Set Sail for Murder (27 page)

“Oscar!” Tim suddenly called out loudly.

Polly excitedly pointed to her nose.

“A book that became a movie and a play and won an Oscar,” Placenta said. “We’ll be here all night.”

Polly would not give up. She pinched her thumb and forefinger together again.

“A short word,” Tim said, excitedly. “A. And. The.”

Polly shook her head and pinched her thumb and forefinger still again.

“Smaller word?” Placenta asked. “Initials?”

Again Polly tapped her nose.

After Tim and Placenta had finished going through the alphabet fifty-two times, they finally had the correct initials.”

“Well?” Polly finally spoke.

“Well, what?” Tim said. “What does A.L. stand for? Abbreviation for Alabama?”

Polly shrugged. “All the clues that my ghost—oh hell, the idiot who was trying to scare me—gave me were: book, movie, play, Oscar nomination, A.L.”

“Come again?” Placenta said, irritated. “You don’t even know the answer yourself!”

“Why do you think I started playing this stupid game? I was hoping you two would figure it out. Name movies with the initials A.L.”

Tim instantly said,
“Amityille
… Something.
Alien
… Whatever,
Avalanche … Lane … Lodge … Lake, Auntie Mame.
Close but
A.M.
, not A.L.”

Tim went to his computer and checked the Internet Movie Database, as well as Rotten Tomatoes, The Razzies, and even Robert Osborne’s TCM Web site. “Your visitor is an idiot, all right! There’s not a single movie with an A.L. title! Are you sure that’s what this specter said?”

Polly shook her head. “I don’t know now. It’s been too long and it’s all your fault anyway.”

“My fault?” Tim protested.

“You scared him away!” Polly said. “I was just gaining his confidence. He would have given me the killer’s name and address and I could have solved the mystery if you hadn’t come along when you did. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t see him when you pounced on me.”

“Perhaps because ghosts are invisible to we mere mortals.” Placenta defended Tim. “And we didn’t pounce! We saw Dorian wandering the Promenade Deck by himself and figured he’d either thrown you over or you escaped back to your stateroom.”

“Rather than make any unfounded accusations, the way some people around here do, we thought we’d better check on you first,” Tim said.

“You’re welcome for our concern,” Placenta cracked.

Polly slumped down onto the sofa and sighed. “I’ve screwed everything up. I’m the boy who cried wolf, or would be if I had Chastity Bono’s operation.”

“Try the star who cried murderer,” Placenta said. “If someone hasn’t called the
National Peeper
by now and filed a story about Polly Pepper’s lunatic ravings en route to Alaska, I’ll be surprised.”

“Gossip was so much easier to control before cell phone cameras and the Internet made everything immediate and traceable,” Tim said. “All it would take is for one passenger to snap a picture or stream a homemade video of the squeaky clean Polly Pepper, accusing harmless law-abiding people of killing a fellow passenger, and e-mailing the pictures to
TMZ
or Perez Hilton or
Access Hollywood,
and you’re on YouTube for eternity.”

Polly looked dejected. “In my rush to find a killer, I’ve become my own personal Salem Witch Hunt.”

“Or a Duke University stripper filing false charges against the lacrosse team,” Tim added.

“Good grief! Make me feel even worse!” Polly cried. “Next you’ll be calling me the lame ass Limbaugh of the
Intacti!”

Tim and Placenta sat down on opposite sides of Polly and put their arms around her. “Everything will be all right,” Placenta cooed. “You’re under a ton of stress, and you haven’t had much rest. Shall I put you to bed and sing a lullaby? Maybe Tim will rub your feet.”

Polly calmed down. “What would I do without you two, my fame, and a bottle of champagne? We need another. I’d be lost. That’s where I’d be.”

With one hand, Tim kneaded the back of Polly’s neck. “You’re tight.”

“I haven’t had
that
much to drink.”

Tim playfully squeezed harder. “I mean you have a knot in your neck, silly. And I’m sorry for comparing you with that Duke U. tramp.”

Polly tilted her head back and enjoyed Tim’s strong hands on her neck, while Placenta massaged her fingers and hands. As she closed her eyes and let the healing energy permeate her soul, Polly’s thoughts drifted. She thought about Laura Crawford and the terrible way she died. Images of the people who, over the course of the past few
days, had seemed to be ripe for arrest, but who turned out to be blameless, accumulated in her mind, as did eyewitness accounts of Laura’s last night alive.

Polly thought of Talia and the acrimonious telephone call that she claimed Laura had made prior to her massage with Rosemary. Then she thought of old Mrs. Hardy, and her recalling that Laura received a cell phone call during dinner. Suddenly, Polly sat up straight, which jolted Tim and Placenta who followed suit. Polly looked at Tim. “What did you say about cell phones?”

“That they could spread gossip faster than Nancy O’Dell.”

“Why didn’t we think of this before?” Polly said triumphantly.

Tim and Placenta were too tired to ask questions. Instead they simply listened to what Polly had to say.

“Rosemary and that other masseuse said that Laura was having an argument on her cell phone when she came to the spa. If we can find her cell phone, we can probably find the number of the person she was talking to. I’ll bet all of my People’s Choice Awards that the person she spoke to is the killer.”

Tim and Placenta were intrigued by Polly’s idea. “All of Laura’s personal effects are in storage,” Tim said.

“You’ve burned your bridge to the captain,” Placenta reminded. “He’ll never give you permission to go anywhere near Laura’s things.”

“I’m Polly Pepper. I don’t need a permission slip from the principal’s office to look through the lost and found department.”

W
ithin minutes, Tim and Placenta were reluctantly following Polly down the corridor to the glass elevator. “It’s nearly midnight,” Tim complained. “You’d better be surprising me with a visit to Anderson Cooper’s cabin!”

Stepping into the elevator car, Polly said, “Galleon Level, dear.”

Tim pushed the button. “The infirmary again? You’re finally going in for a much-needed lobotomy.”

When the car stopped, the trio stepped out and found themselves in a quiet corridor. Polly pointed to a red arrow under the universal sign for hospital. She took a deep breath and reached into her clutch for a Kleenex. “How do I look?” she asked Placenta.

“Like a woman who hasn’t had much sleep in a week.”

Polly smiled. “Give me more of that methamphetamine insomniac look.” Placenta mussed Polly’s hair and made her look as distraught as she was tired.

“Follow me,” Polly said. “And pray that Dr. Girard doesn’t work twenty-four-seven.”

As Polly led the way toward the infirmary, she started to cry.

“Oh, I get it,” Placenta said with zero compassion.

At first Polly merely sniffled; by the time she reached the door to the clinic, her chest was heaving with deep distress, and her mascara was running in rivulets down the creases in her face. She stood outside the door and sobbed into her son’s shirt as he embraced her.

In moments, a woman came out to see what was causing all the noise in the corridor. Wearing a white smock with a name badge that said, PAT
SMALLEY, R.N.,
the woman said, “Poor baby. What’s wrong? Tummy hurt?”

At the sound of Nurse Smalley’s voice, Polly’s blubbering became louder.

Tim looked at the nurse. “Mother … Polly Pepper … has been this way for the past few days. We’re hoping you have something to calm her down.”

Nurse Smalley instantly recognized Polly and the reason for her distress. She ushered the trio into the infirmary and insisted that Polly take a seat on the leather chair beside the desk. She poured a glass of ice water and handed it to Polly.

Polly nodded in appreciation and took a small sip. She began to cry again. Through her tears and sobs, she said, “I … miss … my … Lau-ra!” And again she broke down.

Nurse Smalley reached out her hand and patted Polly on the shoulder. “I know, dear. It’s difficult to lose friends. But she isn’t the first and she won’t be the last. Soon, you’ll be gone too.”

Polly sniffled and gave the nurse a wary look. She agreed that intellectually she understood the circle of life, but that it didn’t ease her pain. “Perhaps if I could just see Laura one last time and say a proper good-bye,” she said, almost begging.

The nurse reached out and gently brushed strands of hair away from Polly’s forehead. “Oh, honey, that wouldn’t be a very good idea. You want to remember the way she looked the last time you saw her. Or at least the last time she wasn’t so heavy.”

Polly brought her now-damp Kleenex to her eyes and dabbed at the flowing tears. She sniffled between words and said that seeing Laura again would help her to put closure on the fact that she would never again have an opportunity to say face to face what she felt in her heart.

Nurse Smalley was understanding, but adamant that Polly could not see the body. “In fact, the drawer is locked,” she said. “Only the captain has the key.”

Now Polly was inconsolable. She crossed her arms over her stomach and bent forward as if she were going to be sick. “I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I’m usually so strong. I guess the stress and grief has done me in.”

The nurse insisted that Polly should have a cup of chamomile tea, and went to the minikitchen. She filled four mugs with water and set them in the microwave oven. Then she brought out a box of tea bags. “We’ll all have a cuppa,” she said.

In minutes, the tea was steeping and Polly was calming down. “I know that I’ll never see my beautiful and talented costar again,” she admitted, “but may I please see the evening gown that I bought for her? She was supposed to wear it to the Northern Lights Ball tomorrow night. It’s a beauty. I paid ten grand for Michelle Obama’s designer to create something just for Laura—so she’d feel like the star she never was.” She lied.

As Nurse Smalley removed the tea bags from each mug, she passed around a tray with the four cups. “I’m sure it’s stunning,” the nurse said, as everyone enjoyed their tea. “I’d like to see it too, but all of Miss Crawford’s belongings have been placed in storage.” She pointed to a door next to the one that said
REFRIGERATION ROOM. KEEP OUT.”

Polly started to cry again. “I have to touch something that belonged to Laura. I simply must! What possible harm could there be in me holding something—anything—that was actually a present from me to my friend?”

Nurse Smalley stopped and thought for a moment. She
looked around as if to see if anyone was watching her. “There are cameras everywhere.”

Polly said, “Anyone monitoring the infirmary is probably doing so looking for drug addicts. We’re lovely, quiet, and very famous passengers. Please, dear sweet healing woman, I can tell you’ve got a gold-plated and generous heart. Help me? Grant this living legend one teensy, but oh-so-important request.”

With a deep sign of apprehension, Nurse Smalley walked over to a key rack attached to the wall above the spring water dispenser and lifted a fob off of a cup hook. “Will five minutes work?” she asked. “I’ll be in deep trouble if anyone finds out that Miss Crawford’s personal items have been disturbed. Everything may be evidence to help the police find her killer.”

Polly slowly got to her feet. “Thank you, dear, Nurse Smalley. You’re a latter-day Sister Kenny—without all those polio cripples. You won’t get into any trouble, and I promise to leave my Rolls-Royce to you in my will.”

The nurse smiled. “Promises, promises. I’ve had dozens of patients say the same thing. I’ve never inherited anything more than my louse of an ex-husband’s bills and a going-away gift of STDs.”

“Flowers always make lovely parting gifts,” Polly said.

“I would have preferred Casablanca Lilies to Chlamydia.” Nurse Smalley unlocked the door to the storage room and flipped on the light switch. Polly was instantly devastated. The three large boxes, all marked CRAWFORD,
LAURA/PASSENGER
LC-8727, were stacked on top of each other and completely encased in shrink-wrap. “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “If we rip that off, the police in Juneau will know that someone tampered with the boxes.”

Polly began to sob again. As the nurse turned around to escort the trio out of the room, Polly begged, “May I just stay here alone for a few minutes to meditate? I feel Laura’s
spirit here, and I know that she wants to tell me all the things that have been on her mind for years—the personal thoughts and feelings she should have said to me while she was alive and able to appreciate my forgiveness.”

Nurse Smalley nodded. “Of course. I suppose there’s no harm. It’s the least I can do. I’ll have another cup of tea with your son and maid.”

Placenta gave Nurse Smalley a scathing look, but for Polly’s sake, she instantly corrected herself and curtsied. “I shall prepare the tea, mum,” she spoke with an affected English accent. “Direct me to the scones and crumpets,
s’il vous plait.”

The moment that the door closed, Polly opened her clutch purse and withdrew her autograph pen, a sleek Mont Blanc that was given to her by the crew of
The Polly Pepper Playhouse
to commemorate winning her first Emmy Award. Terrified that the door would open before she fulfilled her mission, Polly pulled off the pen’s cap and eyed the thickness of the clear plastic film that stretched over the boxes. Sidling up to the cargo, she held the pen like a scalpel and punctured the wrapping. However, the seal easily fell away; somone else had already cut through the cling film but had sloppily rewrapped it. As quickly as possible, she exposed the boxes. She lifted the first box off the tier and cautiously placed it on the floor.

The box, too, which had apparently been taped closed, had been sliced open with the precision of a razor. Polly put away her pen and then opened the wings of the box top. Blindly reaching down into the container, and feeling around, she rapidly came to the conclusion that only Laura’s clothing filled the box. “Drats!” she complained as she closed the box and pushed it aside.