A Talent for Murder (34 page)

Polly tried to feel sorry for Richard. However, she looked him in the eye and said, “Sweetums, you got exactly what you wanted: contestants caught sabotaging each other, ruining established showbiz careers, and destroying any hint of the myth that Hollywood is only for the talented few. You decided that if you showed how cruel and crass people can be when their egos want to slurp from the well of celebrity, then your own career would skyrocket. And it did. At least until a little ol’ inconvenient truth popped up. The only real talent on this show was a talent for murder.”

Polly stood up. She looked at a forlorn Richard Dartmouth. “Honey, you know as well as I do that in Hollywood, when an executive is fired from one position, he gets an even better job at another studio. It’s called ‘failing up.’ It worked for Shari Draper. She used to occupy this very office. Not to worry your impossibly handsome kisser. Call J.J. if you need a reference. You’ll have to kiss his butt. However, you made it this far in H-wood, so I suspect you’ve perfected that skill.”

Suddenly, the office door opened. Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked up as a young man wearing tortoise-shell eyeglasses, an untucked white satin twill shirt, faded blue jeans, and a Bluetooth cell phone headset embedded in his ear confidently walked into the room. “Time’s up, Dartmouth,” he said.

Polly studied the man for a moment. “Combat pay?” she asked.

A smile played across the young man’s face. “Not anymore. J.J. fired me. But Seymour Tallowschmid hired me. I’m now his director of development here at Sterling. This is my new office. Oh, and my name’s Shawn.”

Tim looked at J.J.’s former temp receptionist. “We
knew you’d quickly move up the ladder, but this is ridiculous,” he joked.

“Only in Hollywood, eh? One day you’re a Nobody receptionist earning ten bucks an hour. The next, you’re producing TV and films, with a six-figure salary, a BMW, and an expense account,” Shawn said.

Suddenly the kid from J.J. Norton’s office became serious. “Polly. Er, Miss P. Your performance tonight killed us. That song. Mwah! Your stage presence. Wow! Awesome! Stellar! Seymour and I wanna make you a star. D’ya follow me?”

“I’m already an icon, dear.” Polly looked down her nose.

“Sure. Of course. We all know that. Right. But you’re from my parents’ generation,” Shawn said. “However, there’s still a place for you in Hollywood. Seymour thinks so. I know so. Seymour thinks you should do a special. I say a big event in Central Park. No. A talk show, like
Ellen
. Hmm. No. A sitcom about a famous star who solves murder mysteries?” Shawn put his fingertips to his temples. “I’m getting a vibration about this one.”

“It’s the radiation from the cell phone embedded in your head,” Polly said.

“I’m calling J.J. to set up a lunch. Tomorrow. The Ivy. Two o’clock,” Shawn said. As he turned to leave the room he looked at Richard Dartmouth and his box of personal effects. “Don’t think about using that Emmy to get rid of me. It’s no longer an original idea,” he said. Then, at the door, he faced Polly again. “You were nice to me at that sucky job.”

In the great room at Pepper Plantation, Polly, Tim, Placenta, and Detective Archer clinked their cham
pagne flutes together. “Cheers! To Polly Pepper, the egalitarian!” Tim proclaimed. As you always said, ‘Be nice to the little people in Hollywood, because eventually they’ll be running this town.’“

Polly “hear-heared.” She turned to Tim. “Party time!”

“Ugh,” Tim sighed. “I figured this was coming.”

“Next Saturday,” Polly continued. “Something utterly amazing to celebrate Lisa being released from that smelly Beverly Hills Gulag, and Steven taking her place. Oh, and Shawn, and Seymour Tallowschmid—whoever he is—getting my career back on track.”

“I’ve actually been playing with party theme ideas for a couple of weeks,” Tim confirmed. “Catherine the Great Caterer is on board. I’ve already met with the mayor. He’s assigned the DWP to flush out your hole so our guests can go down there and play ‘What’s My Phobia?’ I’m thinking … maybe secret closed-circuit TV coverage down there. We can sequester our chums, like John Travolta and Zac Efron. Large-screen monitors will show everyone else how well they dance in the dark. Oh, and maybe my silver foxy idol Anderson Cooper and Placenta’s fave, Daniel Craig. They’ve all got a ton of talent that’s hidden from all but the
National Peeper
. It would be a scream for the other guests to watch!”

Polly smiled and raised her glass to her son. “A hole is only as good as the people who fill it.”

“That’s what I always say.” Placenta clinked her glass against Tim’s.

Polly said, “We have tons to celebrate! I solved a couple more murder cases. That cute kid from J.J.’s office—by the way, I think he’s son-in-law material—wants me to do another TV show. Lisa Marrs is free from jail. Steven Benjamin is facing a lethal injection. Officer Sandy is strapped to a bed in the lockdown ward at Cedars. Hollywood is still for dreamers!”

Placenta cleared her throat. “I have to know one thing. When did you send that chip of Steven’s tooth to a DNA lab?”

Polly smiled. “You’re a maid. Can’t you tell the difference between a grain of Uncle Ben’s converted rice and a chip of someone’s bicuspid?”

Placenta shook her head and smiled.

“What about Steven Benjamin starring in his own home surveillance footage?” Tim asked. “You’re in our sights twenty-four-seven. When did you have a chance to get to Mayday and check out their coverage of Steve’s property from the night of Thane’s murder?”

Polly shrugged and took another sip of champagne. “No one ever gives me credit for being a great actress!”

“A great con artist,” Placenta said.

“Another bluff?” Tim guessed.

“Whatever. I deserve an Oscar for playing the role of the Grand Inquisitor tonight,” Polly said. She turned to Detective Archer and purred, “What prize do I win for being so amazing and talented and glowing with star shine?” She smiled.

He smiled.

Tim and Placenta faked yawns.

“I guess I’ll be setting another place at the table for breakfast,” Placenta said as she took one last swallow from her glass. She leaned over to hug Polly good night.

Polly reached out and affectionately caressed Placenta’s cheek. “Celebrities, like Anne Hathaway, are manmade,” she said. “Stars, like me, are
God
made. You, my dear, are a saint.”

“In other words, better than … but not as good as.” Tim mocked his mother’s attempt at tribute and helped Placenta to her feet.

“There’s nothing wrong with Limbo!” Polly hissed.

Placenta shook her head and bade good night with a pat to Detective Archer’s head and a peck to Tim’s cheek. “Purgatory is more like it. But at least I’m in an exclusive Zip Code,” she said, and walked out the door.