Final Curtain Read Online Free

is totally committed to you and the show. And speaking of our show, we’ve got an early morning call. I’d better drag my weary butt back home.”
    Polly and Tim saw Sharon to the door and watched her get into her car, a Mercedes SL 500 with vanity plates that read ME WNR . “Me Love Winter?” Polly tried to decipher the cryptic language. “Me Heart Want New Romance?”
    “ Emmy Winner,” Tim said.
    Polly gave her son a playful push. “Text-messaging has made you too smart.” They watched as Sharon’s car headed down the cobbled driveway to the twin iron gates at the edge of the estate, which slowly parted as she rolled past the electric eye sensor. As Sharon’s car nosed out onto the street, she gave her horn a quick double toot and then disappeared down the canyon road.
    Polly and Tim closed the front entry door, set the alarm system, and joined Placenta in the kitchen. In tandem, they went about the task of cleaning the dinner dishes and discussing Sharon. Without exception, they all adored their new friend and agreed that Polly would have at least one ally in the theater company. “It’s important to know who your friends and enemies are right from the get-go,” Polly said. “You two keep an eye on my cast for me. I’m never in the mood to be upstaged. By the by, do we know any rich eligible men—straight or gay, as long as they’re loaded—to whom we can introduce Sharon?”
    “She’s got that wealthy philanthropist,” Placenta reminded her.
    “Shows he can’t hang on to a buck. Imagine the insanity of giving it away?”
    Eventually Polly folded her dish towel, laid it on the granite countertop, and announced that she was heading off to bed. “I’ve got to go over my lines before beddy-bye. I’m so excited about tomorrow.” She left the kitchen and headed for The Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase, which led to the second-floor landing of the mansion, and her bedroom suite. From the distance she yelled back, “I’ll kill that albatross Gerold Goss if he publicly insults me again.”

Chapter 3
    M orning arrived at Pepper Plantation and to the shock and awe of Placenta, the mistress of the manor was awake at six thirty, seated in the kitchen, and ready to be served breakfast. “I couldn’t sleep,” Polly explained. “I’m too eager about going to work. Plus, I want to be extra early. No butter on the pancakes, please. I’ll show that bombastic rat that I’m as reliable as rain on a weekend.”
    Presently, Tim staggered into the kitchen. Until his first cup of coffee he had the physical lethargy and verbal ability of a corpse. He too was not used to getting out of bed before the morning was half over. But when his mother was working and needed a chauffeur, Tim fought the impulse to complain. He reminded himself that Polly asked relatively little in exchange for his weekly allowance, a new car every year, a personal fitness trainer who made house calls, and charge accounts in Beverly Hills at Neiman’s, Armani, Pierre Deux, and Bijan. Usually, by the time Placenta poured Tim a second cup of his favorite fresh-ground Ethiopian java, he was able to focus on the comic section of the newspaper and offer guttural responses to simple questions.
    This morning, however, Tim wasn’t given time for the paper, or for consuming more than one blueberry muffin to go with his allotted one cup of joe. Polly was in a hurry, and when the queen said to move his tushy, Tim did as instructed. He quickly showered and dressed and was waiting in the car when Polly and Placenta stepped into the vehicle at 7:45. The drive to Glendale took less time than expected and when they arrived at the theater, there were plenty of parking spaces in the section of the lot reserved for the cast and crew.
    Polly looked at her wristwatch. “Not even half past eight!” Then she spotted a familiar car. “Talk about punctual, Sharon’s already here.” Polly pointed to the Mercedes with the vanity license plate. “These