A Talent for Murder (6 page)

Polly looked at the young Latina. “Complete this sentence. ‘I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous because—’ “

“Because fame equals money, and money
can
buy happiness,” Socorro quickly said. “When I win this competition, I’ll be able to buy my mama a big house.”

Polly’s heart melted. “I’m sure that your mama’s already very proud of you. And you’re right, money does buy happiness. I have a lot of both.”

With one contestant left to interview, Steven Benjamin called on Thane to pose a question to Ped-Xing.

Thane folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head from side to side, as if inspecting Ped-Xing. “This show is about doing some ultimate act in order to become famous. Since we, the judges, probably hold your
fate in our hands, which of us would you kill to win the competition?”

A collective roar from the audience erupted. They exhibited the same lust for blood that made jousting tournaments popular during medieval times, or attracted huge crowds to gladiator fights in ancient Rome, and created a media frenzy over movie stars on trial for killing their spouses.

“Go on,” Thane baited Ped-Xing. “You can do it. And I think everybody here is confident about who you’d pick. And guess what, it
would
indeed make you famous.”

Ped-Xing stood facing Thane Cornwall, his upper lip twitching, his fists clenched at his side.

The judges, as well as the studio audience, held a collective breath. Finally, Ped-Xing spoke: “Polly Pepper.”

W
hen Polly’s Rolls-Royce drove up to her PP-monogrammed iron gates at Pepper Plantation, Detective Randy Archer was already in the cobblestone car park waiting for her. Rolling down to the front portico, Tim eased the car to a stop by the front steps. Randy opened the rear passenger door of her car and offered his hand, first to Polly, then to Placenta. “That hip-hop dweeb threatened to kill you!” he said as Polly stepped out of the car.

“Isn’t live television exciting?” Polly said as she gave Randy a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re a dear for tuning in. Ach! I’ve had threats before. Nell Carter said the same thing when I deservedly won the Emmy the year that our musical variety specials were both nominated. Nell, bless her departed soul, couldn’t face the fact that the Academy unanimously selected my superior
PP with Elton John
, over her mediocre
Heaven and Nell.”

Placenta said, “The important thing is that Polly was the top story on news radio all the way home!”

As Polly and her entourage entered the mansion, they automatically headed straight for the great room. “Bub
bles and Brie please,” Polly called out as her maid raced ahead to pop a cork.

As they entered their main play area of the house, Polly continued. “Forget Ped-Xing. I’m much more miffed with Brian Smith. Who does that brownie-baking ex-Pip think he is, copying me! I signed on to be the
nice
judge! I gave each contestant the full one hundred points and cooed lovely lies about their half-assed performances. He copied me exactly.”

“Being nice got you insults and a death threat from a lunatic gangsta with so many body piercings, he’d never make it through any airport security,” Randy said as he settled himself comfortably on the sofa.

“Ped-Xing is just a young blowhard and braggart. Of course, with a body like his …” Polly stopped and looked at Tim. “Did you get any vibes, dear?”

“Um, no,” Tim said, helping himself to a glass of champagne, and trying to evade the ongoing issue of his mother always being on the lookout for someone who might take him away from her.

Polly cleared her throat. “As I started to say, with a body like his, and all the work that goes into crafting such a sculpture of flesh, he’s won bragging rights.”

Desperate to change the direction of the conversation, Tim picked up the television remote and turned on the wide-screen television. “Let’s see how Channel Four spins the story,” he said.

Everybody focused on the honey-blond female reporter who was holding a microphone to Ped-Xing’s face.

Polly said, “That little twerp is stealing my limelight! Channel Four didn’t ask
me
to do an interview!”

“You didn’t threaten to be the next star-turned-killer,” Placenta reminded her.

The reporter said, “Tonight, probably a bajillion viewers watched as you said a few mean things on
I’llDo Anything to Become
…” She stopped to look at her notes.
“Famous
. In fact, you threatened to murder one of the judges.” She stopped and spoke to the anchor in the newsroom. “Roll the tape, please.” A replay of Ped-Xing telling the world that he’d be famous if he killed Polly Pepper filled the screen.

The camera returned to the overly serious reporter. “Do you have any comment?”

Ped-Xing looked at the woman as if she had green teeth. “Aren’t there a couple of wars in the Middle East that you should be covering? Or a drive-by shooting on the freeway? Or a sex scandal starring a Disneyland costume character?”

The reporter looked taken aback. “We’re also told that the police are taking your threat seriously and have placed Polly”—again, she looked at her notes—”Pepper, under round-the-clock protection.”

Polly smiled and leaned against Randy. “Are you my big and strong security detail?” she purred.

“If Bambi Levitz, the Wonder Reporter who doesn’t seem to know you, says so, it must be true,” Randy said.

As Ped-Xing tried to move away from the camera, the reporter grabbed him by the arm. “One last question. How, when, and where will you kill Polly… Pepper?”

“I’m not killing anyone or anything!” Ped-Xing roared. “Except maybe my competition! Dang! That old judge should consider my remark a huge compliment. I hear she used to be a star. Thane Cornwall is nobody. The headlines would be bigger if I took
her
down. D’ya think?”

“Old? Used to be?” Polly fumed. “From now on, he’ll never get more than fifty points from me! Refill, please,” she called to Placenta, wiggling her glass above her head.

* * *

Unless the household was preparing for one of Polly’s legendary soirees, Saturday morning at Pepper Plantation was never any different from every other day of the week. Placenta was up by six, but the mistress of the manse crawled out of bed only when the mood hit her. This morning it was nearly ten when Polly and Detective Archer wandered in their bathrobes and bare feet to the poolside patio breakfast table. “Does the sun always rise this early?” Polly said to Placenta as she slipped on her sunglasses, then walked straight toward her Bloody Mary, which had been set on the table.

Placenta poured coffee for Randy Archer and placed a glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice at his setting. “Muffins.” She pointed to a basket covered with a linen napkin. “Breakfast will be out in a jiff.”

“You’re a gem, Placenta.” Randy smiled.

“I’m on my best behavior to keep you around.” Placenta nudged him with her elbow.

Polly, too, smiled and sighed with contentment. She placed a hand on Randy’s and gave it a quick pat. “You were a dear to protect me from unimaginable
Twilight Zone
evils last night,” she said, looking into his dark brown eyes. “You have a way of making me feel—sweet sixteen.”

Randy’s smile radiated brighter than the light reflecting off the water in the swimming pool. “And you have a way of making me feel—like the guy in the Cialis commercial who’s always ready.”

Polly sighed again. “Nothing can spoil this splendid day.”

At that moment, the telephone rang. “Naturally!” Polly said, and gritted her teeth. She called out to Placenta, “If it’s J.J., tell him I’m hiding from killer fans!” Then she took another sip from her BM.

In a moment, Placenta appeared with a breakfast cart on which rested plates of berry-topped heart-shaped waffles, caramelized bacon, sausage links, poached peaches, and fruit compote. From her apron pocket she withdrew the cordless phone. “It’s your producer, Richard Dartmouth,” Placenta said, holding the handset out for Polly, who grimaced.

“I’m in Bolivia.” Polly pushed the phone away. “I’ll be damned if I’ll do another promo spot. Especially not today!”

Placenta grumbled as she pushed the On button. “Miss Pepper’s keeper says her cage is empty. When the bounty hunters drag her AWOL butt back I’ll ask her to call you.” She listened a moment longer, then added, “That’s the only section of the newspaper that she ever reads anyway.”

As Polly and Randy were playing footsy under the table and enjoying bites of their breakfast, Placenta said, “He’s summoning everyone for a meeting tomorrow at ten.”

“On a Sunday?” Polly protested. “What if I want to go to church?”

“And give the pope a stroke? Mr. Dartmouth said to tell you to read the Calendar section of the
L.A. Times
before you call him back.”

Polly looked across the table and picked up the morning newspaper, which was faceup with a large picture of an entire town in the Midwest submerged under floodwaters. Polly tsked in sadness for the victims. “If they lived here on Stone Canyon Road, such things wouldn’t happen.” Polly pulled out the Calendar section and started to skim the contents. “What am I looking for?” she asked. Then Polly’s jaw dropped and her eyes bugged out.

“What’s the scoop?” Randy asked as he watched Polly’s lips move as she read the words on the page.

“I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous. It’s a dud!” she whined.

Tim finally wandered to the table, his hair disheveled, and still wearing his bedclothes: a diaphanous threadbare T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. Until his first infusion of caffeine for the day, it was impossible for Tim to be fully conscious. He automatically wrapped his hands around a mug of organic Mayan blend coffee that Placenta had set before him. Tim took a long swallow. Then, looking at his mother’s face, which showed a combination of anger and resentment, he managed to ask, “‘Nother dead body drop by?”

“We’re all dead! Everyone associated with this stupid summer show. Apparently the ratings for last night’s debut stank!” Polly snapped. “I’m sunk.”

“You always float to the surface,” Tim grumbled, his mind beginning to limber up.

Randy took the paper out of Polly’s hands. He found the article and began to read aloud. “Headline,” he said, “‘Famous Flops.’“ He looked up at Polly, and then continued reading.
“I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
made its big, splashy network debut last night. However, someone forgot to tell the Sterling Studio executives that their target audience of tweens dash out of their cribs on Friday nights. Thus, the ratings were lower than the calories in a Diet Coke.

“An American Idol wannabe, I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous is scraping the bottom of the dirty clothes hamper reality genre. It rates somewhere between America’s Most Moronic Medical Mistakes and Britain’s Worst Teeth.”

Randy looked at Polly, then continued. “Although it’s scheduled to run for five weeks, we’d rather be dodging stray bullets in South Central than wasting time watching this drivel. To quote one of the judges (Thane
Cornwall), after passing judgment on an assembly line of pathetic nontalent, we’d like to say to this show: ‘Dismissed!’“

Polly looked morose. “They didn’t even mention my name.”

Placenta handed Polly another fortifying Bloody Mary.

Polly had lost her appetite. She nibbled on a slice of caramelized bacon, then set her utensils on her plate and patted her lips with her napkin. “I suppose I’d better call Dartmouth. They’ll be pulling the life support plug on the show, but I’d rather hear the death rattle from his lips.”

Placenta handed Polly the telephone and called out the numbers that she’d written down. In a moment, Polly was connected to the president of unscripted programming. The conversation was brief, and when Polly disconnected the call she had a slight smile on her face. “He and Sterling are willing to let the show try to find its audience. I’m not out of work after all. At least not yet. The meeting tomorrow is to talk about strategy and promotion. I suppose I’ll have to make the rounds of all the talk shows again. I need a vacation.”

Polly didn’t have to travel far to attend the Sunday morning meeting in Richard Dartmouth’s home. He lived in the posh Benedict Canyon area of Beverly Hills, which was close to Polly’s own estate. Tim drove his mother and Placenta up the steep incline of Tower Drive and found the address that Richard had e-mailed to Polly. They parked on the street, then rang the front gate doorbell at which a plaque on the iron bars read

BIENVENUE À MON MAISON HUMBLE.

“Humble, my foot!” Polly said, looking up at the
grand house. “A house should speak for itself. You don’t see a sign on Pepper Plantation announcing
Ma maison est plus grande que votre maison
!”

“Always on time!” Richard said when he opened the door. He looked at Tim and Placenta, and back to Polly. “Does your posse always travel with you?”

“Can’t shake my shadows,” Polly trilled as she eased her way past Dartmouth and into the house. She oohed and aahed, pretending to admire Richard’s designer home. “The view is almost as breathtaking as my own!” she exclaimed, looking from the foyer through the vast open space to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the distance. There was a view of the Pacific Ocean.

“The others are in the study,” Richard said. “May I get you something to drink before we start? Some juice? A Pellegrino?”

“Don’t bother about me, dear,” Polly said absently as she examined the spacious, modern décor of the open floor plan and doted on several bizarre
objets d’art
that looked like large paper clips bent into contorted shapes resting on display pedestals. “Mother and Child,” she read from a brass plate in front of one piece. “The way they’re tangled together, I suppose child is suckling. If you’re making mimosas, I’d kill for one.”

Richard hesitated before looking at his wristwatch. “Um, gee. Mimosa. Yeah, okay. Let me look into that. It’s Sunday. Maid’s day off. Er … In the meantime, my study is down that corridor.” He pointed in the vast distance. “Join the others and make yourselves comfortable.”

Polly and company made their way down the long sandstone-tiled hallway that took them past a gallery of what Polly called “the weirdest collection of paintings I’ve seen since that horrible Orbinthall exhibit of Ted
Bundy’s, Richard Speck’s, and John Wayne Gacy’s thumbprints on canvas.”