Final Curtain (3 page)

M
orning arrived at Pepper Plantation and to the shock and awe of Placenta, the mistress of the manor was awake at six thirty, seated in the kitchen, and ready to be served breakfast. “I couldn’t sleep,” Polly explained. “I’m too eager about going to work. Plus, I want to be extra early. No butter on the pancakes, please. I’ll show that bombastic rat that I’m as reliable as rain on a weekend.”

Presently, Tim staggered into the kitchen. Until his first cup of coffee he had the physical lethargy and verbal ability of a corpse. He too was not used to getting out of bed before the morning was half over. But when his mother was working and needed a chauffeur, Tim fought the impulse to complain. He reminded himself that Polly asked relatively little in exchange for his weekly allowance, a new car every year, a personal fitness trainer who made house calls, and charge accounts in Beverly Hills at Neiman’s, Armani, Pierre Deux, and Bijan. Usually, by the time Placenta poured Tim a second cup of his favorite fresh-ground Ethiopian java, he was able to focus on the comic section of the newspaper and offer guttural responses to simple questions.

This morning, however, Tim wasn’t given time for the paper, or for consuming more than one blueberry muffin to go with his allotted one cup of joe. Polly was in a hurry, and when the queen said to move his tushy, Tim did as instructed. He quickly showered and dressed and was waiting in the car when Polly and Placenta stepped into the vehicle at 7:45. The drive to Glendale took less time than expected and when they arrived at the theater, there were plenty of parking spaces in the section of the lot reserved for the cast and crew.

Polly looked at her wristwatch. “Not even half past eight!” Then she spotted a familiar car. “Talk about punctual, Sharon’s already here.” Polly pointed to the Mercedes with the vanity license plate. “These new kids have to advertise all of their accomplishments! Oh, hell, it’s probably the only time she’ll get an acting award, so why not boast? Goody,” she added, looking at the reserved parking spots for the director and artistic director, “Karen and Gerold are here too. They can all witness how early I am.”

Tim eased the Rolls into a space near the stage door entrance. For effect, in case anyone was watching, he slipped out of his seat and made a big deal about opening the rear passenger door for his mother and Placenta and formally ushering them out of the car. He stood at military attention, then made the motion of clicking the heels of his Nikes. He led the way to the artists’ entrance to the theater and opened the door.

After a brief exchange of “good mornings” with old George the doorman, and signing in on the daily attendance roster, Polly and crew wended their way to the lavatory to check her makeup. A few minutes later they climbed the stairs leading to the stage wings. Calling out in her most theatrical and projected voice, Polly announced herself in advance, “Guess who’s not only on time, but
extremely
early?” Her voice preceded her arrival onstage, but when she and her entourage stood together facing an empty house, she looked confused. “Where is everybody? Sharon? Karen? Gerold?” Polly asked.

As Polly, Tim, and Placenta roamed about the half-dark stage and then checked out the auditorium, they killed time by commenting on the need to reupholster the seats, splash a coat of paint on the proscenium, and shampoo the carpet along the aisles. “Ugh. Glendale,” Polly said. Then, one by one, the other cast members began to trickle in.

Charlotte Bunch was first. She beamed when she saw Polly and hurried from the wings onto the stage to greet her old friend. “Isn’t it too wonderful that we’re doing a show together again?” Charlotte embraced Polly. “My short-term memory isn’t what it used to be, but I clearly recall that week you invited me to be a guest on your show.”

Polly smiled. “I remember too,” she said, remembering the extremely low ratings of that particular program. “At the time you were doing guest-starring roles on
The Bob Newhart Show
and
Mannix
. Seems as though for a couple of seasons you were everywhere!
Johnny Carson
,
Merv Griffin
,
Dinah Shore
,
Rhoda
.”

Charlotte sighed. “I should have bought my apartment building when I had some dough. You were smart to buy that big ol’ place in Bel Air. Bet you couldn’t touch it now. I saw Pepper Plantation in
Architectural Digest
a few years ago. My God, you probably paid pennies by today’s standards! I especially loved your Emmy room.”

“It is rather impressive, isn’t it?” Polly beamed. “It’s been a lovely home in which to raise my family,” she said, knowing that Charlotte had never married and never had children.

Charlotte’s face turned a slight shade of green as she looked over at Tim.

By ten o’clock most of the cast had assembled onstage. While everyone waited for the director and ingénue to walk through the door, they all made small talk among each other. Polly feigned interest in Beauregard’s lengthy list of stage and television credits, which he reeled off like a waiter explaining the house specials for the evening.

Polly plastered a fake smile to her lips as Emily Hutcherson sidled up to her. In a warmer greeting than the day before, she announced that she was writing her memoirs and would Polly please consider offering a blurb for the book jacket. “And risk committing career suicide? I’d love to,” Polly said.

“I haven’t exactly started the book yet,” Emily said. “But all my friends tell me I absolutely have to put pen to paper and share the funny showbiz stories with which I regale my guests at dinner parties.”

Polly smiled, predicting that Emily would never take the time to write a book.

Another half hour passed and Polly was still tapping her foot on the wooden stage waiting for director Karen Richards and daytime drama diva Sharon. “Were you all as pissed at me yesterday?” she chuckled.

“Coming over the hill this morning, the traffic was wretched,” Charlotte said, explaining the probable cause for the absentees.

“Sharon’s here. Somewhere,” Polly said. “Her car’s in the lot, next to Karen’s.”

“I have that space,” Emily said.

“It was there when I arrived,” Polly said. “Something’s not right. Has anyone seen the beast, Gerold? His car was in the lot too. Perhaps he’s giving Sharon and Karen one of his excoriating lectures in his office. We don’t have time for his games. Someone call Karen’s cell and find out how long they’re going to be.”

Tim, who along with Placenta was seated in the audience trying to stay out of the way, volunteered to place the call. “I’ve already programmed all of your numbers.” He flipped open his phone and pushed the address book key. He scrolled down to Karen’s number and pushed the Talk button. In less than a moment he simultaneously heard ringing in his earpiece and a personalized ring tone of “Popular” coming from behind the stage curtain. The instant that the ringing stopped in his own phone, so too did the hit song from
Wicked
coming from behind the curtain, as an automated voice message announced that Karen Richards was not available.
Beep
.

With a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Tim flipped his phone closed.

“The acoustics in this place are wonderful,” Polly said. “Tim, dear, push Redial.”

When Tim redialed Karen’s number, the same music wafted from backstage and the entire cast huddled together. Tim and Placenta joined them onstage as Polly began to lead the way into the wings.

Dark and grim, the ancient backstage area was eerie with its vaulted height and cavernous depth. There were creepy vibrations in old theaters, and the Galaxy was no exception. Ghosts were everywhere. The only illumination backstage was ambient light that filtered in from the auditorium. Polly felt a sense of trepidation as she moved into the abyss. With the exception of the echo produced by each footstep on the concrete slab floor, the backstage area was deathly quiet. Polly looked at Tim. “Call Karen’s cell again, hon.”

Tim flipped open his phone and redialed. “Popular” ricocheted throughout the vast backstage area. En masse, the curious cast followed Polly toward the ring tone. Then, just as the music ended and the automated voice message system engaged, Emily Hutcherson tripped over a thick electrical cable and fell—facedown onto a sandbag. “Holy Mother of Christ!” she screamed.

At the same time, Tim found the light switch panel and turned on all the overhead spots. Emily screamed even louder as she realized that her face wasn’t resting against a sandbag but rather a body.

The body of director Karen Richards.

Polly rushed to Emily’s side and held out her hand to help the actress back onto her feet. But Polly was more interested in taking a closer look at Karen. Immediately she noticed that blood had pooled on the floor around the back of Karen’s head. Her unseeing eyes were staring up at the fly space above the proscenium.

As the rest of the shocked and confused cast stood almost as lifeless as Karen lying on the floor, Placenta had the wherewithal to call 911.

Although the paramedics arrived in a matter of minutes, it was too late. Karen was a goner the instant her brain began to seep through the crack in her head. The police followed quickly behind the EMTs and dutifully began taking pictures of the death scene, and questioning the cast. When an officer asked Polly if she had seen anything unusual, she explained that it was what she didn’t see that might be more important.

An officious-looking detective in a gray suit overheard her remark. “And who are you?” the brusque bully of a policeman asked as he walked over to Polly. He looked down his nose at the star.

“She’s Polly Pepper, and if you don’t know that you should be clutching the halter of a guide dog,” Tim snapped, as he elbowed his way through the assembled cast. “She’s the star of this show, and a living legend for that matter. And who are
you
?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” the detective responded, and then turned to Polly. He softened his approach. “I’m sorry, Miss Pepper, I didn’t recognize you. I used to be a big fan. When I was a kid, I mean. Let me rephrase that. I don’t have time to watch television or keep up with Hollywood news anymore.”

Polly smiled warmly and held out her hand. “Of course you don’t. There are some jobs that people think are more important than showbiz. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Detective…?”

“Collins. Wayne Collins.”

“Detective Collins, this is my son, Tim, and our maid, Placenta.” Polly pointed to each and then began introducing the rest of the assembled cast. “And as you may know we’re putting on a stage musical. That’s our darling director behind the tape barrier.” She pointed to Karen. “She’s unexpectedly turned up brutally murdered.”

“Murder hasn’t been established,” Detective Collins quickly pointed out.

“If it looks like a duck, and no longer quacks,” Polly scoffed.

“What were you saying about something you
didn’t
see being potentially important?” Detective Collins continued.

Polly explained that although the other cast members claimed that actress Sharon Fletcher had never arrived for the morning rehearsal, she had definitely been at the theater that morning. “Tim and Placenta and I saw her car in the lot. Along with the body. I mean Karen Richards. Our obnoxious artistic director, Gerold Goss’s car was here too, but none of them ever showed up for rehearsal. Karen obviously had a good excuse.”

“Which one of you actually found the body?” The detective’s tone was at once curious and accusatory.

“We all did, the entire cast. All at the same time.”

In that moment Gerold Goss blustered onto the stage demanding to know what was going on and why he had to identify himself before being allowed past a guard at the door to his own theater. He looked at Polly. “Now what have you done?”

“The police are here because someone let Karen have their Emmy Award—buried in her pretty head,” she said matter-of-factly.

Detective Collins interrupted. “We haven’t established the scenario.”

Polly folded her arms across her chest and pointed to the scene of the crime. “Body. Emmy. Blood. Scenario established.” She turned back to Gerold. “Where were you when her lights went out? So to speak.”

Gerold put his hands on the back of a folding chair to steady himself. “What happened?” he asked in a small voice as he sat down. “Who did this to Karen? Was it robbery?”

Polly placed her hand on his meaty shoulder. “Robbery? No,” she said.

Again Detective Collins stepped in to explain that motive had not been established. Polly again faced the man. “How many hoods do you know who run around with sacred acting awards, let alone leave them at the scene, when they commit robberies?”

“Nothing in Hollywood surprises me anymore,” the detective said.

“This is hard for all of us to accept,” Polly sighed, returning her attention to Gerold. “We’re now a show without a director, a ship without a captain. Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around the theater this morning?”

Detective Collins reiterated, “I’ll ask the questions.” He waited a beat and then said, “Did you see anything out of the ordinary here this morning?”

Gerold looked confused. “I just got here.”

“Your car was parked in the lot when we arrived at
eight twenty-five
.” Polly enunciated the time as clearly as if she were doing speech exercises:
How. Now. Brown. Cow
.