by Lee Hollis
“How so?” Poppy asked.
“There’s a rumor going around that I’m dating Chase Ehrens.”
“Your co-star on this film,” Matt offered.
“Yes, which I am most certainly not. Chase is a decent enough guy, but definitely not my type. We’re just friends.”
Poppy cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a bit confused. When we walked in here you were making a video with your phone and talking about him as if there might be something going on between the two of you.”
“That’s just for show. Keep people interested, you know? It promotes the movie and us as well. It doesn’t matter if it’s not true. The problem is, this wacko thinks it is true and it’s making him mad! Like, stalker-y, I’m going to murder you, mad!”
“He’s threatened you?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, about five hundred times. He knows I’m here in Palm Springs shooting this movie, and he’s made no secret of the fact that he is here too and ready to come after me at a time and place of his choosing. That’s a direct quote from his last post, by the way.”
“Have you called the police?” Poppy asked.
Danika laughed derisively. “Duh. Of course. But what can they do? Oh, sure, they rushed down here acting all concerned and serious and made some kind of report, but that was it. Until this guy literally guts me with a carving knife, they’re totally useless. The studio is paying a fortune for a kick-ass security detail while I’m here, but they’re not trained detectives. I want to be proactive about this. I want a local firm, one that knows this city, that can track down this lowlife creep and put him away for good before he throws acid in my face, or worse.”
Poppy swallowed hard at the prospect.
This young actress was doing a good job of keeping up her bravado, but it was clear on her beautiful, heavily made-up face that she was scared and feeling vulnerable.
“I have a lot of people looking out for me, with good intentions, but for my own peace of mind, I want someone who knows about things like this, who I can call day and night, who is not here to protect the movie or my brand, but to protect me! That’s where you come in, Matt.”
Matt sat up straight on the couch next to Poppy.
He nodded confidently. “Trust me, Danika, I’m your man.”
“I had a strong feeling you would be,” Danika said, smiling seductively.
Poppy wasn’t so sure.
Keeping a highly public figure with over a hundred million fans safe and secure seemed like a daunting challenge, not to mention the task of locating one of those millions of fans out in the world who was unstable and possibly homicidal, ready to strike at any time. But once Danika offered to pay triple their usual going rate, Poppy was suddenly feeling slightly more emboldened.
How hard could it be?
If only she had listened to her initial instincts.
Chapter 2
Trent Dodsworth-Jones raised an eyebrow as he took off his red ball cap and scratched his balding head while staring incredulously at Poppy. “Private investigator?”
“Yes,” Danika sighed impatiently. “I want Matt and Poppy on the set with me at all times so they’re going to both need a permanent security pass.”
“Of course,” Trent said, still in a state of shock. He then smiled at Poppy, impressed. “I had no idea. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Poppy Harmon?”
“She’s not a real detective. Matt’s the detective, Poppy’s just his assistant,” Danika sniffed, almost distastefully, as if Poppy was some kind of cautionary tale of what happens to actresses who age out of leading roles and no longer can find work in Hollywood. Danika’s dismissiveness bothered Poppy because that was a very simplistic view of her own story and a far cry from the reality, but she kept mum, staying focused on the task at hand. She couldn’t let her pride get in the way.
Trent nodded toward Matt, but kept his eyes glued on Poppy. “I’d be honored to have you on my set.”
“Thank you, Trent,” Danika said. “Now, where do you want me?”
“Your mark’s over there,” he answered, pointing Danika to a spot near the pool.
Poppy and Matt stepped back, out of the way.
Trent ambled over to his director of photography, a stout German man with frazzled hair and the long drooping face of a bloodhound. They privately conferred about the shot for a few moments before Trent returned to his director’s chair and hopped up on it.
“Okay, let’s do this!” Trent yelled across the set.
The makeup and hair people scurried onto the set, flocking around Danika like a gaggle of handmaidens, as the star appeared to be mouthing the lines of dialogue she would soon be delivering on camera.
The German cinematographer peered intently into the lens of his camera. The lighting guys finished their work and ducked out of the way, clearing the set.
A costumer zipped over to carry off the baby blue terrycloth robe that Danika had shed, revealing herself in a tiny dot of a bright green bikini.
Poppy gasped, stunned by the curvaceous figure of her client as well as the eye-popping, overexposed nature of her bathing suit choice.
The assistant director shouted at the top of his lungs, “Quiet, please!”
The makeup and hair people scattered, leaving Danika alone by the pool, camera aimed in her direction, all eyes focused on her. She lowered her head, mentally preparing for the scene, or at the very least, pretending she was.
There was silence.
“Camera rolling!” the heavily accented German man called out. “And we have speed!”
Poppy knew enough about film shoots to know that the next line they would hear would be the director yelling “Action!”
But he didn’t.
He never said a word.
She glanced over to see Trent Dodsworth-Jones just staring into space, as if lost in thought. He wasn’t even looking at the monitor in front of him where he was supposed to watch the scene they were about to shoot.
Danika patiently waited for her cue as a strong desert wind suddenly swept through knocking over the carefully placed flowers in the background. Danika shivered, visible goose bumps on her arms and legs, but gamely ignored the cold, waiting to begin the scene.
Finally, after what seemed like almost a full minute, Trent snapped out of his reverie and shouted, “Cut!”
The German cameraman glanced over, confused.
Danika sighed and hugged herself. “Can we fix whatever is wrong quickly before I freeze to death? I thought Palm Springs was supposed to be as hot as Hades.”
“Hold on, everybody, I just had a brilliant thought!” Trent said, leaping out of his director’s chair.
“I bet he has a lot of those,” Matt whispered to Poppy, still so excited to be on a real live Hollywood film set.
Everyone expected Trent to make a beeline for Danika in order to discuss some change of dialogue, or repositioning of her mark, or some other genius creative idea that would make the scene better. But instead, he marched straight over to Poppy, who took another step back, startled, not sure what was happening.
“I want to cast you in the movie!” Trent declared.
“What?” Poppy gasped.
“What?” Matt cried.
“There’s a small but pivotal role of the resort manager, Nomi, an older woman who has a romance with a football coach from LA and I think you’d be absolutely perfect for it,” Trent crowed.
The assistant director carefully intervened. “But Trent, what about Rita Rubio? She’s playing that part. We’ve already shot two scenes with her.”
“I know,” Trent sighed. “I don’t know what happened between her audition and the actual shooting, but she’s been consistently wooden and unimpressive since she got here and I think it’s time we made a change.”
Danika wandered off the set and over to join them in order to find out what was going on, and why she had been left hanging out to dry while her director was presently more interested in her hired help. “Are we going to do this,
or should I go back to my room until you’re ready?”
Trent turned to Danika and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Trust me on this. I want Poppy to play Nomi.”
“Poppy?” Danika gasped, utterly gobsmacked, as Trent’s people across the pond would say.
Poppy finally found her voice and inserted herself into the conversation. “I’m sorry, that’s impossible. I haven’t acted in years.”
“Oh, come on, Poppy, we both know you’ll nail it,” Trent said, bursting with confidence.
“I did not hire Poppy to be my co-star, I hired her boss to find my stalker,” Danika said evenly.
“I understand,” Trent explained patiently. “But I have been hired to make the best movie possible, which by the way, benefits you in the end, and I know she can do this. I have been watching her ever since I was a little boy growing up in the UK.”
Danika hesitated. She could not quite embrace the idea yet, but she also wanted to trust her director’s instincts. “I don’t know. . . .”
“Well, I do,” Poppy said pointedly. “My acting days are over. They have been for a long time. I just can’t do it. And I am not willing to be distracted from our real mission here.”
“Poppy, please . . .” Trent begged.
“Shouldn’t you talk to Greta about this first?” the German cameraman, who was eavesdropping, suggested.
“No,” Trent said, brushing him off. “She and I already had a conversation about Rita’s lack of screen presence. I know she’ll be okay with this. So will Hal.”
Poppy had heard someone earlier mention Greta Van Damm and Hal Greenwood, the producers on the film.
Trent was now in front of Poppy’s face, his eyes pleading with her. “What do you say, Poppy? You’d be doing us a huge favor!”
“No, absolutely not,” Poppy insisted.
“It could be helpful to us if Poppy was on the set in an organic way, you know, so as not to stand out as a detective but as a member of the cast. That way, no one gets tipped off that we’re running an investigation, just in case the stalker has some kind of inside connection,” Matt offered, grinning from ear to ear, totally buying into the idea.
Poppy kept her cool, but was flaring up on the inside. She opened her mouth to protest, but Danika managed to speak first. “Matt has a good point. And I trust his judgment.” Trent looked wounded and Danika noticed, choosing to preemptively massage his bruised ego. “Yours too, Trent.”
Trent relaxed, then excitedly hugged Poppy. “So it’s settled. You’ll play Nomi.” He turned to the assistant director, “Ryan, check the call sheet. Poppy may be shooting her first scene tomorrow, so we may have to schedule a costume fitting today.”
“What about the scenes we’ve already shot with Rita?” the assistant director asked.
Trent thought about this for a brief moment and then shrugged. “We can always tack on the reshoots toward the end of the schedule, maybe even on a pickup day.”
The assistant director nodded, then hurried off to make it all happen.
Poppy turned to Matt, seething. “You were absolutely no help whatsoever.”
“This is so exciting!” Matt whispered gleefully, choosing to ignore Poppy’s fury.
Trent checked his expensive Rolex watch. “Take ten, everybody! I need to make a few calls.”
Danika gave Poppy an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful, Poppy. And I will feel safer having you close to me at all times.” She then glided off to her room, followed by her loyal entourage.
“I’m going to shadow Danika,” Matt said. “You stick around here in case they need you to sign a contract, or discuss your scenes with the director, or the costume designer needs to take your measurements! I have to say, Poppy, I’m a little jealous! Imagine, Poppy Harmon starring in a big-budget Netflix movie!”
“Matt—”
But he was gone before she could get another word out.
Poppy was left alone, her mind reeling.
No, she just could not stand for this.
The idea of her playing a role in the film was utterly ridiculous and completely unacceptable.
She was a professional private investigator now.
Not an actress.
That life had been over for decades.
And it was a life she was not eager to return to anytime soon, even if it was part of the job pleasing their client.
She marched over to Trent to stop this train before it left the station, but he was already engaged in a conversation with an older woman in her late forties, early fifties, with fluffy auburn hair, bright red lipstick, and freckled skin, who had just wandered onto the set.
Poppy decided to hang back but could hear their conversation.
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about, Rita?” Trent asked, a concerned look on his face.
“I’m worried I’m not giving you want you want,” Rita said softly, worry lines on her forehead that had not been Botoxed recently.
“I would never lie to you,” he said, gently stroking her arm. “Don’t get too inside your head. No one is talking behind your back. You’re doing just fine.”
“Really?”
“I promise,” Trent said, kissing her forehead in an effort to help make those deepening worry lines go away.
“I feel so much better,” Rita said, the tension draining from her body. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She practically bounced off the set, reassured and happy. Before Poppy could approach him, Trent turned to Timothy, the production assistant, who had suddenly appeared at his side. “Get me Rita’s agent on the phone. I want him to inform his client that it’s not working out and we’re recasting.”
Timothy nodded dutifully, snatching his phone from his back pocket and scurrying off.
Poppy shook her head, disgusted.
If there was one thing she did know from her experiences in the past, Hollywood would never change.
And like it or not, she was about to act in front of a camera again for the first time in over thirty years.
Chapter 3
Poppy stood outside on the perfectly manicured lawn of the mid-century home she had just purchased in the Movie Colony, supervising the four hulking moving men who were unloading their truck with her belongings, most of which had been stored at a facility ever since she had been forced to leave the home she had shared with her late husband, Chester, and move into a small apartment with her daughter, Heather, almost three years ago.
It had been a trying time. After his unexpected and tragic death from a heart attack, it had come to light that Chester had essentially been living a double life—loving, doting, financially conservative husband when he was with Poppy, but a wild, irresponsible compulsive gambler when he was not. Ultimately, Chester frittered away their nest egg leaving Poppy nearly penniless on the day she buried him in the ground.
It had been a long fight back, but she had done it, despite a number of setbacks, most notably her only daughter Heather’s myriad of legal challenges. Amidst all the drama, Poppy had managed to get her fledgling private investigation firm off the ground, and now it was flourishing, boasting an impressive list of wealthy clients in the Coachella Valley who had discovered the Desert Flowers Agency through positive word of mouth at cocktail parties and on the golf course.
And now, two and a half years in, Poppy had made enough of a profit to finally move out of Heather’s humble abode and buy a home of her very own in a nice neighborhood, and boy, did it feel good.
She felt she had finally turned a corner, and was on the road back to her old life, and on this sunny warm day in beautiful Palm Springs, absolutely nothing was going to sour her bouncy mood.
That is until one of the moving men, Hymie, a ruggedly attractive man in his early forties, let a vase he was carrying off his truck slip through his fingers and smash to pieces on the ground.
Poppy’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Hymie, a sheepish look on his face, squeaked, “I’m sorry, I hope that
wasn’t too expensive.”
“No . . .” Poppy moaned. “My husband and I bought that from a pottery maker in Istanbul. It just has sentimental value . . . and was one of a kind . . .”
Hymie grimaced. “I’ll be sure to take that off your final bill.”
Poppy nodded, resigned, while two more of Hymie’s guys, younger and even less careful, trotted down the plank set against the back of the truck, one on each end of a flat-screen TV that was heading to the living room.
“You guys be careful with that!” Hymie warned.
One of them stopped and asked, “What?”
The other kept going, still carrying the TV, causing the one who had stopped to let go, as one side of the TV crashed to the ground. Both of the young movers stared nervously at Poppy, who shook her head.
“I’ll be sure to subtract the damage from that, too,” Hymie promised before quickly disappearing into the back of the truck, probably to hide from his increasingly agitated customer.
Poppy’s best friends, Iris Becker and Violet Hogan, also the co-founders of Poppy’s detective agency, emerged from the house. Iris had her eyes fixed on the two young moving men who were bent over inspecting the cracked screen on Poppy’s TV while Violet was waving a newspaper in her hand.
“Poppy, did you see the real estate section? You’re on the front page!” Violet cooed.
“Yes, it’s so embarrassing,” Poppy groaned. “The last thing I need is for everybody to know where I live! There goes any sense of privacy.”
“It is good for business!” Iris barked in a thick German accent. “People will see how successful you are and they will flock to us in droves with all their problems for us to solve!”
“The only reason they’re writing about me buying this house is because Ava Gardner lived here in the late nineteen fifties for something like three months after she divorced Frank Sinatra. She didn’t even own the place, she was a renter,” Poppy said, irritated. “If I had known what a fuss the press was going to make of another actress buying this house, I would have kept looking.”
