A Talent for Murder Read online

  Praise for R.T. Jordan and his Polly Pepper Mysteries!

  REMAINS TO BE SCENE

  “What if Carol Burnett had starred in Murder She Wrote? Jordan answers that question with a wink and a giggle in his debut mystery … the dish on real-life Hollywood, past and present, enlivens the start of a promising series.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Move over, Auntie Mame! Here comes Polly Pepper, R.T. Jordan’s endearlingly outrageous drama queen-turned-sleuth. Armed with a maid, a Rolls-Royce and a magnum of champagne, Polly solves a dastardly murder and dishes plenty of showbiz gossip in this laugh-out-loud funny debut mystery. It’s a hoot and a half!”

  —Laura Levine, author of Death of a Trophy Wife

  “Jordan’s zany, name-dropping tale is … laugh-out-loud funny.”

  —Library Journal

  FINAL CURTAIN

  “A fun romp through the underworld of regional theater. Jordan’s entertaining plot moves briskly and its plucky heroine is sure to charm old fans and win new ones.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Jordan cleverly propels the hilarious plot briskly.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  Books by R.T. Jordan

  REMAINS TO BE SCENE

  FINAL CURTAIN

  A TALENT FOR MURDER

  SET SAIL FOR MURDER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A TALENT

  FOR MURDER

  R. T. JORDAN

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2009 by R. T. Jordan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN 13: 978-0-7582-6721-4

  eISBN 10: 0-7582-6721-5

  First Hardcover Printing: June 2009 First Mass Market Printing: May 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Terry Press

  (A belated expression of gratitude)

  CONTENTS

  Books by R.T. Jordan

  Praise for R.T. Jordan and his Polly Pepper Mysteries!

  The Usual Suspects

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Usual Suspects

  Mr. John Scognamiglio, my wonderful editor at Kensington, is again guilty of letting me get away with publishing. This is a privilege that I value very much and do not take lightly. I also thank my agent, Joëlle Delbourgo, and the best publicist on the planet, Robin Blakely.

  In the chain gang of my life, I’m delighted to be linked to many amazing and talented individuals, including Mr. Billy Barnes, Kevin Howell, Julia Oliver, Laura Levine, J. Randy Taraborrelli, Carolyn See, Andrew W. M. Beierle, David Rothley, Richard Klein, Pat Kavanagh, Marcela Landres, Jackie Joseph, Steven Smith, Fred Curt, Karlyn Hale, Alan Guno, and Emmanuel Parroissian. Also, Pat Jordan, Cathy and Randy Wharton, Bob and Jakki Jordan, and Jim and Sharon Foster Jordan.

  Forever and throughout eternity: Dame Muriel Pollia, Ph.D. Also, in loving memory of Louise Grappi and David Grappi. You left me too soon. I trust that you knew the unlimited depths of my devotion.

  “Hollywood is a place where they place you under contract, instead of under observation.”

  —Walter Winchell

  Chapter 1

  “Lush Hour, at last!” Polly Pepper exclaimed as she stepped out of her Manolo Blahnik heels and joined her son, Tim, on the sofa in the great room of Pepper Plantation, her fabled Bel Air mansion. Polly rested her bare feet on his lap, anticipating Tim’s large, strong hands to knead away her aching arches. “I plan my life around this time of day!”

  “For the massage? Or the bubbly?”

  “Both make me tingle, dear,” Polly said, wiggling her toes.

  At the wet bar, Placenta popped the cork from the chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Pavarotti’s high C never sounded as intoxicating!” Polly called out as she watched her maid fill three Waterford crystal champagne flutes and sighed as her son gripped her instep. “This is heaven. We can all sit back, take a few dainty sips of God’s golden cure-all, and wash the world away,” Polly said.

  “Temporary amnesia is all I expect,” Placenta said as she handed chilled glasses to Polly and Tim.

  Polly raised her flute and clinked it against Tim’s and Placenta’s. “I’m the luckiest star in the universe,” she trilled. She drained her flute in one long swallow. With a satisfied “Ahhhh,” she withdrew her feet from Tim’s lap and leaned forward to reach a slice of Placenta’s famous salmon tortilla appetizer from the glass-top coffee table. At the same time, Placenta refilled her employer’s vessel up to its lipstick-smudged rim.

  “Yum!” Polly said, acknowledging both the refill and the salmon tortilla. Then she groaned. “Guess which of the crazies in my life called today?”

  “Who is … Alex Trebek?” Tim played along.

  “J.J. Ol’ reptile-eyes himself.”

  Tim groaned at his mother’s reference to her unctuous agent, J. J. Norton. “I suppose he wants a character reference for one of the gads of employee harassment lawsuits pending against him.”

  “Believe it or not, he actually has a job for me,” Polly said.

  “A healing purple pill commercial?” Tim mocked.

  “I should be so lucky! Old stars hawking pharmaceuticals is all the rage. Dorothy Hamill made a killing—literally—shilling for Vioxx! Kathleen Turner, Lauren Bacall, Delta Burke, Peggy Fleming, who hasn’t made a few million sheckles pushing drugs? Don’t get me started about Bob Dole’s erectile dysfunction pill!”

  Polly, Tim, and Placenta simultaneously shuddered.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m up for a reality series,” Polly said. “I’d be perfect.”

  Tim coughed in midsip. “Perfect for what? ‘The Biggest Boozer’?”

  Polly winced. “I’d never diminish my dignity by appearing as a contestant, for crying out loud! No, there’s a spot open for the ‘nice’ judge on a summer replacement talent show. Think darling Carrie Ann Inaba, but tons more famous. FYI”—she glared at Tim—”I’m totally aware of the ten warning signs of alcoholism. I only have …” She made a mental tabulation, stuck her tongue out at her son, then took a defiant swallow from her glass.

  Placenta cackled. “The ‘nice’ judge, eh? Don’t get me wrong, take away dear dead Cyd Charisse, and you and Ca
rol Burnett and Betty White are in a three-way tie for everybody’s idea of the nicest living showbiz legend. But when it comes to faking praise about others’ lack of talent, you’re more like Kelly Ripa feigning devotion to some flash in the pan’s latest CD. You’re both transparent.”

  Polly looked concerned.

  “Actually, this could be an ideal job,” Placenta continued, “if you don’t mind lying to poor young wannabes, telling them that they have the potential to achieve fame and fortune, when in fact they stink.”

  “Just as modern maids don’t have to know anything about cleaning moldy bath mats, one doesn’t require talent to succeed in show business,” Polly sniffed. “Just look at Charlie Sheen.”

  “Just look at your bath mats!” Placenta snapped.

  “So what’s the show about?” Tim asked. “Dating?”

  “Home makeovers?” Placenta added.

  “Extreme retribution in the workplace?”

  “Celebrity colon irrigation?”

  Polly thought for a moment. She shrugged. “They sing. They dance. They swallow scorpions. Who knows? Who cares? Just cheap thrills for a viewing audience weary from news of wars, the sucky economy, melting ice caps, and Naomi Campbell’s latest assault and battery charges against her domestics. But it pays well, and it’s only for the summer. It’s called, um, I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous.”

  Placenta rolled her eyes. “Accent on the word anything, I suppose. I swear I don’t know who on earth would want to expose their lack of talent to millions of television viewers. Frankly, I’m embarrassed for them. They’re too stupid to realize they’re practically wearing ‘Kick Me’ signs!”

  Tim nodded in agreement. “At least you’ll have a summer job that doesn’t include steaming July nights at an amphitheater in St. Louis! Fans may miss seeing you in perspiration-soaked Victorian gowns and wigs playing The King and I, but we’ll all be safe and sound in an air-conditioned television studio.”

  “God knows, it’s easy money,” Polly said. “I mean, how much work can it be to sit around and watch telegenic amateurs, and telling ‘em how delightful they are?”

  At the thought of being around attractive contestants, Tim became animated. “I’m very compassionate toward losers. I may have to help comfort more than a few cute dancers or singers or sword swallowers. I’ll be indispensable in helping to restore their self-worth!”

  “Just don’t turn Pepper Plantation into a haven for Hollywood’s ne’er-do-wells,” Polly paused. “Actually, I have a rather good feeling about this job. That is, if I accept it. I still haven’t decided. There are always negotiations to hammer out. Billing. Per Diem. Expense account. You know J.J. and his penchant for getting me involved in crummy projects. Lately they’ve been murder!”

  “A primetime program could give your career another leg up,” Placenta advised. “That Dancing with Pseudo Stars sure helped bring Marie Osmond back—for a minute. And the previously unknown judges on that show are now household names.”

  “Very well, I’ll do it!” Polly announced. “These programs are the closest we’ll ever get to good old-fashioned variety shows. But if I’m the ‘nice’ judge, I’m a little concerned about who I’ll be sparring against. You know how much I loathe confrontation. I couldn’t handle a Simon Cowell clone.”

  Tim and Placenta both sniggered. “When you have an opinion, you don’t let go until everybody agrees with you!” Tim sassed. “You’re still insisting that the last Indiana Jones flick was a masterpiece! And that’s only because you think Harrison Ford is still hot. Which he is.”

  Placenta added, “Your pigheadedness is why Jamie Lee Curtis won’t play Scrabble with you anymore. There’s no such word as glurge!”

  The great room was quiet for a long moment. Polly, Tim, and Placenta thought about the phenomenon known as “reality shows.” With the airing of every new program, Z-list celebrities were instantly created. They achieved quickly fleeting fame for doing things as brainless as dating a dweeb or having Tyra Banks judge how well they performed bikini waxes.

  Will my conscience allow me to encourage vain acts of hedonism such as fashion and grooming? Polly thought.

  Polly Pepper sparring with cranky judges is likely to make the show a watercooler hit! Placenta considered.

  I’d better take ballroom dance lessons in case I run into one of the studs from Dancing with the Stars, Tim daydreamed.

  Their reverie was shattered by the sound of the telephone ringing. “Oh, let the machine pick up,” Polly moaned. “I’m not in the mood to negotiate with J.J.”

  The trio listened. “Honeybabycookiesweetie! It’s Phil. Just heard about your new job offer! Listen. I’m awaiting a new trial. I suppose you’ve heard about that dead wannabe actress playing with my shotgun. Nobody believes that she was cleaning it… with her tongue. I’m a rotten judge of women, but I still have a darn good sixth sense about talent. So if you decide not to do the show, please put in a word for me. Ciao, bella!”

  “Oh Lord,” Polly snorted. “Next we’ll be hearing from Bobby Blake!”

  Again, the telephone rang.

  As the elevator doors opened onto the foyer of J. J. Norton and Associates, Polly Pepper threw out her arms and sang in her powerful imitation of Ethel Merman, “There’s no business like show business …!” With Tim and Placenta in tow, she confidently walked across the blond hardwood floor to the reception desk. “You’re new.” She smiled at a young man wearing tortoiseshell eyeglasses, a white oxford cloth button-down dress shirt, and a conservative striped tie.

  He was startled by Polly’s sudden appearance.

  “This place is like Oz,” Polly said. “People come and go so quickly here.”

  “My agency offered me combat pay if I could last until Friday,” the receptionist admitted.

  Polly reached out and caressed the young man’s smooth cheek with her hand. “Poor baby,” she cooed. “J.J. can be a beast. The only way for a boy of your angelic beauty to survive is to … Well, never mind. You’re safe as long as you sneeze a lot.”

  “And make a point of scratching as if you itch all over,” Placenta added.

  Polly turned to Tim. “Don’t you think so too, dear? Isn’t he adorable?”

  “Absolutely,” Tim said, appraising their host.

  “What’s your name, dear?” Polly asked, holding out her hand to shake.

  “I’m not supposed to give out my name or become friendly with clients,” the young man said, looking around to make sure that he wasn’t being observed interacting with guests. “Mr. Norton is very strict. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement and swear that when I leave each day I’ll forget all the celebrities who may have come to the office.”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “One can never forget moi, dear,” she said. “As you know, I’m—”

  “Polly Pepper!” the receptionist said.

  “He’s smart, too!” Polly said, looking at Tim. “This pet you can take home and keep.”

  “You’re younger than Mr. Norton described you,” the receptionist said.

  Polly blanched.

  “Take a deep breath,” Placenta coaxed, as she patted Polly on the back. “Reel yourself in, honey. Don’t succumb to J.J.-bashing in public.”

  Polly found the breath to speak. “Where is dear Mr. Congeniality, anyway? We have a luncheon appointment.”

  “He had an emergency meeting with a potential new client,” the receptionist said.

  “Potential?” Placenta tsk-tsked.

  “The Best Western down the street again?” Tim sniggered.

  “His usual room?” Polly suggested.

  “Mr. Norton wanted me to personally hand this envelope to you,” the receptionist said.

  “J.J. didn’t have the decency to call before I had to battle midday traffic to get here,” Polly said, trying not to sound too perturbed. “What’s in the package?”

  Everybody watched as Polly opened the large manila envelope and withdrew what appeared to be a script. “I’ll D
o Anything to Become Famous,” she read from the cover page. “I thought these programs weren’t scripted.” Polly flipped through the pages and discovered that it was a breakdown of the show, complete with bios of the contestants and judges. There were suggested words and body language to use when evaluating a particularly pitiful performance. Polly looked aghast. “I can’t say such things to those poor sweet and probably embarrassed innocents.”

  The receptionist looked around the foyer again for eavesdroppers. “I could get fired on the spot for this. But since I Googled you this morning and remembered you’re the star my grandparents used to love, I’ll take a chance.”

  “Grandparents?” Polly raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?” She and Tim and Placenta leaned in closer as the receptionist whispered, “If it’s any indication of what you’re in for, the FBI used the casting call as a sting operation to round up a horde of fugitives. They got a whole lot of criminals who responded to the Craigslist ad that called for contestants who would be willing to do anything, and it stressed anything, to become famous. Also, the six who were selected had to go through a mental evaluation to make sure they aren’t dangerous to the judges.”

  Polly swallowed hard. She then straightened her posture, squared her shoulders, and pasted a smile on her face. “Sweetums, the moment that Mr. Norton returns from his emergency mating, would you please tell him to ring me? Contract or not, there are still a few things to hammer out. It was lovely meeting you. Good luck with your combat pay.”

  As Polly turned to leave, the receptionist called out, “Please don’t tell Mr. Norton that I spoke to you!”

  “My lips are sealed. And tell your grandparents that Polly Pepper sends kisses.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “That happens a lot.”

  When the elevator car arrived, the trio stepped in and Tim pushed the button for subterranean parking. As they dropped through the shaft, Polly clutched the show material to her chest and silently stared at the digital readout as they passed each floor. It was only when Tim was driving his mother’s Park Ward Rolls-Royce down Sunset Boulevard toward Beverly Hills, with Polly and Placenta buckled into their seats behind him, that Polly emerged from her silence. She retrieved the synopsis of the show and began to read aloud: