Set Sail for Murder (6 page)

As the door closed, Polly lifted her head and opened one eyelid to look at Rosemary whose face had turned red.

Rosemary explained, “That was Talia, the nosy masseuse. She loves to start gossip. Yes, Miss Crawford was my client—she screamed like someone had stuck her with a white-hot poker. After I washed her face and slathered her flaking and puffy skin with my own special revitalizing emollient, she pinched her nose as if she smelled rotting eggs, and demanded
to know all of the ingredients. That’s when she had a major meltdown.”

“Cream of fish entrails and red tide seaweed?”

“Garden variety hairy tree snails. Fresh from the Florida Everglades,” Rosemary said. “I shell a couple dozen of the critters, mash their gummy little bodies in the Cuisinart, add a few other secret natural ingredients to the paste, and voilà! The way Miss Crawford yelled and slapped me—like she was swatting at a swarm of bees—you’d think I’d just plastered her puss with leeches! That’s a whole other recipe. She was so scary that I threw her a wet towel and scrammed out of the place! That’s what Talia heard and saw.”

Drats!
Polly thought.
A semiplausible story!
“I’ll take a big jar of your snail pulp before I leave,” Polly said and lay back down to continue her massage. “You have to understand something about Laura Crawford. She was terrified of snails.”

Rosemary liberally sprinkled sea salt crystals over Polly’s back, and with the circular motion of the palms of her hands she scrubbed the top layers of the star’s skin. “This will make you tingle for days,” Rosemary bragged.

Although Polly wanted to completely give in to the sensual pleasure of the treatment, her thoughts were divided between snails and a killer loose on the ship. As Rosemary rearranged the sheet over Polly’s body to expose her left butt cheek, Polly asked, “Doesn’t a murder in this very room make you nervous about being alone with a client?” Polly felt Rosemary’s hands squeeze her bottom just a bit harder than necessary as she worked her thumbs into the tender flesh.

“As a matter of fact, I am being extracareful,” Rosemary said. “I’m only accepting appointments from celebrities I know. Or in your case, who my grandparents can vouch for. I called them for a reference.”

Polly’s buttocks involuntarily clenched.

“Sorry. Too hard?”

“You think that celebrities are incapable of murder?” Polly asked.

“Nah! I watch
E!
just like everybody else,” Rosemary sniggered. “I know you all have your share of maniacs out there in La-La Land. But you guys are more likely to kill each other. Oh, and Miss Crawford got the ax in the room next door. It’s been sealed until we get to port and the police can do an investigation.”

For a moment, Polly felt gypped that she wasn’t recreating Laura’s massage experience in the same location as her demise. “What if the killer thinks you saw him … or her? Doesn’t that scare you?”

Rosemary stopped and thought for a moment. “As I told the captain and the chief of security, I didn’t see anything. I left the room because I felt in danger of Miss Crawford.”

“Did you report the incident to anyone?”

“Not at the time. The spa was actually officially closed. I was leaving when Miss Crawford arrived. I only agreed to take her because she tried to pull rank with one of those ‘Don’t you know who I used to be?’ threats, and said she knew people who knew people. How many times have I heard that line? Anyway, when she had her little fit about the face cream, I skipped out as fast as I could and went for a walk. And no, I didn’t see anyone I knew along the way. Then I came back and found …”

Polly raised herself up on her elbow and pulled the sheet over her bosom. She looked at Rosemary. “So you don’t have an alibi. Tell me, did you smear Miss Crawford’s face with that smelly junk on purpose because she was a difficult patron?”

“It’s not smelly, it’s not junk, and I don’t need an alibi. You’re insulting me. Wait’ll I tell Nana!”

Polly continued gazing at Rosemary, who was wiping
her hands on a towel. “Of course you aren’t the killer. I never thought so. But what about that Talia person? D’ya think she saw anyone who might be suspicious?”

Rosemary chuckled. “As I said, the spa was closed. The so-called client that Talia was with was some rich guy. With every voyage she finds someone new to have an affair with. Cameras are everywhere, so she can’t go to their rooms. It’s easier to have her rendezvous here. Talia makes so much noise on her own, it’s a miracle she even heard Miss Crawford scream.”

Polly sat up and set her feet on the floor. She immodestly dropped the sheet as she reached for her clothes and began to dress.

Rosemary reiterated, “I swear, I had nothing to do with Miss Crawford’s murder. Maybe the killer surprised his victim and she didn’t have time to make a sound.”

Polly finished dressing and remembered to take her rings from the seashell. “Dear, I’m not insinuating anything about you and Laura Crawford. I just want to get my facts straight. A friend is dead and getting freezer burn down in the meat locker, and I want to know why she died and who committed the evil deed. If you say you had nothing to do with it, I totally believe you. I’ll even give you an extralarge tip.”

Polly handed Rosemary her key card and said, “Charge it. And add enough to buy the new boxed set of
The Polly Pepper Playhouse.
You’ll make Nana’s and Grandpy’s Christmas.”

A
successful massage should have the effect of making one relaxed and lethargic. Polly, however, was ramped up as if she’d guzzled a four-pack of Red Bull with a double espresso chaser. As she strutted her way back toward her cabin, her attention was divided between recalling Talia’s testimony of witnessing Rosemary running from the scene of the crime, and wondering what miracles cream of snail pulp would perform on the wrinkles under her eyes.

Could Talia be a killer?
Polly wondered as she moved along the corridor. She was certainly a pushy person, popping into the massage room during a private treatment. “Utterly unprofessional and probably unethical as well,” Polly muttered. “She never apologized for the interruption.” Was Talia pointing a gossipy finger at Rosemary? Could the disruption have been her way of planting the seed for a theory that Rosemary was involved in the death of Laura Crawford? Perhaps she needed to deflect any thoughts of her own involvement.

Or, maybe the paramour Talia was reported to have been entertaining sliced the life out of Laura. Was this supposed rich passenger also famous? God knows the ship was crawling with more bottom-of-the-barrel celebrities
than the contestants on
Dancing with the Nobodies.
Suppose that Laura had recognized Mr. Moneybags when she tried to get him booted out of the salon; he may have gotten scared, especially if Mr. Seven Digits knew of Laura’s penchant for making extra bucks as a spy for the
National Peeper.

As she envisioned Laura’s last moments, Polly imagined her former costar settling down on the massage table waiting for Rosemary to return, calm and collected, to finish her assignment. Perhaps the door to the massage room opened and Laura, with her face down in the headrest, mumbled an apology for her venomous sputum. But suppose, instead of the healing touch of an understanding masseuse, the killer yanked Laura’s head up by a fistful of L’Oreal “I’m worth it” tresses, and then quickly and deftly drew the sharpened DVD deep into the soft flesh on Laura’s neck. Although Polly hoped for a mercifully rapid demise for Laura, the images in her head triggered horror stories of eighteenth-century guillotined French nobility still blinking their eyes in shock and confusion, and babbling
“Mon dieu! Que la baise?!”
as their disembodied heads rolled into woven baskets to the cheers of the bloodthirsty, cake-deprived citizens. Polly shuddered at the horror and closed her eyes in deep revulsion.

In that instant, she suddenly collided with another passenger who was exiting a stateroom. Polly wailed, “Sorry! My fault … Do forgive … I’m a clumsy …”

“Mother!”

Polly looked at Tim, then at the cabin number, and smiled evilly. “Cozier accommodations on this deck, Sweetums? Or perhaps you’re taking in the sights. God knows both our heads have been turned by more than a few points of interest on this ship,” Polly said as she continued walking toward the elevator.

Tim fell into lockstep beside his mother. “It’s not what you think,” he said.

“Silly boy. It’s
exactly
what I think,” Polly sniggered. “We’ve both come from a massage … in a manner of speaking. Anyway, I’m far too busy to be envious of your fun and games.” She stopped and looked at her son. “Is that a bald patch I see on your crown, darling man? I think you’re receding.”

“Bald! What? No!” Tim protested. I’m too young….”

Polly shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time to have the Rogaine talk with your doctor.”

As the pair continued along the carpeted hallway, an image in the distance suddenly caught Polly’s attention. She stopped short and grabbed hold of Tim’s arm. As she peered down the corridor, Tim followed her gaze.

“Placenta!” they both called out in surprise as Polly’s maid and best friend closed a cabin door behind her. Placenta turned toward the voices as Polly and Tim sidled up to their friend. For an instant, she looked embarrassed. However, she quickly crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “As Miss Mae West said, ‘To err is human, but it feels divine.’”

Back in her stateroom, Polly gave Tim and Placenta a rundown of what she’d discovered during her hour of massage therapy. “Laura’s only been dead for a day and already I have three possible suspects!” she beamed.

Placenta huffed. “Get a copy of the passenger list and you’ll probably find a dozen more,” she said, pouring three flutes of champagne. “I’ve already seen Peggy Lipton, Liz Smith, and Jane Curtin in the gym. They’re nice ladies, but I’ll wager that Laura wasn’t on their Facebook friends lists.”

“What about Deena Howitzer?” Tim said. “We love her to pieces, but she did threaten to kill Laura. And, she wanted to do it with a knife.”

“I chatted with Deena. She wasn’t in mourning, but she
also had a reasonable alibi. Drinks with the captain all evening long.”

Polly accepted her champagne that Placenta handed her. “My last sip. I have a show to do in an hour,” she said as she lifted her glass. “I’d say Daddy Warbucks is the most promising of my suspects.”

“You don’t even know he exists,” Tim said. “And why would he kill someone he doesn’t know? Furthermore, why do you think Talia might be a suspect? What’s her motive? Even Rosemary doesn’t have a good enough reason, that you know of, to hurt Laura.”

Polly ignored Tim. “If I could find out who he is, the gazillionaire I mean, I’ll wager that we’d be closer to solving the crime.

“By the by,” Polly said, “since when do we keep secrets from each other about our carnal diversions? Who the hell were you two making whoopee with at this relatively early hour of the day?”

Tim and Placenta both exchanged smiles. “You go first,” Tim said.

“No, you go first,” Placenta countered.

“Ladies before gentlemen,” Tim insisted.

Placenta sighed. “I swear I was minding my own business. Sort of. You know I’m a sucker for a man who—”

“Has a pulse,” Polly interrupted.”

“Who has musical talent!” Placenta snapped. “I was walking through the atrium this morning, on my way to Cartier to pick out what you’ll be buying me for Christmas, and I was drawn to the piano player. He was cute. Played unusual chords.” Placenta’s thoughts drifted back to seeing the pianist dressed in a tuxedo, with a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. “His fingers were long and bony. The backs of his hands were as smooth and white as the piano keys.”

Tim interrupted. “Short, feather-light hair? Prematurely
darkish gray and combed just so? Sort of an aristocratic face, with a deep cleft in his chin? British accent?”

“Er …” Placenta said warily.

“Lawrence Deerfield.” Tim dismissed the man. “Been there.”

“This time he smiled at me, not at you!” Placenta continued. “At first I thought he was just happy to have someone pay attention to his playing. But then …”

“He played ‘Love Is a Many
splintered
Thing,’” Polly teased her maid.

“At least there’s still one man alive who notices that I’m alluring,” Placenta said. “And he’s only one degree of separation from us. That is, he once worked with Laura Crawford. Actually, he
almost
worked with her. The witch had him fired from a production of
Follies.
According to Cute Stuff, er, I mean Lawrence, Laura couldn’t memorize the songs so she took her frustration out on her accompanist. It’s been months and he’s still upset.”

“Sondheim’s lyrics can be a bitch,” Polly agreed.

Tim chuckled. “Same thing almost happened to Dangelo! The getting fired part. He worked with Laura, too. Sorta.”

Polly and Placenta both looked at Tim. “Beverly D’Angelo is aboard?” Polly said, excited by the prospect of seeing another old acting friend.

“No. Dangelo Vincente. One of the deck officers. Italian.” Tim smiled and winked. “It’s strictly forbidden for crew and passengers to interact but he couldn’t help himself.”

“You’ll corrupt the entire Kool Krooz fleet before this voyage is over.” Polly nudged her son.

“Dangelo said he learned English by watching reruns of
The Polly Pepper Playhouse
in his village. He became a huge Laura Crawford fan. When he discovered that she was on this cruise, he disregarded the rules and went to
meet her in person. He just wanted to tell her how much she meant to him as he was growing up. But she wasn’t the clown he expected. According to Mr. Modesty, when Laura got a look at him, she threw herself at his biceps. When she was satisfied, she threatened to have the captain put him out on the first iceberg that floated by.”

Polly frowned. “Laura, a black widow? No way, José. Unless he was ill equipped.”

Tim shook his head. “Trust me! The problem was that he took a snapshot of her.”

“One stupid picture?” Placenta said.

“A variation on Britney Spears’s vagina monologue.”