Final Curtain Read online

  Polly smiled. “I remember too,” she said, remembering the extremely low ratings of that particular program. “At the time you were doing guest-starring roles on The Bob Newhart Show and Mannix. Seems as though for a couple of seasons you were everywhere! Johnny Carson, Merv Griffin, Dinah Shore, Rhoda.”

  Charlotte sighed. “I should have bought my apartment building when I had some dough. You were smart to buy that big ol’ place in Bel Air. Bet you couldn’t touch it now. I saw Pepper Plantation in Architectural Digest a few years ago. My God, you probably paid pennies by today’s standards! I especially loved your Emmy room.”

  “It is rather impressive, isn’t it?” Polly beamed. “It’s been a lovely home in which to raise my family,” she said, knowing that Charlotte had never married and never had children.

  Charlotte’s face turned a slight shade of green as she looked over at Tim.

  By ten o’clock most of the cast had assembled onstage. While everyone waited for the director and ingénue to walk through the door, they all made small talk among each other. Polly feigned interest in Beauregard’s lengthy list of stage and television credits, which he reeled off like a waiter explaining the house specials for the evening.

  Polly plastered a fake smile to her lips as Emily Hutcherson sidled up to her. In a warmer greeting than the day before, she announced that she was writing her memoirs and would Polly please consider offering a blurb for the book jacket. “And risk committing career suicide? I’d love to,” Polly said.

  “I haven’t exactly started the book yet,” Emily said. “But all my friends tell me I absolutely have to put pen to paper and share the funny showbiz stories with which I regale my guests at dinner parties.”

  Polly smiled, predicting that Emily would never take the time to write a book.

  Another half hour passed and Polly was still tapping her foot on the wooden stage waiting for director Karen Richards and daytime drama diva Sharon. “Were you all as pissed at me yesterday?” she chuckled.

  “Coming over the hill this morning, the traffic was wretched,” Charlotte said, explaining the probable cause for the absentees.

  “Sharon’s here. Somewhere,” Polly said. “Her car’s in the lot, next to Karen’s.”

  “I have that space,” Emily said.

  “It was there when I arrived,” Polly said. “Something’s not right. Has anyone seen the beast, Gerold? His car was in the lot too. Perhaps he’s giving Sharon and Karen one of his excoriating lectures in his office. We don’t have time for his games. Someone call Karen’s cell and find out how long they’re going to be.”

  Tim, who along with Placenta was seated in the audience trying to stay out of the way, volunteered to place the call. “I’ve already programmed all of your numbers.” He flipped open his phone and pushed the address book key. He scrolled down to Karen’s number and pushed the Talk button. In less than a moment he simultaneously heard ringing in his earpiece and a personalized ring tone of “Popular” coming from behind the stage curtain. The instant that the ringing stopped in his own phone, so too did the hit song from Wicked coming from behind the curtain, as an automated voice message announced that Karen Richards was not available. Beep.

  With a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Tim flipped his phone closed.

  “The acoustics in this place are wonderful,” Polly said. “Tim, dear, push Redial.”

  When Tim redialed Karen’s number, the same music wafted from backstage and the entire cast huddled together. Tim and Placenta joined them onstage as Polly began to lead the way into the wings.

  Dark and grim, the ancient backstage area was eerie with its vaulted height and cavernous depth. There were creepy vibrations in old theaters, and the Galaxy was no exception. Ghosts were everywhere. The only illumination backstage was ambient light that filtered in from the auditorium. Polly felt a sense of trepidation as she moved into the abyss. With the exception of the echo produced by each footstep on the concrete slab floor, the backstage area was deathly quiet. Polly looked at Tim. “Call Karen’s cell again, hon.”

  Tim flipped open his phone and redialed. “Popular” ricocheted throughout the vast backstage area. En masse, the curious cast followed Polly toward the ring tone. Then, just as the music ended and the automated voice message system engaged, Emily Hutcherson tripped over a thick electrical cable and fell—facedown onto a sandbag. “Holy Mother of Christ!” she screamed.

  At the same time, Tim found the light switch panel and turned on all the overhead spots. Emily screamed even louder as she realized that her face wasn’t resting against a sandbag but rather a body.

  The body of director Karen Richards.

  Polly rushed to Emily’s side and held out her hand to help the actress back onto her feet. But Polly was more interested in taking a closer look at Karen. Immediately she noticed that blood had pooled on the floor around the back of Karen’s head. Her unseeing eyes were staring up at the fly space above the proscenium.

  As the rest of the shocked and confused cast stood almost as lifeless as Karen lying on the floor, Placenta had the wherewithal to call 911.

  Although the paramedics arrived in a matter of minutes, it was too late. Karen was a goner the instant her brain began to seep through the crack in her head. The police followed quickly behind the EMTs and dutifully began taking pictures of the death scene, and questioning the cast. When an officer asked Polly if she had seen anything unusual, she explained that it was what she didn’t see that might be more important.

  An officious-looking detective in a gray suit overheard her remark. “And who are you?” the brusque bully of a policeman asked as he walked over to Polly. He looked down his nose at the star.

  “She’s Polly Pepper, and if you don’t know that you should be clutching the halter of a guide dog,” Tim snapped, as he elbowed his way through the assembled cast. “She’s the star of this show, and a living legend for that matter. And who are you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” the detective responded, and then turned to Polly. He softened his approach. “I’m sorry, Miss Pepper, I didn’t recognize you. I used to be a big fan. When I was a kid, I mean. Let me rephrase that. I don’t have time to watch television or keep up with Hollywood news anymore.”

  Polly smiled warmly and held out her hand. “Of course you don’t. There are some jobs that people think are more important than showbiz. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Detective…?”

  “Collins. Wayne Collins.”

  “Detective Collins, this is my son, Tim, and our maid, Placenta.” Polly pointed to each and then began introducing the rest of the assembled cast. “And as you may know we’re putting on a stage musical. That’s our darling director behind the tape barrier.” She pointed to Karen. “She’s unexpectedly turned up brutally murdered.”

  “Murder hasn’t been established,” Detective Collins quickly pointed out.

  “If it looks like a duck, and no longer quacks,” Polly scoffed.

  “What were you saying about something you didn’t see being potentially important?” Detective Collins continued.

  Polly explained that although the other cast members claimed that actress Sharon Fletcher had never arrived for the morning rehearsal, she had definitely been at the theater that morning. “Tim and Placenta and I saw her car in the lot. Along with the body. I mean Karen Richards. Our obnoxious artistic director, Gerold Goss’s car was here too, but none of them ever showed up for rehearsal. Karen obviously had a good excuse.”

  “Which one of you actually found the body?” The detective’s tone was at once curious and accusatory.

  “We all did, the entire cast. All at the same time.”

  In that moment Gerold Goss blustered onto the stage demanding to know what was going on and why he had to identify himself before being allowed past a guard at the door to his own theater. He looked at Polly. “Now what have you done?”

  “The police are here because someone let Karen have their Emmy Award—buried in her pretty head,�
�� she said matter-of-factly.

  Detective Collins interrupted. “We haven’t established the scenario.”

  Polly folded her arms across her chest and pointed to the scene of the crime. “Body. Emmy. Blood. Scenario established.” She turned back to Gerold. “Where were you when her lights went out? So to speak.”

  Gerold put his hands on the back of a folding chair to steady himself. “What happened?” he asked in a small voice as he sat down. “Who did this to Karen? Was it robbery?”

  Polly placed her hand on his meaty shoulder. “Robbery? No,” she said.

  Again Detective Collins stepped in to explain that motive had not been established. Polly again faced the man. “How many hoods do you know who run around with sacred acting awards, let alone leave them at the scene, when they commit robberies?”

  “Nothing in Hollywood surprises me anymore,” the detective said.

  “This is hard for all of us to accept,” Polly sighed, returning her attention to Gerold. “We’re now a show without a director, a ship without a captain. Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around the theater this morning?”

  Detective Collins reiterated, “I’ll ask the questions.” He waited a beat and then said, “Did you see anything out of the ordinary here this morning?”

  Gerold looked confused. “I just got here.”

  “Your car was parked in the lot when we arrived at eight twenty-five.” Polly enunciated the time as clearly as if she were doing speech exercises: How. Now. Brown. Cow.

  “Yeah, I drove in at around eight, then went for my daily walk. Cardio. I never actually came into the theater,” Gerold said.

  “Any alibis?” Detective Collins asked.

  Again Gerold shrugged. “A lot of people walk. But if you’re asking whether or not I ran into anyone who can vouch for me being at the corner of Brand and Main at the time of Karen’s murder, the answer is no. I hope that the fact that my car was here doesn’t make me a suspect. Do I need an attorney?”

  Detective Collins waved away Gerold’s fears. “Just don’t leave town until we figure this whole thing out.” He returned his attention to Polly. “You mentioned a cast member who was missing.” He consulted his notebook. “A Sharon Fletcher?”

  Chapter 4

  When Detective Collins arrived at Sharon Fletcher’s house in the upscale Los Feliz area of Los Angeles, he introduced himself through an intercom. Sharon buzzed him through the front gate. She was dressed in her flannel pajamas and a silk bathrobe, her nose and eyes red. Her famous hairstyle had mutated from the two-hundred-dollar coif that thousands of women around the country tried to copy, into a reasonable facsimile of the wig that Bette Davis wore in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? She clutched a fistful of Kleenex and sniffled a lot. “I’m not well enough to talk now,” she said and tried to close the door.

  Detective Collins wedged his foot between the door and its frame. “This is important, Miss Fletcher. I won’t take long.” Sharon heaved a sigh of resentment but stepped aside, held the door open, and led him into the sunken living room. “I’m afraid I have some sad news,” he said. “A crime was committed at the Galaxy Theatre this morning. The director of the show, Ms. Karen Richards, is…dead.”

  Sharon looked at the detective with horror. “That’s not true. She was…We were just…” Sharon let out a small wail of grief.

  “I need to ask you a few questions. Just routine stuff.” Collins withdrew his notebook.

  Sharon nodded her head.

  “You didn’t show up for rehearsals today. Where were you from approximately eight to eight thirty this morning?”

  “Here. I was sick as a dog all night. I knew I wouldn’t make it to rehearsal, so I called Karen. She told me to stay home. She didn’t want me spreading germs among the other cast members. I can’t believe that she’s dead.” Sharon sneezed and blew her nose.

  Detective Collins nodded his head. “What time did you two talk?”

  Sharon thought for a moment. “I was awake half the night, but I waited until I thought it was a reasonable hour to call. Around seven, I guess.”

  Again, Detective Collins nodded. “Did you call from your cell phone or the landline?”

  “Um, the cell.”

  “Mind if I see your phone? I’d like to get your call history. Just routine. We need to establish the exact time of the call so we can get a better idea of precisely when Ms. Richards died.”

  Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, sorry. I called from the phone beside my bed. The cold medicine, plus the news of Karen’s death…I’m not thinking clearly.”

  Detective Collins nodded again. “If it’s all the same to you, may I see the cell phone anyway? With your permission, we’d like to look at your phone log.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  “If we have to, but we’re hoping you can help us out.”

  Sharon reluctantly left the living room to retrieve her mobile phone. She sneezed again and wandered into her bedroom. A few moments later she returned with her purse in hand. “It’s not here. I always keep it in my purse. I tend to easily misplace it, so I make a point of always putting it in this particular compartment.” She showed Detective Collins the interior space of her bag with a zippered pocket, which was empty. “I must have left it at Pepper Plantation—that’s the home of our star Polly Pepper. I had dinner there last night.”

  The detective sighed. “Is there any other place you might have left it? Think hard, because it’s not at Pepper Plantation.”

  Sharon gave the detective a long quizzical stare. “If you know it’s not at Pepper Plantation, then you know exactly where my cell phone is. So why don’t you tell me?”

  “Just take a guess, ma’am. Where were you this morning between eight and eight thirty?”

  “What’s going on? I’ve already told you that I was here in bed, sick with this cold. So I made a mistake when I said I used my cell. That doesn’t make me a killer.”

  “What makes you think that Ms. Richards was killed?” Collins asked.

  Sharon swallowed hard. “I just presumed…”

  “At the moment, Ms. Fletcher, your cell is in a plastic bag down at the crime lab,” Collins said. “It’s evidence in this case.”

  “Evidence?” Sharon said.

  “Miss Fletcher, your cell phone was found next to the body of Ms. Richards. I believe that you did speak with the deceased this morning at seven. In the outgoing log of her cell, there was a call to your cell number. But it appears that you were also at the theatre around the time of her death. Eyewitnesses place you there at around eight twenty-five.”

  “Wait a minute!” Sharon begged. “The fact that my cell phone was at the theater means nothing! I must have left it there yesterday.”

  “We also have another bit of evidence, Miss Fletcher.”

  Sharon slumped into her chair. “My Emmy,” she said.

  “It has blood all over it,” Collins said. “When the lab results come back, I’m confident that it will match the victim’s blood type. Miss Fletcher,” Detective Collins said, “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Karen Richards.”

  Chapter 5

  Gossip in Hollywood travels faster than an Internet search for “Dead wives of Robert Blake.” Polly and Tim and Placenta were stunned when they received a text message on Tim’s cell phone from the precocious little kid with the role of young Patrick in the show. They read the news of the arrest of Sharon Fletcher and collectively gasped in disbelief. The fact that Sharon was a soap star made the arrest the main headline for every media outlet around the globe. From E.T. to Anderson Cooper 360 to the Huffington Post, the story was big news, and gave Polly Pepper and the Galaxy Theatre’s forthcoming production of Mame more publicity than Tour de France cyclists shooting up with prohibited testosterone. The notoriety made Gerold Goss equal parts ecstatic and smug. The day after Sharon Fletcher’s arrest, Gerold called for a full cast meeting—in lieu of a much-needed rehearsal.

  Pol
ly and her cast, minus the accused murderer, assembled onstage at 9:00 A.M. While waiting for their artistic director to arrive, each visited the site where Karen’s body had been discovered. They all clucked clichés about the good dying young, and the theater having lost a shining beacon. Finally at nine fifteen, a stern and self-satisfied-looking Gerold Goss waddled onto the stage holding a black leather notebook. He took Karen’s reserved seat at the head of the long reading table.

  Silence filled the theater as the imposing Goss, wearing an extra-large Hawaiian shirt that did nothing to conceal his girth, and revealed thick hairy arms and tufts of dark fur climbing from his chest up to his throat, silently stared into the eyes of each cast member. After a particularly long look at Polly he announced, “What’s done is done. There’s no time to waste on the past. Our show opens in ten days and I’m taking over as director. It’s time to get comfortable with being uncomfortable!” He cleared his throat. “I’m making a few casting changes.”

  The assembled group began to murmur. Gerold continued. “I’m not the callow and spineless Karen Richards. I didn’t agree with a number of her casting choices and now I have the authority to mold my cast into a Broadway-caliber production of Mame.”

  Polly raised her hand and before being granted the floor she said, “With all due respect, Mr. Goss, I haven’t kept up with second-tier directors, so I don’t know your credits.”

  The cast made a feeble attempt to stifle giggles.

  “I’m sure you’re a very talented man,” Polly continued. “But which musicals have you directed? South Pacific? Cabaret? Rent? Karen had enormous successes at Yale Rep, Goodspeed, the Guthrie, and Williamstown. For the record, would you enlighten us with your CV?”

  Gerold Goss gave Polly a hard look. “Everyone needs a debut.”

  “Ah.” Polly nodded. “How lovely for you to be embarking on such a grand and arduous adventure. However, I’ve starred in several productions of Mame, and without impeccable direction it’s nearly impossible to properly follow the great Jerry Herman’s vision for his masterpiece. I must have a strong director who has gads of experience in musical theater. James Lapine, Susan Stroman, Tommy Tune. Any of them would be acceptable to me.”