A Talent for Murder (22 page)

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 home.”

“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.”

“Yeah, because she was popular and the ratings would have tumbled,” Tim said.

“Every show I’ve ever worked on had a Laura Crawford,” she sighed. “I thought that Thane Cornwall was ours, but now I suspect it was either one of the contestants or, more than likely, Lisa Marrs, as the police are saying.”

“I’m still shocked,” Lyndie Smith said. “I mean, I only met Lisa Marrs once, and I confess she seemed to have a lot of ambition, but I would never have suspected that she was a killer. As for the contestants, I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to be famous badly enough to kill for it.”

“You’ve never wanted to be famous, so you don’t know the extremes to which others will go for success,” Brian Smith snapped at his wife. “You don’t know what it’s like being somebody, and then have it all end, but you keep trying to get the celebrity back. Some people would kill to live in a big house like this one.” He looked around the elegant room. “You set the bar on success in your life pretty low.”

Shocked, everyone looked at Brian, and then at Lyndie, who was mortified.

Lyndie picked up her champagne glass and took a long silent swallow. When she set her flute down on the table she turned to Polly. With a calm and reassuring
voice she said, “I never had an ego that demanded everybody pay attention to me. As for setting the bar too low, perhaps Brian is right. I should have expected that the man I married would never humiliate me in public.”

There was a good reason why Polly Pepper was considered a gracious hostess. Not only were her parties fun and entertaining, but also she had a great talent for making even the most distressing social situation seem of little consequence. She now put the full force of her powers to work. She raised her champagne flute to Lyndie and said, “At last! I have a new lifelong friend who knows that fame and fortune are hardly all they’re cracked up to be. Those poor kids on the show think that getting their names in the newspapers will solve their self-esteem issues. Only therapy, and a lot of drugs, can do that! Am I right, Lyndie? Or am I right!”

Polly looked around as all glasses, except Brian’s, were simultaneously raised to her. “Hear! Hear!” Placenta said. “What good is fame unless it comes with a poop load of money? Preferably in euros. God knows the U.S. dollar is in the crapper!”

Brian looked at Lyndie. “It was the champagne speaking. I’m never rude in public. You know me. I’m sweet. I make brownies to bring to work!”

“Tell it to Michael Richards,” Lyndie said.

Tiara turned to Lyndie and said, “I love your brownies. Sometimes Steven brings a few home. But there’s no use in pretending that you don’t do the baking! With all the time that Brian and Steven spend at the studio, neither has time for anything domestic.”

Lyndie managed a slight laugh. “Brian’s actually a very good cook. And since he only has to go to the studio on Fridays for the show, he has plenty of time to stir up Rice Krispies treats … if nothing else.”

Tiara gave Steven a searching look and said, “I
guess the hours are a lot different for the host. Stevie’s never home.”

Polly exchanged curious looks with Tim.
“I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
clearly would have been the ideal show for me,” she said. “Working just one day a week was swell. And the money was pretty great. That schedule could have given me time to earn a few bucks and still volunteer in the psoriasis ward at Cedars.”

“I suppose that being the host of a show is much more time consuming than judging the contestants,” Tiara said. “Sometimes Steven doesn’t get home until well past the time I’ve gone to bed.”

“Ah, the hours one keeps in order to maintain a level of success,” Polly agreed. “If I have one regret it’s that I worked all the years while Timmy was growing up. But I had my career. I couldn’t let family get in the way.” She looked across the table at her son. “Do you hate your legendary mommy for being away so much of your childhood?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “We’ve had this conversation a bajillion times,” he said to the room. “Sometimes Polly thinks she should have stayed home and baked cookies for my Cub Scout troop. Trust me, if she’d baked anything, there would have been fatalities!”

“Speaking of fatalities, I hope we’ve seen the last of ‘em. Among our group, I mean.” Michael reached for the champagne bottle resting in an ice bucket on a stand to the side of his chair. “Four contestants remain. I remember Thane telling me that answering stupid questions was not going to produce a winner. The one who found the right key would easily trample the other competitors.”

Steven Benjamin gave Michael a lethal look. “Actions speak louder than words, eh?”

Michael shrugged. “During one of the few times
that Thane actually spoke to me, rather than scream, he said, ‘Sterling Studios better have their accidental death and dismemberment insurance policy premiums paid up.’”

Polly shifted in her chair, and the others at the table leaned forward as if to better hear what Michael was saying.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian Smith asked. “Did Thane anticipate his death or Danny’s?”