Set Sail for Murder (24 page)

As Sharri chattered on, Polly looked at Placenta and said, “I think this one’ll do.”

“Oh, I’ll do anything!” Sharri said. She exfoliated Polly’s hands with a mixture of salt that she claimed was imported from the Dead Sea, and liquid soap. “It’s made from something organic that one of the masseuses created,” Sharri said.

“Another of Rosemary’s concoctions?” Polly asked.

“Isn’t she amazing!” Sharri said. “I wouldn’t have the stomach to make this stuff. I’d tell you where it comes from but I’ve been sworn to secrecy, plus you’d puke.”

“Gee, it feels like snail pulp.”

Sharri looked up in horror.

“Just a guess, dear. You didn’t say a word to me,” Polly insisted.

“I think I’ve been aboard this ship for far too long because when I finally have interesting customers like you, I just want to chat, chat, chat,” Sharri continued. “We’re at sea so much of the time that I don’t get to watch my favorite shows like
Entertainment Tonight,
or
E!
or
Access Hollywood.
I love that handsome Billy Bush who was on one of ‘em. So cute. Don’t you think so?”

Polly gave Sharri a big smile and lied that she agreed completely.

As Sharri moisturized and massaged Polly’s hands with a scented oil, she yammered on about how she could tell that Polly was probably a very rich lady; she knew by looking at hands whether or not their owners lived a pampered life or one of hard physical work. “Yours are so delicate and not at all in need of attention or a manicure.”
Then she looked over at Placenta. “I’m going to have to work extrahard on yours. I think someone is giving you too many chores to do around the house.”

“I work in a diamond mine in Bel Air,” Placenta stated, and gave Polly a look of satisfaction.

“Really?” Sharri said with deep interest. “Makes sense that there would be jewelry mines in such a ritzy place.” As Sharri talked about how few men she was able to meet on cruises—mostly because they’re with their wives or girlfriends—Polly took action to avoid being dragged into a one-sided conversation. She had information to pick from Sharri’s brain, and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass.

“Have you joined the dead pool yet?” Polly asked.

Sharri stopped kneading Polly’s palm and gave her a quizzical look. “That’s over. Our cruise director cashed in.”

“Oh, but there’s a new one,” Polly revealed. “One must guess who kills me.”

Placenta leaned toward Sharri. “My money is on Captain Sheridan.”

“Madame Destiny, the psychic, is the one I’d bet on,” Polly said. “She and I had quite a chat and she seemed to know far too much about the killer. What about you? Any guesses?”

Sharri resumed her duties and blithely said, “I could use the extra bucks if I win. Passengers are lousy tippers.”

“So, you have a good idea who did the killing?” Polly said hopefully.

“What makes you think that?” Sharri said warily.

“Just a hunch. I’ll bet you know a lot of interesting things.”

Sharri picked up a white towel and wiped Polly’s hands of excess oil. She then set an abalone shell filled with warm water on a tray in front of Polly. “We’ll soak for a few minutes to soften your cuticles.” She then moved to Placenta and began the same treatment that she had performed
for Polly. As she was exfoliating Placenta’s hands, she said, “If I tell you who killed Laura Crawford, then it’ll be a three-way tie and I wouldn’t have all the money to myself.”

Instantly Polly’s hands jumped out of the abalone shell, an involuntary reflex.

“Not that I’m greedy. Soak a little longer,” Sharri said, placing Polly’s hands back in the shell.

“I never gamble,” Polly insisted. “I have a ton of money and intend to keep it that way. So I’m definitely not in competition to win the dead pool. It’s all yours. Who killed, er, who do you
think
killed Laura Crawford?

Sharri washed and dried Placenta’s hands and then applied moisturizer. “I had an interesting customer the other day.”

“More interesting than the Charlie’s Angel who’s on board?” Polly prodded.

“Almost,” Sharri said. “This one was an art historian. She was in desperate need of a manicure. The nails on her left hand were ripped and jagged. She was fussy, too. She insisted that I clean and file and buff each nail three times. I was just a little bit suspicious, because it seemed like I was cleaning dried blood out from under her nails.” Sharri leaned in for a whisper. “I kept a bit of her cuticle and nail trimmings in an envelope, in case anyone wanted to test her DNA for a match with the dead woman.”

She and Placenta looked at each other as if to say, “This one’s no dummy.”

“What day was that?” Polly asked.

“The second day out. The day they found the actress’s body over there.” She pointed to a closed door in the spa. “It’s locked, of course, waiting for when we reach port for the police to investigate. Gives me the creeps to be so close to that room, knowing what happened in there.” She shuddered.

As Sharri wiped Placenta’s hands clean from oil and instructed
her to place them in another abalone shell of warm water, she returned to Polly with a cuticle stick. Although there was very little cuticle to push back, she made a show of doing her job professionally.

Polly nonchalantly said, “After all your hard work on that woman, I hope that she left a decent tip.”

“Not!” Sharri snorted. “The English are terrible tippers.”

“British, eh?” Polly said. “And an art dealer. Perhaps she gave you an intangible tip instead, like advice about buying art treasures?”

“Who needs art?” Sharri said. “I’d much rather have the dollars!” Sharri took out her emery board and began to shape Polly’s fingernails.

Although Polly was attempting to be subtle, Placenta was having none of it. “What was this woman’s name? What did she look like? What was she wearing? Pierced ears or not? Shade of lipstick? Long hair? Short hair? Rings? Wedding band? Any distinguishing features, other than her accent?”

Sharri batted her eyes at Placenta. “It was four days ago. I’ve had a hundred other clients since then. I’ll have to think hard and get back to you.”

Polly interrupted. “Darling, if you’re going to win the pool, you’ll have to think fast. The drawing is tonight. How ‘bout if we play coach and try to help you remember?”

Sharri’s eyes sparkled when she thought of winning the dead pool. “How much money did you say was in the dead pool kitty?”

“I didn’t. It depends on how many passengers are playing. According to Saul, the cruise director, the pot is up to about thirty thousand dollars!” Polly lied.

Sharri’s emery board slipped and she filed across Polly’s nail plate, causing Polly to grimace in pain.

Sharri didn’t seem to notice that she’d injured her client,
as she stared into her future and imagined what she could do with a bag of loot.

Placenta continued. “Young? Old? Tall? Short? Think of a movie star that she looked like.”

“Maybe she was a real movie star,” Sharri said. “There are so many of you people on this particular cruise and maybe she was lying about being an art dealer so she wouldn’t have to talk about Hollywood.”

“Are you kidding?” Polly pooh-poohed Sharri’s assumption. “Any semicelebrity on this ship would be thrilled to spend an hour telling you every show they ever appeared on.”

“She did seem more sophisticated than the usual Hollywood types I’ve had as clients,” Sharri said. “Maybe if we had a police lineup I might be able to pick her out.”

Polly suddenly sat up straight. “We can arrange that! Sort of! Come with me!” Polly insisted as she pulled off her smock and got out of her chair.

“I’m still on duty!” Sharri insisted.

“I promise to leave you a great big tip,” Polly said as she helped Placenta out of her chair and threw her a small towel to dry her hands. “This way!”

In moments, Polly, Placenta, and Sharri were racing toward the glass elevator in the main atrium. When they arrived at Polly’s luxurious stateroom, Placenta automatically brought out four champagne flutes and unwrapped the foil surrounding the cork of a bottle of Veuve. Polly picked up the telephone and pushed 0 to reach the operator. “Tim Pepper, please and thank you.” Soon after, there was a knock at the door. “Is it you, Sweetums?” Polly called.

“’Tis I.” Tim assumed an affected voice.

When he was ushered into the room, Polly introduced Sharri. “Game time!” she declared. “Sharri may have had a special movie star client the other day, and we need to find out who it is. Here’s a copy of the
Daily Wave,”
she
said, handing the paper to Tim. “There’s a list of every celebrity lecturer on this boat. Google ‘em and let Sharri see if she can pick out the one who didn’t leave such a hot tip.”

Tim smiled. “Ah! Revenge of the stiffed!”

Polly watched as Tim opened up his computer and signed on to the Internet. “We’re trying to help this talented young woman win the dead pool. Just bring up the female celebs.”

“Dead pool?” Tim asked, looking at Polly. “I’ll do what I can to help.” As Tim ran down the list of celebrities who were aboard the
Intacti,
he Googled their names and brought up official Web pages or fan sites, which included mostly old photographs from the time when they were somebody semi-important in Hollywood.

With each name and each photograph, Sharri shook her head. “Maybe that one?” She finally fingered a photo.

“Loni Anderson’s too likable,” Polly said.

Sharri pointed to another picture. “She looks familiar.”

“That’s Faith Ford. She never worked with Laura, hence she wouldn’t have a motive.”

“What about her?”

“Laurie Metcalf? Pul-eze! If she didn’t murder Roseanne during all the years of hell on that show, she probably wouldn’t kill a cockroach.”

“It’s hard to tell,” Sharri complained, and withdrew an emery board from her pocket. She buffed her nails as she continued to view photos. “In real life they’re in living color.”

“What about the name?” Polly said. “If you saw the name again, do you think you’d remember if it belonged to your customer?”

Sharri shrugged. “She came in without an appointment.”

“Let’s try,” Polly begged. She picked up the
Daily Wave
and started to run down a list of guest lecturers who were experts in such fields as origami, and the art of bending forks into fine sculptures, and raising centipedes for fun and profit.
Finally, when she read, “‘My Five-Year-Old Can Paint Better Than That!’ A discussion of modern art in contemporary culture by internationally renowned archivist from the Leeds-Upon-River Kite Museum of Pop Culture and Susan Boyle in Upper Crosstone, England. Amelia Aimsburry.’”

Sharri’s eyes popped. “That’s her! That’s the one!” she exclaimed. “I’d know that name anywhere!”

“And yet you couldn’t think of it a moment ago,” Polly said. She continued reading—then looked at her watch. “Ms. Aimesburry has a lecture in twenty minutes. Grab your sketch pads. We’re attending class!”

Despite intense objections from Tim and Placenta, both of whom whined that they would rather learn how to raise centipedes for fun and profit, Polly took one last sip from her champagne flute and headed out the door. Naturally, the others followed.

I
n anticipation of low passenger interest, the cruise director arranged for the art lecture to be held in the relatively small space of the ship’s library. As a matter of fact, when Amelia Aimsburry introduced herself from the librarian’s desk, the audience consisted only of Polly, Tim, Placenta, Sharri, and two old women who looked as though they wandered in because they had absolutely nothing else to do before the next round of bingo.

Placenta nudged Polly and said, “I know you’re turning over every rock to find Laura’s killer, but this sparrow of a thing doesn’t look strong enough to hold a paintbrush, let alone the head of an overweight so-called actress.”

As Polly hushed Placenta, Amelia offered a long list of professional and academic credits in the art world that qualified her to deliver a lecture on what she called “a misunderstood aspect of pop culture.” As she prattled on about the boredom she suffered as a child being taught about classical art followed by her studies of the Impressionists, Post-Impressionists, the Cubism movement, and non-representational art, Polly stifled a yawn.

Amelia looked at Polly with a small smile. “I quite agree with you, Miss Pepper,” she said. “I, too, found it all a great
challenge to understand why anyone would want to look at haystacks and lilies, when they could be looking at this!”

In that moment, with the push of a button on a remote control, a slide projector filled a home movie screen with an image of a white unframed canvas on which one red pinstripe was painted across the bottom width of the artwork. “Would anyone like to tell me why this masterpiece,
Mother and Child,
is one of the most important artistic contributions to the contemporary canon?” Amelia said. She looked around and saw only blank expressions and one of horror from Placenta. “Because it speaks!”

One of the two old ladies said to the other, “It’s saying, ‘I’ll bet some damn fool fell for the joke and paid a fortune for that piece of crapola!’”

Polly couldn’t control an involuntary surge of laughter. Although she instantly caught herself, it was too late. Amelia Aimsburry stopped her lecture and, with arms folded across her chest, stared at Polly fiercely. Polly forced a cough and pointed to her throat.

After a moment, Amelia continued.
“Mother and Child
represents the neverending journey of not only the artist, but the universe. As you can see, one’s eye is instantly drawn to the deceptively simple bloodline which symbolizes the interminable and enduring hopelessness of our existence.”

One of the old women got up and said to her friend, “This is interminable and hopeless. Let’s find a game of darts and stab out our eyes.”

As they left the room, Amelia looked crestfallen. She turned to Polly and company. “I’m afraid that my talk isn’t very interesting to most people,” she said. “I thought that if I had a little fun with the title, that people would drop in, instead of out.”