Read A Talent for Murder Online
Authors: R.T. Jordan
A Talent for Murder
Praise for R.T. Jordan and his Polly Pepper Mysteries!
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“What if Carol Burnett had starred in
Murder She Wrote
? Jordan answers that question with a wink and a giggle in his debut mystery … the dish on real-life Hollywood, past and present, enlivens the start of a promising series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Move over, Auntie Mame! Here comes Polly Pepper, R.T. Jordan’s endearlingly outrageous drama queen-turned-sleuth. Armed with a maid, a Rolls-Royce and a magnum of champagne, Polly solves a dastardly murder and dishes plenty of showbiz gossip in this laugh-out-loud funny debut mystery. It’s a hoot and a half!”
—Laura Levine, author of
Death of a Trophy Wife
“Jordan’s zany, name-dropping tale is … laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Library Journal
FINAL CURTAIN
“A fun romp through the underworld of regional theater. Jordan’s entertaining plot moves briskly and its plucky heroine is sure to charm old fans and win new ones.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jordan cleverly propels the hilarious plot briskly.”
—I Love a Mystery
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FINAL CURTAIN
A TALENT FOR MURDER
SET SAIL FOR MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
FOR MURDER
R. T. JORDAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2009 by R. T. Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN 13: 978-0-7582-6721-4
eISBN 10: 0-7582-6721-5
First Hardcover Printing: June 2009 First Mass Market Printing: May 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For Terry Press
(A belated expression of gratitude)
Praise for R.T. Jordan and his Polly Pepper Mysteries!
Mr. John Scognamiglio, my wonderful editor at Kensington, is again guilty of letting me get away with publishing. This is a privilege that I value very much and do not take lightly. I also thank my agent, Joëlle Delbourgo, and the best publicist on the planet, Robin Blakely.
In the chain gang of my life, I’m delighted to be linked to many amazing and talented individuals, including Mr. Billy Barnes, Kevin Howell, Julia Oliver, Laura Levine, J. Randy Taraborrelli, Carolyn See, Andrew W. M. Beierle, David Rothley, Richard Klein, Pat Kavanagh, Marcela Landres, Jackie Joseph, Steven Smith, Fred Curt, Karlyn Hale, Alan Guno, and Emmanuel Parroissian. Also, Pat Jordan, Cathy and Randy Wharton, Bob and Jakki Jordan, and Jim and Sharon Foster Jordan.
Forever and throughout eternity: Dame Muriel Pollia, Ph.D. Also, in loving memory of Louise Grappi and David Grappi. You left me too soon. I trust that you knew the unlimited depths of my devotion.
“Hollywood is a place where they place you under contract, instead of under observation.”
—Walter Winchell
“L
ush Hour, at last!” Polly Pepper exclaimed as she stepped out of her Manolo Blahnik heels and joined her son, Tim, on the sofa in the great room of Pepper Plantation, her fabled Bel Air mansion. Polly rested her bare feet on his lap, anticipating Tim’s large, strong hands to knead away her aching arches. “I plan my life around this time of day!”
“For the massage? Or the bubbly?”
“Both make me tingle, dear,” Polly said, wiggling her toes.
At the wet bar, Placenta popped the cork from the chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
“Pavarotti’s high C never sounded as intoxicating!” Polly called out as she watched her maid fill three Waterford crystal champagne flutes and sighed as her son gripped her instep. “This is heaven. We can all sit back, take a few dainty sips of God’s golden cure-all, and wash the world away,” Polly said.
“Temporary amnesia is all I expect,” Placenta said as she handed chilled glasses to Polly and Tim.
Polly raised her flute and clinked it against Tim’s and Placenta’s. “I’m the luckiest star in the universe,” she
trilled. She drained her flute in one long swallow. With a satisfied “Ahhhh,” she withdrew her feet from Tim’s lap and leaned forward to reach a slice of Placenta’s famous salmon tortilla appetizer from the glass-top coffee table. At the same time, Placenta refilled her employer’s vessel up to its lipstick-smudged rim.
“Yum!” Polly said, acknowledging both the refill and the salmon tortilla. Then she groaned. “Guess which of the crazies in my life called today?”
“Who is … Alex Trebek?” Tim played along.
“J.J. Ol’ reptile-eyes himself.”
Tim groaned at his mother’s reference to her unctuous agent, J. J. Norton. “I suppose he wants a character reference for one of the gads of employee harassment lawsuits pending against him.”
“Believe it or not, he actually has a job for me,” Polly said.
“A healing purple pill commercial?” Tim mocked.
“I should be so lucky! Old stars hawking pharmaceuticals is all the rage. Dorothy Hamill made a killing—literally—shilling for Vioxx! Kathleen Turner, Lauren Bacall, Delta Burke, Peggy Fleming, who hasn’t made a few million sheckles pushing drugs? Don’t get me started about Bob Dole’s erectile dysfunction pill!”
Polly, Tim, and Placenta simultaneously shuddered.
“As a matter of fact, I’m up for a
reality
series,” Polly said. “I’d be perfect.”
Tim coughed in midsip. “Perfect for what? ‘The Biggest Boozer’?”
Polly winced. “I’d never diminish my dignity by appearing as a
contestant
, for crying out loud! No, there’s a spot open for the ‘nice’ judge on a summer replacement talent show. Think darling Carrie Ann Inaba, but tons more famous. FYI”—she glared at Tim—”I’m totally aware of the ten warning signs of alcoholism. I
only have …” She made a mental tabulation, stuck her tongue out at her son, then took a defiant swallow from her glass.
Placenta cackled. “The ‘nice’ judge, eh? Don’t get me wrong, take away dear dead Cyd Charisse, and you and Carol Burnett and Betty White are in a three-way tie for everybody’s idea of the nicest living showbiz legend. But when it comes to faking praise about others’ lack of talent, you’re more like Kelly Ripa feigning devotion to some flash in the pan’s latest CD. You’re both transparent.”
Polly looked concerned.
“Actually, this could be an ideal job,” Placenta continued, “if you don’t mind lying to poor young wannabes, telling them that they have the potential to achieve fame and fortune, when in fact they stink.”
“Just as modern maids don’t have to know anything about cleaning moldy bath mats, one doesn’t require talent to succeed in show business,” Polly sniffed. “Just look at Charlie Sheen.”
“Just look at your bath mats!” Placenta snapped.
“So what’s the show about?” Tim asked. “Dating?”
“Home makeovers?” Placenta added.
“Extreme retribution in the workplace?”
“Celebrity colon irrigation?”
Polly thought for a moment. She shrugged. “They sing. They dance. They swallow scorpions. Who knows? Who cares? Just cheap thrills for a viewing audience weary from news of wars, the sucky economy, melting ice caps, and Naomi Campbell’s latest assault and battery charges against her domestics. But it pays well, and it’s only for the summer. It’s called, um,
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
.”
Placenta rolled her eyes. “Accent on the word
anything
, I suppose. I swear I don’t know who on earth would
want to expose their lack of talent to millions of television viewers. Frankly, I’m embarrassed for them. They’re too stupid to realize they’re practically wearing ‘Kick Me’ signs!”
Tim nodded in agreement. “At least you’ll have a summer job that doesn’t include steaming July nights at an amphitheater in St. Louis! Fans may miss seeing you in perspiration-soaked Victorian gowns and wigs playing
The King and I
, but we’ll all be safe and sound in an air-conditioned television studio.”
“God knows, it’s easy money,” Polly said. “I mean, how much work can it be to sit around and watch telegenic amateurs, and telling ‘em how delightful they are?”
At the thought of being around attractive contestants, Tim became animated. “I’m very compassionate toward losers. I may have to help comfort more than a few cute dancers or singers or sword swallowers. I’ll be indispensable in helping to restore their self-worth!”
“Just don’t turn Pepper Plantation into a haven for Hollywood’s ne’er-do-wells,” Polly paused. “Actually, I have a rather good feeling about this job. That is, if I accept it. I still haven’t decided. There are always negotiations to hammer out. Billing. Per Diem. Expense account. You know J.J. and his penchant for getting me involved in crummy projects. Lately they’ve been murder!”
“A primetime program could give your career another leg up,” Placenta advised. “That
Dancing with Pseudo Stars
sure helped bring Marie Osmond back—for a minute. And the previously unknown judges on that show are now household names.”
“Very well, I’ll do it!” Polly announced. “These programs are the closest we’ll ever get to good old-fashioned variety shows. But if I’m the ‘nice’ judge, I’m a little concerned about who I’ll be sparring against. You
know how much I loathe confrontation. I couldn’t handle a Simon Cowell clone.”
Tim and Placenta both sniggered. “When you have an opinion, you don’t let go until everybody agrees with you!” Tim sassed. “You’re still insisting that the last
Indiana Jones
flick was a masterpiece! And that’s only because you think Harrison Ford is still hot. Which he is.”