Final Curtain (14 page)

“I
’m screwed!” Polly announced, as she guided Charlotte to the great room.

“Make it clear that you don’t know anything about Karen’s death and maybe whoever sent the letter will leave you alone.”

“What? No! I mean, our show opens in eight days and I’m screwed because we haven’t had a full-cast rehearsal! Gerold’s shipped me off to that Gulag in North Hollywood with Stalin’s more sinister sister. I’m not ready to face an audience.”

“Let’s do our own run-through. Here. Now.”

Polly smiled. “We could. A test of how well we’re doing.”

“I’m still not off book with my own role, but if you’ve got a copy of the script I can do it along with all the other roles.”

Polly skipped over to the telephone table and pushed the Talk button on the system’s intercom. “It’s showtime!” she announced. “Do the dishes tomorrow. Charlotte and I are about to perform
Mame
. Oh, and find my script.”

Soon Tim and Placenta were moving the twin sofas to face the center of the great room, which was now a make-shift stage. Tim placed a CD of the Broadway cast album of
Mame
on the stereo carousel. He cranked up the volume of the famous overture, then settled down beside Placenta. They watched as Charlotte reentered the room as the character Agnes Gooch. She spoke the first lines of the play, telling her young charge, Patrick, as well as herself, not to be frightened in post-Katrina New Orleans, and that soon they’d be safe with his Auntie Mame.

“I still think that Jerry Herman and the estate of the authors will have a stroke when they find that Gerold has changed the location of the story from New York to New Orleans,” Polly whined.

Then Charlotte began singing “St. Brigid,” perfectly imitating Jane Connell from the original cast of the Broadway musical. Tim and Placenta applauded wildly.

Next, when Polly entered and sang “It’s Today,” composer Jerry Herman’s celebration of life, Tim was instantly reminded of why his mother was a star. Even singing a cappella she was sensational. The voice wasn’t all that good—it never was—but her acting was seductive.

Although Polly was without question the star, Charlotte made a positive impression. They were surprised by how well she moved from one character voice to another, without missing a beat. By the time they sang the finale together, it was clear to all that the show would be smooth sailing.

Taking their bows and accepting applause and flutes of champagne, Polly and Charlotte agreed that it was high time that they retire to their bedrooms. Morning would come too quickly, and their respective rehearsal schedules were becoming more and more arduous. Polly and Charlotte walked holding hands as they followed Placenta up The Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. On the second-floor landing, they hugged and went in opposite directions down the corridor.

Placenta showed Charlotte the amenities of her suite and reminded their guest that breakfast was at seven. They would leave for the theater by eight thirty.

In Polly’s boudoir, Tim stretched out on the bed next to his mother and rested against the headboard. Placenta lay sideways across the comforter at the foot of the mattress and faced Polly. Polly pointed at her closed bedroom door and in a forced whisper said, “She knows more than she’s letting on! What was all that cock-and-bull at dinner about watching
CSI
? It wasn’t even on last night.”

“I made up that entire scenario!” Tim said. “She pretended that she saw the program.”

“And that latest letter from your so-called Snoop Sister just happened to be delivered to Charlotte’s dressing room. Give me a break!” Placenta said.

Polly added, “All in favor of voting Charlotte the most likely to kill a director say aye!”

“Aye!” they all said in unison.

“Still, someone was in Charlotte’s apartment when we dropped by this evening,” Polly said. “We all heard the same noises.”

“Her cat on speed?” Placenta said.

“An accomplice?” Tim suggested. “Someone working with Charlotte to hide the truth about Karen’s killer. By the way, did either of you see a computer and printer in the apartment? The letters are both printed in the same font.”

“There’s so much junk in that place, it could have blended in with the stereo from Eve Arden and the dollhouse from Demi Moore,” Polly said. “I guess someone’s going to have to be late for dance class tomorrow. Tim, dear, you take Charlotte to the theater in the morning. Placenta and I will pay another visit to Chez Bunch.”

Suddenly, the sound of the doorknob turning startled the trio and Tim jumped off the bed. “Who’s there?” Tim demanded and automatically reached for the can of Raid that Polly kept by her bed for protection.

Charlotte’s voice answered as she pushed open the door. “Polly?” she said in a weak voice. “Sorry to bother you, but I don’t feel too well. Dizzy and sick to my stomach. Too much champagne and excitement, I guess.”

Tim put down the can and approached Charlotte. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and steered her back down the corridor. “I’ve got just the remedy. Let’s get you back to bed, and I’ll make my patented Alcoholics Anonymous Step Thirteen. A little sorbital. A pinch of sodium bicarbonate. A spoonful of mineral oil. All yucky stuff that’ll make you want to die, thus taking your mind off the spinning room. A complete Betty Ford program in a six-ounce glass. By tomorrow, you’ll feel as though you’ve been sober for a year.”

“I’d settle for a new head,” Charlotte moaned.

Soon Charlotte was settled into her bed, the awful taste of Tim’s potion lingering on her tongue. As she hugged her pillow and settled in for sleep she said in a drowsy voice, “I’ve had a lovely evening. You’re all so generous. So nice of you to take me to work in the morning.”

Tim was stunned that Charlotte had heard at least that part of Polly’s plan. “Sleep well,” he said as Charlotte began to snore. He turned off the light, closed the door, and returned to Polly’s suite.

“Open a new window, open a new day…” Charlotte sang as she waltzed down The Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase and breezed into the kitchen where the household was in pow-wow about their respective agendas for the day. They abruptly ceased their conversation and pretended to chat about a dream that Polly had had during the night. Charlotte stood behind Tim’s chair and kissed the top of his head. “Your magic elixir should be bottled and sold to the kids at the Viper Room. I feel like a new woman!”

“Did you sleep well, dear?” Polly asked.

“Thanks to Tim’s voodoo.”

“Speaking of the black arts, we’d better hustle you over to Gerold Goss, and me to Tsarina Tatanya,” Polly said. “Tim will take you to the theater and pick you up this evening. Placenta will drive me to the Valley. Anything special you’d like for din-din?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Nah. You’ve got to get ready for your meeting with your Snoop Sister. I’ll just be in the way. As a matter of fact, I’ll be staying at my place this evening. I’m over my fear of Freddy Krueger hiding in the hamper.” She turned to Tim. “As a matter of fact, just drop me at my place. I’ll take my own car to the theater.”

Tim looked at Polly, who shrugged. “If Jeffrey Dahmer’s twisted twin is cleaning out your freezer, feel free to change your mind.
Mi casa, su casa
, et cetera.”

Charlotte hugged Polly and Placenta. “This is like Neverland Ranch, only without all the case workers from Child Welfare Services. I’ve adored every minute here. See you at Sunday’s rehearsal. Oh, and of course I’ll be here for your big party on Monday!”

“Can’t wait,” Polly deadpanned. “Will you excuse us for a nanosecond?” she added. “Timmy gets huffy if I don’t break the piggy bank for his weekly allowance. Back in a flash.”

Polly walked out of the kitchen trailed by her son and maid. She continued blazing the trail until they were halfway across the mansion in the wardrobe room where many of Polly’s old Bob Mackie costumes were displayed on mannequins. She turned to Tim. “She’s going back to her apartment to hide or destroy evidence. I knew that she heard our plans. Here’s what to do. Take the most congested route possible, or have a flat tire, or some other automotive disaster. Just don’t scratch the paint on the car. I need at least a half hour in her place to search for my precious Emmy.”

“Done,” Tim said. “She can fake a voice. I can fake car trouble.”

Placenta chided Tim. “The only thing you know or care about cars is how adorable the service station attendant is who pumps your gas and cleans the windshield.”

Tim sniggered. “Thank God for the full-service island. But what if you get caught? I can’t keep her away for too long. She’ll call a cab or, worse, fix whatever I say is the matter with the car.”

“Leave it to me,” Polly said confidently. “Call me when you’re getting close, and I’ll call you when I’ve finished my search and rescue operation. Miss Bunch is so anxious to get back to her ordinary life that I’m convinced that she knows more about Karen’s death than she’s letting on.”

“How do you plan to gain access to her place?”

Polly smiled and sang the lyrics to a Sondheim song. “Everybody ought to have a maid,” she warbled, then turned to Placenta, who wiggled a key ring in front of Tim’s face.

“T
hat was a waste of precious time!” Polly snapped when she reached Tim on his cell phone. “Placenta obviously pinched the wrong key from Charlotte’s purse. We dug around her front door until a nosey neighbor in the next apartment came out and asked why we were shaking out the doormat and rearranging the flowerpots. The moron didn’t recognize me! But he’s bound to describe us to Charlotte. She’ll know we were there.”

Tim pretended to be speaking to an Auto Club operator. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour,” he said while gritting his teeth and looking askance at Charlotte.

“Oh, heavens, you’re not still faking car trouble, are you? Why on earth would you keep up the charade for so long?”

“Because your lovely
dispatcher
didn’t
ring back
to say that the mechanic had completed
her
last job,” Tim sniped.

“I’m having enough trouble remembering my dance numbers, I can’t be responsible for recalling trivia. Oh, hell, there’s Madame T. I don’t want her to see me before our rehearsal. She’ll drag me in early. Gotta go. See you at lunchtime.”

“You say that this pricey car comes equipped with a self-repairing engine?” Tim said in a huff.

Polly had hung up, and Tim turned the car key while still pretending that he was on the line with AAA. The engine easily turned over. He looked at Charlotte and shrugged. “Guess it was just flooded, or something.”

“Or something,” Charlotte said with an icy tone to her voice.

“I’ll be darned. That did the trick.” Tim flipped his cell phone closed and signaled to enter traffic. “Sorry about the delay, Charlotte. You’ll be late, but I’ll explain everything to Gerold.”

Charlotte sighed. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll call Gerold from the apartment. He understands trouble. Especially when Polly Pepper is involved.”

“That’s a little unkind, Charlotte. Lately, Mom’s been a magnet for dead bodies, and now an insane person is on the loose who could very well be out to kill her. Frankly, I don’t know what to do. If she doesn’t comply with this lunatic’s demand for another of her Emmys, Sharon could be convicted and get the death sentence. On the other hand, maybe Sharon’s guilty and this nutcase is looting Polly’s trophy room.”

Charlotte’s eyes expressed sympathy. “I didn’t intend to be mean. But you have to admit, things between her and Gerold are about as pleasant as the relationship between Sir Paul and Heather. There’s just no getting around the fact that they hate each other’s guts.”

“Gerold started it. Polly’s a very easy person to get along with. I don’t know why he despises her so. Mom’s professional, she’s cooperative, and she’s going to be a huge draw in this show. So what if she was late that first day? Karen was understanding, but not Gerold. He’s had it in for her even before she started.”

As the Rolls moved east along Fountain Avenue, Charlotte was quiet for a long moment. Then, as Tim braked for a red light, Charlotte said, “The truth is that the animosity started because Gerold and Karen had opposing ideas about the casting. Gerold of course wanted his main squeeze in the scene-stealing role of Gloria Upson, while Karen wanted a real actress. Karen wanted your mother in the lead but Gerold wanted Candice Bergen. He didn’t think that Polly was a big enough draw. The fact is he sort of blames your mother for Karen’s murder.”

“That’s too ridiculous!” Tim said. “Mother wasn’t anywhere near the theater when the crime occurred!”

Charlotte shrugged. “I think he feels that if he’d gotten his way with the casting in the first place, there wouldn’t have been that ugly fight.”

“Fight? Between Karen and Gerold? Did Gerold kill Karen?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Gerold was the killer,” Tim insisted. “Everyone else on the planet adored Karen. Except for you and Sharon and Hiroaki, that is.”

Charlotte dismissed Tim’s comment. “We were naturally upset about being replaced, but none of us were mad at Karen. Gerold is the one who went over Karen’s head to get the producers to agree to replace us. They wouldn’t let him touch your mother, though. The box office business was doing so well.”

Tim turned onto Gardner Street, and Charlotte said, “I’m over there,” while pointing to her apartment. When he pulled up to the curb Tim said, “Truth be told, I’ve been suspicious of Gerold from the start.”

“I never said that Gerold had anything to do with Karen’s death.”

“Then who? You said there was a fight.”

“I didn’t say who was involved.”

“Polly’s on someone’s hit list, and I’ll wager it’s the same person who killed Karen. Gerold is really the only logical candidate. Nobody else hates her as he does.”

“Hollywood’s a killer town, all right,” Charlotte said. “People here will do just about anything for fame and fortune, and to cover their butts when they’ve done something that could cost them their careers.”

“She’s clueless about a lot of things, including who murdered Karen Richards. Sure, she’s got her suspects—especially you and Hiroaki, but—”

“Why would I knock off my director?”

“Because you were canned.”

“A show isn’t worth the negative karma of taking another’s life over a stage role. How could she think that I had anything to do with the murder?”

“For one thing, you’ve been lying about a few things.”

“I don’t consider embellishing my
Bay Watch
story a lie.”

“You weren’t really burgled yesterday.”

“We’ve established that.” Charlotte squared her shoulders and stared out of the windshield. “Vivien Leigh is a scaredy cat. She made a ruckus that you confused with a burglary.”

“That’s almost as absurd as David Caruso thinking he could leave TV for a career in feature films. I believe that someone
was
in your apartment. In fact, Detective Archer is pretty certain that he knows who it was.”

“He doesn’t know anything of the sort!” Charlotte pulled on the door handle, but Tim had locked all the doors. “Let me out!”

Tim unbuckled his seat restraint and turned to face Charlotte. “Do yourself a favor. Explain to me why you sent those letters. Polly won’t press charges if you return the Emmy.”

“I’ve got a rehearsal to get to,” Charlotte growled. “If you don’t open this door, I’m calling the police.”

“Be my guest.” Tim held out his cell phone. “I’m sure the West Hollywood Police Department will totally believe that you’re being kept against your will in a Park Ward Rolls-Royce. And when they find out who I am, and who you used to be, they’ll think you’re just a batty old Norma Desmond starved for publicity. Now tell me why you sent those letters and why you want to hurt my mother.”

“I don’t want to hurt your mother!” Charlotte cried. “She’s always been civil toward me. And I have no reason to want a stupid old Emmy Award! And the Snoop Sister letters are not from me!”

“You’re not leaving this car until you come clean.”

Charlotte pursed her lips and refused to speak. For the next minute she divided her time between glowering at Tim and making surly nonverbal noises.

“That’s it.” Tim started the engine again. “We’re going back to Pepper Plantation. You can stay in the wine cellar until you come to your senses. You’ll like the temperature, that is if you’re a case of Chateau Coutet and you’re used to a lovely forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. You’ll be missed by Gerold and the cast, but I’ll explain that you’re down with Polly’s favorite disease—
infectiouschronicosis
. She’s used it often enough that the CDC actually has a warning out about international travel to Lapland where Polly claims she first contracted the symptoms. Like shingles, it recurs whenever she’s under stress.” Tim looked at Charlotte. “Yes, I can see the symptoms. Thankfully, there is a cure. The antidote is simple. Tell me everything you know about the murder of Karen Richards, and why Polly Pepper seems to be in the middle of it all, and I’ll tell you how to cure this icky malady.”

“If you take me back to Pepper Plantation I’ll file kidnapping charges.”

Tim laughed heartily. “Are you nuts? No judge would construe being Polly Pepper’s guest at her luxurious estate as kidnapping. In fact, Detective Archer was there when you accepted Polly’s invitation. It’s likely they’d put you away for psychiatric evaluation for confusing abduction with hospitality. Perhaps the wine cellar is too good for you. Polly’s wardrobe museum in the east wing might be a more suitable prison. You can spend your time trying on Bob Mackie dresses and wondering why you never became a star.” Tim signaled a right turn and began to move into traffic.

“That hurt!” Charlotte said softly. “Okay. Stop the car. I’ll tell you all that I know. It’s not much, but it’s all true. I swear it.”

Tim reversed the Rolls and once again parked against the curb. He turned off the ignition and looked into Charlotte’s eyes. He said, “Cough it up, old lady.”

Polly was dripping with perspiration when she left the rehearsal room at noon and met Tim and Placenta in the hallway. “We’ll have to do IHOP or Denny’s,” she said. “Dragon Lady wants me back at precisely one o’clock. I’m never going to get her damned choreography! The steps are nothing like what I’ve done in every past production of this show. On opening night, Jerry Herman’s going to be as pissed off as Lauren Bacall was the night she didn’t win the Oscar.”

As the trio walked toward the changing room, Tim said, “I’ve got interesting news. Charlotte thinks she knows who killed Karen.”

Polly and Placenta both stopped abruptly and looked at Tim.

“Who?”

“How?”

“What?”

“When?”

Polly said, “I suppose Charlotte just volunteered information because you played the Good Samaritan and drove her home. What gives?”

“Ha! I dragged the confession out of her. Like they do at Guantanamo, but without the waterboards or electrodes or that snarling Doberman-rottweiler Lynndie Englund.”

“So what did she tell you?” Placenta eagerly asked. “It’s Sharon, right?”

Polly gave Placenta a slight shove. “It’s not Sharon. I’ve told you. It’s Gerold. Or…” Polly thought for a long moment. “I can’t concentrate with all this perspiration soaking my clothes. Let me change and I’ll tell you who the killer is over luncheon.”

“A shower won’t help with this riddle.” Tim smiled. “But change anyway, and then I’ll fill you in on the results of my little interrogation this morning.”

Finally seated in a booth at IHOP, Polly ordered iced teas for the trio. As soon as the waitress left to fetch their drink order, Polly turned to Tim. “Hand it over. What did that conniving Miss Nobody say? Who killed Karen?”

“You said you’d tell
us
who the killer is.”

“It’s not as simple as naming names,” Polly backtracked. “First, I’ve gotta hear what Charlotte had to say.”

“We don’t have all day,” Placenta reminded her; then she turned to Tim. “What’s the bottom line?”

Tim grimaced. His well-rehearsed recounting of how he had expertly tortured Charlotte would go unheard. “Okay. Long story short…”

The smiling waitress returned to their table with her order pad. “Have ya’ll decided what you’ll have?”

“A large order of privacy, please,” Placenta said.

Polly smiled up at the dumbfounded waitress and placed a hand on her arm. “Please forgive this indigent, dear. She’s off her meds. I graciously picked her up off the street and offered a much-needed hot meal. Still, would you do me a favor and give me another five ticks to decide that I’ll have something that looks like the yummy food I see on your TV ads?”

The waitress had recognized Polly the moment she walked into the restaurant, and was thrilled to find that she was a sweet down-to-earth star. “You betcha!” she said, then disappeared from the dining room into the kitchen.

“There’s no need to be mean to the help!” Polly chastised Placenta. Then she turned to Tim. “Yeah, yeah. Long story short. Make it shorter. I haven’t got more than a few breaths in my body before the pancake girl comes back.”

“Here’s the thing,” Tim began. “Charlotte’s a sicko. She thinks that all signs point to Sharon, or Karen’s boyfriend, Jamie.”

“Not Mag?” Placenta said.

“What makes her think that Jamie is the killer?” Polly said, startled by the revelation. “From all I’ve heard, he and Karen were a pair of matching smooching bookends.”

“Charlotte explained that Jamie badly wanted the role of Patrick Dennis, but that Karen didn’t want to mix business with their personal life. When Charlotte arrived at the theater that morning, she overheard them arguing about the role. It actually makes perfect sense.”

Polly said, “Karen was being sort of a jerk not casting Jamie. I mean, in this biz who one knows is how everybody gets jobs. It’s tradition. Let’s suppose it was Jamie who committed the murder. He still didn’t get the part of Patrick. But Mag did get to play Gloria. And Charlotte was recast as Agnes.”

“Charlotte also said that Jamie knows that you took his eight-by-ten. He surmises that you deduced that since he’s an actor who’s played the Patrick role as often as you’ve played Mame, you’re bound to think it’s suspicious that he wasn’t cast in his own girlfriend’s show.”