Poppy Harmon and the Pillow Talk Killer

by Lee Hollis

  Mack drove them to the nearest mechanic, whom he’d called earlier and given a heads-up that they were on their way. The mechanic, a sweet-looking, older Mexican man, cleaned the grease off his fingers with a gray rag, and once the tow truck rolled to a stop outside his garage, circled around to inspect the damage to the Prius.

  Poppy and Matt hopped out of the truck to join the mechanic, who introduced himself as Julio.

  “How much time will you need to give us an estimate on repairs so I can file a claim with the insurance company?” Matt asked the mechanic.

  “I can tell you right now,” Julio said flatly. “Won’t cost nothing.”

  Matt blinked at him. “Nothing? But there has to be at least five, six thousand dollars—”

  “Your car’s totaled. There’s no fixing it.”

  “Oh . . .” Matt groaned.

  Mack slid up next to Poppy, who was focused on her phone, which finally had a full five bars, and pressed a piece of paper in her free hand. She reared back, startled.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, just wanted to make sure you had my number in case you ever want to give me a call,” Mack said with a wanton grin.

  “Whatever for?” Poppy asked, genuinely perplexed.

  “Come on, I noticed how you looked at me when I drove you and your friend here. . . .”

  He rested a beefy hand on her backside and she reached around and grabbed his thumb and twisted it back, threatening to break it. He yelped in pain.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw, but you are wildly mistaken if you think—”

  A call came in on Poppy’s phone.

  She glanced at the screen.

  It was Detective Jordan returning her call.

  She pointed an admonishing finger at Mack. “You’re lucky I have to take this. Now, if you know what’s good for you, you will keep your distance.”

  Mack, chastened, nodded and slowly began backing away.

  Poppy wheeled away from him and put her phone to her ear. “Hello, Detective Jordan.”

  “How are you doing, Poppy?”

  “I’ve had better days. Did you listen to my message?”

  “Yes, I headed straight for Byron Savage’s house the minute I got it, but I’m sorry to report he’s no longer there. In fact, it looks like he left in a hurry.”

  “And his brother?”

  “No sign of him or his buddies he corralled to run you off the road. They’re probably off the grid now, lying low somewhere until things cool down.”

  “Did you put out an APB?”

  “Already done.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a brief pause before Detective Jordan spoke again. “Tell me, Poppy, what did you do to set this Axel guy off?”

  “Besides accidentally adding a few dents to his Harley, he thought we were trying to pin Danika Delgado’s murder on his little brother, but after talking to Byron, I’m not so sure he’s the one who—”

  Detective Jordan interrupted her. “If I ask you again to stay out of my active murder investigation, you might tell me you will in order to give me a little peace of mind, but you’re not really going to do it, are you?”

  Poppy weighed her answer carefully, then, in a clipped tone, said, “No, Detective, probably not.”

  “I didn’t think so. But, hey, I appreciate your honesty.”

  Click.

  Poppy knew she had to answer the man’s question truthfully, because Poppy Harmon was many things, some not flattering, but a liar was definitely not one of them.

  Chapter 24

  Village Fest, a street fair held every Thursday night in downtown Palm Springs was a popular attraction for both locals and tourists, where individuals and businesses sold food, handcrafted items, antiques, art, clothing, and jewelry. Poppy scanned the booths that lined both sides of the street, trying to locate a sign for Lulu’s Scribblings. Lulu, the extra from the Palm Springs Weekend set whom Poppy had seen accepting a fat wad of cash from producer Greta Van Damm, was a sketch artist who drew comic caricatures of her subjects. Wyatt had done a quick Google search on just the first name Lulu. Other than a popular downtown restaurant with the same name, the only other local Lulu he found was Lulu Hopkins with a Web site for her artwork and a few Palm Springs discussion groups about Village Fest raving about her drawings. And so Poppy recruited Iris and Violet to accompany her to the popular street fair where she could track down Lulu and ask her questions about her interaction with Greta.

  Violet had been distracted by a booth selling coconut-scented candles and Iris stopped at a kielbasa sausage stand that was handing out free samples, and so it was left to Poppy to soldier on with the search for Lulu. She had almost hiked up and down the entire stretch of street devoted to the fair when she finally spotted the bouncy blonde sitting in a rocking chair as an elderly man sat posing, his excited wife sneaking a peek of the sketch Lulu was working on, her eyes dancing with joy. Lulu finished and turned the canvas around to show the old man. The caricature reminded Poppy of the nearly blind cartoon character Mr. Magoo, but on closer inspection, the old man himself looked quite like Mr. Magoo. The man chuckled and his wife clapped her hands excitedly before reaching into her bag, which was flung over her shoulder, and handing Lulu a twenty-dollar bill.

  Lulu stuffed the money into a tin box and the couple sauntered away. Unfortunately, there were no other potential customers waiting. She simply could not compete with the adjoining booth to her left, Joe’s Pet Paintings, which was attracting a much larger crowd, eager to immortalize their beloved cats and dogs and even parrots in a pop art–style painting. Joe also offered free dog biscuits along with free shipping, and so it was tough for someone like Lulu to compete.

  As Poppy approached the booth, Lulu sat up, instantly recognizing her. “Poppy Harmon! What a lovely surprise!”

  Poppy was surprised by the ebullient reaction given the two women had never formally met. “Hello, Lulu, I saw the drawing you did of that man who just left, and I must say, you’re very talented.”

  Lulu preened with pride, thrusting out her ample bosom. “Why, thank you. Would you like one of yourself?”

  Poppy was not partial to actual photographs of herself, even the more flattering ones, let alone a caricature, but she knew if she wanted to get information out of Lulu, the odds were better if she was hiring her services.

  “Yes, I’d love one,” Poppy cooed as she plopped down in a chair and struck a pose.

  Lulu grabbed her pencil and began sketching feverishly while chattering away. “It was such a shame the production had to be shut down after, well, you know, what happened to poor Danika. I was so looking forward to being in a big-time Netflix movie. Of course, it’s not like I had a major part or anything, like you, but it was going to be my first official IMDB credit, which is like practically being on the road to becoming a legitimate actress.”

  “Yes, it’s all very sad,” Poppy said soberly. “But at least you have this to fall back on until the next acting gig comes along.”

  Lulu scoffed as she continued scribbling. “This doesn’t exactly pay the bills. It’s more of a hobby at this point.” She glanced over at Joe besieged by jubilant animal lovers signing up for one of his pet paintings. “I keep hoping that someday I get the kind of traffic he gets, but I know it takes time. It’s a marathon not a sprint, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Poppy offered reassuringly. “And it’s lucky you’re able to pick up the occasional odd job in the meantime to pay the rent.”

  Lulu stopped sketching and looked up at Poppy, perplexed. “What gave you that idea? I actually live with my mother because I can’t afford my own place right now.”

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you were working part-time, or at least doing some freelance work for Greta Van Damm since I saw her giving you a stack of cash on the set before we shut down.”

  Lulu’s face froze.

  She was not sure how to proceed, and so she decided to just ignore w
hat Poppy had left hanging out there and redirect her attention back to the caricature she was working on.

  “I just assumed you were doing a job for her because you would have been paid by the payroll company for your extra work on the movie.”

  More uncomfortable silence.

  Lulu glanced back up at Poppy, studying her features, then sketched some more.

  Finally, after what felt like an interminable amount of time, but was perhaps maybe ten or fifteen seconds, Lulu said without looking up from her drawing, “You’re right. That money was for something else. . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

  “Right again,” Lulu said, instantly regretting her sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was rude, it’s just that I can’t talk about it.”

  “I understand.”

  After a few more minutes, Lulu finished the caricature. She set her pencil down and showed Poppy. “What do you think?”

  Before Poppy could react, she heard giggles coming from behind her. She swiveled around to see Violet and Iris staring at the caricature of Poppy that Lulu held up in her hand.

  “Oh, Poppy, it’s wonderful!” Violet cooed.

  “It looks exactly like you!” Iris cracked.

  Poppy arched an eyebrow.

  “I mean if you were a cartoon character,” Iris added.

  Poppy stood up. “How about you two each get one done of yourselves?”

  “I do not need a silly drawing to remind me of my imperfections!” Iris snorted.

  “Oh, come on, Iris, don’t be such a spoilsport,” Violet said. “And we don’t need a cartoon sketch to remind us of your imperfections.”

  Iris’s nostrils flared as she glared at Violet.

  Poppy pulled three twenty-dollar bills from her purse and pressed them into the palm of Lulu’s hand. “That’s for all three sketches.”

  Lulu eagerly accepted the cash. “Thank you so much.”

  “Do you have time to do two more?” Poppy asked.

  “Of course. Other than the man ahead of you, you’re the only business I’ve had all night.”

  “Great,” Poppy said, whirling around to Iris and Violet. “Now, who’s going to go first?”

  Iris shoved Violet forward.

  Violet sat down in the chair and tried adopting a sexy pouty pose and said pleadingly, “If you can, make me look like Betty Boop or Jessica Rabbit rather than Marge Simpson.”

  “I’ll try my best,” Lulu promised.

  As she began doodling Violet, Poppy noticed some worry lines forming on Lulu’s face. She could tell Lulu was worrying about her abrupt manner earlier when Poppy had brought up Greta Van Damm.

  Lulu focused on Violet’s face and added some more details to her drawing before stopping. “Poppy, I hope you’re not mad at me for before. I would hate to upset you, especially since you’ve been so generous, buying three sketches.”

  “I just want to support you, a fellow actor. . . .” Poppy said in a soothing tone.

  Lulu perked up. The fact that Poppy Harmon had just referred to her as “a fellow actor” seemed to be a big boon to her morale. Suddenly they were more than just acquaintances, they were peers, and it bought Poppy an overflowing abundance of good will.

  “And I don’t expect you to tell me something if you don’t want to,” Poppy said firmly.

  Lulu scribbled furiously as she spoke. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I just can’t. I’m, like, legally bound not to say anything to anyone.”

  Poppy gave her a quizzical look.

  “I signed a document,” Lulu tried to explain. “A non . . .” She searched for the night words.

  “Non-disclosure agreement?” Poppy offered.

  “Yes! That’s it! Greta had me sign one of those before she would give me any money.”

  That was all Poppy needed to hear.

  She could surmise the rest herself.

  Hal Greenwood had a long history of sexually harassing women on his film sets and at his production offices. Greta Van Damm’s job was to keep the movies rolling at all costs in order to feed the bottom line. Even if that meant paying off actresses and pretty female extras targeted by Hal with big wads of cash and securing ironclad contracts designed to keep them quiet so the operation continued to run smoothly. She knew pressing Lulu for more details would be pointless. If she divulged any more, she could be sued, and Lulu clearly understood that.

  But this latest revelation raised a very serious question in Poppy’s mind. If Greta was forking over money to buy the silence of Hal’s purported victims, what else could they be hiding?

  Chapter 25

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Van Damm is not in right now,” the lovely, young, caramel-skinned Chrissy Teigen look-alike said from behind the reception desk at Hal Greenwood Productions located in a high-rise in Century City.

  Matt flashed her a warm smile, planted his hands on top of the reception desk, and leaned forward. “Could you please check again, because we just saw her car in her reserved space down in the parking garage?”

  Chrissy’s own smile tightened and she spoke in a clipped, irritated tone. “I don’t need to check again. She’s not here.”

  “When do you expect her back?” Poppy asked, arms folded.

  Chrissy hesitated, not sure how to respond. Then, she shrugged and just seemed to make things up as she went along. “She has back-to-back meetings at a couple of different studios, Universal and Disney, way in the Valley, so she probably won’t even be back in the office today. She’ll probably just go home from there.”

  “I see,” Matt said, nodding before turning to Poppy. “I say we take our chances and wait here on the off chance she does drive back to the office, what do you say?”

  Poppy plopped down on the expensive leather couch in the waiting area. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

  Matt joined her, and they both sat staring at poor Chrissy, who was now at a loss as to how to get rid of them. Her phone chirped, she adjusted the headset she was wearing, and cleared her throat. “Hal Greenwood Productions, how may I direct your call?”

  Poppy and Matt exchanged triumphant glances. They were not going to be summarily dismissed, not when they were reasonably certain Chrissy was lying and Greta Van Damm was at this very moment back there hiding from them in her office.

  Matt called over to the receptionist once she had transferred the call. “Do you happen to have any water handy?”

  “No,” Chrissy said flatly, obviously having been instructed not to encourage these two to stick around for any extended length of time.

  Matt flashed her another winning smile. Poppy could tell Chrissy, or whatever her real name was, was attracted to Matt, but she was fighting hard to maintain a sense of professionalism and to follow her orders from the higher-ups. Another phone call came through, which Chrissy answered. “Yes, Ms. Van—” Chrissy’s eyes widened slightly as she stopped herself from announcing the caller’s name. Poppy and Matt both perked up, assuming it was Greta calling from somewhere in the building. “Yes, what can I do for you?” Chrissy asked stiffly.

  Poppy hoped that Chrissy was not one of the thousands of aspiring actresses working similar jobs in Los Angeles waiting for their big break to arrive because this pretty girl’s acting skills were wanting.

  Chrissy eyed Poppy and Matt nervously as she spoke to the caller. “Uh-huh . . . That’s what I told them, but . . .” Chrissy lowered her voice to a whisper and mumbled into her mouthpiece, “. . . they won’t leave. Should I call security?” Chrissy darted her eyes back and forth as she listened to her instructions. “Okay, I’ll tell them.” She ended the call and then addressed Poppy and Matt. “That was Ms. Van Damm. . . .”

  “We never would’ve guessed,” Poppy cracked.

  The sarcasm flew right over Chrissy’s head. “Anyway,” she said breathlessly, “she told me to tell you that she will not be coming back to the office today after her meetings so there is no point in waiting around for her.”

 
“Did you tell her just how important it is for us to speak to her?” Poppy huffed.

  Chrissy nodded. “Yes. But I’m afraid she’s very busy. You might want to try calling tomorrow.”

  Matt and Poppy had started to stand up when the elevator dinged, the door opened, and Hal Greenwood blew into the reception area, clutching a Starbucks cup, berating a wiry, young male assistant who chased behind him. “You’re a useless moron, do you know that? I asked for sugar-free vanilla in my latte, this is regular vanilla. I’m not an idiot, I can taste the difference.”

  “I asked for sugar-free vanilla, the mistake must have happened on their end. . . .”

  Hal hurled his cup at the male assistant, drenching his blue oxford shirt with hot coffee. The assistant had to bite down on his tongue to keep from yelping in pain. The cup bounced off the floor, splashing the rest of the contents all over the area rug. “Clean that up!” he barked at the assistant.

  Chrissy Teigen sat upright, panicked, checking to make sure her desk was spotless, and then croaked, “Good afternoon, Mr. Greenwood, I hope you had a nice lunch.”

  He stopped, his ugly demeanor instantly melting away, and broke into a wolfish grin as he looked his receptionist up and down. “Why are you wearing that outfit, Julia? Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?”

  Julia—the receptionist had a real name.

  Before she could even respond, Hal was behind her and massaging her neck with his thick, pudgy, hairy-knuckled paws. She fought not to cringe at his touch.

  Poppy could not help but audibly sigh with disgust.

  Hal immediately glanced up to see where the sound was coming from. His face flushed with anger at the sight of Poppy and Matt. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  Matt jumped to his feet, never one to be intimidated. “Actually, we’re here to see—”