Read Online A Talent for Murder by R.T. Jordan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.T. Jordan
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Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase toward Polly’s bedroom suite. Tim moved to the stereo system and slipped a CD of Julie Budd onto the carousel to give the room a lighter vibration. With “Pure Imagination” filling the air, Polly’s thoughts of the death of Thane Cornwall slowly dissipated and she began to sway—either to the music, or because the champagne had gone to her head. Tim stepped in just in case and expertly waltzed her out of the room and up the staircase, where he left her in Placenta’s hands.
Monday morning arrived earlier than Tim would have liked. Polly, however, was awake at seven, and dressed to the nines by the time Tim dragged himself from his bed at ten. When he found his mother, she was foraging in the gift-wrapping room, going through the closets filled with dumb presents that friends and fans had given to her over the past few years. Tim wandered in clutching a mug of coffee. “Looking for the Chia Pet that stingy Penny Marshall sent last Christmas?”
Polly gave up looking for something in one closet and opened another. “Where the hell did you put those black armbands from our Ides of March party?”
Tim set his mug down on a counter and opened yet another closet door. He reached for the top shelf and pulled down a plastic bag from Wal-Mart. “We have these left over from your Karen Carpenter appreciation party.”
Polly grabbed the bag. “Even better. Although they may be too small.”
“For what?” Tim asked, not exactly eager to hear what his mother had on her mind.
“Just start the car, dear. We’ll be late for rehearsals.”
“You’re not on call until Friday. Didn’t you read anyof the show’s instructions? Judges aren’t supposed to interact—”
“I’m only going in to offer condolences to the so-called talent,” Polly said. “Surely, they’ll need a comforting shoulder following the death of Thane Cornwall.”
“Are you kidding? I can hear Munchkins singing ‘Ding-dong, the Brit is dead!’ Be realistic. Thane was one unpleasant guy.”
Then a light dawned on Tim. He emitted a low moan and called out, “Placenta! I need you!”
Polly heaved a heavy sigh. “Am I not allowed to visit the grieving without you thinking that I have ulterior motives? You always get Placenta to take your side on everything!”
Placenta raced up the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. When she reached the second-floor landing, she stood in the doorway to the gift-wrapping room and leaned her body against the door frame, catching her breath. “What? Spider spray? Rat-traps? It’s a little early for champagne, even in this house.”
“A straitjacket,” Tim said.
“The Bob Mackie, or that satin-lined leather thing with the buckle collar and two-strap crotch cinch?” Placenta paused. “Oh, I get it. You don’t have to tell me what’s on Polly’s mind. I can read her like a fast food menu. There’s not much up on the board, but she comes with fries and a Coke.”
Polly looked at her son and maid. “I just want to chat with those little wannabes. What’s wrong with that? Making a few inquires about their alibis for Saturday can’t hurt.”
Tim looked into his mother’s eyes. “Tenacity is why you became a showbiz legend. That same determination is going to get you killed someday.”
“Don’t be a sissy,” Polly harrumphed. “Anyway,you’re probably right. The police apparently have the guilty party in custody. But what else have we got to do today? Just for kicks, let’s run over to the Studio. We need to get moving. I want to be there before they all become sweaty and stinky from being rehearsed to death.”
In Hollywood, even the movie studio security guards are usually as young and attractive as soap stars. When Tim rolled the car up to the gate at Sterling Studios, he was in luck. Someone in human resources had forgotten to dump the last geezer in town. The guard was actually old enough to be impressed by the fact that Polly Pepper was
Monday morning arrived earlier than Tim would have liked. Polly, however, was awake at seven, and dressed to the nines by the time Tim dragged himself from his bed at ten. When he found his mother, she was foraging in the gift-wrapping room, going through the closets filled with dumb presents that friends and fans had given to her over the past few years. Tim wandered in clutching a mug of coffee. “Looking for the Chia Pet that stingy Penny Marshall sent last Christmas?”
Polly gave up looking for something in one closet and opened another. “Where the hell did you put those black armbands from our Ides of March party?”
Tim set his mug down on a counter and opened yet another closet door. He reached for the top shelf and pulled down a plastic bag from Wal-Mart. “We have these left over from your Karen Carpenter appreciation party.”
Polly grabbed the bag. “Even better. Although they may be too small.”
“For what?” Tim asked, not exactly eager to hear what his mother had on her mind.
“Just start the car, dear. We’ll be late for rehearsals.”
“You’re not on call until Friday. Didn’t you read anyof the show’s instructions? Judges aren’t supposed to interact—”
“I’m only going in to offer condolences to the so-called talent,” Polly said. “Surely, they’ll need a comforting shoulder following the death of Thane Cornwall.”
“Are you kidding? I can hear Munchkins singing ‘Ding-dong, the Brit is dead!’ Be realistic. Thane was one unpleasant guy.”
Then a light dawned on Tim. He emitted a low moan and called out, “Placenta! I need you!”
Polly heaved a heavy sigh. “Am I not allowed to visit the grieving without you thinking that I have ulterior motives? You always get Placenta to take your side on everything!”
Placenta raced up the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase. When she reached the second-floor landing, she stood in the doorway to the gift-wrapping room and leaned her body against the door frame, catching her breath. “What? Spider spray? Rat-traps? It’s a little early for champagne, even in this house.”
“A straitjacket,” Tim said.
“The Bob Mackie, or that satin-lined leather thing with the buckle collar and two-strap crotch cinch?” Placenta paused. “Oh, I get it. You don’t have to tell me what’s on Polly’s mind. I can read her like a fast food menu. There’s not much up on the board, but she comes with fries and a Coke.”
Polly looked at her son and maid. “I just want to chat with those little wannabes. What’s wrong with that? Making a few inquires about their alibis for Saturday can’t hurt.”
Tim looked into his mother’s eyes. “Tenacity is why you became a showbiz legend. That same determination is going to get you killed someday.”
“Don’t be a sissy,” Polly harrumphed. “Anyway,you’re probably right. The police apparently have the guilty party in custody. But what else have we got to do today? Just for kicks, let’s run over to the Studio. We need to get moving. I want to be there before they all become sweaty and stinky from being rehearsed to death.”
In Hollywood, even the movie studio security guards are usually as young and attractive as soap stars. When Tim rolled the car up to the gate at Sterling Studios, he was in luck. Someone in human resources had forgotten to dump the last geezer in town. The guard was actually old enough to be impressed by the fact that Polly Pepper was
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