by R. T. Jordan
As the trio walked farther along the corridor, Polly and Tim glanced at each other. “And we’re here,” Placenta said, stopping outside a multipaneled oak door. “‘The Vanessa Williams Success-is-the-Best-Retribution Room.’ Hope you don’t mind the collage from her starring role in that infamous layout for Penthouse magazine.” Placenta opened the bedroom door and led the way into the guest suite.
Michael suddenly turned around and drew Tim into a tight hug. After a long moment, he let go and said, “Let me die in my sleep tonight. I never want to wake up from this dream.”
Placenta chuckled and continued to play docent as she pointed out all the amenities of the suite. “Flat-screen television and plenty of DVDs. Wet bar. Computer. Balcony overlooking the garden.” Then she escorted Michael into the bathroom. “Steam room. Rain shower. Jacuzzi tub. Electric toothbrush. Bubble bath. Intercoms in all the rooms. If you need anything push the green button and someone will answer.” She pointed a stern finger at Michael. “Don’t even think of using it while I’m trying to sleep!”
“I’ve laid out all your clothes,” Placenta said. “A pair of Tim’s pj’s is under your pillow. We keep buying them, and he just wears the same old T-shirt and boxers! Breakfast is at eight. Nighty-night.”
Tim said good night too, and followed Placenta out the door. When they were far enough down the hallway, Placenta whispered, “We’ve gotta tell Polly about Steven and Thane. Hurry, before she passes out, or Randy hauls her up to her room.”
When Tim and Placenta were once again in the great room, they pounced on Polly. In their haste to report what Michael had said, they stumbled over each other’s sentences.
“Thane … secret … Steve,” Tim said, trying to speak while catching his breath.
“No!” Placenta scolded. “Letter … Thane … Mean …” she wheezed.
“Kissy-kiss …” Tim said.
“Friends …”
Polly looked at Randy, who was in midpour of champagne into her glass. “Either these two have just had simultaneous strokes, or they need a padded cell,” she said. Then looking at her son and maid, she said, “What the hell are you two babbling about? Here,” she said, handing her glass to Tim, then giving Randy’s glass to Placenta. “Drink up and calm down.”
Making a face as she drank the entire flute of champagne, Placenta said, “Too warm.”
Tim, too, finished his bubbly in almost one long swallow. Then he looked at his mother and said, “Thane had a crush on Steven Benjamin.”
“I knew he was gay!” Polly said.
“They were just pals,” Placenta replied.
“They hated each other’s guts,” Polly countered.
“Michael told us that all that animosity between Thane and Steven was relatively new. They once were very close.”
“Once, I had a secret love,” Polly began to sing an old Doris Day song. “Gay!”
“Mother!” Tim parried. “Thane was a hetero hound. And Steven’s apparently married to a hot babe! Michael thinks a disgruntled fan killed Thane.”
“Not so fast,” Placenta said. “Thane got tons of threatening letters from Steven’s fans and people who didn’t like the way he treated contestants. That doesn’t mean someone followed through.”
Randy cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, whenever a celebrity gets killed we always consider the possibility of a loony tunes fan doing the deed. I’ve personally read some of Thane’s fan mail. There’s zero shred of evidence to support a theory that a freak-o Steven fanatic did the job.”
“Darn it all!” Placenta said, pulling the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket and pouring herself another glass. “Just when we think we’ve got a clue, you go and throw cold water on our theory.” She took a sip from her glass. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t really think that Thane was killed by a fan. I’m still intrigued by that so-called trophy idea. Something that supposedly holds all the secrets.”
Tim nodded. “Me, too. I’ll wager that the killer thought that one of the judges had it. They got to Thane first. Then they came here. If Brian winds up dead, we’ll know that we’re on the right track.”
“However, if someone wrings Ms. Saddleback’s neck first, we won’t know if it’s our killer or just someone who’s tired of her whiny right-wing ‘Jesus for President’ voice ringing in their ears,” Placenta said.
“I’m not sure that I buy that trophy theory either,” Polly said. “What is it, the Maltese Falcon, for heaven’s sake? And I’m Sam Spade!” The room was silent for a moment. Then Polly added, “We’ve been dreadful hosts! It’s been a week since our last dinner party!”
Tim moaned, and Placenta sighed.
“It’s time we invited the dear Brian Smiths and Steven Benjamins over for a light repast,” Polly said. She looked at Tim. “Call up Bob Mackie and make an appointment for Michael to be fitted for a tux.” Then she looked at Placenta. “Use the leftovers from last week’s soiree. They’ll never know the difference. I’m going to bed.” She held out her hand for Randy to take.
Chapter 18
During the predinner party staff meeting in the dining room, Polly told Sergeant Sandy to relax her security rules for the night. She made it clear that she didn’t want them to suffer the humiliation of being patted down and detained while their immigration status was being verified. “I know these people, and they should feel as comfortable in my home as I do in Mark Harmon’s and Pam Dawber’s.”
Placenta said, “You wouldn’t feel so comfy and cozy if Pam knew how much you lusted after her husband.”
“Nonsense!” Polly spat. “Pam isn’t an idiot. She knows how I, and bajillions of others, feel about Mr. Mark. Pam’s a darling who cleans up my drool, and Timmy’s, too, without any fuss.”
Tim looked around the table, which he and Placenta had set with Polly’s most elegant china and Waterford stemware. “Place cards,” he replied as he retrieved small Post-its-size Crane stationery on which he had hand-inscribed their guests’ names in calligraphy. He placed Polly’s card in its PP-monogrammed crystal holder at her place setting, then set Placenta’s at the opposite end of the table. “Where do you want me to sit tonight?”
Polly nibbled on her thumbnail as she tried to picture where each guest should be seated. “Um, I’m placing you and Michael in the middle on either side of the table. Steven and Brian will be on my left and right, respectively. We’ll seat their wives next to you and Michael.” Starting at her place, and going around the table, Polly pointed with her index finger and said, “Girl, boy. Boy, girl. Girl, girl. Boy, boy.”
Placenta frowned. “It’s supposed to be boy, girl, boy, girl, all the way around.”
“Screw Miss Manners,” Polly said. Then she looked at her wristwatch. “Holy moly! They’ll be here in two hours. I’m nowhere near ready!”
As Sergeant Sandy left the dining room and headed back to complete another circuit around the estate, Polly flew out of the room and headed toward the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. “What am I wearing?” Polly called back to Placenta. “Oh, and any luck with getting Patricia Arquette to do her ‘Medium’ shtick after dinner?” she yelled to Tim.
As Polly ascended the staircase, Placenta was immediately behind her and said, “You’ll be in a smart cocktail dress. The silver one you wore to Star Jones’s divorce party. And no, Patty wasn’t available. At this late notice we’d be lucky to get the 1-800-Dentist guy suggesting root canal specialists.”
“That should make everybody eager to drink the Kool-Aid,” Polly snapped as she walked down the corridor toward her room, undressing as she went along, and passing each garment item to Placenta. “I’ll have to be entertainment enough.”
Shortly after seven o’clock, Sandy’s voice crackled through the intercom system. In every room, the resi dents heard, “Please be advised that a party of four, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Steven Benjamin, and Mr. and Mrs. Brian Smith, has arrived. Their ETA at your doorstep is … one, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand.
Ding-dong!” Just then the doorbell rang.
Gathering with her family in the foyer, Polly patted Tim’s cheek and smiled at Michael as she straightened his black clip-on bow tie. Then she twirled around in her cocktail dress and said, “Anything hanging out that shouldn’t?”
“You were wise to go with the pearls,” Placenta assured Polly.
Polly frowned and said, “Don’t forget to return my emeralds before you go to bed!”
Tim opened the double entry doors.
As the guests entered the mansion, they oohed and aahed at the fabled home of Polly Pepper. The mistress of the manor graciously accepted a bottle of red wine wrapped in colorful cellophane and ribbons from Brian, and a bouquet of Casablanca lilies from Tiara Benjamin. Polly cooed to her guests, “You shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did.” Then she handed the tokens off to Placenta. After initiating hugs and reintroducing everyone to each other, Polly called out, “Follow the leader,” and led the way to the formal sunken living room. Tim politely waited to be the last in tow.
As Michael had done the night before, the new arrivals tried to maintain an air of indifference; however, they were unable to conceal their obvious awe at being in a residence that always made the top ten lists of both dream vacation destinations and fantasy final resting places.
“Sit! Sit!” Polly graciously encouraged.
As her guests settled onto the sofa and deep chairs facing the large stone fireplace, Polly stood under a special amber pin spotlight in the center of the room and displayed a dazzling smile, which showed off her large teeth and famous overbite. “I was just about to indulge with a teensy drop of champers. May I ask Placenta to serve the same to you? Or perhaps a martini? A Black Dahlia? Something stronger. A Hillary Clinton?”
Brian’s wife said, “I’ll have whatever you’re having, Miss Pepper. The National Peeper says that your champagne arrives via armored truck, so it must be good stuff.”
“Don’t believe everything you read about me in that gruesome rag, dear,” Polly laughed. “And please, drop the Miss Pepper routine! I’m just Polly! And I’ll call you…” For an instant Polly was stumped. Then she quickly ad-libbed, “Well, I refuse to call you Mrs. Smith. You’re not a frozen pie!”
To Polly’s infinite gratitude, her guest said, “I’m just plain ol’ Lyndie.”
“Plain is too far from the truth!” Polly enthused. “You’re as beautiful as Michelle Obama!” Then she turned to Tiara Benjamin. “I saw that famous Chanel ad that you did for Vogue! The one where you were holding a flute of champagne in one hand, and the Hope diamond in the other. You were licking the stone as if the facets tasted better than a chocolate-covered strawberry. Mmm. My kind of dessert! I’ll guess champagne for you, too, dear?”
“Brilliant!” Tiara said with a lilting British accent. “Stevie’ll have the same, won’t you, Kitten?”
“Ditto for me,” said Brian as Placenta, having anticipated the orders, appeared in the room with a tray of champagne flutes.
She served Polly first, and when she offered the last glass to Steven she grinned and said, “And one for—’Kitten.’“
When everyone was served, Polly announced, “A toast! To our darling new friends, who honor us with their presence at Pepper Plantation this evening. And to Thane Cornwall, who obviously can’t join us, but is certainly here in spirit.” Everyone was stone-faced. Just as Polly and her guests were about to place their lips to the rims of their glasses, Polly added, “And to Trish S. Thank you for being too busy speaking to the NRA’s ‘Aim for Jesus’ seminar to join us!” She then sucked up half of the champagne in her glass and held it out for a refill. “Lovely,” she sighed.
Steven Benjamin clinked his glass against Tiara’s and savored a small sip. “And to Polly Pepper and her famous generosity. We appreciate your invitation, and we know that Michael over there is thrilled to be staying in this beautiful mansion. Word’s gotten around.” He looked at Michael and added, “You clean up pretty well, kid.”
“I guess every man looks good in a tux,” Michael preened.
Polly smiled. “We’re delighted that he’s with us. Tim needed a playmate, Placenta needs more cleaning chores, and I needed to feel wanted since Richard Dartmouth obviously doesn’t plan to include me on the show anymore.”
Brian raised his glass. “Richard’s a douche bag.”
All eyes in the room instantly turned toward Brian. Until this moment, his reputation for being well mannered nearly matched Polly Pepper’s. He added, “If you think Thane was a miserable prick, and God knows he was, you should see Richard Dartmouth in action. He makes me wonder if the killer got the right judge.”
“He is pretty evil,” Steven agreed as Placenta appeared with a silver tray bearing her famous salmon tortilla appetizers. Steven accepted a cocktail napkin and selected a wedge of the offering.
“Thane was a lunatic, no two ways about it,” Michael said. “Yeah, Richard’s scary, and I know for a fact that his assistant, Lisa, was desperate to find another job, before she got tagged as a killer, but he’s nothing compared to that temper-throwing, malevolent Darth Vader I slaved for.”
The sounds issuing from the others in the room seemed to confirm Michael’s assessment of the dead talent. Tiara nodded vigorously, as Brian shook his head in disgust. Lyndie Smith made a face and rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard all the horror stories from Brian,” she said. “Thane was particularly vicious to my man. All those insults about being a former Pip. I would have strangled him, if I were Brian.”
Steven, too, nodded. “Richard can cut steak with his tongue, but Thane would gnaw through concrete without breaking a tooth.”
Polly looked at Steven. “I was under the impression that you and Thane were dear friends. I thought that all that onstage ribbing was just to add a little spice to the evenings. It’s a damn shame when relationships fizzle.”
Steven took another sip from his glass and shrugged. “A friend is someone you can count on. Not so with Mr. Thane Cornwall. You try to do a friend a favor and he stabs you in the back.”
“Literally,” Tiara said.
Polly took another long swallow from her glass, then stood. “I’m starving! Let’s have num-nums!”
Relief among the guests was palpable. As Polly conducted the train of people toward the formal dining room, she said, “If you don’t like sautéed beaver on a bed of sea moss, blame Placenta. She was in charge of the meal.”
Her guests gave each other looks of horror. “I’m teasing, of course!” Polly trilled. “But I hope you like your porcupine, tartare.”
While still laughing uncomfortably, everyone arrived in the dining room. As the guests found their appointed places, Tim gallantly helped his mother into her chair. “If you’ll excuse us for a wee moment-o, we’ll be back in a jiff,” he said as he and Placenta retreated to the kitchen. When they returned bearing trays of soup bowls, Polly was already holding court. “John Wayne, too! I swear!” she laughed, obviously telling her old story about the time the screen legend appeared on The Polly Pepper Playhouse, and arrived for rehearsals wearing nothing but a mink coat. “Trust me,” she continued, “there’s a reason why some arrogant men are called ‘cock of the walk.’“
All were served, and Tim and Placenta took their seats. “First this simple starter. Cream of hibiscus soup. Then we’ll go on to plain ol’ Provencal chicken with olives, tomatoes, and red peppers. And I shan’t propose another toast or offer grace,” Polly said to the relief of all. “Let’s just enjoy our meal and the time we have together. We’ll forget about the dreadfulness of Thane being murdered in his bed, and that poor Danny boy took his last breath right here in this hallowed house. Oh, we forgot to show you the spot where he died! How thoughtless of Placenta!”
She looked at Tim. “Make a note to place a black wreath to mark the spot.”
Polly then looked at Brian and said, “After dessert we’ll have a look-see and play twenty questions about how you all think he came to expire in my lovely ho
me.”
“Left for dead on a cold marble floor! I wonder what his last thoughts were?” Tim said.
“Probably how exciting it was to die in a spot once featured in Home & Garden magazine,” Polly said. “Start eating!” she implored, picking up her spoon. “Don’t let my running on at the mouth keep you from enjoying the soup while it’s still hot!”
By the time the second course was served, the camaraderie was easy. Everyone at the table heaped praise on Polly, even as Placenta patted herself on the back for being able to follow the recipe. “Oh, the competition and feuding that go on behind the scenes of a television show,” Polly said. “If fans ever knew the truth! Don’t you agree?”
“I clearly remember when Laura Crawford … you remember that little witch who was part of the company of regulars on The Polly Pepper Playhouse … had the freak accident of a number-one hit record with some stupid country song about a woman in a poor mining town. She wins the big state lottery but refuses to take the gazillion-dollar prize because the man she loves—some grimy mole who works a thousand miles down in a hole—would feel bad that she could afford to buy the whole damn mountain while he only earned a few bucks an hour. She was retarded! Oh, the idiot woman in the song too!”
Polly looked at the disillusioned faces of Tiara and Lyndie. “What? The song? Oh, I know she massacred it.”
“You just burst my bubble about sweet Laura Crawford,” Lyndie said.
“Sweet?” Polly said. “So sorry, dears. I thought it was common knowledge that the real Laura Crawford—baby voice and dimples and all—is a major freakazoid! She wanted my job! Seriously! That little inept Eve Harrington thought she had talent and could carry an entire show. Ha!” Polly stopped for another sip of champagne. “Here’s a little secret. One of the other regulars on the show … I’m not naming names … but this person was known for his or her comic genius, and equally sullen attitude … was plotting to have the lovely and talented Laura Crawford eliminated from this world. Of course, when I discovered what was up, I had to intervene.”
