Final Curtain (15 page)

“I am suspicious…now,” Polly said.

With slight trepidation, the waitress returned. “Need more time?”

“Sweetheart,” Polly said, pointing to an A-frame card on the table with a picture of a plate of Belgium waffles, “why don’t you bring us each whatever that is. Oh, and we’re sort of in a hurry to get back to rehearsals. I’m doing a production of
Mame,
you know, at the Galaxy Theatre down the street. I hope you’ll come and see me. Tell your friends, and all your customers too. You’re a dear. Oh, and waters all around, please.
Merci beaucoup
.”

“You’re a carnival barker and a walking billboard rolled into one,” Tim chided his mother.

“Lucy Ball once said to me, ‘Half my job is acting. The other half is publicizing the work.’”

Placenta interrupted. “I still don’t understand how Charlotte came to the conclusion that Jamie is the killer. Where’s her evidence?”

“Frankly,” Tim said, “she doesn’t have any. It’s just a hunch.”

“If Jamie is the killer, I can handle him,” Polly said.

“What if he’s not the murderer? What if it’s someone totally unexpected? You don’t know what you’re up against,” Placenta said.

“I’ve got a plan,” Polly whispered. “Although I’m loathe to risk another Emmy.”

“A
re you sure that you wouldn’t rather bunk with Timmy again tonight?” Polly teased her beau as she spoke with him over the cell phone en route back to Pepper Plantation. “Trust me, he doesn’t give a lick about your webbed toes.” Polly put her hand over the phone and chuckled. “He hates for anyone to know about his toes,” she whispered to Tim and Placenta. “Say again?” she returned to Randy. “Tim and I both smell good? We both use the same citrus and ginger body splash. How close did you two get the other night? Lovely. And so metrosexual. No, sweetheart, that’s not…Dear, we’re just now at the gates, so I’ve gotta run. See you at eight. Cheers.” She closed the phone and handed it back to her son just as the Pepper Plantation gates parted.

“Webbed toes?” Tim grimaced. “Is he part amphibian? Any sign of a tail or cloven hooves?”

“No, but I could knit an afghan rug with the hair on his chest.” Polly felt a flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing Randy for dinner. “By the by, Randy said that he adored your satin sheets. He wants a set of his own. I’m not sure what concerns me the most, that he used the word ‘adored’ or that he suddenly craves satin.”

When the trio entered the mansion they automatically drifted to the great room where Placenta opened a bottle of Bollinger. Polly and Tim plopped themselves down opposite each other on the twin Tahitian cotton sofas. They kicked off their shoes and rested their feet on the glass-top coffee table. Tim said, “Have you decided which poor Emmy will be sacrificed tonight?”

Polly knocked back her champagne and set the glass down, stood up, wandered over to the bookshelves, and lovingly touched each of her awards. “Eenie. Meenie. Minie. Mo.” She picked up her fifth consecutive season win and held it to her bosom. “There’s nothing worse than losing a loved one,” she said with a cry in her voice.

“Especially if they’re gold-plated,” Placenta added. “I’m looking on the bright side. Less dusting for me.”

Polly heaved a heavy sigh. “Forgive her, Father, for she knows not that with one more crack she’ll be working for Candy Spelling.” Polly brought the Emmy to the coffee table and carefully set it down on the glass. “I should have had all my babies equipped with microchip tracking devices, like domestic pets. If I survive this calamitous night, I assure you that every Emmy, People’s Choice, and Mr. Blackwell’s Worst Dressed award will be branded for identification.”

Tim sat forward and looked at his mother. “I’d better hear that you’re getting Randy involved in this latest ransom demand. Otherwise, I swear I’ll call 911 and tell them everything.”

Polly waved away her son’s concern. “After dinner with Randy, I’ll suggest a romantic stroll down Hollywood Boulevard. I’ll accidentally on purpose wander over my star on the Walk of Fame, then we’ll make a nostalgic stop at the Chinese Theatre and I can impress him with never-before-told anecdotes about some of my dead friends in the forecourt.”

“Sounds dreamy,” Tim teased. “What if the ‘phantom’ sees you on the arm of a police detective? You’re supposed to make the drop alone.”

“I plan to ask Randy for a moment of solitude. I’ll say that I need to meditate over Joan Crawford’s pumps. I’ll keep him within shouting distance, in case I get into trouble.”

Placenta refilled Polly’s champagne flute. “How do you propose explaining the brown paper bag stuffed with an Emmy? They’re heavy suckers. Gentleman that your detective is, he’s bound to insist on carrying the sack. He’ll catch on soon enough.”

Polly admitted that she hadn’t thought that far ahead, but insisted that she would certainly be convincing with whatever ruse she decided to use on Randy. “Not that I enjoy subterfuge—at least not this early in a relationship. However, if I’m to help exonerate Sharon, this is what I have to do.”

Tim reached for the bottle of Bollinger and added another splash to his mother’s glass, as well as his own. He was silent for a moment, and then he made a decision that he knew would be rebuffed by his mother. “Despite your armed police escort, Placenta and I are shadowing you all evening.” He quickly countered his mother’s objections. “Ah-bub-bub!” He spoke and halted her protest with a “talk to the hand” gesture. “You’ll never convince me to let you out of my sight…at least not until I know you’re safely delivered to Randy’s apartment. If anything happened to you, I’d spend the rest of my life wracked with pain for not having you put me back in your will. You’re not leaving this planet until you disinherit that crazy Society for the Prevention of Unauthorized Kidney Harvesting in Unsuspecting Business Travelers.”

Polly’s response was less confrontational than either Tim or Placenta expected. In fact, she was suddenly contrite about not including her family in her potentially dangerous plans. “As long as you keep your distance,” she said. “I don’t want Randy to think I’m being chaperoned. I’d advise you both to wear a disguise.” She turned to Tim. “If Jamie’s behind this travesty, he’ll recognize that adorable cleft in your chin a mile away. Of course, you could distract him by wearing your tightest jeans and a tank top. Hmm, not a bad idea. Never mind. Just stay as far away from me as possible. Randy won’t let me be hurt.”

Placenta said, “While you’re at Fred Astaire’s feet, Randy may be over by Norma Shearer’s handprints. What if the place is jammed with Japanese tourists and he’s so blinded by their flashbulbs that he can’t keep an eye on you?”

“Trust me, I’m the one who’s blinding him. He can’t keep his eyes off of me, which is freaky while he’s driving. Speaking of looking at me, it’s getting late and I’d better hop in the tub and shave my legs. I’ll be wearing my new Antoinette Catenacci.”

“Wouldn’t something a little less conspicuous be more appropriate for the occasion?” Tim said.

“This is my evening too! I’m not lowering my standards for some extortionist bum who thinks he can prey on a legend and totally disrupt my life. As a matter of fact, I have a mind to leave him a bag of bricks and let the police worry about Sharon.”

“Do that,” Tim said. “I’d better get gussied up myself. Now, what shall I wear? If I could find my old hair extensions I could be like Jim Caviezel in that Mel Gibson Jesus flick.”

As Polly rose from her seat on the sofa, she turned to Tim. “Now who’s calling attention to themselves? Don’t forget our pact. You never upstage me in the looks department in public!”

“When we’re together,” Tim reminded his mother.

“Ever!” Polly scolded and left the room, taking her Emmy with her.

“Your mama’s gotta be the showstopper, you know that,” Placenta said. “If you go out in public looking like a supersexy Christ, she won’t get a shred of attention.”

“That’s rather the point. I want her to be as inconspicuous as possible. People are going to recognize her. That could make the situation even more dangerous. Okay. I’ll just wear a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I’ll pretend to be a tourist.”

Placenta nodded. She set her champagne flute down and stood up. “I’d better make sure your mama’s got a fresh razor. Wouldn’t want Randy’s lips to get sandpapered from stubble under her pits.”

The next hour galloped by as Placenta helped Polly bathe and dress, then sequestered herself in her own suite to prepare to accompany Tim for a night of undercover work. In the meantime, Tim laid out his wardrobe and completed his own ablutions just as the chimes from the front gate pealed throughout the house. “He’s early!” Polly called out. “I still need an hour to do makeup. And no flapping your lips about our plans!”

Placenta flew down the stairs and when she reached the intercom she pushed the release button to open the gates. She quickly returned to the great room to clear away the evidence of Lush Hour. Just as she finished tossing the bottle into the trash compactor, and setting the glasses in the dishwasher, the doorbell rang. Placenta hustled out of the kitchen and down the main hallway to the foyer. “Coming,” she called out. When she reached the door she set a smile on her lips, turned the knob, and pulled. In a flash her smile disappeared; two men were at the door and neither one was Detective Randal Archer. Her attempt to close the door was stopped by the large steel-toe work boot of one of the men, who then shoved the door open all the way, and pushed Placenta to the side.

Placenta lunged for the panic button on the alarm system but she was caught in midstride by the smaller of the two men. “No, you don’t, sister,” he said, and twisted Placenta’s arm as he pulled her toward the sunken living room. “Shut up and don’t try anything stupid,” the larger and more menacing looking of the pair demanded.

“What do you want?” Placenta found her frightened voice.

The smaller man tightened his grip on Placenta. She had read somewhere that crime victims should never try to play to their attacker’s humanity by acting obsequious or weak. She was as angry as she was petrified, but instinctively found the strength to castigate her assailants. “Get the hell off this property!” she yelled and was rewarded with a stiff backhand against the left side of her face.

The stone on the intruder’s ring broke the skin of her cheek and she began to bleed. The two men dragged Placenta through the house and found the great room, where they shoved her to the floor. The smaller of the men withdrew a roll of duct tape from his army-surplus jacket and plastered a strip of tape across Placenta’s mouth. While the larger man gingerly walked out of the room and stepped stealthily down the hall, Placenta’s wrists were taped together behind her back. She was left on the floor as the thug hurried to catch up with his partner.

Back in the sunken living room, facing the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase, the men cautiously ascended one step at a time. On the second-floor landing they separated and set out in opposite directions.

Tim was admiring himself in the floor-to-ceiling bathroom mirror, giving his moussed hair another scrunch, when out of the corner of his eye he caught a shadow reflected in the mirror. He froze. Polly and Placenta would never enter his room unannounced, even if the door were left wide open. They’d call out in advance to give him time to address his modesty, if need be. For an instant he thought perhaps Detective Archer had come in. But again, polite visitors would broadcast their presence. In an instant, Tim’s sixth sense told him to hide. But there was nowhere to go in his sleek modern bathroom. Even the shower stall was clear glass.

He stepped behind the door. In the space between the door frame he again saw the ominous shadow. And then he saw a face. His heart raced as though he’d just finished a marathon. A thousand thoughts coursed through his mind, including the location of his cell phone, which was on his bedside nightstand next to his wallet.

At the same time, the intruder saw Tim reflected in the mirrored wall of the bathroom. He withdrew a pistol from his jacket and stepped back from Tim’s view.

Tim decided he had to face the enemy in order to get to his mother. His eyes scanned the bathroom for a weapon. There was nothing. Other than an electric toothbrush, a few scented candles, and bottles of various Dolce & Gabbana skin care products on the marble vanity, he kept his bathroom immaculate and uncluttered. He thought of quickly shutting the door and locking himself inside, but if Polly wasn’t in jeopardy at this very instant she would be the second that he was seen as a coward and no longer a risk to the intruder.

In a moment of sheer terror, he removed his belt, which was a thick leather strap with a silver and turquoise buckle. It wasn’t much of a weapon against a man with a gun, but Tim held the belt as if it were a whip and lashed at a spray bottle on the vanity. The bottle crashed into the sink and brought the intruder back into view.

It was Tim’s plan to wait until the intruder stepped into the room, then shove the door as hard as possible to throw him off balance, thus giving Tim a moment to perhaps seize the gun—or be shot. Tim never got the opportunity. In an instant, the barrel of a gun was pushed through the space between the door and molding, and aimed directly at him.

“Move,” was the word Tim heard. He stepped from behind the door with his hands up in the air. Instructed to put his hands behind his back, Tim was soon bound like Placenta, with silver duct tape around his wrists and across his mouth. All that he could think of was his mother’s safety. As he was pushed down the corridor toward Polly’s room, Tim didn’t hear a sound coming from her suite, and he feared the worst.

Tim was being used as a human shield as they approached the double doors that led to Polly’s bedroom. Then, just before entering, the gunman pulled him down to the floor and warned him not to move. Tim watched in horror as the assailant slowly moved into his mother’s boudoir, his gun drawn, looking from side to side like a mercenary in guerrilla warfare.

Suddenly, he heard a scream of intense pain and agony. His attacker came running out of the room holding his hands to his face and crying in anguish. He tried to run down the corridor but tripped over Tim’s legs, and crashed to the floor. He struggled to get up and once righted, raced for the stairway. Still screeching, the man was confused and disoriented and when he tried to navigate the first step of the staircase he tripped and tumbled head over heels to the floor below, where he came to a loud stop as his head met the limestone floor.

For a moment the house was eerily quiet. Tim’s eyes were wide with fear as he raised himself to his feet and listened for any sign of activity in his mother’s rooms. Then he heard her whisper, “We’re being burgled. Send backup.” He heard her hang up the phone as he stumbled into the room.

In the instant before she recognized that the lumbering man was Tim she quickly raised her can of Raid and held it out in front of her like an amulet to give protection from an evil spirit. When she realized it was her son bound and gagged, she rushed to his side and ripped the tape from his mouth.