Set Sail for Murder (32 page)

As a thousand thoughts collided in Polly’s brain, Placenta whispered in her ear and pointed to Cori. All eyes followed Placenta’s finger and focused on the V of Cori’s open neck shirt.

Cori became self-conscious and touched his hand to a gold braided choker he was wearing. Before Polly could say one word about it, Cori shouted. “Okay. I confess! It belonged to Laura Crawford. It was in a box among her personal things. But I swear I had nothing to do with killing her! I took it as a remembrance.”

Polly looked confused.

“I persuaded the nurse at the infirmary to let me into the storage room where Laura Crawford’s things were being stored. I lied and said that Laura and I were old friends, and
that I wanted to meditate for a few minutes while close to what she left in this world. I didn’t think anyone would notice if I took one small item. A memento. Laura was important to me.”

Polly laughed. “Laura Crawford was important to Laura Crawford.”

“What was important was the example she set.”

“How to alienate friends and lose a career by being hostile to directors and producers and fans?”

Cori nodded. “Exactly. By watching her behave so poorly toward others, I realized that I was the same way. Ever since appearing on your show and seeing how mean she was to everyone, including me, I’ve tried to change my ways. I didn’t want to end up a bitter old has-been like Laura Crawford.”

“And yet you still stole from the dead,” Polly said.

As everyone was staring at Cori suspiciously the cell phone rang. While Polly and Cori were having their discourse, Captain Sheridan had pushed the redial button on Laura’s phone and the ring tone from the other echoed out among the crowd. The captain looked at Dorian. “I checked the call log. Miss Pepper is right. This phone received a call at three thirteen and five forty-five. It lasted all of twelve seconds.”

Dorian suddenly looked uneasy. “So? Just because I received calls at the same time that someone called Laura’s phone doesn’t mean anything. Just a coincidence.”

“Then this is your phone?”

Dorian was silent.

Captain Sheridan said, “Let’s take a look at the text messages, shall we?” He scrolled through several pages and stopped to read a particular entry. “Someone who used this phone texted [email protected] It says,
‘Daily Wave.
Headline. PP PISSED. IN THE DRINK.’ It’s dated the day before yesterday. It’s the phony obit.”

Dorian shook his head and said, “I’ll be in my stateroom. I won’t endure any more of this Hollywood-style harassment
and insinuation.” He turned to Polly. “I thought we were friends. You’re nothing more than a diva without the talent!” Dorian turned and began to walk away.

“Hold it, Mr. Dawson,” Captain Sheridan ordered.

Dorian turned around with a sneer on his face. “If you so much as whisper an accusation about me being involved with a murder, so help me, I’ll have your commission. I may look like a humble little shoe salesman, but I have friends in places that would make you cringe with fear.”

Captain Sheridan glared. “I simply wanted to tell you to enjoy the rest of your cruise. We’re placing Mr. Berman under arrest.”

Cori Berman railed. “I’m not a killer!”

“You’re at least a thief!” Captain Sheridan yelled. “An admitted one at that. If nothing else, I’m holding you for stealing Ms. Crawford’s personal property. And for tampering with evidence in a murder investigation.” He turned to his security detail. “Take him away.”

Polly, Tim, and Placenta watched as Cori Berman was led from the stage, down the steps, and up the aisle to the theater doors. His last words before they disappeared out the door were, “A.L. stands for Angela Lansbury!”

“T
he show must go on!” Captain Sheridan demanded of the crowd. “Git!”

As passengers filed back to their seats, and the small band began to tune up, the cruise director picked up the microphone and joked about the excitement that can happen in live theater. “You never know what to expect,” he laughed. “But now, it’s back to
Ha-Ha, Hollywood!”

As Polly, Tim, and Placenta made their way into the stage wings, they were followed by the captain. When they were safely out of the spotlight, and away from the possibility of their voices being heard over a microphone, the captain stopped and faced Polly. He stood with his arms tightly folded over his chest. “Perhaps this time you’re right. Maybe Cori Berman is the killer. He has a reputation. His motive for killing Miss Crawford is flimsy at best, but he did steal her choker, and maybe destroyed evidence. I don’t know. I’ll leave this investigation for the police when we dock in the morning.”

Polly mimicked the captain and crossed her arms as well. “I’m no longer sure,” she admitted. “Maybe he’s too obvious. Maybe Dorian did drop his phone overboard. He
is a klutz pouring champagne. But I would have sworn that when his phone rang …”

The captain shook his head and said, “Save it for the police and the Coast Guard and Homeland Security. The only reason I feel comfortable holding Mr. Berman is because he confessed to stealing Laura Crawford’s personal property.

“Do me a favor,” Captain Sheridan continued. “Get out of my sight and don’t let me see you again until TCM shows one of your old movies. Then I’ll turn you off.”

Tim reached out and placed a comforting hand on Polly’s shoulder. “Let’s go drown ourselves. I notice Krug, Clos du Mesnil is on the wine list.”

“Lead the way,” Polly said, cinching her arm around Placenta’s waist as they followed Tim to the backstage exit. When Tim pushed the bar handle on the fire exit door, it opened up onto the Upper Tundra Deck. The trio unexpectedly found themselves outside. It was a cool night and Polly leaned in closer to Placenta for warmth as they made their way toward the inside deck.

Polly looked up at the stars. “I wonder if Laura is looking down at me and laughing at the mess I’ve made of my investigation.”

Placenta hugged Polly closer. “It’s about time that shrew had a good laugh. Maybe if she’d watched
Frasier
and Road Runner cartoons, she would have been happier. Let’s face it. Sad as this is to say about anyone, she won’t be missed.”

Polly nodded. “Imagine being given a small talent, and many opportunities, and not being grateful for it. Right now I’m feeling very sad for her. Oh, not because she’s dead. She probably doesn’t care about that. But she wasted a perfectly good life.”

Tim said, “I think you should be feeling happy for her. Thanks to you and
The Polly Pepper Playhouse,
she actually left a legacy and a body of work. She’ll be remembered
not for the intolerable bitch that she was, but for making audiences laugh.”

Polly said that she thought Tim was probably right. “You two run along to the Polar Bar and order that bottle for us. I’ll be along shortly. The stars are so bright. I sorta want to be alone for a few minutes to gaze up to heaven—not that Laura is anywhere near that place—and say my own version of farewell to her.”

“Don’t freeze to death,” Tim said. “And what did Cori mean by ‘A.L. stands for Angela Lansbury?’”

“Cori’s crazy,” Polly said.

“Say a prayer for me, too, while you’re at it,” Placenta said. “Tell Him I need my tummy rubbed by Lawrence one last time before we reach Juneau in the morning.”

Polly smiled as she left her family and strolled along the brightly lit wooden deck, the sound of flags slapping in the breeze putting her in a meditative mood. As eager as she was to return to her mansion in Bel Air, she was disheartened that she was unable to bring Laura Crawford’s killer to justice.

As Polly walked into the shadows between two lifeboats, she sighed. “Laura. Laura. Laura. Who did this awful thing to you? If you hadn’t needed money, you wouldn’t have been on this cruise in the first place, and you wouldn’t have died the way you did. I feel guilty because we could have worked something out financially.”

Polly leaned against the railing and looked down at the white waves flooded with light from the ship. She then looked to the sky. Polly closed her eyes and shook her head. “Laura, dear. I have a very funny story for you. You’re probably someplace hot and sticky right now and you could use a giggle. Remember the paintings you loved so much? The Warhol, Bachardy, and Hockney that I bought from you for next to nothing when you were broke? Guess what? I got what I paid for. Nothing. You sold me fakes, just like the ones I had reproduced for you. I knew almost from the beginning but figured they still looked good, and
were cheap, so why make a fuss and have to pay a fortune in insurance premiums. And I’ve lied all these years telling people that they’re genuine. Hell, I’ve impressed hundreds of guests. Isn’t that too funny?”

Suddenly, the scent of fresh sea air shifted and Polly picked up the fragrance of men’s cologne. She sniffed the air, turned away from the ocean, and gasped as she found herself staring directly into Dorian’s fierce and blazing eyes.

“Interesting conversation you’re having with the dead,” Dorian said.

“At least she can’t talk back to me anymore.”

“Confession time?”

Polly nodded. “I suspect you didn’t like what you heard.”

“On the contrary. I wanted confirmation of what Laura told me with her last breath,” Dorian said. “My guess is that Laura counted on you keeping your trap shut all these years. If the
Peeper
got wind of the story, she would have looked like Bernie Madoff, and you one of his hapless victims. Of course, she’d have cried shock and embarrassment and explained that she didn’t know anything about art and had obviously been duped herself. You could afford to keep quiet about her deception. I can’t.”

Polly rubbed her arms against the evening chill and said, “You were swindled. She cheated you, the way she cheated me and probably others. So you killed her. When did you find out they were fakes?”

“Too late,” Dorian said. “I stupidly thought that since she was a pseudocelebrity that she’d be on the up and up. I had the canvases appraised
after
I paid her $175,000.”

Polly laughed. “Sweetums! Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘If it sounds too good to be true …’”

“The Andy Warhol Art Authentication Board denied the authenticity of the silk screen,” Dorian interrupted through gritted teeth. “They laughed at me. Then I demanded my money back from Laura. She laughed too and had the gall
to say, ‘All sales are final.’ She had an insolent, imperious way about her.”

“I remember the look,” Polly said. “It was an attitude that made you want to strangle her.”

“I paid her every cent that I had, for Christ’s sake!” Dorian looked deep into Polly’s eyes. “The last thing she said to me was, ‘Get them from Polly Pepper.’”

“She sold me what she sold you—worthless junk. I just didn’t make a stink about it. I never believed her tale of Warhol’s lost can of soup. What a crock.” Polly smiled. “But I was able to help a fellow thespian who needed money, and I let her go on thinking that I was as much of a moron about art as she was about musical comedy. Funny, eh?”

“Never mind,” Dorian spat. “Laura ripped me off. I got chummy with you in order to get my hands on what was rightfully mine. I think you’re lying about their authenticity.”

Polly stared Dorian down. “How did you plan to get them out of my possession? Did you think I’d simply hand over my Hockney?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Dorian reached into the inside breast pocket of his sport coat and withdrew a tri-folded piece of paper. He held it under his nose like a cigar and pretended to inhale the aroma. “A change to your will.” He smiled.

Polly blanched. “Tim had you pegged as a nut from the beginning. In the future, I’ll pay more attention to his intuition.”

Dorian repeated, “In the future,” and offered a hollow laugh. Opening the folded document, he explained what he’d done. “I love the Internet. There’s a Web site for everything—
www.Sicktodeath.com
creates wills for only $9.95. I made a codicil to yours. You’ll sign it, and I’ll be very happy to receive your generous bequest of three of your most important pieces of modern art.”

“You wasted money,” Polly said.

“After you’re gone no one will question your gift because we’ve become such chums during this week. Our mutual love for modern art is now well established. At least by the passengers who saw us together at the art auction. It was especially lucky that my cell phone went off. It called further attention to us.”

Polly nodded. She thought Dorian’s plan was actually a pretty good one. “Ah, but if I leave the planet via a dunk in the ocean, you’ll have to wait ages—decades maybe—to get your mitts on my canvases ‘cause without a body it’ll be a while before I’m declared officially dead.”

Dorian nodded. “Everyone feels they have more time left on Earth than they actually do. Every breath could be our last. Accidents happen with the blink of an eye. Poof! Gone and soon forgotten.”

“I’m not accident prone,” Polly said. “After those vampires at Sterling Studios, nothing can harm me. And there’s no sense in signing some stupid will that you downloaded from the Net, ‘cause even if the artworks in question are real, I wouldn’t give a boring man like you the satisfaction.”

Dorian sniggered and shook his head. “All actors are liars.”

“We play roles,” Polly corrected.

“Right now you’re playing the role of an innocent who was taken advantage of by Laura Crawford, just as I was,” Dorian said. Suddenly he was in Polly’s face. “Bullshit!”

Polly tried to step back but was stopped by the railing along the side of the ship.

“You do have my art! Maybe they’re the pieces on your wall, the ones you insist are forgeries. Or maybe they’re tucked away in a vault.”

Polly could hear the roar of the ship’s engines and the sound of the vessel slicing its way through the Pacific Ocean. And she could see murder in Dorian’s terrifying eyes. “Why
would I lie about being moronic enough to buy phony art? Do you think I want my fans to know how retarded I am about culture? I swear, the only things of any value in my home are my Emmy Awards, the People’s Choice Awards, of course the lovely Peabody—oh, and I have a soft spot for the Grammy I won all those years ago. Of course I want an Oscar and a Tony, too. My friend Chita has all those prizes, and a freakin’ Kennedy Center honor. If she wasn’t so damned nice, I’d …”