Set Sail for Murder (3 page)

After Polly and her posse had gone through the Homeland Security checkpoints, and were finally on board the ship, a smiling steward, the poster boy for the “after” pictures in a teeth whitening ad, was assigned to escort them to their cabins. Dressed in a white uniform with gold braiding on the sleeves, he was at once professional and personable. Tim eagerly sized him up, looked at his name badge, and decided that Keith could be a Kool Krooz diversion.

As Keith led the way from the check-in desk and out through the ship’s enormous ten-story-high center atrium en route to the glass elevators, he explained that their luggage would be promptly delivered to their cabins. He also discussed the many recreational amenities of the ship: casino, cinema, disco, spa, all-you-can-eat Taco Tuesday. “If you brought your laptop, there’s an Internet access fee. And your cell phone will work as long as it’s compatible with the phone tower on the ship.” He then explained that it was mandatory for them to attend the safety drill, which would occur just before departure. “The captain doesn’t feel sorry when one of his passengers ignores his drill, then falls overboard.”

“I’m not ready for my final exit,” Polly assured him as they stopped in front of a cabin door.

“Lately, our ships and suicide pacts—or murders—seem to go together,” the steward continued. “Old couples especially tend to get on this very ship and disappear before we arrive at port. Voilà!” he announced as he inserted the key card into the lock and led the way inside.

Polly’s smile instantly vanished. “Sweetums,” she cooed, “there’s been a teensy mistake. I’ve been assigned to a lovely deluxe veranda penthouse suite.” She looked around. “This
is no bigger than Jo Anne Worley’s boa closet. Where’s my ocean?”

“This is an inside stateroom,” Keith explained. “You have a virtual view. It’s on the television. Channel 3.”

“Miss Pepper doesn’t want to see a
movie
of the ocean, she wants the Pacific outside her very own, very expensive, and completely comp deluxe veranda penthouse suite,” Placenta said.

“This is like a cheap motel in South Central,” Polly pouted, spying a single Hershey’s chocolate kiss on the bed pillow. “I’ve never been to South Central, and this cabin may make their cheap motels look like a room in the Playboy Mansion, but you get my drift.”

Placenta snatched the key card and printout of Polly’s reservation from the steward’s hand and carefully reviewed the details. She matched the cabin number on the door with that on the printout and shook her head. “This will not do. Miss Pepper was promised a suite. You’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”

Until now, the steward had been as cheerful as a Disneyland ambassador wired on Ephedrine. Now, he stiffened and crossed his arms. “I’ll see what can be done,” he said, struggling to maintain the advertised high level of decorum required of all employees of the ship.

Tim stepped forward. “We know this isn’t your fault, Keith, but my mother really was promised a suite. After all, she’s the star on the ship.”

“Aren’t they all,” the steward said.

“Beg pardon?” Placenta growled.

“What I mean … that is … everyone aboard the ship is treated like a celebrity,” the steward corrected himself as he apologized, quoting the company motto.

When Keith finally left the cabin, and with no promised satisfaction, Polly sat down on the bed and sighed.

Placenta groused, “Betcha that Laura Crawford’s got a great suite and you’ll be stuck right here for the duration of the voyage.”

“Get her cabin number,” Polly said, and pointed to the telephone. When Tim obtained the information from the operator, Polly ushered everyone out of the stateroom and down the corridor to the glass elevators.

The Galaxy Deck, where Laura’s cabin was located, was more like a wing of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. Decorating the corridor were crystal pendants dangling from sconces on the walls. The carpet was a mural of underwater sea life. “Dolphins and whales and starfish,” Polly pointed to the floor. “We have barnacle print linoleum!”

Polly knocked on Laura’s cabin door and called out her one-time protégée’s name. It took a louder second knock before they heard Laura’s weak voice.

“Who?” Laura whispered through the door.

“Just us sea urchins, Sweetums,” Polly said.

The door opened a crack as Laura peered into the corridor. “I’d invite you in, but …”

“We’ll only stay a second.” Polly blithely nudged the door and Laura aside. She stepped into the cabin and her jaw dropped. The suite was more like an elegant New York Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment than a floating hotel room. The stateroom was dominated by a sunken living room, which was four times the size of Polly’s own accommodations. Straight ahead was a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean seen through floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that led to a private terrace. A fifty-inch flat-screen television adorned one wall and an elevated dining area, wet bar, and kitchenette were on the opposite side of the cabin. A separate bedroom contained a queen-size bed. The bathroom was marble and travertine, and boasted a large glass shower.

Polly picked up a small ceramic bust of Nefertiti set on
the coffee table and examined the shape of the queen’s nose and headdress. “A fitting tchotchke to symbolize this stateroom is meant for royalty,” she said.

Laura closed the door then listened with detached interest as Polly wandered around and described her own small room. “I rather think they accidentally gave my suite to someone else,” Polly suggested.

Laura picked up a copy of her reservation. “Sorry, Polly. Someone else may have your stateroom, but this one was definitely assigned to me,” she said, pointing at the cabin number and her name on her key card and itinerary. “But don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’m trying to avoid … um, well, you know … um, the fans.”

“They’re sorta the point of you being here in the first place,” Placenta said.

Polly looked askance at Laura. “I’m sure the captain or someone will realize they’ve made a gross mistake and will reassign me to the proper stateroom.”

“No doubt,” Laura said. “Until then …” She opened the door to signal that Polly and her troupe should leave.

“I suppose you need to get some rest,” Polly said as she took one last look at the magnificent cabin. As she was reminding Laura that their first show was scheduled for four o’clock that afternoon, Polly spied a bottle of Moët beside a welcome basket of fruits and chocolates wrapped in cellophane. “A decent bottle,” she said, and glanced at the card. “‘Welcome aboard, Polly Pepper,’” she read aloud.

Laura giggled. “Yeah, your bottle was misdirected to
my
suite. You’ll save me the trouble of bringing it to your cramped space. Ciao!”

Back in her tiny stateroom, Polly was seething over Laura Crawford lying about the accommodations that were obviously meant not for a second banana but for a star. “She’s a lying little slut!” Polly spat.

“Something you never knew?” Tim scoffed.

“I would like to know how the little conniver arranged the swap,” Polly said, and held out a champagne glass to be filled. “It’s entirely my fault. I have always let her get away with the crap she pulls because I felt sorry for the little no-talent loser.” Polly clinked glasses with Tim and Placenta.

“She was born with stainless-steel
cojones
the size of heavy-duty construction equipment,” Placenta mocked. “Even your agent, and your Sterling Studios’ nemesis, Shari Draper, don’t treat you with as much disrespect as Laura Crawford does.”

“Never mind,” Polly huffed. “I’ll take this up with the captain later. I can’t wait to see ‘em haul her body out of that gorgeous suite. In the meantime, we’ll attend the safety drill, then stroll along the Lido Deck before my first lecture.”

“I suppose it’s time for you to see more of the riffraff that Neptune has barfed up from the ocean for this cruise.” Placenta grinned. “The embarkation was just a small sample.”

After Polly and her troupe found which lifeboat they were assigned to in the event of an emergency, they made their way up to an outside deck, champagne glasses in their hands, and marveled at the number of people who were sailing with them. “How, during this sucky economy, can so many people afford to take a cruise?” Polly asked as the trio wended their way through a sea of bodies on deck. “Heck, if it weren’t for the fact that this is a freebie, with a paycheck to boot, I wouldn’t waste
el dinero!”

“The sycophants who take this type of cruise can always scrape up the bucks for a chance to rub elbows with celebs,” Placenta said. “Star stalkers will do almost anything for memorabilia and to boast having met a famous person. Heck, Matt Damon’s gardener told me that someone paid fifty thousand dollars for a jacket that Matt wore in his latest
Bourne
movie.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Tim scoffed. “Fifty grand for a Matt Damon hand-me-down? Hugh Jackman’s T-shirt, fresh off his back after a workout at the gym, maybe.”

“If Billy Bob Thornton auctioned off a vial of his blood, some fans would cut off payments to their mothers’ rest homes in order to get the bucks to place the winning bid,” Polly added.

Polly bathed in the idea that many people had turned out for an opportunity to see her in person. “But if these darling fans are so eager to see Polly Pepper, why have I not been accosted by the great unwashed? We’ve had only one dubious encounter. I’ve been walking the deck for ten minutes and no one else has asked for a picture or an autograph.”

At that moment, Polly saw a large group of people huddled by the outdoor tennis court. She veered off course and made her way toward the throng. “Perhaps they’re giving away free samples of Ryan Seacrest’s dimples.” The crowd was too thick for her to see what everyone was interested in, so Polly tapped the shoulder of a corpulent woman wearing a tight-fitting two-piece bathing suit. “What’s all the excitement about, Sweetums?” she asked.

The woman turned and looked blankly at Polly. “It’s only Dr. Beverly Crusher!” the woman said, and instantly turned back around.

Polly tapped the woman again. “Is someone ill? Or is she demonstrating cardiovascular surgery?”

The woman saw Polly’s eyes wander over her rolls of flesh. “Sheesh, lady! It’s Gates McFadden, for cryin’ out loud. Ya know, ‘
Star Trek: The Next Generation.
’”

“So she’s not a real doctor. She just played one on TV.” A smile played across Polly’s face and she turned to Tim and Placenta. “Another celebrity onboard! Thank you, Jesus! Never heard of her, but we’ll have one of our own kind to share some fun times with. We’ll invite her over for Lush
Hour—no, she can’t see my cabin. Still, she’ll be thrilled that we’re here too. Birds of a feather, and all that.”

As Polly continued strolling along the deck she spotted another group of people taking photographs. “They should be saving their pixels for when they come to my show,” she said. “Now, who on Earth?” As they grew closer to the mob, Polly stepped onto a deck chair, the better to see over the heads of the other passengers. In the very instant that she saw who was at the center of attention, she lost her balance and fell into Tim’s strong arms. They both dropped their champagne glasses as Polly squealed, “You’ll never believe who’s here.”

“Famous?” Placenta asked as she picked up the stems of the shattered flutes.

“Big star?” Tim said.

“On parole?” Placenta added.

“Once, and not at the moment,” Polly answered their questions as she whisked away shards of broken glass with the toe of her shoe. She took Placenta’s glass and drained the contents. “You’ll never guess.”

“Hints,” Tim demanded.

“Still blond after all these years.”

“‘Years’ being the operative word?” Placenta suggested.

“Curly hair.”

“Bernadette Peters?” Tim said.

“Married Hollywood royalty.”

“Mia Farrow,” Placenta said.

“We have the same gynecologist.”

“TMI.” Tim frowned.

As the trio continued their futile game, a voice emerged through the crowd. “Look what the autograph trawlers hauled in with their nets. It’s everybody’s favorite international legend from television, recordings, theater and now, apparently, DVDs. The iconic Polly Pepper! And looking better than the photo on the ship’s newsletter, I might add!”

Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked up to see a familiar face squeezing through the throng of admirers. As the woman drew closer, Polly opened her arms for an embrace. “Deena Howitzer! Sweetums, your figure hardly ever shifts—much.”

As Tim and Placenta exchanged hugs with their old acquaintance, Polly looked puzzled. “Deena, dear, you’re not a celebrity stalker. What the heck are you doing on this rust bucket?”

“I wouldn’t miss a Kool Krooz,” Deena sniggered. “Hell, I’m here for the same reason you are, honey. And the same reason she’s here.” Deena pointed to Kate Jackson. “And him.” Polly followed Deena’s gaze to Bronson Pinchot. “And there’s the all-grown-up Cori Berman, that little rat, but looking very sexy, I must say.”

“Haven’t seen him since
Highway to Heck.”
Tim recalled the hit sitcom on which Cori had starred as a child before moving into a series of forgettable teen horror movie roles.

“He could have had a decent career if he hadn’t been such an evil little twerp,” Deena added. “It didn’t help that he had a bad boy reputation. He poked out the eye of one of his costars on
Heck,
and he got that Becky Thatcher actress pregnant when they were doing that crummy feature about Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.” Deena’s eyes caught a few other famous guests on the ship. “Look over there. It’s Arnie Levin and Tommy Milkwood.”

“They’re with me,” Polly said, almost apologetically. “We’re the stars of this fantasy cruise for TV Land couch potatoes.”

“Aren’t we all,” Deena deadpanned.

“We? All?” Confused, Polly looked around and saw that the ship’s deck was as thick with pseudocelebrities as roaches in a Chinese restaurant’s kitchen. She let out a moan and began ticking off the names of the old-timers she sort of recognized: “Is that … David Hedison? Ouch, that’s
Peggy Lipton—I think. That used to be Cybill Shepherd. Kent McCord?”