Set Sail for Murder (7 page)

Every star, even one with Laura Crawford’s less-than-stellar place in the cosmos, knows that a salacious sexual tryst with photo-ops can be a career breaker. Laura had enough of those in her lifetime, and she wasn’t about to let another opportunist sell her down the river to the
National Peeper.

“Are you hearing each other?” Polly looked at Placenta. “Being fired from a job is one of life’s most humiliating experiences. A lot of people go nuts when it happens to them. Laura Crawford got your boyfriend’s tushy canned, and you said he’s still holding a grudge!”

“He’s not my …”

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Motive for murder!” Polly called out like a carnival barker awarding a cheap plush-toy prize. Turning to Tim, she said, “Now that Laura’s dead, your latest bff still has a job. Bingo! Bull’s-eye! Bonanza!”

“I guess death can be a good thing for some people,” Tim admitted.

Polly polished off her glass of champagne and poured another. She looked at her watch. “Just a teensy taste,” she said, filling the flute to the rim. “Ten whole minutes until show time. We now have five suspects!” She reconsidered. “Actually, we’re down to your two. Mine are pathetic.”

Placenta exclaimed, “Lawrence couldn’t …”

Tim interrupted. “Dangelo wouldn’t …”

Polly said, “They’re men! Make no mistake. No Y chromosome can stand a bitchy X, especially if the X humiliates the Y—or thinks she has the upper hand.” Polly turned to her family and said, “Skip the show tonight. It’s your duty and responsibility to get back to your respective chromies and suck out as much info as you can!”

Polly Pepper was used to the miasma of whispers that occurred when she entered a room. The Tsunami Grill was no different. Heads turned and the star nodded in acknowledgment of their attention, as she and her entourage walked past tables of fans. As Polly, Tim, and Placenta seated themselves near the outside deck, a waiter quickly arrived with a bottle of Moët immersed in a bucket of ice. He set three flutes on their table. “Perfect timing, Sweetums!” Polly trilled, and affectionately touched the waiter’s arm. “We’ll need another in about ten minutes.”

The three lifted their glasses to each other. “Lovely audience tonight,” Polly said, “with the exception of that little pisher, Cori Berman.”

“Making trouble again?” Placenta said.

“What else?” Polly complained, and took a long swallow of her champagne. “He made a big deal about not being able to see the entire cast from
The Polly Pepper Playhouse.
I sorta lost my PP persona and yelled out, ‘One of us is dead!’” Looking at Placenta she added, “You’re supposed to vet the damn question notes before I reach into the fishbowl for the completely spontaneous and totally improvised spur-of-the-moment Q&A’s.”

“I had another ‘mission accomplished,’” Placenta reminded her, and set her flute down. “You should have used the cards from yesterday’s appearance.”

“I didn’t appreciate Mr. Berman bringing up that old
Tiffany vs. Pepper
lawsuit,” Polly said.

“Are you sure it was Cori who wrote that question?”
Tim said. “He’s probably kind of young to remember all that collection agency stuff.”

Polly waved away the old problem. “Anyway, Tiffany doesn’t mean anything anymore. They’re in shopping malls, for crying out loud. I’m forever devoted to my dear Cartier. And soon, when royalties from the new DVDs start pouring in, I’ll be able to shop there again.”

Suddenly, a forced whisper from behind Polly startled her and nearly made her drop her glass. “I see everything,” the voice insisted as the trio instantly turned around.

“Sorry, hon, did I mess with you?” A smokey-voiced woman holding a martini glass pulled up a chair. Uninvited, she joined Polly and her crew. She reached out her hand to shake Polly’s. “You probably know me as Madame Destiny. The ship’s fortune-teller and clairvoyant.” She shook Tim’s hand and then Placenta’s. “You can call me Marsha. Marsha Scott. That’s the name on the measly paycheck they deign to hand me.”

Marsha was one of those people who instantly made friends with strangers, and Polly was no exception. From the way Marsha carried herself, it was obvious that very little impressed her—except Polly Pepper. “As I said, I see everything that you do. On screen that is. Even that dreadful
Detention Rules!
musical mush you did with those slutty Miley and Vanessa clones.”

Polly gave Marsha a warm smile. She clinked her flute to Marsha’s martini glass. “Yeah, that was a flop waiting for financing. You’d think the nut jobs in charge of green-lighting films at the studio could tell from the damn script that no amount of preteen sex on the screen can save a story about high school football stars who sing and dance, and lay the most seductive cheerleader, while being voted valedictorians too.” A thought occurred to Polly. “As the kids say, ‘OMG!’ Since you’re such a well-respected—or at least employed—clairvoyant, tell me something interesting about Laura Crawford’s murder case.”

“Oh, that old saw?” Marsha said. “Literally. No offense. I know that she was a friend of yours. At least an acquaintance of long standing. Madame Destiny knows a heck of a lot more about a heck of a lot of things than she ever tells any living and breathing soul. The idiots who run this fleet of rust buckets pay me to be a novelty act. If I ever revealed what I really see when my gifts kick in, I’d be fired and sent back to the phone bank at the Psychic Network. Nobody wants to hear the truth about their fate.”

“I know I’ll have a happy ending,” Polly said, and gave Marsha a friendly nudge. “We’ll get you another drink. Then you can tell me all about that incredibly lucrative job that’s coming my way, and name the tall, dark, and handsome stranger who is about to enter my life.”

Marsha smiled as she raised her hand to attract a waiter. When the foursome were once again set up with fresh drinks, Marsha looked at Polly and said, “As a matter of fact, you are going to meet someone who will change your life.”

Polly smiled. “Smart? Sexy? Sense of humor? I’m not too old for Hugh Jackman.”

Tim choked as he accidentally inhaled champagne.

“Shush,” Marsha said, glaring at Tim and taking another sip of her drink. “This is exacting work. I need to concentrate.” Returning her focus to Polly, she said, “This stranger isn’t the romantic type.”

“Oh, good God, he’s not one of Liza’s ex-husbands, is he?” Polly pleaded.

“You’re not that retarded.” Placenta chuckled and gave a fist bump to Tim.

Marsha was now looking past her hosts, staring into a future that only she could see. “You have a perfectly fine relationship with another man. A guy/guy. Sports. Hunting. I see a badge. Boy Scout? Hmm. No. Unless you’re making out with a minor. I saw the same thing when I did a reading for Deena Howitzer. No, the man who is soon to draw your attention is serious about Polly Pepper.”

“Goody!” Polly enthused.

“Not so goody,” Madame Destiny said.

“In other words, not exactly soul mate material?” Polly said. “Another fan? I love ‘em all, but I was hoping for something a little more cuddly than the pandas and koalas who list me as a friend on their Facebook pages.”

Marsha was silent for a long moment. “I also feel that Laura Crawford was in deep stinky doo-doo long before she died.”

“It was snail paste,” Polly said. “But it did have the faint smell of Rush Limbaugh’s breath.”

Marsha came out of her trance long enough to give Polly a condescending look and take another sip of her martini. Back in her reading zone, she said, “I mean, Laura Crawford did something to piss someone off.”

“No!” Polly, Tim, and Placenta called out in feigned incredulity.

“She knew her killer, all right. I see swimming pools and movie stars,” Marsha said in a distant voice.

“Your reception is picking up
The Beverly Hillbillies,”
Tim said, and shared a chuckle with Placenta.

Marsha twisted her mouth and gave Tim an exasperated sigh. “I also see leather. And the number three is a very significant sign.”

Placenta nudged Tim. “Movie stars and leather. Sounds kinky. Like most of our friends. And some of the publicity staff at Disney.”

Marsha came back to the present and took one last long sip from her glass. She looked at Polly and said, “Laura Crawford was in serious trouble. Soon you will be too.”

“Worse than doing seven shows on this voyage of the damned?” Polly said.

“Laura convinced you to come along for one reason.”

“What reason?”

“Ya got me,” Marsha said. “But my impression is that
Laura Crawford’s death was retribution. She paid the ultimate price for double-crossing the wrong person.”

Placenta huffed. “Oh, dandy. That could be anyone she ever met!”

“My vision’s gotten fuzzy,” Marsha said as she stood, a little unsteady on her feet. She held on to the back of Polly’s chair and looked at the star. “Doris Day gets puppies left at her doorstep. You get dead people. It’s a gift that you’ll just have to live with, the way Patricia Arquette and Jennifer Love Hewitt do on TV.” Marsha turned and slowly wended her way through the maze of tables.

Polly watched as the ship’s clairvoyant left the room. “A drunk psychic,” she said. “Not a very reliable source for eyewitness news from the future!”

P
olly turned her attention back to her champagne and grumbled, “I’ll bet that I can read distant signs on a dark and foggy road more clearly than Madame Motor-mouth can see what’s around the corner of life … and death. What good is being tuned in to the future if it isn’t in HD?”

Tim added, “Ms. Black Magic Woman said it herself. She’s a novelty act.”

“Accent on the word
act,”
Polly said. She looked at Tim. “Hard physical evidence trumps ephemeral psychic symbols anyday. And speaking of … evidence, any luck with your amore, Dan Jell-O?”

“Dangelo,” Tim corrected.

“What did I say? And please keep any vivid descriptions of romantic tidal waves rolling in your stateroom to yourself—at least until we need to scare off your grandmother the next time she cries for me to take her out of the home to move in with us,” Polly said.

“Hard evidence—not so much,” Tim said. However …” Tim scanned the lounge to determine if anyone looked suspiciously like Marlee Matlin, prepared to read his lips and sign the private conversation to the
National Peeper.
He
leaned in toward his mother and Placenta. “Three strikes,” Tim whispered.

Polly’s smile faded. “TMI, Sweetums. Wait for Grandma.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I meant, Dangelo got a third and final demerit for fraternizing with a guest—no, not me. Laura Crawford called the captain and blew the whistle on her little afternoon delight. Dangelo explained that the company has a semizero tolerance policy for a lot of things, and sleeping with a guest, and/or photographing them in the nude—although indecent photography isn’t specifically in the employee handbook—are biggies. His contract was going to be terminated as soon as we dock in Juneau.”

“Going to be?” Placenta said.

“Dead passengers don’t complain much,” Tim said. “The captain figures since Laura expired, so does her grievance. Dangelo told me he always knew he’d never be fired.”

Polly took another sip from her champagne glass and pondered Dangelo’s confidence. “He sees the future too, eh? Anyone so reckless with the company rules, and who thinks that he’s untouchable by the HR department just because he’s pretty, is either a narcissist, deluded, or has friends in high places to protect him. Or maybe his superhero good looks come with superhero powers to demolecularize problem passengers.”

Tim shook his head. “People who resemble a Renaissance statue come-to-life get away with murder.”

“Precisely!” Polly said a little too loudly, and slapped the tabletop to punctuate her pronouncement.

“I was being facetious,” Tim said.

As other passengers looked in Polly’s direction, Placenta said, “Mr. Tim isn’t suggesting literal murder. Heck, if I had a dollar for every time you said you were going to
kill
your agent, J.J., I’d be able to bail out California and Iceland—together.”

“Maybe so,” Polly said. “But with all due respect to dear Sophia Loren and Sofia Coppola, as well as Armani,
Cavalli, Fendi, Gucci, Prada, and Versace, this Dan Cello fellow
is,
after all, Italian. Those people are infamous for dealing with others who rat on them.”

Tim and Placenta gave Polly condescending stares.
“Those
people?” Tim derided.

“Be careful of cultural generalizations,” Placenta warned. “You don’t want a repeat of that Steve McQueen situation.”

Polly rolled her eyes as she remembered a Saturday afternoon, years ago, at Sonny Bono’s Palm Springs hacienda. “All I did was quote some long-dead famous wit.”

Tim had heard the story a gazillion times and recited, “’Scratch the surface of any actor …”

“… and you’ll find an
actress
.’” Placenta completed the quote.

Tim and Placenta joined Polly’s laughter. “That doesn’t go down too well when you’re in the company of a paranoid, lunatic macho stud screen legend who thinks everyone is talking about him and can’t take a joke,” Tim said. “I thought ol’ Stevie was going to knock you in the pool!”

“For a supposed tough guy, he was such a sissy,” Polly said of
The Blob
star. “Everyone else at the party had a sense of humor—even my dear, sweet, dead-too-soon
Brady Bunch
dad.”

“Loved him,” Tim and Placenta sang together.

“Me thinks that Mr. McQueen doth protested too much,” Polly said. “Even his name reeked of West Hollywood!”

Tim poured his mother and himself another glass of champagne. “Dangelo is certainly a man of mystery,” Tim said.

“All the really sexy ones are,” Placenta agreed.

“But a killer? Hardly,” Tim said as he pinched his mother’s cheek. “However, just for you, and for the sake of investigating every inch of Dangelo, I’ll become his best bud. It’s certainly my pleasure!”

Polly patted Tim’s hand and offered a sly smile. “You’re a trouper—and so unselfish.” She turned to Placenta. “You,
on the other hand, are a both-feet-on-the-ground adult, and when it comes to matters of love and lust, I know I can count on you to …”