A Talent for Murder Read online

  “‘A fusion of American Idol, Celebrity Detox, and The Miss America Pageant, I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous is a high-octane laser light show of a talent competition program with one major difference from others in this genre glut. While contestants are encouraged to give the best artistic performance, they also have to convince the judges and the voting television viewing audience that they understand that talent isn’t enough. To be a success in Hollywood, one must be as nefarious as Glenn Close on Damages. They’ll have to literally do as the title of the show suggests—anything—in order to become the next Dina Lohan, Denise Richards, or the Geiko gecko.

  “‘When each week’s remaining wannabes reach the interview segment of the program, the judges pose Truth or Dare-like questions about celebrity ethics and morality. The answers and the lengths to which each contender says he/she would go to become a star will help decide the ultimate winner.’

  “My stars!” Polly sighed. “This is America’s Got Talent for the Menendez brothers!”

  Tim looked back at his mother through the rearview mirror. She was lost in a fog of thought. Then he looked at Placenta, who was beaming. “Why the smile?” Tim asked.

  “‘Cause this show is going to be a hit!” Placenta said. “Who wants to see boring singers and dancers with nothing more on their mind other than emulating whoever is on top at the moment? This show’ll give the public a look at how mean and cunning some people are. I hope it gets nasty. Every looky-loo loves a train wreck!”

  “It’ll be a lot harder to be the ‘nice’ judge if the contestants are undisciplined thugs,” Polly countered. “I don’t want to jeopardize my public’s opinion of me! I can’t let happen to me what happened to Bing Crosby’s widow. One appearance on Johnny Carson and poof, she was instantly recognized as not so grieving.”

  “Who are the contestants?” Tim asked.

  Polly riffled through the papers for the bios. “These are more like personality evaluations. Yikes! Listen to this: ‘Ped-Xing: A surly self-absorbed rapper thug. Short on vocal agility but long on intimidation. Observed during auditions bullying others and sharing body-piercing horror stories. A-plus among the three thousand applicants.’ “

  Placenta cackled. “Would one call him ‘Ped’ or ‘Mr. Xing’? I’ll never understand the crazy names these so-called artists make up for themselves! ‘50 Cent, Pitbull, Bow Wow,’ indeed!”

  “‘Amy Stout’,” Polly continued. “‘A Miley Cyrus clone. Southern drawl that comes and goes like the color of a mood ring. Has at least two faces: Ellen De-Generes fun, and Lily Tomlin caught in an I Heart Huckabees soundstage snit, when she doesn’t get her way. Disingenuous, but has a lovely voice.’

  “Another A-plus score,” Polly noted. “And how rude of them to bring up my darling Lily’s little diatribe on that movie set. She wouldn’t have been so nasty if she’d known that some meany was videotaping her tantrum for an axe-grinding broadcast. Poor baby!”

  Tim smiled. “She’s always been nice to me. But I still have fun watching her meltdown! Pretty scary stuff. Like Bill O’Reilly!”

  “Who are the other Antichrists on the show?” Placenta asked.

  “Um, let’s see. Oh, here’s one. Miranda Washington. ‘Strong and cultivated voice, reminiscent of Broadway legends.’ Finally, someone with talent!” Polly read on. “‘Contestant is more likely to become a maximum-security penitentiary guard than a recording star. Audition interview responses often peppered with colorful expletives. Be prepared to bleep during broadcasts. A-plus’.”

  Tim drove past UCLA and approached the Bel Air gates. “This show is Jerry Springer meets Sweeney Todd. Who are the other judges?”

  Polly shuffled through a few more pages. She stopped and smiled brightly. “Me!” she said. “My standard bio. Nice to see it’s been updated to include my Ovation Award nomination for last year’s production of Mame.”

  “The other judges?” Tim prodded.

  “Nobodies,” Polly said, skimming the pages. “Or at least not somebodies. A Brian Smith. It says he was once a Pip, dancing behind my eternal love, Gladys Knight. The other is someone named Cornwall. Thane Cornwall.”

  “Thane Cornwall?” Tim and Placenta simultaneously barked.

  “Not ‘The Royal Pain of England’!” Placenta said.

  “‘The Terror From the Thames’!”

  “ ‘The Nut Job of Nottingham’?”

  Polly was incredulous. “Terror? Nut job? Who is this creep?”

  Tim sighed. “You do too know Thane Cornwall!”

  “Not even if you put a gun to my temple.”

  Placenta prompted, “Made Barbara Walters cry on her network interview special last year.”

  “Where was I that night?”

  “He’s considered almost as venomous as that rabid rodent Ann Coulter. Famous for his put-down phrase, ‘From which medical research lab did you escape, monkey moron?’“ Tim said.

  Polly bit her lower lip. “I do seem to remember reading something in the National Peeper. “He’s that actor whowife for a —”

  “Yep!” Tim said, anticipating his mother’s recall.

  “—put his fist through his dressing room wall in a London theater just because the air-conditioning wasn’t cold enough,” Polly said.

  “No! Well, yes, but that’s not what he’s most noted for,” Tim countered. “Don’t you remember? Before Thane Cornwall became famous, he was living off a very rich wife. He was often seen insulting her in public. And the tabloids said that he neglected her privately.”

  “Didn’t two of his wife’s lovers go missing?” Polly asked.

  “According to the Peeper, Scotland Yard couldn’t prove foul play,” Placenta added, “but those two guys have never been heard from again.”

  “Could be that they just moved on to other people,” Polly said.

  “Sure,” Tim conceded. “But I’ve heard that Thane left England because the whole country thinks that each time he found out that his wife was playing around, he got rid of the Lotharios to ensure that he didn’t lose his meal ticket.”

  “The irony,” Placenta said, “is that as soon as Thane became rich and famous himself, he traded in the starter wife for a supermodel he’d been boinking for years. Then she dumped him.”

  Polly exhaled loudly and shook her head. “I’ll have no problem being the ‘nice’ judge compared to a guy who needs anger management classes, and probably a healing purple pill!”

  Chapter 2

  When Polly, Tim, and Placenta arrived for the first I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous production meeting, the conference room in the Writers Building on the Sterling Studio’s lot was already crowded with network executives and the show’s judging panel.

  Standing in the doorway and posing as if she were on a red carpet entertaining paparazzi, Polly made her entrance. With her hands on her hips, her head tilted up at a forty-five-degree angle, and her camera-ready smile beaming toward Jupiter, Polly sang out, “I’m hee-er!” All eyes instantly focused on the lady in the red Armani pantsuit.

  Polly was effulgent. However, when she spied an impossibly handsome twenty-something young man occupying the chair at the head of the conference table, she suddenly felt like an ugly stepsister sentenced to the plus-size dress department at Neiman’s. Polly swallowed hard, as the poster boy for human genetic engineering stood and offered a wide and enthusiastic smile. “You’re the famous Polly Pepper. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  “Please don’t tell me that you have grandparents who watched my show,” Polly teased, only half joking.

  He reached out to shake Polly’s hand and introduced himself as Richard Dartmouth, president of unscripted programming for the Sterling Network. “It’s so cool that you’re on our team,” he said.

  “Yes. Cool. And you’re … muy caliente!”

  “Mother!” Tim whispered harshly as he poked Polly’s ribs with his elbow.

  “I meant ‘tall,’“ Polly backtracked. “I’m learning Spanish. I get confused,” s
he said.

  Richard Dartmouth smiled and shrugged. “Gotta blame my otherwise perfect parents for something,” he said. “Let’s get this boring bit of business out of the way so you can do something more meaningful with your magical life.”

  Still blushing, Polly smiled broadly and finger-waved to everyone seated around the table. She took the one empty leather chair, while her entourage found seating in the back of the room.

  “I’ll keep this short.” Richard Dartmouth began his meeting. “I just wanted you to get to know each other before the first show on Friday. I’ll start by saying that I have complete trust that I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous is going to be a ratings winner. I expect that we’ll be picked up for a full season after we end our summer run in September. Of course we have to be a hit from the get-go, but with the media blitz, plus our amazing contestants, and of course the luminous Polly Pepper”— he nodded to the star—”as well as the charming Brian Smith”—he acknowledged the second judge—”Thane Cornwall, and our host, Steven Benjamin”—he smiled at both men—”we’re going to be a Friday night fave.”

  Polly tried not to stare at Dartmouth. That, however, was impossible. Not only was he articulate and bright, but he presented an air of absolute confidence. He also wore a neatly trimmed shadow of a beard, and an amazing mane of dark, feather-soft hair, which he frequently tossed with an unconscious whip of his head. Without looking over her shoulder, Polly knew that Tim and Placenta were equally rapt.

  Polly surreptitiously looked at the ring finger of Richard Dartmouth’s left hand. It was bare. No one that good looking is single, Polly thought to herself as she looked at his green eyes. Then she heard her name and realized that she hadn’t been paying attention to what was being discussed. Polly intuited that introductions were being made, so she reanimated her smile and modestly thanked Richard and the others for the opportunity to join their show.

  Dartmouth continued the introductions, giving brief comments about each person at the table. “You all remember Brian Smith from his work with Gladys Knight.”

  “No one remembers that,” Brian said. He was modest—and right.

  “What they also might not know is that for the past decade you’ve been running the Actors’ Workout Fitness Center,” Dartmouth continued. “So he’s eminently qualified to judge a talent competition. He’s also the best darned cook in Hollywood.” Dartmouth pointed to a paper plate on which rested a pyramid of chocolate brownies. “Brian made treats for us.”

  “Double fudge,” Brian boasted.

  “Our other judge is, of course, the famous—or, as some would say, infamous—Thane Cornwall.” Richard chuckled goodnaturedly as all heads turned to look at the smug man with his arms folded across his sweatered chest. Thane’s body language suggested boredom and arrogance. However, he forced a tight smile and shrugged.

  “Infamy. Yeah, that works for more than a couple of people in this room.” He nodded to Polly and the others.

  “You’re British?” Polly asked Thane innocently. “I haven’t seen ol’ Queenie in decades. Did she ever replace those ancient bathtubs for stall showers at Buckingham Palace? Do you think the evil Prince Phillip did you-know-what? Wink, wink.”

  Thane sniggered. “Fascinating observation about my accent. You’re certainly a bright bulb. As for Elizabeth, I quite like her. And Phillip is … Well, princess killer or not, he’s done well for a short man. Wink, wink, yourself.”

  Polly camouflaged her annoyance by smiling even more broadly. “I’m not exactly a royalist. I know what those inbreeds are capable of doing. As Anglophiles, you and I are bound to have a ton o’ fun on this show. I’ll be Anne Boleyn to your King Henry!”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to lose your head over me,” Thane said.

  Everyone laughed. I know that we’ll all get along very well,” Richard interrupted. “Speaking of losing a head, I have a bit of bad news. We’ve lost one of our contestants.”

  “Lost, as in misplaced, departed, or … deceased?” Brian Smith asked.

  “Yes, and no. Jewell Jones was picked up by the FBI this morning for the murder of her grandmother in Georgia,” he said. “Someone saw her on one of our television promos and snitched. When they cuffed her she kept screaming that she should win our competition anyway because when Granny wouldn’t lend her the money to come to California, she did what she had to do to get it, which, she said, proves that she’ll do anything to become famous.”

  “Very resourceful,” Thane Cornwall agreed. “She’s set the bar high as far as I’m concerned.”

  Polly gave Thane a look of disbelief. “Do you have a granny? Would you do something sinister to her in a bid to make your own showbiz dreams come true?”

  Thane stared at Polly. “Save the Dr. Laura judgments for the contestants’ Q and A, Miss Used to Be.”

  Polly gave Thane an equally icy stare that chilled the entire room. “I don’t know you, and yet I’m getting a very disturbing vibration.”

  “Old motors make odd noises.” Thane smirked. “When was the last time you had your engine tuned up?”

  Polly looked at Thane with contempt. “As a matter of fact, I get serviced regularly.”

  “Okeydoke. Let’s call it a day,” Richard declared. “Be sure to review the rules of the show and your individual responsibilities before coming to rehearsal on Friday. And it’s important that you not become friendly with the contestants. We don’t want a Paula Abdul situation on this show. At least, not until we need tabloid publicity.”

  With that, the meeting was adjourned, and Polly reached for one of Brian Smith’s double fudge brownies. “I need something to take away the slimy taste of that annoying Thane person,” she said with her mouth full. “May I have three?” she asked Brian. “My herd over there”—she pointed to Tim and Placenta—”will do to me what Jewell Jones did to her poor granny if I don’t put something sweet in their feeding troughs.”

  “They’re all yours,” Brian said. “Nobody else touched ‘em.”

  Polly stopped midbite. “No E. coli? Ebola? Tetanus?”

  “FDA approved,” Brian said. “Unless you’re allergic to Duncan Hines.”

  “In the spirit of reciprocity, you’ll come to dinner at the plantation before the next lunar eclipse,” Polly said as she pushed the plate toward Placenta. “And bring another Pip or two, or three or four. How many are you, anyway?”

  As Tim and Placenta joined Polly and began to follow the others out of the conference room, Steven Benjamin, the dimpled-for-days and boyishly sexy soap stud-turned-reality show-host, wheedled his way into the group. “Miss Pepper,” he called.

  Although Tim was the big fan, Polly knew that Steven was someone of note from the world of pop music radio and daytime drama. She smiled and gave Steve a warm hug, then intimately pushed a bit of Brian Smith’s brownie into his mouth. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said.

  “Double Dutch chocolate, or judges who hate each other?” Steve said, swallowing the morsel of brownie.

  “All of the above. But if Mr. Cornwall thinks he can intimidate me, he’s way off base,” Polly said. “I survived Trish Saddleback when I was a guest on the dumb-ass daytime coffee klatch show The Shrews. Still, this Jewell Jones tragedy is upsetting and Thane’s lack of respect for the dead is just plain weird. Isn’t it amazing what one will do to court the limelight?” Polly said as she unconsciously played with an ostentatious diamond dragonfly brooch on her jacket. “What do you make of that dreadful refugee from the U.K.?”

  “Danger,” Steven said with a roll of his eyes. “Just ignore him. He hates everybody, including me. And I’m totally lovable!”

  “You are indeed,” Placenta said. “I adored you on the radio, even when your picture on the back of that bus caused me to crash my car. And I have the DVD of that movie you made with Jessica Alba!”

  Steven Benjamin gave Placenta an even wider smile that showed off his beautiful white teeth and twin dimples. “That bus poster ad campaign wasn’t a very good i
dea. You’re just one of hundreds of hit-and-runs. I have a face made for radio, not marketing,” he said, pretending that he didn’t know he was considered one of the sexiest men on the planet.

  Steven looked at Polly. “You’re going to be a terrific judge. Also, I’ve met the kids and they’re pretty awesome … if a bit creepy.” He shuddered. “Oh, forget what I just said. I don’t want to be accused of influencing a judge!” he chuckled. “Chin up. Don’t let the creatures, er, contestants, bite. And don’t lose any sleep over Thane Cornwall, of all people! Although, judging by your response to someone else in the room this morning, I imagine that any sleep you get will be filled with dreams of a tall, too-handsome-to-be-real stud with a smile as insincere as an undertaker’s.”

  Steven Benjamin made a hasty retreat into the crowd and sidled up to Richard Dartmouth. Polly and her troupe watched as the two walked away, giggling like sorority sisters.

  Polly sighed. “Why must they be so young and attractive? And what the hell was that Thane altercation about? I was only trying to be the friendly star that everybody expects me to be.”

  “You just touched a sensitive nerve,” Tim said.

  “Nerve is all he’s made of. And what’d Steve mean when he said the contestants are creepy? How does he know? We’re not supposed to interact with them.”

  “Everyone we’ve met here is creepy, including your heartthrob Richard D., who looks like he was manufactured rather than born,” Placenta said.

  “He doesn’t do a thing for me,” Polly lied. “Anyway, I have my own beau. Detective Randal Archer is the only man I have any interest in.”

  “Then don’t pay any attention to Thane ‘Stupid Name’ Cornwall,” Placenta suggested. “Some folks just love to start trouble. But perhaps you’d better make it clear that you’re dating a cop.”