by R. T. Jordan
Polly raised the glass to her lips and took one long swallow. Placenta stood at her side refilling Polly’s glass.
Polly looked at the body bag. “Doesn’t that thing belong in a refrigerator? I feel vaguely uncomfortable enjoying the fruits of the vine with Mr. Death’s latest acquisition cluttering the room.”
Detective Archer motioned for one of the police officers to remove Danny Castillo’s body, then returned his attention to Polly.
“This is really all your fault.” She pointed her manicured finger at Archer. “You haven’t been around lately. I’m not responsible for what I do when you’re not here! And don’t come up with some lame excuse about Will Smith this or Vanessa Hudgens that.”
Archer placed his flute of champagne down on the glass coffee table without having imbibed so much as a sip. “We were talking about Lisa Marrs. Specifically, you were about to explain what you were doing in her apartment. But why am I even bothering to ask you about it, since I suspect you’ll do it again, despite inconvenient police signs forbidding access?”
“I swear, we didn’t touch a thing,” Polly said.
“Except Lisa’s underwear,” Tim said.
“That’s novel,” Archer said.
“We needed a ruse for being there when Ped-Xing broke in,” Placenta said.
“Obviously, I can’t vouch for what those two hoodlums did after we left, which was right away,” Polly said. “But I suppose we sort of give Ped-Xing and Michael an alibi. They were with us, in a manner of speaking. There’s absolutely no way that they could have beat us back to the plantation, dismantled the security system, murdered Danny Castillo, and made their getaway before we came home.”
Archer looked at his watch. “Unless they came here first. Next on my list is a visit to those two young men. We’ll see if your stories match.”
“They aren’t ‘stories,’“ Polly said, emboldened by two glasses of bubbly. “You’ll find that if they speak the truth, everything I’ve told you will be the same. But don’t expect miscreants to be honest.”
Randy Archer looked at Polly. “I’m not the bad guy. I’m just doing my job.”
Polly returned her lover’s look of regret. “Get your cute buns and badge out of here and do what you do best. Er, second best!” Then she whispered, “Make time for me soon.”
Archer smiled and left the room.
“Is it my imagination, or did the handsome detective treat me like a naughty schoolgirl?” Polly asked Tim and Placenta, her annoyance rising. “So we slipped into a jailbird’s apartment while she was away. Big whoop. It’s not as though she was coming back any time soon. And we weren’t thieves … or killers! We even had a key!”
“Speaking of killers,” Placenta said, “who do you suppose knocked off Danny Castillo? I’m shocked and confused and more than a little unnerved. What on earth did he … and the killer … want at Pepper Plantation?”
“Not her color scheme, that’s for sure,” one of the policemen who was supposed to be collecting evidence sniggered to another. Polly rolled her eyes, then made a face as an idea passed through her thoughts. She stared into the distance. “Color scheme,” she said. “Scheme,” she repeated. She looked at Tim and Placenta. “Okay. I know this is far-fetched. But what is the common denominator between Thane Cornwall, Lisa Marrs, and me?”
“The obvious answer is that you were all involved with the reality show I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous,” Tim said.
“What about fame?” Placenta said. “You’re a big name. Thane was making one for himself. And Lisa has notoriety.”
Polly considered Placenta’s words. “Some are born icons … me, of course. Some achieve iconic status … Thane … sorta. Others are treated like icons-in-the-making if they work for a celebrity or do something stupid like becoming a prime suspect in a murder investigation of a sort of icon … Lisa.”
Tim looked at his mother with an expression of confusion. “I don’t see any real thread there. Lisa doesn’t belong in any category in which you or Thane would be listed for your achievements. The only thing she pulled off is scandal. Killing an audience, as you do, is one thing. Killing contestants’ self-value, as Thane did, is another. But outright killing another person for real is … well, it isn’t anything to warrant praise or fame.”
“I hate to play what-if,” Placenta said. “But someone breaks into Thane’s house and he gets whacked. Maybe by Lisa, maybe not. Then someone breaks into our home and doesn’t steal anything, but may have been looking for a larger score, like taking out a biggername judge. You. Maybe it’s a copycat killer. Maybe it’s the same one. All I know is I no longer feel safe at Pepper Plantation.”
Polly looked lovingly at her maid and best girlfriend. “Nothing will happen to me, or to either of you. I guarantee it. Now open another bottle and we’ll toast to something like …” In a louder voice she said, “We’ll toast to Beverly Hills’ men in blue, who obviously watch too much Home and Garden Television’s Divine Design.”
Two officers looked at Polly, then looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Polly accepted a flute of champagne from Placenta and raised her glass to the two men. “Have you discovered anything interesting? Other than the fact that I have out-of-date track lighting on a cottage cheese ceiling?”
The more catty of the two lifted a plastic bag containing evidence. “As a matter of fact, Ms. Pepper, although this is police business, I’ll offer you a little dish.”
“Goody. What’s that?” Polly asked, seeing little more than dust bunnies and strands of hair in the clear plastic sandwich bag.
With a pair of tweezers, the policeman pointed to what looked like a grain of white rice.
“We order in a lot,” Polly explained. “Mr. Chow’s is one my faves.”
The policeman rolled his eyes. “Has anyone in the house broken a tooth in the past few hours?”
Polly used her tongue to feel around her mouth. “What about you two?” she said, turning to Tim and Placenta. “Anyone need to see el dentista?”
When the response was in the negative, Polly looked at the policeman again. “So you’re saying that the killer has poor dental hygiene?”
The policeman shrugged. “We’ll be looking to interrogate someone with a chipped or broken tooth, that’s for sure.”
“Perhaps it belonged to Danny,” Polly speculated. “He could have chipped it when he fell on my gorgeous sandstone tile.”
“I’d say that was pretty unlikely,” the policeman said. “We found what appears to be a portion of a tooth by your television.” He pointed a few feet away to the entertainment center.
“Find the rest of the tooth, and I’ll wager we find Danny’s killer,” Polly said.
The policeman looked at his wristwatch. “Oh, fudge!” he shouted.
“Late for another investigation?” Placenta asked. “I’m missing Oprah!”
Chapter 11
The Wednesday morning edition of the Los Angeles Times featured a front-page story about the break-in at Pepper Plantation and death of reality show contestant Danny Castillo. The question on every radio talk show host’s tongue was, why in the first place would an aspiring contender for a prize on a television reality game show break into the home of one of the judges? And in the second place, why did the contestant die in the famous mansion?
It wasn’t enough that the media accurately pointed out that Polly Pepper wasn’t in her home at the time of the young man’s demise, and that she was in no way a suspect in his death. But the wags had to have their field day speculating about a possible relationship between older Polly and younger Danny.
Polly generally only made outgoing calls, so it fell to Tim and Placenta to field the media and their calling the house phone. “Miss Pepper’s agent will be happy to answer all inquires,” was their standard response to the parade of nosy newshounds who tried to get a statement from the television legend.
“Was Polly in love with the boy?”
“Did Polly giv
e the young man a key to her house?”
“How does Miss Pepper feel about May/December romances?”
“Is it true that Polly is engaged to Daniel Radcliffe?”
When Polly was thrown off-guard by Mary Hart, who somehow got hold of her cell phone number, she bellowed. “I’m not into boys! I mean, I want a man!” She paused. “You’re confusing me. I meant to say that I date age-appropriate gentlemen. Hell, that boy Danny didn’t even have any hair on his chest! No, I’m just guessing, for crying out loud. He was too young for me. Oh, go torture Teri Hatcher!”
Polly finally accepted one call, when Placenta handed her a flute of Veuve and the cordless phone, and said, “Little Dickie Dartmouth.”
Polly exhaled loudly, took a long swallow from her glass, and answered with a fake cry of elation. However, in a short moment, Polly was seated on the sofa, the color draining from her face, and a loud moan issuing past her lips.
“It’s not fair,” Polly said.
Tim and Placenta sat down beside her and tried to hear the other end of the conversation.
“But I’m the ‘nice’ judge. You’re hiring who? You don’t mean that pushy and intolerant little Miss Spray-on Suntan? That Trish Saddleback?” Polly said. “Is this because people are gossiping that I’m a latter day June Lockhart, sleeping with men younger than my son? I always said, ‘Brava, June!’ I suspect that one week’s suspension will turn into two and three and four! Then the program will be over! I’m being punished because some loser parvenu broke into my home and had the disrespect to get killed here.”
Placenta reached for the bottle of champagne that rested in the ice bucket on the coffee table. As she refilled Polly’s drink, the star’s tone changed. “Oh dear, my agent, J.J., will be crestfallen. He’s such a fan of me being on the show.”
Polly smiled as she listened to Dartmouth for a moment. “Don’t believe every little ol’ thing you’ve heard about J.J. Temper? Nonsense! He’s a precious pussycat. At least to me. It was just a coincidence that Sharon Stone, Gary Busey, and dear Jane Seymour all had near death experiences shortly after one of J.J.’s little, shall we say, episodes. Don’t let my being unfairly treated by you and Sterling Studios keep you from answering when J.J. rings. However, you might want to wear earplugs. And if you’re on antianxiety meds, you’d better take an extra couple of doses. Oh, and call in the studio’s lawyers.”
Polly hung up the phone and stared into space. “I’m out of work for a week! I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m suffering the consequences of what those delinquent heathens, otherwise known as contestants, do in their spare time! If that walking pincushion Danny wasn’t already dead, I’d rip out all of his piercings!”
After another long swallow of champagne, Polly sat back on the sofa and stared at her shelves of Emmy Awards. Soon, Tim and Placenta could read a look of peace crossing over Polly’s face. She turned to Placenta and lovingly grazed her cheek with her hand. “You know that I love and adore you.” Then she looked at Tim. “Dearest, dear man,” she said as she leaned over and enveloped him in her arms.
“Oh, damn,” Placenta sighed. “It’s time for another game of ‘Meet the Murderer.’ I smell another dinner party with a cast of killers stuffing themselves at our dining room table.”
Tim gave Polly a stern look. “You’ve forgotten again that judges aren’t allowed to associate with the contestants.”
Polly beamed. “I’m no longer a judge! Therefore, I’m free to mingle with whomever I please!”
“Randy will be furious,” Tim said.
Polly shrugged. “He won’t know because he isn’t invited. Now, for the place cards. Calligraphy, of course. Taco Bell, Ped-Xing, Amy Stout, Miranda Washington … is anybody else still alive? We shouldn’t leave Michael out of the fun. They’ll all be thrilled to have dinner at our famous home.” Polly looked at Placenta. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Formal.” She then turned to Tim. “Come up with a fun theme, sweetums. Something lavish, with Hollywood stars. Oh! A séance! Dead stars! How lovely would that be! I’ve wanted to get Karen Carpenter and John Denver back for ages! Or maybe Andy Williams!”
“Alive,” Placenta said.
Tim added, “You’d better summon Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger. I don’t trust those kids to know that anyone existed before P. Diddy or Puff Daddy, or whatever he calls himself these days. If they’d ever heard how great Karen or John were, they wouldn’t have the guts to open their own vocal cords in public.”
Polly nodded. “Speed-dial someone for me, and hand me your phone, hon,” she said to Tim.
Tim did the dialing, and just as Polly predicted, each of the invitees was eager to visit Pepper Plantation. They may have been unsophisticated teens, but because the facade of the mansion had been used as the exterior location shot for the popular sitcom For Closure, about a once-rich family trying to come to terms with the fact that their dead daddy’s mansion is being taken by the bank, the kids acted as if they had been invited to the Cedars Sinai emergency room on a day when more than three former Disney Channel child stars were ambulanced in for overdosing on reality. “We’re just as eager as you are, dear,” Polly said to Taco Bell, who demanded that Polly send a car to pick her up. “I wouldn’t treat my guests with any less outpouring of my well-known largesse.”
By the time Polly, Tim, and Placenta were settled in to watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, their party plans were in place. The guest list was complete. It now fell to Tim to organize a memorable evening, and to Placenta to visit her favorite online cooking service and order a meal that would give the I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous contestants an idea of how a real, live, living legend dines.
It was unusual for Polly to be unable to sleep. Regardless of how little she may have worked or played during the day, a nightcap of champagne (after an entire evening of champagne) almost always calmed any fears or insecurities she may have felt at bedtime. Tonight, however, in the darkness of her room, thoughts about her career, her relationship with Randy, and the deaths of Thane Cornwall and Danny Castillo bombarded her. She couldn’t help believing that there was a connection between the two murders. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that Thane’s and Danny’s lifelines were scheduled to end at roughly the same time? Did Danny kill Thane? Had he come to Pepper Plantation for a second judge? But then who killed Danny? Were there perhaps two or more killers among the contestants who were vying for the first-place prize on I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous? And drat, would her agent J.J.’s bombast kill off any future chances for her to work with Richard Dartmouth and Sterling Studios?
Polly tossed and turned, until she finally gave up trying to sleep. She sat up in bed, rested her back against the padded headboard, and stared into the semidarkness.
In the abyss of her master suite, she could make out the silhouettes of the fireplace, her dressing table, a fake ficus in the corner, her computer desk, and the chaise by the window. Polly sighed and scooted down once again to attempt sleep. The instant she set her head onto her pillow and closed her eyes, Polly thought she saw a hint of light ricochet off her window. She froze.
You’re just tired, Polly reassured herself. A car passed by the house. No, we ‘re too far back on the estate. Headlights never reach this far. Plus, this room doesn’t face the street. An airplane! A helicopter? That’s it. She closed her eyes again. Just as she was about to roll over and hug her pillow, another flash of light startled her.
Polly eased herself out of bed and cautiously made her way toward the window. A light moved through the garden. She quickly backed up and reached for the security alarm pad next to her bed. However, it wasn’t illuminated, which meant it was inactive. She pushed the panic button anyway. Nothing. She raced down the hall to Tim’s bedroom, roused him from sleep, and told him to call 911.
Tim went to the window and saw nothing more than the solar lights that outlined the garden walkway. However, Tim knew that his mother wasn’t an alarmist and therefore he turned to his own security syste
m keypad next to the bed and pushed the code for emergency service.
“It’s no use,” Polly said. “The alarm isn’t working.”
Tim looked at the keypad, then at his mother. “Yes, it is.”
Polly looked at the lighted numerals. “Mine isn’t on.”
Just then, the telephone rang. It was an operator from SOS. “We’ve received a signal indicating an emergency.”
“We have an intruder,” Tim said.
“What is your password?” the operator said.
“PP,” Tim replied.
“No shit,” the operator chuckled. “A car is on its way.”
“I’m calling Randy,” Polly said, and reached for Tim’s cell phone. Although the room was dark, she could see the illuminated face of the screen.
Suddenly, a human form appeared in the doorway. Polly looked up and shrieked, “JesusJosephandMary!” She held her hands to her chest and took a deep breath. “Placenta! You scared the hell out of me!”
“What’s going on?” Placenta asked.
“Polly saw something in the garden,” Tim said.
“Not something,” Polly corrected. “Someone. Walking around with a flashlight.”
Now it was Placenta’s turn to become agitated. “Why didn’t the security lights go on? Where’s that freakin’ SOS when we need ‘em? I told you we should switch to Mayday!”
Tim handed his cell phone to Polly. “Call Randy. I’ll go check all the doors.” He made his way to the hallway and down the stairs.
As Tim descended the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase, he heard the chime of the front gate intercom. He went to the front door and pushed the Talk button. When he was assured it was the security company, he pushed the button to open the main gates to the estate. Still, he wouldn’t open the door to the mansion until he was certain that the guards were legitimate. “Check the grounds,” Tim said. “My mother saw an intruder walking through the back garden.”
