“He doesn’t do a thing for me,” Polly lied. “Anyway, I have my own beau. Detective Randal Archer is the only man I have any interest in.”

“Then don’t pay any attention to Thane ‘Stupid Name’ Cornwall,” Placenta suggested. “Some folks just love
to start trouble. But perhaps you’d better make it clear that you’re dating a cop.”

Lying on the chaise beside Polly’s Puddle, the name she gave to her elegant Olympic-size swimming pool at Pepper Plantation, Polly reread the
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
contestant bios. “A live television show is just too exciting for words,” she said to Tim, who was also soaking up the UVs, but paying more attention to the perspiring landscaping crew than to his mother. “This is going to be like stealing money!” Polly said. “I get paid fairly well just for critiquing a few kids who are trying to sing, then asking them nosy questions that are supposed to reveal how nutsycuckoo they are. Why didn’t someone invent this concept for throwing cash at celebrities sooner?”

Tim divided his attention between his mother and his favorite gardener, Fernando. “I read the outline of what’s expected of you,” he said. “It seems as though we’ll be on the go most of the week. You’re required to give interviews and to tape promos for the show. I saw something in there about personal appearances at malls and stores and clubs where the demographic audience hangs out. And Fridays sound grueling. They can keep you at the studio from ten a.m. until midnight. Remember how tough shooting days were for your own show?”

“But this is a live broadcast, dear, so the program can’t last more than two hours,” Polly said.

There was indeed more work to do to prep for the debut of
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
than Polly had anticipated. The rest of the week was punishing.

Along with the other judges and the host Steve Benjamin, Polly spent three days taping a series of national television commercial spots, and being interviewed for
TV Guide, Parade, Redbook, People, O
, and the
National Peeper
. She appeared on the talk show circuit and visited Leno, Conan, and Craig Ferguson. When Polly finally got to Ellen, she brought a gift beautifully wrapped in wedding paper. “For you and Portia. A little late, but then I wasn’t invited to the nuptials.” The studio audience laughed when they saw the gift was a copy of Polly’s old record album,
Priceless Polly
. The low point came when she was ushered by limo to the Snake Pit, for a live local news interview at 11:00 p.m. The Snake Pit was a trendy bar on Sunset Boulevard, made famous by a string of drug-related deaths among young up-and-coming actors and models. The establishment was indeed a pit. It stank of alcohol and mildew, and other odors that Polly identified with her trip to Calcutta in the dead of summer. The so-called music was heavy on bass, and light on understandable lyrics. It was so loud that Polly had to communicate with Tim and Placenta by writing on cocktail napkins.

“When I was their age, we had real music,” Polly cheerfully yelled out to the Channel 7 reporter who was covering her club visit for the
Eyewitness News
broadcast.

“Um, Mother, you’re insulting the very demographic audience the show wants to reach,” Tim loudly whispered into her ear.

Embarrassment played across Polly’s face and she immediately laughed and said, “There I go, sounding like Methuselah—or Diana Ross. Personally, I love all the new music and stars! I keep Big Bow Wow’s CDs on a leash! Usher, and that pretty what’s-her-name—Mary O’Blige, too.”

When the reporter turned the broadcast back to the studio anchor, the too-perky-for-television newsgirl said, “Polly Pepper. She’s history.”

By the time Thursday night finally arrived, Tim and Placenta returned Polly to Pepper Plantation and had to help her ascend the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. At last in the sanctuary of her luxurious bathroom, she immersed her tired body in the hot, scented, sudsy, and curative waters of her Jacuzzi jet tub. There, with a glass of champagne resting on her bath caddy, she listened to precareer-crashing Whitney Houston piped throughout the house sound system. “Didn’t I say that J.J. is a lying beast? He promised easy money. What a crock! I haven’t even had time for a date with Randy this week!”