by Lee Hollis
Poppy could not believe how blasé this girl was acting after such a traumatic ordeal. “You can do plenty. You can report his abominable behavior to the Screen Actors Guild. They will protect you.”
Joselyn considered Poppy’s recommendation briefly then summarily rejected it. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because like I told you before, I have worked too hard to get here, and I’m not going to ruin everything now by being some kind of whistleblower. . . .”
“He can’t be allowed to get away with this!”
“Forget it. I have too much riding on this. And if you go blabbing to SAG or anyone else about what you saw, I’ll deny it.”
“But Joselyn—”
“Mind your own business, Poppy,” Joselyn warned before flipping a switch and returning to her perky, upbeat self again. “See you on set.”
And then she happily flounced away, as if nothing had happened, leaving Poppy simmering with anger and feeling utterly helpless.
Chapter 36
Every bone in her body ached as Poppy pulled up in front of Matt’s house to drop him off. It was closing in on nine in the evening after clocking in a long twelve-hour day on the set, not including the drive time to and from Joshua Tree. Matt, who was barely thirty, had weathered the grueling day far better than Poppy, who had swung through a Starbucks drive-thru that was trying to close for the night for a desperately needed shot of caffeine on their way back to Palm Springs. She didn’t care that she would be up and buzzing most of the night because she only had one more scene left to shoot and that was not scheduled for another few days, leaving her free tomorrow. Greta had asked them both not to tell Hal they were coming back for one more day in order to avoid another one of his temper tantrums on set, and Poppy and Matt agreed.
Matt shifted in the passenger seat, turning toward Poppy. “I gotta admit, despite all the drama with Hal and everything, I had an awesome day today. I love playing this part.”
“That’s one of us,” Poppy cracked.
“But you were great, you’re such a talent, Poppy, you never should have quit acting.”
“Leaving Hollywood was the best decision I ever made. Marrying Chester. Moving to Palm Springs. Getting involved in charity work. Traveling. I had a lot of happy years before Chester died and I found out he had been frittering away our savings, but that doesn’t take away from the life we created together.”
Matt nodded, although it was obvious to Poppy he did not really understand where she was coming from. He was young, his whole life was ahead of him, and he was far more ambitious than Poppy had ever been. It was only a matter of time before career opportunities would take Matt away from her. There was no doubt in her mind despite his adamant denials that at some point very soon, perhaps after the release of Palm Springs Weekend, and the whole world saw Matt in a substantial film role, he would finally ditch the Matt Flowers persona he had created for Poppy, Iris, and Violet to jump-start their private investigations business, and follow his true calling to become a working actor in Hollywood. It was sad to think about. But she was going to enjoy the remaining time left that she had with him, this man young enough to be her son, who had so unexpectedly wormed his way into her heart.
“Well, good night,” Matt said, leaning in to give her a sweet peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“Not too early, get some rest. It’s been a very long day.” Poppy was saying it more for herself than Matt. There was no way she would make it to the office until at least the late morning hours.
Matt jumped out of Poppy’s car, crouched down to give her a wink, and then slammed the door shut, jogging up the driveway to his front door.
Poppy put the gear into drive and was about to pull away when her phone rang.
It was Sam calling.
She shifted back into park and picked up her phone.
“Hi, Sam.”
“The nurses tell me there is a very nice lady who has been calling a lot, and that I should feel lucky to have someone who cares so much,” Sam drawled, a bit drowsy but in good spirits.
Poppy smiled to herself. “How are you feeling tonight?”
“All right, I guess. But I’ll feel a whole lot better when I ditch these tubes and this lumpy hospital bed, and can go home and chow down on some real food, not this tasteless slop they serve up here.”
“I want to talk to you about that. . . .”
“You planning on making me a home-cooked meal when I get sprung?”
“Yes, we can discuss that, but I’m talking about you going home. I’ve been thinking about it and I believe it would be best if you—”
A crash startled Poppy, who jolted upright in her car seat. She glanced in the direction of the sound, Matt’s house, but at first saw nothing. The front door was wide open and the lights were on inside, but there was no sign of Matt.
“Poppy?” Sam asked, wondering about the dead air on the phone.
Poppy pressed the button to lower the driver’s-side window when she heard the faint sound of grunting. Then, suddenly she saw Matt through the front window of his house grappling with another man who was dressed all in black and a stocking mask pulled over his head. They crashed into a floor lamp, knocking it over as they both battled to get the upper hand.
“Poppy, are you there?”
“Sam, I have to call you back!” Poppy screamed, dropping her phone on the passenger seat and struggling to free herself from her seat belt before springing out of the car. Despite her weary bones, she sprinted up the driveway and into the house where the man had just taken a roundhouse punch at Matt, clocking him on the chin and sending him hurtling to the floor. As he went down, Matt, who gripped a fistful of the man’s shirt, nearly tore half the sleeve off. The brute then began viciously kicking Matt in the rib cage, nearly beating him senseless.
Poppy screeched at the top of her lungs, leaping onto the man’s back, surprising him.
“What the—?” he exclaimed, his knees buckling.
Poppy wrapped her legs around his waist and started to pummel him on the head to slow him down. But the sudden attack only seemed to rile him up even more, and with a burst of strength he wheeled around and slammed Poppy against the wall, her breath whooshing out of her, as she sank to the floor, dizzy and dazed, her eyes on Matt, who was crumpled up, moaning.
The assailant bolted out the door. Poppy crawled to the window just in time to see the black-clad attacker vanish into the darkness of the night. Then, on her hands and knees, she crawled over to Matt, who was on his side, and gently rolled him over on his back so he was looking up at her.
“Matt, are you okay?”
“Yeah, the dude caught me off guard. He must have been hiding in the bushes, lying in wait. I had just unlocked the door and was halfway inside the house, turning the lights on when all of a sudden he came out of nowhere and pounced.”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“Not with that stocking over his face.”
Poppy nodded slightly, discouraged.
“But when I tore part of his shirt off, I got a good look at his arm. The guy had some kind of tattoo. Very colorful and unique. Kind of reminded me of a Pink Floyd album.”
Poppy cocked an eyebrow. “How are you even old enough to know who Pink Floyd is?”
“My dad was a huge music lover. He schooled me on all the great seventies bands,” Matt chuckled, wincing in pain, clutching his rib cage as he tried to stand up.
“Here, let me help you,” Poppy said, gripping him underneath his arm as he hauled himself to his feet, holding tight until he was able to steady himself.
“Two car wrecks. Three physical assaults. I’m beginning to think somebody up there doesn’t like me,” Matt joked before turning to Poppy. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. You’re a real badass, Poppy Harmon.”
Poppy brushed him off with a wave of her hand. She was far more concerned with discovering the identity of this brutal thug wi
th the arm tattoo, and if his violent attack on Matt had any connection to the murders of Danika Delgado and Fabian Granger. Was this some kind of warning? Or was the bushwhacker intent on a more permanent result, like wanting to make sure when he was done, Matt Flowers would be dead?
Chapter 37
“It had this triangle in space with a rainbow off to the side that you could see through some kind of brick wall that had been partially torn down,” Matt described to Wyatt, who sat at his computer in the Desert Flowers office, intently digitally re-creating the image from Matt’s memory on his screen.
“The triangle was a little smaller,” Matt said as Wyatt began shrinking the image. “Yeah, that’s more like it.”
“That looks ridiculous!” Iris snorted. “Who would be dumb enough to have that put on his arm?”
“Whoever attacked me must be a Pink Floyd fan, too. That looks like some kind of odd mash-up of two of their most popular albums, Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall,” Matt said.
Wyatt added a few finishing touches and then wheeled back in his office chair so they could all get a good look. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” Matt beamed. “Kid, you’re a genius.”
“Now that we have the tattoo, what do we do with it?” Violet asked.
“I can run a Google image search to see if any tattoo shops in the area have that same design or something similar on their Web site. It’s pretty elaborate and well done, so I’m hoping an artist would like to showcase it. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Give me a few minutes,” Wyatt said, swiveling back around to get started.
“I’m just so proud of him,” Violet gushed.
“We have a devotee to seventies psychedelic rock. Well, I suppose that’s something,” Poppy sighed. “At least it’s more than we had last night.”
Violet put on a pot of coffee and the team took a break as Wyatt worked furiously to come up with some useful information. Before she even had a chance to pour cream into Iris’s cup, Wyatt was spinning back around in his chair, a triumphant look on his face.
“Off-Melrose Tattoo Shop,” he cried.
“Where’s that?” Violet asked, handing Iris her coffee.
“Off Melrose!” Iris snapped. “Where do you think?”
Violet narrowed her eyes, perturbed. “I mean, what city?”
“I’m assuming LA,” Matt answered.
Wyatt nodded. “I traced the image and found maybe six or seven shops in the country that specialize in that signature style, but only one located in California. And the shop in LA is the only one with the exact same image, triangle, rainbow, wall and all.”
“That’s got to be the place!” Matt said, clapping his hands together.
“The owner of the shop who does most of the tattoo designs is a woman named Kale,” Wyatt said, bringing up an image of a raven-haired, ghostly pale creature with heavy mascara and a lip ring, wearing a black tank top and sporting arm sleeves of tattoos from her shoulder blades to her wrists.
“Kale? That’s a name?” Iris laughed. “What are the names of her parents, Romaine and Butter?”
Matt, leaning over Wyatt to read the text underneath her photo on the shop’s Web site, said, “Apparently she’s quite well respected in the tattoo community.” He whipped around to Poppy. “You up for another road trip to LA?”
Poppy did not even have to answer him. She just grabbed her purse and they hurried out, promising to be back by mid-afternoon. Traffic was light on the 10 freeway, and when they arrived in Los Angeles, and parked on a side street across from the Off-Melrose Tattoo Shop, it was just opening for the day. Poppy checked her watch. It was going on noon. Artists, from her experience, were rarely early risers.
Poppy and Matt scurried across the street and entered the ramshackle store to find Kale sweeping the floor with a broom and dustpan. She didn’t even look up at them. “Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”
Poppy and Matt plopped down in a pair of rickety plastic chairs and perused photos of Kale’s past work hanging on the walls. Matt spotted a framed photo of the Pink Floyd–inspired design toward the end of the wall near the restroom and nudged Poppy, gesturing toward it.
Kale took her sweet time. After dumping the dust bunnies in a bin, she disappeared inside her office to make a phone call. The front door swung open and a young man in his early twenties, rail thin, drawn face, tired eyes, with spiky blond hair and a ring of thorns tattooed around both biceps, ambled in, carrying a Starbucks cup. He glanced at Poppy and Matt. “Kale here?”
“Yes, she’s in the back,” Poppy said politely. “She told us to wait.”
The young man nodded, then strolled past them and down to the office. Poppy assumed he must work at the shop. She managed to pick up bits and pieces of the conversation between Kale and this kid, recounting their previous evening, hanging at some dive bar, partying too much, Kale complaining of a massive hangover. Poppy impatiently checked her watch, but Matt gently placed a hand over her wrist, signaling her that Kale was finally coming out to deal with them. The kid stayed in the office.
“Which one of you is here for a tattoo?” Kale asked.
Poppy stood up. “Actually, neither of us. We were wondering if you could answer a few questions.”
“And who are you?” Kale asked suspiciously.
“Poppy Harmon. This is Matt Flowers. We’re from the Desert Flowers Detective Agency.”
Kale was suddenly on guard. “Detectives?”
“Yes,” Poppy said, pulling the printed image of the tattoo Wyatt had re-created out of her purse. “We were hoping you could tell us who—”
“I’m backed up with appointments today so I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Kale said evenly.
Poppy glanced around the shop incredulously. “But there is no one here.”
Kale shrugged. “Believe me, there’s going to be a line outside around the block in about five minutes.”
“Well, this won’t take long—”
Kale cut her off. “Sorry.”
Poppy sighed, frustrated.
“How much?” Matt suddenly asked.
“For what?”
“A tattoo,” he answered.
“Depends on what kind and how big. Small ones start at a hundred and fifty.”
“Done. I’d like to get one.”
Poppy’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
Matt did not strike her as the tattoo type.
“Poppy, why don’t you leave me here, go do some shopping, and come back in a little while when I’m done,” Matt said before whispering under his breath, “I got this.”
“Okay,” Poppy said, hesitating, and then she left the shop. She drove around the city for an hour, stopping at a few clothing stores on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, establishments she had frequented regularly during her time as a TV actress but now scoffing at the exorbitant price tags, killing time before returning to the Melrose area. The streets were much busier now, and Poppy had a challenging time finding a parking space, but after paying the meter for an hour, she returned to the shop.
Kale had been right. There was now a line out the door with people waiting to get tattooed. She entered the shop to see Matt sitting in a chair with his shirt off as Kale busily drew a design on his upper left arm with her inks and needles. Poppy could see Matt wincing in pain a couple of times but otherwise maintaining a brave face. He had always told her he had a very low threshold for pain.
Kale finished her work finally, and stepped back and inspected it, satisfied.
Matt nodded appreciatively, then stood up and reached for his wallet in the back of his pants.
Poppy could not see the design as he was turned away from her.
Matt showed Kale the printed image of the Pink Floyd tattoo. Apparently now with a fresh sale, she was more open to answering questions.
“Yeah, I’ve done that design a few times,” Kale said.
“Do you keep records? Can I have their names?” Matt asked.
Kale burst out laughing. “Are you
kidding me? Look around. We’re a small operation. I don’t keep tabs on everybody who comes in here. I only remember tattoos, not faces.”
The spiky blond-haired kid emerged from the office and looked briefly at the image Matt was still holding up for Kale. “Unless they’re famous, like that one guy.”
Poppy snapped to attention. “What do you mean? Did someone famous come in here and get that particular tattoo?”
“Yeah, remember, Kale? I mean he’s not that big of a deal, not like it was Ryan Reynolds or somebody like that, but I’ve seen this guy in a couple of movies. What did he say his name was?”
“I don’t remember,” Kale said, thoroughly disinterested.
Poppy tried an educated guess. “Chase Ehrens?”
The blond kid brightened. “Yeah, him! How did you know?”
“Zip it, will you?” Kale barked at the young man before turning to Poppy and spitting out, “I don’t feel comfortable discussing my clients. They have a right to privacy.”
“Kale, we’re looking for Chase Ehrens because he physically attacked me, tried to kill me, and there is a strong possibility he may have had something to do with the murder of Danika Delgado.”
“I love her! She’s so hot!” the kid cried before realizing the inappropriateness of his comment. “I mean was. That was a real sad story.”
A light went on in Kale. She may have been trying to stay true to her professional ethics, but there was a hint of empathy at the mention of Danika. “He was in here recently with his girlfriend, or at least I assumed she was his girlfriend. I had never heard of him, but a few of the customers were buzzing about him being in the shop. When we were done, I remember thinking how odd it was he let his girlfriend pay for the tattoo. I mean, if he was such a big movie star like everybody said, why not pay for it himself?”
“Did she pay cash?” Poppy asked.
Kale shook her head. “No, I think she used a credit card.”
“Then you must have a record of her name.”
Kale wavered, not quite prepared to be that helpful.
Matt opened his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
