Final Curtain Page 7

  Polly’s heart sank. She couldn’t imagine anyone living in such a small and dingy apartment. Not only was it poorly lighted and cluttered, but the place reeked of cat urine and mildew. As if reading Polly’s thoughts, Hiroaki explained that the pipes had burst last month and the landlord hadn’t replaced the carpeting. “Meet Miss Lana Turner,” he said, picking up an old gray cat from the sofa. “I’ll put her in the bedroom so you’ll have a place to sit.”

  The moment Hiroaki turned his back and walked down the short hallway to his bedroom, Polly, Tim, and Placenta gave each other the same look of despair. They quickly surveyed the place and saw an entire wall of autographed eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of celebrities staring back at them from within cheap drugstore frames. “Just like Charlotte’s collection,” Polly said.

  Several movie posters were taped to cinder block walls, and a small television occupied a corner. The kitchen, which was part of the room, as it had been at Charlotte’s apartment, was a repository for newspapers, magazines, books, and a sink full of unwashed dishes. The trio stood in the center of the room, awaiting the return of their host.

  Presently, Hiroaki was back and leaned into Polly for a hug. He then shook hands with Tim and Placenta and suggested that they take a seat on the sofa, which was covered with an afghan blanket and enough cat hair to weave into a rug. “How about a glass of water?” Hiroaki said.

  After seeing the state of the kitchen, the three guests simultaneously replied, “No!” Polly added that they only planned to stay a moment; that they just wanted to check up on Hiroaki to make sure he wasn’t too upset about losing his role in Mame.

  “Of course I’m upset,” Hiroaki spat. “No employment, no insurance! I’m screwed unless I can get eighty hours of work between now and October thirty-first. Karen understood how important this gig was to me, financially. But that son of a bitch Gerold Goss cares nothing about my situation. I’m surprised someone didn’t kill him instead!”

  Polly blanched. “Speaking of death and killing and murder, and all that fun stuff, who do you suppose opened dear Karen’s head? Everyone in the company seemed to adore her.”

  Hiroaki was silent for a long moment. Then he stood up and moved over to the kitchen counter. He picked up a glass tumbler out of the sink, turned on the tap, and rinsed it out. Then he opened the freezer and withdrew a bottle of gin. “Would you like one?” he asked, holding the half-full bottle for Polly and her family to see.

  Again there was a simultaneous burst of “No, thanks!” from the trio.

  Hiroaki poured three fingers into the tumbler and took a small sip. “Who opened Karen’s head?” he repeated Polly’s question. “I think that the police are right to be looking at the cast for the killer. However, I doubt that it’s the soap opera girl. She was quiet and reserved. Of course, isn’t that what they usually say about ax murderers and psychopaths with a basement full of dismembered bodies?”

  “So you don’t think that Sharon is guilty?” Polly asked.

  Hiroaki shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. But there are others who should be considered.”

  “I’m all ears,” Polly cooed to Hiroaki. “Do tell Polly all the dishy backstage naughtiness!”

  Hiroaki smiled and took another sip of his drink. “Well, if I were investigating this case, I’d ask Charlotte Bunch where she was at the time of the murder.”

  “They already have. She was en route home after being fired by Karen—just like you.”

  “Then ask Miss Bunch if she carried a grudge against Karen for humiliating her.”

  Polly and the others perked up.

  “It wasn’t Karen’s fault that Charlotte felt slighted,” Hiroaki continued. “You know how sensitive actors can be. It was during the read-through that first morning. Charlotte prides herself on being the Meryl Streep of community theater, you know, the accents and all. Well, Karen interrupted Charlotte several times and politely suggested that her Irish brogue could be a wee bit more authentic. Charlotte was mortified, even though Karen was directing her in the classiest way imaginable. That afternoon, as we left the theater together, she was seething and said that no one was going to tell her how to do an authentic accent of any kind—especially Irish—as she had the entire cast of Riverdance holed up in her head. She was going to confront Karen with this fact first thing the next morning.”

  “Did she?”

  “I didn’t see her until we were all gathered waiting for Karen to show up.”

  Polly was curious. “Charlotte let a little thing like a director doing her job of trying to guide her performance upset her? I thought she was more professional than that!”

  “Charlotte’s a lot of things, including a good actor,” Hiroaki said. “But she’s hardly one to accept the slightest criticism, constructive or otherwise, without feeling insulted.”

  “How did she feel about getting the ax?” Polly asked. “I hear that you both knew that you were on Gerold’s short list of cast members to be replaced.”

  Hiroaki rolled his eyes. “Where do these rumors come from? Why does everybody think we knew that we were being replaced? I didn’t know. I’m always afraid that I will be canned from a job, but this one was different.”

  “So you didn’t have an inkling that your days in Mame were numbered?”

  “I signed on to do this musical and thought it would be a breeze. I’ve played Ito in a dozen productions of Mame. I’m like the token Asian whenever there’s a production of South Pacific, or The King and I, or Flower Drum Song. I’m Pat Morita, George Takei, and Sab Shimono rolled into one. So I didn’t think I’d be fired from this production.”

  Polly nodded. “Dear Hiroaki, please know that I will personally keep my eyes peeled and my ears cocked for any forthcoming production of Pacific Overtures. Perhaps Disney will do a stage version of Mulan.”

  Hiroaki took another sip from his glass and rose to escort his guests to the door, but as his hand reached for the knob he was interrupted by one last comment from Polly.

  “Lord knows your alibi is airtight. Taking the city bus all the time, I’ll bet you run into the same people day in and day out. At least the drivers. By the way, how long does it take you to get from here to the theater? It must be hours!”

  “Yes, hours,” Hiroaki said vaguely. “But it’s not so bad. I get a lot of reading done. It’s tough not having a car, but with the cost of insurance and gas, there’s no way I can afford such a luxury.”

  “By the way, you have a twin running around giving you a bad reputation for taste in automobiles. We saw him this morning in a battered old Honda. Watch out for identity theft, dear.”

  Polly patted Hiroaki on the cheek. “Things are bound to turn around for you. But if they don’t, well, there’s a reason for everything. Keep bugging your commercial agent to send you out for Panda Express commercials!” Polly made a kissy-kissy sound and walked out through the doorway. “We’ll find our way back to the elevator. Give Constance Bennett a tickle for me.”

  “Lana Turner.”

  “Whatever.”

  Polly, Tim, and Placenta were silent as they retraced their steps to the elevator and while they were riding down to the lobby. However, once outside, they began to whisper to each other. Polly said, “So pathetic!”

  “The poor man is in dire straits,” Placenta lamented.

  “I mean his choice of gin!” Polly corrected. “Send him some Stolly tomorrow,” she said, looking at her maid-slash-secretary-slash-Welcome Wagon. “Gerold couldn’t be more mean to deprive Hiroaki of his ability to earn a living and to qualify for his Actors’ Equity health insurance!”

  Tim added, “From now on, Mother, I’ll be a good boy and do whatever you tell me, as long as I can live at Pepper Plantation forever. And I swear, we’re never having cats!”

  Placenta suddenly stopped a few yards from the Rolls. She looked at a car as if experiencing déjà vu. “Um, er. Honda. Black. Smashed in grill. Where have we seen this before?”

  The others looke
d at the car, and then looked at each other. Then they looked back at Hiroaki’s apartment building.

  Chapter 10

  En route back to Pepper Plantation, Polly looked at her watch and cried out, “For heaven’s sake, we’re missing Lush Hour! Open the fizz!”

  Placenta reached into the car’s custom-made wine cooler and withdrew a bottle of Veuve. As she stripped off the foil covering the cork, and twisted away the wire bonnet, Polly withdrew two champagne flutes from the mahogany glass holder and held them out for Placenta to fill. “Watch the speed, sweetie,” she cautioned Tim. “We don’t need any of Reseda’s so-called finest to want a tour of a Rolls-Royce. They bag Willie Nelson on his bus all the time.” Just as Placenta popped the cork, Polly’s cell phone rang.

  Polly looked at the caller ID and smiled. She flipped open the phone and cooed, “I’m breaking the law even as we speak. Would you like to arrest me?”

  Tim looked into the rearview mirror and caught Placenta rolling her eyes.

  “What does the California Penal Code suggest as appropriate punishment for having an open container of alcohol in a moving vehicle?” She smiled as she listened to her paramour. “Sounds like fun. Not to worry, Timmy’s my designated driver. Placenta is actually the guilty party—she opened the bottle. I’m just trying to unwind. It’s been a day of work, work, and more work. This weary legend needs a release.”

  Polly listened for a moment and then giggled. “Is that what arresting officers do to celebrities with blood alcohol levels above .08?” She giggled again, then changed the subject. “You’ll be very proud of me, Mr. Policeman. Of course you are already. I mean I’m being very good about not interfering with the case of who killed my brilliant and delightful young stage director.”

  Placenta and Tim both laughed loudly enough for Polly to have to cover the cell phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. She gave them a look that warned not to contradict her.

  “Even though I know it’s not Sharon Fletcher, everyone agrees that the killer is probably someone in the cast, or more than likely one who was once part of the cast. The rumors are flying! Charlotte Bunch thinks Hiroaki Goldfarb may have had a hand in the deed, and Hiroaki thinks that perhaps Charlotte should be fingered. It’s all too interesting and I’m having the time of my life working on the show and dishing about death in between scenes.”

  She stopped smiling and swallowed hard. “I promised that I wouldn’t interfere and I’m not, dear. I swear it. I’m just…making small talk—”

  She listened again and nodded her head in agreement. “I realize that, and you’re a doll to be concerned, but I—” Again she was interrupted. “But what if Sharon’s not guilty? Sweetums, I just can’t sit by and let the poor thing rot in a Beverly Hills jail cell. I’m not about to—” Polly pursed her lips in frustration. “Let’s talk about something more fun, shall we? Did you know that Brad and Angelina sleep in a bed of Vaseline each night to keep their skin looking fresh and supple? Oh, and we’re giving a cast party next week and you’ll be there too.”

  Polly paused for a long moment. “Excuse me? Not unless I stop what? Um, Randy, darling, I’m Polly Pepper. I don’t accept ultimatums, I give them. And by the way, most people listen to me as if I have something important to say. I swung the last mayoral election because I endorsed that adorable Hispanic hombre who I’m told will probably be our next governor. Let’s chat later, shall we? Like the day after Prince Charles gets his fanny on the throne of England! The highway patrol? You wouldn’t dare!” Polly quickly slapped the phone shut. She was stone silent.

  “The honeymoon’s over,” Placenta said.

  “He’s just concerned for Polly’s safety,” Tim said. “I think it’s very sweet that he cares so much.”

  “He’s a control freak,” Polly pouted.

  “Like minds attract,” Placenta reminded her.

  Polly gave her a look. “Bad combination, two headstrong Tauruses. Cops are all alike. They think they hold all the cards just because they wear a badge and look sexy in a uniform. Well, no one tells Polly Pepper to mind her own business!”

  “I’m with Timmy,” Placenta said.

  “You’re both ganging up on me!” Polly protested.

  “Archer cares for you,” Placenta continued. “He doesn’t want to see you get into trouble or worse, get yourself hurt. He’s the first man in years to stand up to you. I rather like that.”

  Polly considered what her maid had said. “Yeah, I sort of like that too. But what am I supposed to do? I won’t be pushed around, and someone has to help prove Sharon’s innocence.”

  “Sharon could well be the killer,” Tim said over his shoulder. “No one likes to think that their friends are capable of such a horror, but people often disappoint. Heck, Phil Spector was always nice to you. Bobby Blake could be charming, and he’s still on your Christmas card list. The evidence against Sharon is pretty irrefutable. If I were on a jury I’d have a hard time finding reasonable doubt.”

  Polly shook her head in annoyance. “I know, I know. Why on earth do I always have to play the do-gooder? I should have simply sent Sharon flowers and a good-luck note. But no, I had to be drawn in, and to believe someone who has made a career out of make believe. Face it, actors are liars.”

  Placenta refilled Polly’s champagne flute and topped off her own glass. “You’re gullible all right, but with the exception of the schmucks you married, your intuition about people is generally spot-on.”

  Polly looked at Placenta and smiled. “It’s a gift. Like my comic timing. So screw Detective Archer! I’m on a crusade to help Sharon. And if she’s really guilty and it wrecks my chances for a relationship with Randy, I’ll murder the bitch myself.”

  By the time Tim rolled the car under the front portico and parked, the trio was exhausted from a long day. “It’s Lean Cuisine night,” Placenta said as she yawned and stepped out of the car. Polly slipped out from her side of the vehicle and added, “I’m not hungry. Just open a bottle of Krug Grand Cuvée and maybe a bag of Chex Mix. And a couple of Advils, please.”

  As Tim pushed the numbers on the keypad of the alarm system he said, “You’re right about actors being liars. Not you of course,” he conceded. “But already we’ve caught Charlotte and Hiroaki in untruths.”

  Tim gallantly stood to the side as Polly and Placenta entered their home. Then he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He reset the alarm system and followed the others toward the kitchen.

  “We don’t know for sure who is lying or if they all are,” Polly defended her fellow thespians. “But before rehearsals tomorrow, we’re running over to the Beverly Hills jail for another chat with Sharon. If she’s guilty and I have to beat a confession out of her, I’ll do just that! Depending on what she has to say for herself, we’ll tackle Gerold at the theater.”

  The distance to the Beverly Hills jail was a relatively short drive from Stone Canyon Road in Bel Air. It was only seven thirty in the morning, and the day shift at the station hadn’t arrived. Still, Polly worked her charms on the handsome BHPD officers and was allowed into Sharon’s cell.

  Sharon was half asleep when Polly and her entourage showed up in front of the iron bars with a police escort. Her face was creased with wrinkles from sleeping on her pillow and her hair looked wind-tousled. “Girl, you need an emergency visit from José Eber!” Polly tsk-tsked Sharon’s sorry state of appearance. Then she turned to the policeman. “Is it too much to ask that you keep your celebrity guests camera ready? How would you like it if people saw you looking like Kate Moss auditioning for a lead in Planet of the Apes? Would you please let me in to the animal cage?” Polly turned back to Sharon. “Honey, we’ve got to talk serious business.”

  When the guard had locked Polly and her clan into the cell with Sharon and stepped out of earshot, Polly sat down beside the inmate. “Have a breath mint,” she said, opening her Marc Jacobs clutch and withdrawing a Mentos. “Now, here’s the deal. You’re guilty until proven innocent. At least that’s the way the coo
kie crumbles in the media. And at the moment, there’s not one shred of support for your virtue. Give me something to work with. Tell me all the things that you kept from the police. And make it quick, ’cause I’ve got to get my roots done before rehearsal.”

  Sharon sat on the edge of her bed and bowed her head. Her mussed hair fell in her face. “I’ve told you and the police and my attorney everything,” Sharon whispered. “For the hundredth time, here’s the instant replay. Karen calls me and asks that I come to the theater early. I arrive at eight-oh-five. I bring my Emmy ’cause Charlotte asked to see it. Karen holds the statuette and pretends to make a speech, ‘I want to thank my boyfriend, Jamie,’ yada, yada. Both of them bow to each other. Gerold walks in with his Twinkie. He’s shocked that I’m there and says that he had ordered Karen to fire me the day before. I get upset and throw my cell phone at him. It bounces off his big fat body and Karen catches it. I storm out of the theater and drive away crying like an idiot. I spend the morning sobbing until the police arrive and arrest me for murder. End of story.”

  Polly nodded her head. “But why did you lie to the police about calling in sick and pretending to have a cold?”

  “Because I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been among the last to see Karen alive.”

  “But Gerold and his Cupie Doll would have vouched for your innocence,” Polly insisted.

  “Have you seen either of them come forth yet?”

  “You made matters a million times worse by not coming forward in the first place,” Polly said.

  “What’s happened is exactly what I thought would happen,” Sharon sniffled. “And Gerold hasn’t said one word in my defense. If you ask me, he killed Karen.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “You just said that Karen bowed to her boyfriend, Jamie. You never mentioned that Jamie was there. No one else has either. Why tell me now?”