Set Sail for Murder (30 page)

Placenta elbowed Polly and reminded her that she’d better get showered and made up quickly if she were going out in public with Dorian. She looked at Tim. “In the meantime, why did we even go to the trouble of stealing Laura’s phone if it’s no good to us?”

Tim shook his head. “I was hoping that whoever Laura was speaking with during her last few minutes alive would be named in her caller ID log.”

“Too easy,” Polly huffed. “But check out everyone else in her directory. If anyone in the address book is aboard, we might have a lead.” Polly turned around to leave. “Otherwise, we’re screwed. When we arrive in Juneau tomorrow it’s over for us. God knows the
National Peeper
will have something to say about Polly Pepper making a fool of herself on an Alaskan cruise and this being the beginning of the end of her illusion that she can outfox non-celebrity killers. Hell, I don’t think I even sold enough DVDs to pay for the extermination service at Pepper Plantation. We’ll have to live with rodents in the pool cabana.”

Tim scooted Polly and Placenta out of his cabin. Before he closed the door he said, “See if there’s an appraiser at the auction. The sale of your fake Hockney could keep us rodent free for a while.”

As Tim submitted to the quiet of his stateroom, he shook his head. Laura Crawford’s killer was going to get away scot-free unless the police could come up with a DNA match to a previous felon. Polly didn’t stand a ghost of a chance of finding her former costar’s killer. Whoever it was, did their job and moved on. Now it was time for Polly to do the same thing.

Although it was early afternoon, Polly, the consummate dressed-to-impress celebrity, arrived at the ship’s art gallery wearing a beaded chiffon halter dress, with her red hair styled in a trendy bob with bangs. There was no competition for admiring glances as she walked beside Dorian and together they picked apart the art that was soon to go on the block. “This is what passes for art these days?” Polly sniped as quietly as she could. She looked at the bidding start price and nearly laughed out loud.

“You’ll see,” Dorian said. “This is a Kadok. If it goes for under twenty K, it’s a steal.”

“Who’s stealing from whom?” Polly quipped.

After making the rounds and eyeing the paintings and sculpture, it was time for the event to begin. Polly followed Dorian and found seats in the second row of folding chairs in front of a Lucite lectern. The room was more crowded than Polly had expected. She looked around and thought,
These people don’t look as though they could afford a poster of
The Scream,
let alone original art.

Soon a prim young woman walked to the platform and welcomed the guests. “As I was wandering around I heard your enthusiasm for some of these magnificent pieces.” She looked directly at Polly. “So let’s begin.”

Two handsome ship’s stewards in white uniforms with black and gold-braided epaulettes carried a cloth-covered painting to an easel next to the lectern. They removed the covering to a wave of whispered “oooohs.”

Not wanting to make any expression that might be construed as a judgment, Polly sat perfectly still. Just as she asked herself,
What is it?
the auctioneer said, “I don’t have to tell you who this artist is. Feast your eyes on the visual content! Admire the defiance in the subject matter. This canvas is called
Hoax.”

Polly couldn’t control a loud laugh and instantly pretended that she was coughing. As other passengers looked on and made not-so-quiet comments about the lack of intelligentsia in Hollywood, Polly whispered to Dorian, “At least the artist has a sense of humor.”

Dorian was not amused. He sat stoically as one passenger after another bid on the painting.

When the gavel came down and proclaimed that the canvas had sold for $5,000, Polly was dumbfounded. “The moment I get home I’m going to start painting!” she said.

As the afternoon continued, a PowerPoint presentation on a large screen showed several enormous pieces of sculpture, which were apparently at their sculptors’ homes or workshops. As one image after another appeared on screen, Polly tried to keep from shaking her head in disbelief. But with each piece, Dorian became more excited. Polly witnessed what to her was nothing more than a large nut and bolt standing side by side. Then there were two humongous metallic squiggles jutting out of what looked like a giant birthday cake. The pièce de résistance was a rip-off of the wood chipper in the film
Fargo,
in which a bloody leg is protruding from the hopper. When Dorian nudged Polly with the excitement of a five-year-old spotting Mickey Mouse on Main Street at Disneyland, she instantly decided she no longer found Dorian to be the least bit amusing.

Although there were no bids for the sculpture, when the lights came on and another canvas was carried up to the front of the room, Polly leaned over to Dorian and said, “This is really BS. I’m going for a much-needed glass of champagne.”

“Just a few more items,” Dorian pleaded. “I promise you’ll love what’s coming up.” He opened the catalog of auction pieces and pointed to a photograph of a bust of Eleanor Roosevelt. “Made entirely from found toothbrushes!” Dorian said with awe.

Sucking up her annoyance, Polly refused to pretend to be interested when another canvas was unveiled and revealed a collage of pictures of blond celebrities Anna Nicole Smith, Marilyn Monroe, Farrah Fawcett, Jayne Mansfield, and Jennifer Aniston.

“Something’s not right with that collection,” Polly said.

Suddenly, just as the auctioneer said, “Going twice …” to the blond mix, a cell phone rang with the ring tone of the theme song for
Jeopardy.
In the otherwise quiet room, all eyes instantly turned and looked around, glaring.

Dorian quickly reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell and automatically whispered, “Hello.” Silence. Looking at the caller ID number, he made an involuntary gasp, and pressed the Off button. He stared into space as the gavel came down and pronounced a sale. “We have to go now,” Dorian said as he stood up and made his way down the aisle of chairs. Polly followed close behind him.

As they left the art gallery, Dorian said he felt ill.

“I’ve felt that way since you dragged me in here,” Polly said. “I almost lost my stomach when that painting on velvet of G.W.B. was unveiled. I can’t bring myself to say his name, and I have nothing against painting on velvet. But that should be reserved for Elvis.”

Dorian was distracted. Barely able to maneuver through the crowds strolling the inside deck without bumping into people, he said, “I’ll meet you at the bar. I need to use the little boys’ room.”

Polly watched as Dorian scurried down the concourse past the rest rooms, and ducked behind a faux marble column. Deciding to stalk him, Polly found Dorian in the Tundra Bar, quickly downing a shot of whiskey. “And they
say I have a problem!” Polly growled to herself. When Dorian seemed satisfied he turned around and headed back toward the Coral Lounge. When he arrived, Polly came up behind him and said, “The little girls’ room was jammed.”

When they were seated, Dorian’s attention was still divided between Polly and his private thoughts. After a full glass of Veuve, Polly gave up. “I suppose I should leave you two to be alone together. You and whatever’s taking up ninety-nine percent of your brain neurons. I’ll head back to my suite.”

Dorian apologized. “Speaking of calls, I think you should have your Warhol appraised again. For insurance purposes.”

“Hell, if the junk we saw today can fetch big bucks, I’ll bet Laura’s art is worth a thousand times more!”

“Laura’s art,” he said, distantly.

Polly took another long sip from her glass. “My art used to be hers. Sometimes I forget it’s now mine, free and clear. I saved her hiney a couple of times by purchasing the pieces she had collected for a rainy day. She got soaked, all right. But it’s not as though I took advantage of her. I gave her what she asked for.”

Suddenly there was a gleam in Dorian’s eyes. “Allow me,” he said, pouring another round for Polly and himself.

“After witnessing the shocking prices of those unimagin ably horrendous pieces today, I bet I’m sitting on a larger fortune than I ever dreamed of,” Polly said.

“You own all of Laura’s collection? Then what was hanging on her own walls? I saw her condo in a magazine. She showed off her Warhol and a Bachardy. And a Hockney, too. But you say they’re really yours.”

Polly raised her glass and clinked against Dorian’s. “El fake-os!” she sang. “I had an art student reproduce them for her. I gave Laura the copies so she wouldn’t feel so bad about losing her originals. Hell, they looked identical. I
doubt that even Las Vegas superman Stevie Wynn with his eagle eye for art could tell the difference. Actually, I should call up ol’ Steve-o. He’s just the man to see about the value of my stuff.”

Dorian stared at Polly for a long moment, clenching his jaw and the vein in his temple pulsating.

Polly felt almost as disturbed by the vibrations emanating from Dorian as she did watching art collectors bid on a canvas of painted men’s underwear labels. The catalog titled it,
“FruitoftheOldCalvinHanesDieselJockeyNavyLoom.”

Suddenly, Dorian stood up. “I need to be alone with my thoughts.”

Polly answered, “My sentiments exactly. Have to pack. I can’t count on Placenta to take all the amenities that housekeeping leaves in the bathrooms.”

When Polly returned to her suite, Tim and Placenta were waiting for her with a freshly opened bottle of champagne. “Did you know that there’s a huge market out there for crap in a picture frame?” she said as she accepted a flute of bubbly and took a long swallow. “Whodathunk? I know I’m behind the times. When it comes to pop music I don’t know a Rihanna from a Dollah, except when they’re in the news for getting beaten up by boyfriends or riddled with bullets and stuffed into coffins. I swear art has gone the same way as music. There is only mediocrity!”

“An enlightening afternoon, eh?” Tim teased. “We’ve got something that might cheer you up.”

Polly settled onto the sofa with her drink in her hand. “I have news too,” she said. “I think ol’ Dull Dorian’s an alcoholic. I found him drinking during the day.”

“What color is your kettle?” Placenta smirked.

Polly looked askance at her maid and best friend. “I never touch spirits, especially while the sun is shining!” She took another sip of Veuve and sighed. “I’m a failure as
a sleuth. We dock in the morning and Laura’s killer goes free.”

“That’s our news, too,” Placenta added. “Timmy was monkeying around with Laura’s phone, scrolling through her directory of incoming calls. Figuring he had nothing to lose at this late date, he pushed Redial.”

“What do you know? Someone picked up!” Tim said.

An excited Polly took another long swallow of her drink and said, “Who was it? What did they say? Anyone we know?”

Tim suddenly lost his look of elation. “Um. I didn’t exactly talk to anyone. I just heard a man’s voice.”

Polly’s enthusiasm died. “You called the killer and you didn’t get him to tell you his name?”

“We don’t know that it was the killer who answered,” Placenta said, standing up for Tim.

“Who else? The Prize Patrol?” Polly simmered for a moment, then snapped her fingers at Laura Crawford’s phone.

Tim picked up the cell phone and handed it to his mother. “Push Redial.”

“I know what to do,” Polly said testily. “I didn’t become an iconic legend of screen and stage by being an uninformed Luddite. I’ll get a confession out of whoever answers.”

As Polly pressed her manicured thumb on the Redial button, she sat with a petulant look on her face listening to the sound of ringing. Suddenly, Polly sat up straight, her mind completely focused on what was occurring on the other end of the signal.

A weak voice whispered, “You’re next!”

Polly’s confidence abandoned her. She hadn’t rehearsed what she would say. Instead of a simple introduction, Polly suddenly lost control and ranted, “Killer! Murderer! You took away Laura Crawford. I know who you are! You’ll
pay! You’ll get the chair! I’ll personally push the lever or drop the cyanide or inject the lethal!”

When she stopped to take a breath, the voice on the other end said, “And I know who you are, too.”

The signal ended and Polly repeated, “Hello?” several times before closing the phone. “I guess I told him!” she said triumphantly. “He knows what’s what and should be shaking in his boots ‘cause his time is just about up.”

After a moment, Tim said, “You’ve just accused someone else of killing Laura. Do you really know who it is? A number in a cell phone call log is not evidence.”

Placenta poured Polly another glass of champagne and said, “If you did just speak with Laura’s killer, and even if you don’t know who he is, he now thinks that you know. No killer would be cornered like a bear without fighting back. You’ve practically given him carte blanche to nail all of us.”

“He did say, ‘And I know who you are, too,’” Polly recited.

Placenta slapped her knee. “I said I wanted to have sex one more time before I die. I didn’t think I’d be dead so soon afterward!” she said.

“There’s time for at least one more,” Tim joked, looking at his watch. “I’m over Dangelo, but I sorta liked Ronson and Garner. Both.”

Placenta reached over and took away Polly’s champagne flute. “Seriously, it’s time we stopped putzing around and go to the captain.”

“And tell him what? That lunatic Polly Pepper—I know that’s what he thinks of me—really and truly knows who the killer is this time?” Polly shook her head. “I don’t know who it is. Tim’s right. A number is not a name. So it won’t do us any good to bring him into this mess.”

“We blew that opportunity a couple of suspects ago,” Tim agreed.

“I’m a failure,” Polly said. “I have no talent. Well, at least not for picking out a killer from a passenger manifest of twenty-eight-hundred people.”

Neither Tim nor Placenta argued with Polly. Tim said, “I suppose you could call the killer back and tell him to meet you at the piano bar in the atrium. Tell him you’ll make some sort of deal. I’m joking, of course.”

At that moment, Laura’s cell phone rang. Polly grabbed the unit and looked at the caller ID. She flipped open the phone and said, “So, you think you’ll get away with Laura Crawford’s murder, do you? Not while there’s a breath left in my body. You’ll be dragged off the ship tomorrow morning wearing handcuffs and an electric dog collar. I’ll see to it!”