A Talent for Murder (7 page)

When they arrived at the study, Polly, Tim, and Placenta walked in to find director Curtis Lawson, Steven Benjamin, Brian Smith, and three unfamiliar people, two of whom quickly identified themselves as executives at Sterling Studios, and the third as Richard’s secretary, Lisa Marrs. Polly introduced her son and maid before shooing them to the other side of the room and promising the group that her family would be invisible.

While waiting for Richard to arrive, Lisa sidled up to Polly. “Oh! My! God!” she said, the color draining from her face. “I swear, I never do this—slobber all over movie stars, I mean. But you’re you! I mean, you’re Polly Pepper! Duh! Of course you know that. Everybody does. Well, not everybody, but most people are pathetic. I’m rambling. When I was a little girl I watched you all the time. I wanted to be you when I grew up! My family thought I was a freak.”

“You look perfectly normal,” Polly said, not sure if she should encourage further conversation.

“It’s just that I made them nuts with all the loud laughing that came from my room,” Lisa said.

Polly embraced Lisa’s effusiveness and beamed her most sincere smile. “You look way too young to remember
The Polly Pepper Playhouse
!”

“Oh, hell, your show was canceled long before I was born.”

Placenta inadvertently cackled from her seat in the corner.

“But I found a set of videos of your show at a garage sale,” Lisa continued. “Of course, now I have the boxed special collector’s edition of DVDs with commentary from the entire cast, as well as Carol Burnett and
Sandy Duncan. When I first came to Hollywood, I took a bus tour of the stars’ homes. Of course Pepper Plantation was the highlight. I’ve always dreamed of going to one of your famous parties. Maybe someday—”

Lisa was interrupted when Richard arrived with a tray of three mimosas. “One for each of you,” he said, looking at Tim and Placenta.

“They’re driving,” Polly said. “Just set the drinkies here.” She pointed to the place directly in front of her on the coffee table.

As Lisa moved back to her seat on the sofa, Richard looked at his watch again. “We’ll wait a few more minutes for Thane. I’ll say one positive thing about him, he’s almost always on time.”

“The more opportunity with which to be nasty,” Steven Benjamin cracked.

To fill the next few minutes, Richard discussed the previous night’s show. “The studio audiences loved the program!”

“Too bad the rest of the planet wasn’t home,” Polly sniffed.

“Regardless, you all did an amazing job,” Dartmouth added, looking at Polly, Brian, Steven, and Curtis. “I’m proud of your work, and you should be happy too.”

“Forget about career-destroying reviews, eh?” Polly added. “This is the only time during my illustrious internationally acclaimed career that I’m thrilled to have
not
been mentioned in the paper!”

“The
Times
critic should be strangled,” Curtis added.

Placenta called out from the other side of the room, “You could do the deed and blame it on that Ped-Xing person.” She ignored Polly’s withering look. “I’m just saying that since that boy has already made death threats, someone might get away with doing in a critic or two, then blame it on Ped,” Placenta added.

Richard Dartmouth looked at his wristwatch again, then at his assistant. “Lisa, call Thane’s cell
and
his BlackBerry. He loves to make an entrance, but this is ridiculous.”

Another fifteen minutes passed. “Lisa,” Richard said, “run over to Thane’s house and tell him to get his faux British butt over here, pronto. The man has no consideration for others!”

During the next hour, Richard Dartmouth laid out his marketing plans for capturing his coveted Friday night television viewing audience and saving his expensive summer replacement show, as well as his own reputation as a young Turk in Hollywood. As Polly suspected, she was to be a key instrument in getting the word out that what
Fear Factor
was to the phobic,
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
was to the creatively challenged but sadistically exceptional.

Eventually, Polly stood in the front foyer of Dartmouth’s mansion saying good-bye to her television family. “Repackaging the program’s publicity to present the show as proof that for one to become famous, all one has to be is mediocre is brilliant strategy,” she said as Brian Smith and Steven Benjamin anxiously played with their car keys. “Hell, it worked for Pammy Anderson. And whatever happened to that Neanderthal, Steven Seagal?”

When Polly was finally out the door, air-kissing her colleagues good-bye, the sound of helicopters hovering in the sky made everybody stop and look up. “The paparazzi must have discovered that I’m in the neighborhood.” Polly waved. “Will a telephoto lens make me look fat?”

“I think they’re police helicopters,” Tim said.

“Leave it to snooty Beverly Hills to have a neighborhood watch that includes surveillance by air,” Polly said. “Although one would think they would muffle the noise from their blades.” She then bade, “Ta!” to her friends and climbed onto the backseat of the Rolls.

As Tim maneuvered the car down Tower Drive and prepared to turn left onto busy Benedict Canyon, Polly said, “I’m in the mood for a little Veuve and Carly Simon, please.”

As Tim simultaneously tried to keep an eye on traffic and find his mother’s favorite CD, Placenta opened the bar refrigerator.

“Careful not to upset the champies, dear,” Polly called out to Placenta as Tim found a break in the line of cars and stepped on the accelerator.

When Tim was safely driving down Benedict toward Sunset Boulevard, he pushed the button to the stereo system. Before he had an opportunity to insert the CD into the slot, a news announcer said, “… dead at his home in Benedict Canyon. Cornwall was thirty-seven.”

T
im floored the accelerator and shot past two police cruisers as he raced home to Pepper Plantation. When the trio arrived at the mansion, they made a dash for the great room. Tim grabbed the television remote control, Placenta uncorked a bottle of Veuve, and Polly flopped down on the sofa just as her not-so-secret crush, Anderson Cooper, was beginning his report on CNN.

The news was horrific. Cooper confirmed that television personality Thane Cornwall had been found stabbed to death in his bed. In addition, he confirmed that the alleged murderer was already in custody, having been caught literally red-handed by Cornwall’s maid. Cooper read the name of the alleged killer. “Lisa Marrs.”

“Who?”

“No!”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“She adored me,” Polly said.

“With Richard in the room, I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” Tim added.

“She had an edge,” Placenta said.

“She hardly spoke,” Tim said.

“My fans are usually harmless,” Polly said.

The news report went on to say that Cornwall’s maid had arrived at the estate and found Lisa Marrs in Thane’s bedroom standing over the body.

Polly tossed back her flute of champagne in one long swallow and set the glass down for a refill. “Perhaps this Lisa girl was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Richard sent her to Thane’s house, she found the body, the maid came in, and everybody jumped to conclusions. Happens all the time.”

As Placenta refilled Polly’s glass she said, “To whom does this supposedly happen all the time? I’ve never been accused of killing anything more than an orchid.”

Polly took a sip from her glass. “I mean, people believe what they
think
they see.”

“Body. Blood. Weapon. Do the math,” Tim said.

Placenta considered Tim’s comment for a moment. She looked at Polly. “With me as the lone exception, most servants have Sundays off. I wonder what this maid person was doing letting herself into Thane’s house on the Sabbath?”

“Perhaps she lived in,” Polly said.

“Maybe she hated her boss, poked him with the shiv, then waited for someone else to show up so that she could point her finger,” Tim said as he uncorked another bottle of champagne. “Call Richard Dartmouth to offer your condolences. If you don’t comfort him, I will.”

Like everybody else in the world, when it came to expressing the depth of her sadness—genuine or not—over another’s loss, Polly felt ill-equipped and therefore procrastinated making such calls. However, Placenta punched the numbers on the telephone keypad and pushed the handset toward Polly. Before she could finish another fortifying sip of Veuve, Richard answered.

“Dear, dear Richard, you must be devastated,” Polly
cooed into the microphone. After a beat she said, “It’s me.” She waited another beat and answered, “Um, Polly.” She rolled her eyes. “Pepper. Thank God you’re pretty, you silly man. Oh, you must be wracked with grief and guilt! No, of course I didn’t mean
guilt
guilt. Only that you must feel a wee bit awkward having sent Lisa Marrs to Thane’s house at the least opportune time.” Polly covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s awfully defensive!” She continued. “Is there anything I can have Tim or Placenta do for you? Now tell me, exactly what happened? Why did Lisa murder Thane? What was her motive? Self-defense of course! Does she have a history of going wacko? Who will replace the inimitable Thane Cornwall on the show?”

During the time she and Richard spent on the phone, Placenta refilled Polly’s glass twice. When Polly finally ended the conversation and disconnected the line, she said, “We dodged that bullet!”

“Bullet?” Tim said, pouring still another flute of champagne for his mother and himself.

“We’ve escaped having to go to Thane’s funeral. He’s being cremated, and apparently nobody wants to host a memorial service.”

“You don’t sound very sympathetic,” Placenta snorted. “A colleague has been murdered. It could have been you!”

“Nonsense! Everybody and his dog adores Polly Pepper,” the star said. “Anyway, you know I loathe funerals. Except my own. I mean the one that Tim, the most brilliant party planner in Bel Air, will create for me when the time comes. A long way off to be sure. Don’t forget the sobbing orphan children, skywriting, baying wolves, and bagpipes playing ‘Pavane for a Dead Princess.’ Also, I’ve been thinking about producing a farewell video on YouTube. I want darling Nancy
Meyers to direct. And Diane Keaton must do the voice-over!”

Tim kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa, his legs resting on top of the coffee table. “So, what else did Richard have to say? He kept you on the line long enough.”

“The dear does go on and on. People in grief tend to be thrilled that I call and patiently listen as they unburden themselves. It’s one of my many natural talents. Curiously, he seemed more upset about having to break in a new assistant. Oh, and as far as Richard and the police are concerned, it’s an open-and-shut case against Lisa.”

Tim and Placenta became quiet. “Apparently, Lisa and Thane had been secret lovers, but he broke off the relationship just last night—”

Placenta interrupted. “So when Lisa went to his house, she probably begged for him to take her back. And when he wouldn’t, she slashed him to bloody ribbons.”

Polly looked at Placenta. “Do I do maid-type things? Then perhaps you’ll let me tell the showbiz murder story. Yes, the maid claims to have seen everything. Of course, Lisa swears that Thane was already dead when she arrived at his house.”

“Blaming it on someone else is to be expected,” Placenta interjected.

“Lisa claims that she was just about to dial 911, but then Ophelia—that’s the name of the maid—came upon the scene and locked Lisa in the bedroom with the body.”

“Quick thinking,” Tim said. “She could have been next on Lisa’s hit list. How do the police know so much already?”

“Apparently, when the paramedics revived her—oh yeah, Lisa fainted when she couldn’t escape—she confessed to everything.”

“Everything but the murder,” Tim reminded her.

“Everything but,” Polly agreed. “Affairs lead to people getting hurt. God knows I wanted to kill your fathers often enough. It’s not a stretch to pin the crime on a jealous ex-lover. Lisa’s el-cheapo drugstore lipstick was not only on the bedsheets, but on the corpse, too. She knew the security code to Thane’s house. And, best of all, her fingerprints were on the handle of the knife that she just happened to be clutching in her dainty little hands when she regained consciousness. In fact, her prints are everywhere throughout the house.”

“That’s a relief,” Tim said. “You finally land another job, of course a dead body pops up, but this time you don’t have to get involved because they nabbed the killer right away. End of story. Now you can concentrate on the show and have some fun. Plus, no more Thane to contend with.”

Placenta muttered, “No Thane, no pain.” Then she asked, “Who will they hire on such short notice to replace him on the judges’ panel?”

“Richard’s taking over,” Polly said.

“Aha!” Tim pronounced. “Richard killed Thane in order to take his place on the show! Get it?
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous!”

Placenta nodded. “He’s certainly good looking enough to be on television.”

“That’s the silliest notion you’ve had since begging me to adopt Justin Timberlake,” Polly said.
“I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
is Richard’s baby. Daddies don’t eat their young. Generally speaking.”

“Perhaps after the first week’s dismal ratings he
needed a surefire publicity-grabbing headline. As a result of the news you’ll have a larger audience and bigger ratings next week for sure,” Placenta said.

Polly stood up and wandered over to the bar. “Anyone for
sevenths?”
she asked before opening a bottle of champagne on her own.

Tim and Placenta exchanged a quizzical look. “Polly, I’ll do that,” Placenta said. “I was joking about the dead guy being a publicity magnet for a larger share of the ratings. You’re the only star for whom people tune in.”

Tim added, “Mother, I think it’s time for your
boob-blee
bath. You’re in shock or something.”

Polly turned around. “I wonder if Ped-Xing has an alibi.”

Tim shrugged. “Why would he need one? There’s a witness who saw Lisa kill Thane.”