A Talent For Murder Part 2

Polly took another therapeutic sip from her champagne flute. "I'm more than a little concerned about blowing my image if Mr. Cornwall attacks me while we're on the air. I'm not one to easily step away from an altercation, especially if I'm in the right."

"Which is always," Placenta said. "After tomorrow's show, things will calm down."

"We'll get into a comfortable routine, and life will once again be suns.h.i.+ne and lollipops," Tim added.

"Then we'll invite Richard D. over for a little tea and sympathy," Polly said. "Now, please refill Mummy's gla.s.s and allow her to die in private."

Chapter 3.

Although the morning sun had been s.h.i.+ning over Pepper Plantation for hours, the mistress of the manor and her son were still tucked in their respective beds, each of them dreaming-of Ryan Seacrest.

When Placenta knocked on Polly's bedroom door, pulled down the bedsheets, and swatted her boss's behind to wake her up, Polly complained, "Nightmares come true. You're still in the house!"

"Su casa mi casa!" Placenta said. "Rise 'n s.h.i.+ne, Golden Oldie! Breakfast is on the bed stand: two Advil and a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary." Placenta said. "Rise 'n s.h.i.+ne, Golden Oldie! Breakfast is on the bed stand: two Advil and a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary."

Polly groaned in protest, but managed to lean over and retrieve her drink and pills. Within an hour she was showered, dressed, coiffed, and seated behind Tim in her Rolls-Royce. Placenta, too, was enjoying the ride, and completing the New York Times New York Times crossword. The trio arrived at Studio B on the Sterling Studios lot just as the gloved hands on Polly's Mickey Mouse edition Cartier wrist.w.a.tch pointed to the inlaid diamonds that indicated it was time to put on her meet 'n greet face. crossword. The trio arrived at Studio B on the Sterling Studios lot just as the gloved hands on Polly's Mickey Mouse edition Cartier wrist.w.a.tch pointed to the inlaid diamonds that indicated it was time to put on her meet 'n greet face.

With the exception of her appearances on talk shows, it had been years since Polly had set foot on a televi sion studio soundstage. Now memories of practically living on the set of her own show, The Polly Pepper Playhouse The Polly Pepper Playhouse, flooded back to her. She consciously inhaled the scents wafting through the cavernous stage. She absorbed the hullabaloo of the tech crews running microphone and lighting checks and testing the strength of the staircase from which the contestants would descend when introduced by host Steven Benjamin.

Polly blinked as if she were a camera lens shutter, capturing all the visual information for replay. It was an exhilarating moment for her. And for Tim and Placenta, too. They knew what this opportunity meant to Polly. She was where she belonged.

However, that peace lasted only a fraction of a moment. Before Polly had an opportunity to say how very Norma Desmond she felt, Thane Cornwall flounced onto the soundstage, shouting at a skinny young man with large gla.s.ses, a freckled nose, and a losing battle to keep up with Thane's pace. Tears were trickling down the young man's cheeks as he tried to take notes on a pad.

"You're incompetent!" Thane roared. "When Richard Dartmouth calls, I'm not not available. Why wouldn't you know that?" available. Why wouldn't you know that?"

"Because he's the boss."

"I am never never to be summoned like a common mutt! I may as d.a.m.n well say it, you're as thick as a brick!" to be summoned like a common mutt! I may as d.a.m.n well say it, you're as thick as a brick!"

Polly and her troupe watched in horror. "I'm trying to do the best I can!" the young man begged.

Thane stopped, turned around, and looked down at the young man. "Trying "Trying is not is not doing doing!" Thane bellowed. "And stop your girly crying! I can't be the first with the guts to tell you the truth, that you're a hopeless twit! Your parents? A high school teacher? Someone must must have held a mirror up to you! Just go away and bring me coffee! And, Michael, don't ask me again how I like it! I hate repeating myself. But if it isn't right... so help me!" have held a mirror up to you! Just go away and bring me coffee! And, Michael, don't ask me again how I like it! I hate repeating myself. But if it isn't right... so help me!"

As the young man scurried away, Thane noticed Polly and her entourage staring at him. "What?" Thane roared. "He's an idiot. I don't have time for fools! This amateur show a.s.signed a dimwit to be my a.s.sistant. A worthless piece of..." He paused and took a deep breath. "Okay. I lost my temper. But it's his fault. When he comes back, if if he comes back, send him to my dressing room." Thane Cornwall stormed away, yelling, "If he brings me anything latte, I'll kill him." he comes back, send him to my dressing room." Thane Cornwall stormed away, yelling, "If he brings me anything latte, I'll kill him."

Polly, Tim, and Placenta watched dumbfounded as Thane left the stage. "I've worked with more than a few bombastic nuts in my time, but he definitely tops my Paul Lynde vicious list!" Polly said.

At that moment, a cheerful older man with a walkietalkie and a clipboard appeared at Polly's side. "Miss Pepper? I'm Curtis Lawson. Your director," he said. "We weren't properly introduced at Monday's meeting."

Polly's smile grew wide as she held out her hand to greet Curtis. "That was entirely my fault," she cooed. "You're an extremely busy man. I should have pursued you you. In fact, I wanted to tell you how much I adored your last feature film ... that Disney thing ... with the talking tarantulas. ... So cute! So big! So hairy! So John Travolta." Tim had Googled Curtis Lawson and tried to get his mother to memorize his credits.

Curtis's pleasure was obvious. "And I'm a huge fan of yours, from way, way back," he gushed.

"That far, eh?" Polly deadpanned. "The Natural History Museum is exhibiting my bones next month. I can get you a VIP pa.s.s." She forced a laugh. "Speaking of bones, I have one to pick with that Mr. Thane Cornwall. Did you see the fuss he made a moment ago?"

Curtis lost his smile. "I've had just about enough of Mr. Ego Cornwall, and those misfits they call contestants," he said. "If I get one more demand for rose petals to be floating in the ladies' dressing room toilets, or minibars to be stocked with something stronger than Mountain Dew, I swear I'll jump off the Sterling Studio's water tower!"

"Hold off until you need a ratings boost," Placenta encouraged.

"I haven't got the cojones anyway," Curtis admitted. "I'm not really complaining. Jobs are few and far between these days. But the lack of respect from these kids, and the cra.s.s Thane Cornwall-even Richard Dar-" Curtis abruptly stopped. "Never mind. I'm just exhausted. It's been the week from h.e.l.l, but we're finally to show number one. If we're a hit, then all the chaos and ghoulish experiences will have been worth it."

"What's on the agenda?" Polly asked. "Any more interviews today?"

"Channel Seven may want you after the broadcast. For now, you can relax. I'll show you to your dressing room," Curtis said. He c.o.c.ked his head toward the backstage area and cautiously escorted Polly and her troupe across the studio set, and over a floor that was b.o.o.by-trapped with thick black electrical cables snaking everywhere. He looked at his watch. "If all goes well, the audience will be let in at three o'clock. Then we'll do the blocking and camera queues and have the run-through by four o'clock. Then we go live at six and judge the demons."

"What about the questions and answers segment?" Polly said. "I haven't received my script."

Curtis gave Polly a blank look. "That was covered in the material that production sent to you," he said. "They're supposed to be extemporaneous."

"You mean I have to make up my own?" Polly said as they stopped in front of a door labeled with her name on a gold star. "There should be writers for this sort of thing!"

"Can you say, 'cheap-o network'?" Placenta said.

"What should I ask? I'm not prepared," Polly panicked.

Curtis suddenly looked as nervous as his star judge. "Um, er, you can ask them anything you want. Just make the questions as provocative as possible. Encourage the contestants to tell a ton of lies about the lengths to which they'll go to get the most votes and thus win the grand prize."

Tim asked, "What exactly is the big payoff? A million dollars? A new Lamborghini? A shopping spree with Carson Kressley?"

Curtis smiled. "At the end of the summer, the contestant with the most votes from the judges, combined with the television audience's votes, will get a totally legal Get Out of Jail Free card. It's redeemable at their first misdemeanor court appearance in Hollywood."

"Exactly what every star needs these days," Placenta said.

"G.o.d knows how many off-their-pedestal celebrities would have killed for such a card! Randy Quaid could have kept his career," Polly added.

"That's a pretty nifty prize, especially since, from what I've heard, this group of contestants is one step below schizophrenic," Tim said. "But isn't there something more fun, like a ticket to one of Britney and Jamie Lynn Spears's Family Values seminars? Or a date in the Los Angeles County Prison's laundry facilities with Kiefer Sutherland?"

"The winner also gets an appearance on Good Morning, America," Good Morning, America," Curtis said with pride. "To be interviewed by Diane Sawyer." Curtis said with pride. "To be interviewed by Diane Sawyer."

"Oh dear, what questions will I ask these kids? I need darling Bruce Vilanch to write my material!" Polly fretted. She thought for a moment, then turned to Tim. "To become famous, would you be willing to auction off your kidneys on eBay?"

He played along. "Duh! Ever hear of dialysis?"

Polly turned to Placenta. "Would you kidnap a studio executive and ransom him for a role on Grey's Anatomy Grey's Anatomy?"

"As fast as you can say, 'B-bye, Isaiah Was.h.i.+ngton'," Placenta harrumphed.

Again Polly looked at Tim. "Costar in a film with Rob Schneider?"

"Um, that's going too far even for the most desperate wannabe," he said.

"That's it!" Curtis said. "Just ask insane questions like those and you'll be home free! Now, I've got to get over to Cell Block D, otherwise known as the contestants' dressing rooms. I'll send a PA to escort you to the set when we're ready." He shook his head and his face turned white. "G.o.d, give me strength." Then he left the room.

When the door had closed behind Curtis, Polly plopped herself down on the love seat. "Tiny bubbles," she began to sing, which was Placenta's cue to pop the cork from one of the champagne bottles she always carried in her temperature-controlled backpack. Polly picked up a copy of Architectural Digest Architectural Digest that was lying on the coffee table. She unconsciously flipped through the glossy pages depicting homes that were inferior to her own. She thought about the live, unscripted, flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants television program with which she had found herself involved. that was lying on the coffee table. She unconsciously flipped through the glossy pages depicting homes that were inferior to her own. She thought about the live, unscripted, flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants television program with which she had found herself involved. I'll just say nice things to each performer and be as encouraging as Sally Field pitching an osteoporosis pill I'll just say nice things to each performer and be as encouraging as Sally Field pitching an osteoporosis pill, she said to herself.

"You're my personal savior," she said as Placenta handed her a plastic cup filled with her effervescing amber cure-all.

A knock on the dressing room door brought Polly out of her reverie. "Makeup!" a voice called from the corridor. Tim opened the door and cast his beaming smile on a pet.i.te young woman with a mop of unruly red hair. He couldn't help thinking that she was Bernadette Peters-in a Bozo the Clown fright wig.

"I'm Katie," she said, holding out her hand and staring longingly at Tim. "You're Tim Pepper. You're even better looking than the pictures on your mother's official Web site."

As Tim's smile increased, so did the depth of his dimples.

"You've obviously got good genes. And I don't mean your Levi's," Katie joked, her Brooklyn accent becoming more p.r.o.nounced. After a long pause during which she looked adoringly at Tim, she turned and looked to Placenta and Polly. "Look at the star lady!" Katie enthused as she moved toward Polly. She smiled at Placenta, who looked Katie up and down. "Ach! You don't need me!" Katie said to Polly, and nudged Placenta for her to agree as she scrutinized the star's face. "Perhaps a little rouge here, a bit of mascara there. You're very well preserved!"

Polly smiled. "Every night after I brush my teeth and slather my face with a tube of imported monkey s.e.m.e.n, my darling maid, Placenta, pumps my veins with formaldehyde. Then she and Tim tuck me into my satin-lined Red Cross-approved blood bank refrigerator. By morning I'm as fresh as Doris Day."

Katie's jaw dropped. "That's some awesome beauty regimen! Certainly does the trick! You big stars know all the secrets. Someone should pa.s.s that one on to Cybill Shepherd. At least the formaldehyde part. She's already got the icy temperature thing down pat."

Polly, Tim, and Placenta all exchanged looks of amus.e.m.e.nt.

Katie stopped examining Polly's pores and wrinkles. With her arms crossed, she said, "Before we get started, I need to make myself clear about something. I don't play games."

"We weren't mocking you, dear!" Polly said. "We simply thought your summation of Miss Shepherd to be right on the money. She's a dear old old friend of mine. We all know her well. Her icicles, too." friend of mine. We all know her well. Her icicles, too."

Katie rolled her eyes. "Puleez! I'm not talking about your silly private jokes at the expense of my self-value. You can laugh behind my back all you want. I'm a pro. I've plastered the puss of practically every putz in the biz. Nothing bothers me. Except..." Katie paused. "Let's just go back to my rule about no games. And I don't mean 'Hangman' or 'Pin the Tail on Queen Latifah's Weight Watchers hiney.' You must be civil toward me. Not necessarily nice, but at least treat me as a member of the human family."

"Egalitarian is my middle name!" Polly protested.

"That's not how the contestants of this soon-to-be-canceled show, or the despicable Mr. Cornwall, are treating me. I can't work with them!"

"Then I'm the last star standing. I'll have you all to myself!" Polly smiled.

"Practically," Katie said. "I'll make up the darling Brian Smith. And I suppose our cutie host. But the Neanderthals they have caged up in the contestants' wing of the studio are a different animal!"

Polly stood up and put a hand on Katie's shoulder. "What did those nasty trolls do to you?"

"Let's just say there's a malevolent vibration that permeates all their dressing rooms," Katie said. "I feel as though I've taken a wrong turn and ended up in a Wes Craven horror flick: The Walls Have Eyes The Walls Have Eyes. Oh, and before you hear any rumors, that Miranda chick deserved my cuticle stick up her nose!"

"Ouch!" Placenta said, holding her own nose.

"It didn't go very deep. But if she bleeds while descending that ridiculously high staircase, you'll know it's not the alt.i.tude. And Mr. Ped-Xing needs to know that some people don't want to see that every body part has the potential to be pierced."

"I'm with Placenta," Tim said. "Ouch, indeed! No piercing stories, please!"

Katie waved at Tim. "I only looked for a nanosecond. Yawn. Not terribly exciting. I need this job, so I'll probably have to return to that den of insanity after all." She turned to Polly and smiled. "Let's get started. As I said, you're stunning! I have just the thing for that gnarly mustache!"

The afternoon moved swiftly. Soon, Polly was escorted to the set and her seat at the judges' desk, while Tim and Placenta were ushered to their reserved front row seats in the audience. Polly could feel the excitement coming from everywhere in the studio. The set reminded her of what she imagined the main deck on an alien s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p would look like: a vast, open, oval, raked stage with an enormous and steep stairway leading down from a height just below the ceiling. Billows of smoke and fog issued from the top of the stairs.

Laser lights sliced through the air, scanning the audience, and splitting into green cones and blue tunnels and magenta fans. Eerie metallic music that sounded like anvils being struck by hammers echoed through the studio's sound system.

As Polly took her seat, she nodded to Brian Smith and Thane Cornwall, who seemed to be enjoying the chaos. "The noise level is insane!" she shouted into Brian's ear.

She studied the audience. Collectively, they looked like they'd all been bused in from the Snake Pit. The age spread appeared to be a slender sixteen to twenty-one. Polly suddenly realized that she wouldn't be critiquing Julie Andrews or Johnny Mathis wannabes.

Instead, she would probably be witnessing some primordial toxic material that had evolved from the death of pop music in the 1970s. "Dear John Denver! Where are you when the world needs you?" Polly yelled, but her voice was drowned out by the commotion.

At exactly 5:55, a spotlight hit the stage, the music was muted, and the audience roared and pounded their feet on the floor. Steven Benjamin stood under the bright lights as a half dozen steadicam operators maneuvered around the stage and covered the audience. Overhead, three large cranes with cameras mounted on them glided through the air ready to capture every aspect of the event for the television-viewing audience.

At precisely six o'clock, the cheering from the audience became explosive, and Steven Benjamin lapped it up. His wide smile offered brilliant white teeth, and his hand seductively rubbed his two-day growth of beard. He welcomed the audience.

Not wanting to lose a moment of I'll Do Anything to Become Famous I'll Do Anything to Become Famous airtime, he plunged into his rehea.r.s.ed introductions. airtime, he plunged into his rehea.r.s.ed introductions.

Within five minutes, Steven Benjamin had explained the rules of the game, introduced the judges, and individually called to the stage the five contestants-who, one after another, cautiously descended the staircase. The crowd was eager for the entertainment to begin. And Steven was equally excited as he introduced Miranda Was.h.i.+ngton.

Miranda, a beautiful, young, African-American woman swathed in a chiffon dress of deep rose, with a ruffled neckline that exhibited her ample bust, walked down the stairway and smiled for the audience. She sang Road Kill Road Kill. Although Polly had never heard the song, it was obvious from the ovation that not only was the audience familiar with the music, but it seemed to be an anthem of unrequited love.

Miranda's voice was sensational. Polly was as impressed as the first time she heard Linda Ronstadt. By the end of her song, which suffered only from the repet.i.tion of the lyrics-"Road Kill! Road Kill! Tires down your front and rear. Road Kill! Road Kill! I still want you back, my dear"-Polly was again reminded of why she had never given contemporary music a fighting chance.

When the applause died down, Miranda took her bow and was escorted by Steven Benjamin to face the judges. "We'll start with the legendary Polly Pepper." He beamed as Polly wildly applauded Miranda and put her hands to her heart.

Polly smiled warmly. "Such a big voice and such a pretty young woman. I loved every moment of your charming performance. If I still had my old variety show, I'd have you on as a special guest! That's how much I enjoyed your work, dear. I think you're going to be a great big star! I'll drink a toast to you after the show. I award you a hundred points!"

Miranda's smile grew wider and she wiped away a tear. The audience completely agreed with Polly's a.s.sessment.

Steven Benjamin turned to Brian Smith.

"Oh yeah, what a voice!" Smith said. "Everything about your performance was exceptional. Love the outfit! The glitter in your hair is divine! And it's good to hear the old songs given a new interpretation!"

Old songs? Polly thought. I have the entire Rogers and Hart catalogue, Noel and Cole, too. "Road Kill" isn't on any record I own.

"A hundred points from me, too!"

Again the audience roared with approval of Brian Smith's comments and whooped it up in the stands. Steven Benjamin then brought Miranda to stand before Thane Cornwall.

Thane was poker faced. He sat with his arms folded across his chest and offered a loud sigh. "You're very clever," he said.

Miranda smiled with relief.

"Did you deliberately select a song for your debut that perfectly describes where your career is headed?" Thane asked.

Miranda c.o.c.ked her head and knitted her eyebrows.

"I mean, your voice sounds like a seriously injured little forest creature that wandered onto the motorway only to be pulverized by an eighteen-wheeler," Thane said.

Miranda rolled her eyes, set her jaw, and put her hands on her hips. "Anything else, Mr. Think-You're-Such-a-Hotshot-With-A-Phony-English-Accent?"

"As for your lack of stage presence, you're not even as interesting as the carpet under your feet. Zero points. Dismissed."

The crowd booed Thane, while Miranda stared at him like a cobra at a mongoose. Steven Benjamin uncomfortably announced that the show would return after a series of commercials. As Miranda was escorted off stage and back to her dressing room, Polly and Brian looked at each other. Thane picked up a book he'd brought to the table and leaned back to read.

In a matter of minutes, Steven Benjamin was back before the cameras and welcoming the next performer. "He's a hip-hop and rap master with as much star quality as you'll find anywhere on the planet. Please welcome Ped-Xing!"