Final Curtain (17 page)

T
he weekend was a blur for Polly. She and the cast spent twelve hours a day rehearsing on Saturday and Sunday in preparation for the following Friday night’s opening of
Mame
. They were practically living at the theater. They returned to their homes only for a few hours of sleep and fresh clothes before coming back for more intimidation from Gerold.

Meanwhile, back at the Plantation, Tim was working equally hard to create a memorable party for his mother and her cast. When a project was marinating in Tim’s creative juices, his initial idea invariably morphed into a far more grand design. This time a simple drinks party together with a mini–Polly Pepper film festival featuring a screening of her low-budget horror classic
It Ate Kowalski
had turned into a major Hollywood A-List bash.

His new party theme: extinct equatorial civilizations. It was one he’d been thinking of creating long before Mel Gibson’s bloodbath film. Tim knew that it wouldn’t outdo his biggest hits, but then nothing could compete with his
Brigadoon
event. That circus featured the Loch Ness Monster in the swimming pool. Or as Buddy Hackett had said at the time, “Frances Farmer’s in the pool getting shock therapy!” Polly never dared ask what amphibious creature Tim found for that awe-inspiring evening of laughs and fears, but whatever it was, she knew that Beverly Hills Prada princesses still gasped with glee when they tried to figure out what may have been lurking in the dark water.

For tonight’s affair the mansion was being transformed into a tropical rain forest complete with waterfalls, lush flora dusted with glitter, live parrots and monkeys, and caterers dressed only in loincloths and sarongs (hence Tim’s preoccupation with the audition process for specific cater waiters). The affair was shaping up to include not only the cast of Polly’s stage musical, but also many of his mother’s celebrity friends. From Alan Alda to Stephanie Zimbalist, the guests on Tim’s list were eager to attend another party at the famed Pepper Plantation.

Tim was confident that he would hit his usual home run (and that Polly would accept all the credit), but he was concerned about his mother’s part of the bargain. Would Polly strike out when she ultimately pointed her accusing finger at whoever she decided was Karen’s murderer? It was a question that worried Tim until late Monday morning when he passed his mother on The Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. She was going up as he was going down. As they moved past each other, Polly said, “Will I be pleased with the shindig?”

“Do I ever disappoint?” Tim boasted. “Have the spiders arrived?”

“Placenta’s keeping them in the laundry room,” Polly said, continuing to ascend the stairs. “What about that panther by the front entrance? You know I don’t like to see animals caged, dear.”

“He’ll be off leash and out and about soon,” Tim said as he reached the bottom step.

“I hope he’s vegetarian, and well fed,” Polly called out. “No Celebrity Tartar this evening, please, and thank you.”

“Oh, by the way,” Tim called up to his mother, “Sharon, Charlotte, Jamie, Gerold, Mag, Emily, or Hiroaki? Who have you decided knocked off Karen? You promised a major surprise.”

Polly rested against the banister and looked down at Tim, giving him a “Ye of little faith” look. “All indications suggest—”

A frenzied Placenta, who had appeared next to Tim, interrupted Polly’s response. “Pick up the phone,” Placenta said to Polly. “It’s a matter of life and death. Or so they say.”

“Who’s ‘they’ when we’re so busy and up to our buns in humidifiers and poison darts?” Polly huffed.

“They wouldn’t identify themselves, but insisted that they had to speak to Polly Pepper.”

Polly rolled her eyes and exhaled. “Life and death, eh? Getting Charlie Sheen off prime-time television is a matter of life and death. I’ll take the call in my suite.” She continued unhurried down the second-floor landing toward her bedroom. When she arrived in her room, Polly closed the door behind her and went to the nightstand beside her bed. She picked up the cordless telephone and settled onto the chaise next to the bay window that overlooked her manicured garden. Polly pushed the Talk button, and in a professional no-nonsense voice said, “This is Miss Pepper. With whom am I speaking?”

“Never mind. All that matters is that Karen Richards is dead. She’s not coming back. Sharon Fletcher is in custody and there’s no need for you to continue looking for another killer.”

The voice on the other end of the line was androgynous. It had the cultured New England accent and stammered pattern of Katharine Hepburn combined with the indolent and irritating whine of Truman Capote. Polly couldn’t connect a face to the voice.

“I’m giving you a bit of friendly advice, stop nosing around,” the speaker commanded. “Otherwise, the next time you receive unexpected visitors at Pepper Plantation they’ll be far more competent than the slugs who called on you the other day.”

“Who are—”

“I’m actually an ardent admirer of yours, which is why I’m giving you this warning. Just do your job in
Mame
. I’ll be watching. Have your party tonight. I’ll be enjoying the evening too. But stop digging around in places that may be hazardous to your health. You’re wading into deep water. You’re already over your head, and you’re putting yourself, Tim, Placenta, and your Emmy in danger. Got it?”

“Now, wait a—”

Suddenly the line was disconnected. Polly looked at the phone and pushed the End button. She sat back on the chaise to collect her thoughts. The last thing she wanted to do was jeopardize the safety of her loved ones. For a fleeting instant she thought of calling Randy for help and advice. However, she instantly realized that he’d be angry and bring out the “I told you so” card.

Polly was startled out of her reverie by a knock at her door. Tim and Placenta then entered before Polly had an opportunity to invite them in. They both stood in the center of the room and stared down at her. “If that creepy voice doesn’t make you leave the investigating work to Randy and his team, then you need a lobotomy,” Tim said to his mother. “How many times do we have to be crime victims before you give up this quest?”

Placenta answered Polly’s questioning eyes. “Extensions,” she said. “You wanted a phone in every room in order to spy on us. It works both ways.”

“So you heard that this phantom menace is coming to our little soirée,” Polly said. “Obviously, it’s someone we know. Did either of you recognize the voice? Very odd.” Polly paused. “Charlotte Bunch!”

“Of course! She’s always doing crazy voices!” Tim said. “She can imitate anyone!”

Placenta enthusiastically agreed. “At rehearsals I’ve watched her try out a dozen or more different voices for her Gooch character. She comes up with the most amazing and bizarre choices.”

Polly thought aloud. “It has to be Charlotte. The caller said they would be around for the show and also would be at our party tonight.”

“She—or was it he?—didn’t exactly say they were coming to the party,” Tim corrected. “They said they would be enjoying the evening too.”

Polly grimaced. She stood up from the chaise and paced the room. “It could be anyone from the cast. They’ll all be here tonight.”

“I agree that it’s got to be Charlotte,” Tim insisted. “One of us would have recognized the voice of Gerold or Mag or anyone else in the cast. Charlotte has a million different vocal tricks in her bag.”

“A good actor is also a good mimic,” Polly said. “The caller could have been anyone in the company. Or perhaps…”

A hush fell over the room as Tim and Placenta looked at Polly, who, it appeared, had suddenly become catatonic. Polly stared into a vision that only she could see. And then she mumbled, “You said that we would have recognized the voice of anyone in the cast. What if our caller was someone who
isn’t
in the cast?”

“Like Jamie,” Tim said.

“Or Hiroaki,” Placenta added.

“Sure. Maybe,” Polly said. “But what about all the tech people working behind the scenes? They’re
of
the show but not
in
the cast.”

“You’ve attended too many performances of
The Phantom of the Opera
,” Tim said.

Polly nodded. “Let your imagination run wild for a moment. Perhaps a lighting technician was high up in the fly space changing bulbs or gels and silently looked down on the whole nasty business with Karen. Maybe the rehearsal pianist was in the pit and overheard everything that was happening on the stage above him. All guesses, but nothing is out of the realm of possibility.”

“It makes sense that someone who worked backstage might have been in the theater early that morning and witnessed what happened,” Tim said.

Placenta shook her head. “No. The person who called is involved with the murder. He’s not just a bystander or witness. It doesn’t make sense that anyone else but someone actually involved with Karen’s death would make threats against Polly…and us. Don’t forget, Polly heard Gerold and Jamie talking about her at the theater.”

“Heard!” Tim reminded her. “Polly didn’t actually see who was talking that night. It’s all circumstantial. I’m still voting for Charlotte or one of the tech guys. As a matter of fact, nothing that dude said was actually a threat, per se. It could have been a friendly forewarning from a third party.”

A feeling of excitement once again filled Polly’s boudoir. “We must be getting close to the truth,” she said. “The thing to do is to keep an eye on each of our guests tonight and see if we recognize that voice, or if anyone does anything peculiar.”

Placenta looked at Polly. “This is Hollywood. Everything that happens here is peculiar. Still, perhaps we’ll find a clue during the evening. Cross your digits!”

A cacophony from dozens of simultaneous conversations intermingled with the histrionics of celebrities making grand entrances to the party was a miasma so intense that it made the panther cringe with dread in a corner by the boa constrictor pit. The guests were having a thrilling time wandering through the lush faux rain forest, dipping their glasses into lagoons of margaritas, holding martini glasses under waterfalls of gin, and refilling their champagne flutes from the breasts of hand-carved indigenous Amazon goddesses. Visiting the tarantula terrariums and feeding bits of bananas and Duck L’Orange to the monkeys was nearly as much fun as watching white mice scurry around in a panic in the python tank, and seeing bats hang upside down in overhead netting.

As Polly, Tim, and Placenta circulated among their happy guests, they intentionally spent the majority of their time interacting with the cast and chorus of
Mame
, as well as the backstage and technical help. “Are we ready for eight shows a week?” Polly laughed as she tilted her champagne flute in a toast to Gerold Goss, who was surprisingly affable. “I confess, I thought that under your guidance, or lack thereof, the show would be as dead as our first director, but I think we can pull this off.”

Gerold was cordial, even jovial, toward Polly. “I confess that you’re just as charming to work with as everyone said you would be.” He smiled warmly and reciprocated Polly’s toast. “Why did we get off to such an unattractive start?”

“Hmmm,” Polly thought for a moment. “I guess it had something to do with you wanting Kristy McNichol or some other ‘used to be’ for my role.”

Gerold smiled and nodded. “The public wants their Polly Pepper. So do the backers. So I was stuck.” He shrugged in easygoing resignation.

“We’re going to be a smash in Glendale, and then reprise this brilliant show on Broadway. I can’t wait for Jerry Herman to hear what you’ve done with his songs! ‘Open a New Window’ takes on new meaning when sung by the janitorial staff in the restrooms of the Super Dome during Hurricane Katrina. Mr. Herman has never seen a staging of his masterpiece quite like this one.”

“Maybe he won’t find out,” Gerold teased, knowing that Mr. Herman was famous for insisting that
Mame
be presented exactly as it had been on Broadway in 1966. “He might find that bringing the old story of Auntie Mame to New Orleans isn’t as crazy as it sounds.”

“Don’t expect roses from the playwrights,” Polly said. “They’re dead anyway but the most you can hope for is critical appreciation that Mame and her little nephew Patrick are universal archetypes. Having them now homeless and living at Tipitina’s on Bourbon Street instead of a fancy brownstone in New York City works just fine.” Polly thought for another moment. “I don’t want to be near Mr. Herman when he hears the Dixieland arrangement of ‘If He Walked Into My Life,’” she said to Gerold.

Just then, Mag Ryan appeared with Stewart Long, the show’s adult Patrick.

Gerold blanched. Mag looked at Gerold and then at Polly and said, “To quote my character in the show, ‘This is a bitchin’ party!’”

Polly grimaced. “Has the dialogue changed since yesterday? I don’t recall that line.”

Looking at Mag, Gerold lost his earlier sense of affability. “No,” he said to Polly, as if Mag wasn’t in the room, “no changes. Miss Gloria Upson just can’t remember her lines. This is what happens when one puts their life and career on the line to give a friend a break in the biz.”

“Whose life and whose career, Karen’s or yours?” Mag said. “Don’t blame me for your guilty conscience.”