A Talent for Murder (30 page)

Sergeant Sandy raised her Beretta subcompact to Placenta’s temple. “Do it. Now!”

Still, although Placenta’s entire body was shaking, she did not move.

Placenta pushed the On button and the machine
began to whir and blow warm air. As she pointed the gun-shaped dryer at Polly, the force of air caused the foam in the water to part, revealing one of Polly’s lovely knees. As Placenta stood helplessly on the precipice of actually killing her best friend, Sergeant Sandy let out a stream of curses and swacked the dryer out of Placenta’s hand. Placenta lunged forward and tried to catch the blow dryer, but she fumbled and the unit plunged into the water.

Polly and Placenta screamed simultaneously. Polly screamed again. And again, this time softer. And then they all realized that nothing had happened.

In the split second between the hair dryer sinking into the water, and Sergeant Sandy looking incredulously at the lack of any electrical charge, Placenta grabbed the neck of the bottle of champagne and bashed it with full force onto Sandy’s skull. The security guard dropped to the floor and her handgun discharged, sending a bullet into the travertine of the shower at the opposite end of the room.

Polly laughed with satisfaction as she stepped out of the tub. With suds dripping from her body, she accepted a plush bath towel from Placenta.

“We showed her!” Placenta said, pulling the hair dryer cord out of the wall socket, and reeling in the device from the water. “Contrary to Sergeant Sandy’s high opinion of her intellect, she’s as dumb as they come. She picked the wrong bathroom grooming tool to use for execution.”

“She should read
Consumer Reports
,” Polly agreed.

“Since 1991, hair dryers have ground circuit interrupters, which prevent electrocution whether on or off,” Placenta recited.

As Polly stood looking at the body of Sergeant Sandy, and listening to Placenta quote an article they’d both
read about the special features on the top ten hair dryers, Tim bounded into the room without his shirt on.

He looked at his mother, wrapped in a white towel, and Placenta using long strands of dental floss to bind Sergeant Sandy’s hands behind her inert body. “I heard a gunshot! What happened?” he said, his eyes wide with fear.

Polly looked at her handsome son’s well-developed upper body. “I’m shocked that you could hear anything above the noise you were making out in the cottage,” she said with a loving smirk.

T
he EMT unit sopped up the blood on the floor from the crack in Sergeant Sandy’s skull. The crime scene investigators photographed every vein of travertine and marble in the master suite bathroom. They tweezed and bagged the last strands of hair in every drain. Detective Archer made his official preliminary report and chastised Polly for not checking the references of the people she hired. And field news reporters from channels 4, 5, 7, and 11, and Access
Hollywood
, finally left the estate to embellish out of all proportion the story of Polly Pepper’s too-close-for-comfort brush with a psychotic security patrol assassin. Now it was time for the star to zip her hiney into her new D & G dress and play
Beat the Clock
to get to the live broadcast of
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
.

Dressed to impress a platoon of paparazzi along a celebrity-clogged red carpet, Polly followed Tim and Placenta and hustled to the Rolls-Royce. “Step on it, sweetie,” she called from the backseat. The car cruised off the estate and sped down Stone Canyon Road and onto Sunset Boulevard.

Finally gliding up to Sterling Studios’ legendary lightning-bolt-logo wrought-iron gates, Tim stopped at the guard kiosk and pushed the control to roll down his and Polly’s windows. Polly’s favorite security guard, Jack, was on duty and waiting for her with his clipboard in hand. “One for Miss P.,” he said, handing a computergenerated self-adhesive drive-on pass with her name printed in large bold type. “One for Tim. One for Placenta. Better make it snappy, Miss Pepper,” Jack said as he raised the arm of the black-and-white-striped barrier. “Your show starts in thirty minutes. I’ll call ahead so they’ll know that you’re here!”

Polly called out, “You’re in my will, sweetums!”

Tim drove down narrow streets between the soundstages, searching for a parking space close to Studio B stage door. “There!” Polly shouted, pointing toward a block-long empty space that ran the length of Stage 37.

“Fire zone,” Tim said as he continued on.

“Don’t be a sissy,” Polly protested. “Studios don’t burn down. If you don’t count Universal. Still, if anyone makes a noise, you can move the car then. In the meantime, I have my own emergency. I’ve got to get into makeup!”

Tim was used to following his mother’s instructions, regardless of the potentially dire consequences. He parked parallel to the enormous soundstage and rushed Polly and Placenta into the studio. Just inside, a production assistant was waiting to usher Polly to the makeup room. Another PA escorted Tim and Placenta to their seats in the VIP section of the audience.

As Polly followed the PA, she joked, “I would have arrived earlier, but a deranged killer attacked me!” The production assistant, who like all the other unpaid production assistants on the show was a freshly minted actor from the Hollywood Academy of Stage and Screen
The pians (the s had been missing from the sign on the dilapidated building that housed the so-called academy for as long as anyone could remember), politely, if disinterestedly listened to the old star.

Polly summed up the blond ingénue and said, “You’ll practically pee when I tell you that my intruder turned out to be that darling ‘High School Musical’ boy—in drag! You know the one. Hot bod, yet pretty enough to model Vera Wang.”

The young escort said, “No way!”

“Not a word of truth, dear,” Polly reassured the young girl. “But he’s pretty enough to get away with wearing Valentino. Don’tcha think?”

Finally settled in the makeup chair, Polly was given a quick touch-up of powder and lip-gloss and a dark pencil to her eyebrows. “Am I soup yet?” she said, smiling at Katie, the makeup girl. “Ah yes! A lovely tomato bisque. You’d do wonders for any old puss. Just tell me that the Saddleback creature was a makeup artist’s worst nightmare.”

“Absolutely,” Katie lied. “And you don’t look quite as constipated as Miss Thinks-She’s-the-Voice-of-American-Political-Reason.”

“One rounded tablespoon of Colon Cleanse mixed with champagne twice a day. That’s my regime! It would work wonders for her,” Polly declared. “By the by, gossip? Gossip? Gossip?”

Katie leaned in close to Polly’s ear. “You know I never dish my clients.”

“Just an initial or two?” Polly smiled. “Please, please?”

Katie grinned. “Okay. But this is more informational than simply the fun of ruining someone’s reputation with slander and defamation. I have it on reasonably good authority—the studio massage therapist told one of the interns, who told Kelly, the wardrobe lady, who
whispered it to me—that Lisa Marrs is not Thane Cornwall’s killer!”

Polly yawned. “Oh, hon, everybody who’s paid the slightest attention knows that! But can you name names?”

“Let’s just say that Kelly says she heard that Thane’s ex-gofer, Michael What’s-his-name, plans to drop a major WMD tonight. Might breathe some excitement into this dead cow of a show. She said he’ll massacre a couple of powerful reputations.”

Polly suppressed a laugh. “Anyone we love to despise?” Before Katie could say more, the PA received a text message on her BlackBerry.
Showtime, Miss Pepper! Gotta get you to the judges’ table right away
.

The color drained from Polly’s face. “This is my favorite feeling. The horror of when I’m about to face a live television audience is like an orgasm, only it lasts a hell of a lot longer!” She turned to the PA. “Let’s go, Peaches.”

As Polly moved through the backstage area of the studio, she absorbed the vibrations from the drone of the audience in the distance. She inhaled the scents of perspiration from the hardworking grips and gaffers. With each blink of her eyes Polly captured mental pictures of the backstage tumult. When she arrived at the judges’ table, she involuntarily smiled with a combination of excitement and fear. Just as her PA was leaving, another arrived with Brian Smith. “Sweetums!” Polly smiled and accepted a peck to her cheeks. “I’m thrilled to be home. What have I missed?”

“Nothing as exciting as your
real
life! I just saw the news on television. And someone told me it was Zac Efron disguised as Ashley Tisdale or Vanessa Hudgens. Are you all right?”

“I should be so lucky to have those cuties in my home. No, the intruder was just a crazed fan who broke
into the wrong twenty-seven-room Bel Air mansion. Apparently she was aiming for Barbara Eden. For years I’ve been telling Barbara to answer fan mail more promptly! Loonies are just waiting for us to disappoint them. All of the Polly Pepper fan blogs commend me on authentic autographs. The particular crazy who wandered into my boudoir wanted to bottle Barbara up as Genie again and send her back to Babylon.” Polly shrugged. “Remind me who’s left among the contestants on this dangerous show!”

“Where’ve you been, girl?” Brian said. “It’s down to Ped-Xing and Taco Bell.”

Polly shivered. “Don’t let her mother hear you call her that.”

As Polly scanned the audience, the crowd suddenly erupted with boos; Richard Dartmouth was walking toward the judges’ seating area. “Oh Lord,” Polly said, nudging Brian. “I sense that I’m in for a rough night.”

“Success and power have gone to his head,” Brian said. “Richard is as bad as Thane Cornwall. The contestants are sullen, but I can tell they’re petrified of how he’ll slam their performances, and the way he’ll mock their answers to the interview questions. I’m surprised that he hasn’t joined Thane down in Hades.”

When Richard arrived he coolly ignored Polly.

“He’s ticked off because my lovely agent coaxed him into bringing me back to the program,” Polly whispered to Brian.

Richard took his seat, and the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play. With a drumroll from the orchestra, the announcer called out, “Live! From Sterling Studios! Deep in the heart of the San Fernando Valley. Just over the hill from the real Hollywood. This is
I’ll Do Anything to Become
Fay-mous!”

The orchestra played the show’s theme song, an
eerie Metallica-flavored arrangement of “Live and Let Die,” and the studio audience applauded wildly and stomped their feet. They divided their attention between the live action onstage and large television screens showing what the home viewing audiences were seeing. The announcer continued. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome. Your host. Steven. Ben-ja-min!” The crowd cheered even more loudly as Steven bounced into the spotlight. His smile advertised the whitest, most perfectly arranged teeth. His eyes sparkled like glitter. His dimples dimpled. And the cleft in his chin was deep enough to require flossing after meals. He held up his hands to quiet his adoring fans.

“Here we are!” Steven said as the applause died down. “The final night of our competition! To celebrate, let’s welcome back that very special legend from the last century, the still lovely and ambulatory Polly Pepper!”

Blowing kisses, Polly stood up to accept the ovation. “I’m not quite ready for the Neptune Society.” Then she added, “I have the lovely and talented Richard Dartmouth to thank for inviting me to return for this auspicious final installment of the program.” Polly applauded Richard and was accompanied by a halfhearted response from the crowd. They weren’t as eager to salute the man they loved to hate. Instead, they wanted to hear Ped-Xing and Socorro sing, and to find out who would be voted the most likely to make an easy meal out of their family and friends in order to reach the top rung on the ladder of success. Richard Dartmouth studiously inspected his cuticles.

Before Polly could take her seat, the camera returned to Steven Benjamin. “Let’s set history in motion!” he said, rubbing his hands. “Please welcome our two remaining contestants. Ped-Xing! And … Socorro Sanchez!”

The two walked across the stage. Their lack of camaraderie was evident. Neither did they hold hands, nor did they smile at each other, or at Steven. In fact, they stood on opposite sides of the host looking as bored as prostitutes working Main Street, Disneyland.

However, gracious master of ceremonies that he was, Steven pretended not to notice the lack of congeniality between the contestants. “As you remember from last week, darling Miranda and sweet Amy said goodbye to our shrinking family here at
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
. Shall we take a look at some of their more memorable parting shots?”

Projected on the large screens throughout the studio soundstage was a montage of film clips showing Amy’s three weeks on the show. Her singing was flat, and what appeared to be mean-spirited jibes from Thane and Richard were mostly spot-on. Then came the moment from last week when Steven Benjamin had to open a sealed envelope and read, “You’ll
never
be famous,” which were the dreaded words telling the contestants that they were being ditched from the show.

The screen revealed Amy in shocked skepticism. Then the smug faces of the remaining members of the contest were shown. A handheld camera followed Amy as she stomped off the stage to return to her dressing room. In the cinder block corridor, she looked into the camera and said, “I was promised! I swear, when I write my book, I’ll let the freakin’ cat outta the bag!”

The camera returned to Steven. “Such a good sport. Not! And of course, Miranda departed last week, too. I’m biting my nails all over again. Let’s take a look at that auspicious occasion.” The large screens showed the tense moments as Steven opened the envelope and spoke Miranda’s name. The eliminated contestant put her hands on her hips, curling her lips. Then she slapped
Socorro. “You know what that’s for!” And she slapped Steven while sputtering, “Liar! Cheater!”

Backstage, she said, “Some so-called big people are gonna become very small, very soon.” Then she slapped the camera out of the videographer’s hands, breaking the thirty-five-thousand-dollar piece of equipment.