A Talent for Murder Read Free

“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 starterwife for a supermodel he’d been boinking for