Poppy Harmon and the Pillow Talk Killer

by Lee Hollis

  Harold Lawson.

  That’s the name Hal went by during his first few years in Hollywood. It made sense. Hal was short for Harold. But why Lawson? Why not Greenwood? She delved a little deeper into the file, turning up a hometown newspaper article from the time when local boy done good Harold Lawson, now Hal Greenwood, was producing his first independent feature film in the late 1980s. According to the article, Lawson was Hal’s father’s name. Greenwood was his mother’s maiden name. Why did he feel the need to change it? Did Hal Greenwood strike him as more of a Hollywood power player than Harold Lawson?

  Maybe.

  Then something hit Poppy.

  Like a fast-moving freight train.

  She gasped out loud.

  Matt, Violet, and Wyatt all stopped what they were doing.

  “What? What is it?” Violet asked.

  “It could be nothing, but . . .”

  Matt leaned forward. “But what?”

  “Ever since I found Danika in her trailer with that pillow over her face, I began recalling my time in Hollywood when I first became aware of the Pillow Talk Killer, and it was on the set of Jack Colt, actually on the day I believe I almost became his next victim . . . and, no it can’t be . . .”

  “What?” Wyatt yelled.

  “There was this young production assistant, and I could never remember his name, and so he told me it was Harold, and I made a promise to myself not to forget it.”

  Matt’s mind clicked. “Hal. Do you think that PA was really Hal Greenwood?”

  “He could be. I remember Harold was about the same height and build, it was just so long ago.”

  Wyatt plucked a piece of paper out of the pile. “According to this old article from Entertainment Weekly back in 1996 when he was pushing one of his films for a Best Picture Oscar, Greenwood told the reporter that he began his career as a production assistant on a number of top-rated television shows including Dukes of Hazzard, the last season of Hart to Hart and, wait for it, Jack Colt, PI!”

  “As I recall, one of the victims had played a bit role on The Dukes of Hazzard,” Poppy exclaimed.

  “It’s got to be him!” Matt cried, clapping his hands together.

  Wyatt jumped off his stool next to his computer and shuffled over to Poppy, who had sat down on the couch, her mind racing. “Do you have a photo of him when he was younger?”

  Poppy shook her head. “No, why would I . . . ?” Then she shot back up to her feet. “Wait! I remember Rod Harper recently posted on Facebook an old cast and crew photo from the show on one of those Throwback Thursdays and so it’s possible he might be in that!”

  Wyatt scrambled back to his computer and quickly brought up Rod’s Facebook page, scrolling down until he found the photo. He zoomed in close so Poppy could see everyone’s faces. It took a few moments, but then she pointed at a chubby young man with frizzy hair in the back row. “There! That’s him!”

  “Hold on,” Wyatt said. He isolated Harold in the photo and blew it up to maximum size making sure not to blur it.

  Violet put a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “Wyatt, honey, do you still have that computer program where you can age someone digitally—”

  “Way ahead of you, Grandma,” Wyatt said.

  Within seconds, he had aged the photo of Harold about thirty or forty years, and the result was an exact double of a contemporary Hal Greenwood.

  “It’s definitely him,” Matt said before patting Wyatt on the back. “Good work, kid.”

  “I remember him escorting me to the set and going on and on about the murders, the crime scenes, the beautiful victims,” Poppy recounted. “It was almost as if he was boasting about how much he knew.”

  Violet trembled. “Do you think Hal Greenwood, or Harold Lawson may have been—?”

  “The killer? He was so young and inexperienced. I didn’t take his interest in the murders seriously at all. And then I had that run-in with Don Carter on the same night Linda Appleton became the third victim, and I was so convinced it had to be him, and so were the police, I forgot all about Harold . . . or Hal.”

  Poppy knew Hal could not have killed Danika Delgado. But what if the killer on the loose now in the present was a copycat, and Hal Greenwood had been the first Pillow Talk Killer back in the 1980s?

  The thought was enough to make Poppy shudder.

  Chapter 45

  Poppy had noticed the black Mercedes parked across the street from her house when she pulled into her driveway, but didn’t think much of it until she was at her front door, slipping the key into the lock, and heard a rustling sound behind her. She spun around, hand raised in self-defense. There was no one there. She had to laugh at herself. What was with the hand? She had no karate training whatsoever. What was she going to do, crack a neck with it? That usually worked on Charlie’s Angels, which she watched religiously when she was a young actress just starting out in LA and stayed home most nights because she hardly knew anyone in town.

  Poppy had started turning back toward the door when she heard the sound again, this time coming from her right. She whipped her head around to see a bulky man partially hidden in the shadows of her curve-leaf yucca plants, his feet trampling her carefully arranged colorful succulents.

  He held out a chubby hand. “Don’t panic, I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that this week,” Poppy growled, recognizing the man’s voice. “You should not be here, Hal.” Her stomach flip-flopped. First Byron Savage. Now Hal Greenwood. Two people she did not trust or feel safe around. Especially Hal, given what had come to light about him only an hour earlier.

  Hal stepped tentatively out of the shadows of the tall yucca plants. His appearance did nothing to calm Poppy’s heart, which was trying to pound its way out of her chest.

  Hal looked wild-eyed, nervous, slightly unhinged.

  “I just want to talk to you,” Hal tried to assure her.

  “Then you should call the office and make an appointment, like you expect everyone else to do for you,” Poppy sniffed.

  “I heard what you did, you and your associates, crashing the Cobra offices pretending to be some kind of cosmetics queen. That takes a lot of balls,” Hal said.

  “You sound impressed.”

  “Maybe a little,” Hal sneered.

  “Now please, get back in your Mercedes and go home. I have no interest in talking to you here like this.”

  Hal didn’t budge. “What kind of game are you playing? You know I had nothing to do with Danika Delgado’s murder, I have an airtight alibi.”

  “What about Fabian Granger?” Poppy asked.

  “If I had been at the Parker someone would have seen me. I’m famous, or I would have turned up on the security camera at some point, but I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t because I was never there. I’m innocent. So would you please stop obsessing over tying me to these horrific murders? Can you do me that one favor, please?”

  “Maybe you’re not responsible for those murders, but what about the others?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Hal bellowed.

  “There is no statute of limitations for murder so any cold case can still be solved and the killer brought to justice. You’ve produced enough crime movies to know that, Harold.”

  He almost missed it.

  He was about to argue some more when something in his brain suddenly clicked and his mouth dropped open.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Harold, that’s your name, isn’t it? Harold Lawson?”

  “How did you—?”

  She could see the wave of panic rising up from inside him.

  He took a minute to collect himself.

  Then, Hal took a deep breath, and smiled. “Nobody’s called me by that name in years. I may have underestimated your detective skills. I really didn’t think you’d remember me.”

  “I didn’t. Not at first. But it came back. Who would have guessed the great Hollywood producer Hal Greenwood started o
ut as our ambitious, socially awkward production assistant who was so keenly interested in all the gory aspects of the Pillow Talk Killer murders?”

  Hal flinched slightly. “Wow, good memory.”

  “It’s been hard to forget that particular day, no matter how hard I’ve tried. Why did you change your name?”

  “I was focused on becoming a power player. I never thought Harold would ever command much respect, especially since Harold the PA was treated like dirt most of the time. Although I have to admit, you were always very nice to me.”

  Poppy ignored the compliment. “So it wasn’t because you had to change it?”

  “I know what you’re implying and you’re dead wrong,” Hal sighed. “I don’t know why you are so hung up on me being the Pillow Talk Killer. I wasn’t him then, I’m not him now. So get over it. We all know the real guy was Donald Carter. He was at the Roosevelt that night with you and Linda Appleton. He bought you a drink after Rod stood you up, you were pegged as his next victim until you ran off at the last minute, and so the killer had no choice but to redirect his attention toward poor unsuspecting Linda. . . .”

  Poppy’s already racing heart nearly jumped into her throat. “How did you know Rod Harper stood me up that night?”

  “Oh, come on, everyone knows that. It was all over the news the day after it happened,” Hal argued.

  “Yes, except the part about Rod standing me up. That was never mentioned in the press.”

  “Of course it was,” Hal said warily.

  “I’m quite sure the police did not share that detail with reporters at my request, and I know I never told anyone because the last thing I wanted was to fan the flames in the media with endless, breathless stories about me and Rod.”

  “Well, what can I say, it’s out there!” Hal yelled.

  Poppy studied Hal, whose fleshy face was red and sweaty. “You only know because you followed me to the Roosevelt that night. You were watching me the whole time. Donald Carter wasn’t the Pillow Talk Killer. You were!”

  Hal knew he had been caught. His eyes darted back and forth nervously. Finally, he sighed heavily. There was no point in continuing to lie. Poppy knew everything. “I was never going to hurt you. I overheard Rod on the phone getting that last-minute audition. I knew he was going to be a no-show so I went to the Roosevelt and hung out in a booth in the back, hoping to swoop in at the last minute once you realized Rod wasn’t coming, maybe offer a comforting shoulder, or . . .”

  “It never would have happened!” Poppy snapped.

  “You fled the bar so fast, I didn’t even get my chance. And then I saw Linda. Sweet, beautiful Linda. But before I could work up the nerve to go talk to her, Don Carter was all over her, and the next thing I knew they were heading up to his hotel room. I hung out at the bar a while longer, and when I finally got up to leave, I saw Linda coming down in the elevator on her way home. . . .”

  Poppy knew what had happened next. “You felt so rejected, so angry, that all those violent urges rose up inside you again, and so you followed her home and . . .” Poppy couldn’t finish the rest of her thought, the image so disturbing. She cleared her head and continued. “After the police became convinced that Donald Carter was guilty of the three murders, you changed your name, tried to bury that side of yourself, start fresh, focus on becoming a famous producer. And you succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. You got exactly what you came to Hollywood for, respect, money, and a feeling of indestructibility that led to you becoming an unapologetic sexual predator!”

  Hal took a menacing step closer to Poppy. “What do you think is going to happen now?”

  Poppy shot a hand forward, trying to keep him at arm’s length away from her. “With what I know now, if I do a little more digging, well, like I said, there is no statute of limitations on murder.”

  She was trying to keep him focused on what she was saying and not what she was doing because she had managed to surreptitiously extract her phone from her coat pocket with her other hand, hide it behind her back, and was now struggling to dial 911, praying she was hitting the correct numbers blindly. She traced her finger back up the screen, hoping she would hit the number one twice and the call would mercifully go through when Hal suddenly noticed what she was doing and slapped the phone out of her hand. It clattered to the ground, the screen cracking.

  Poppy pushed Hal away from her and then reeled around, twisting the key in the lock, attempting to get inside and shut the door behind her before Hal could get to her, but she was a fraction of a second too late. She almost had it closed when Hal hurled his huge body at the door, smashing his way into her house. Poppy kicked him in the shin and his tongue flapped out of his mouth, but he was operating on pure adrenaline now, and it failed to slow him down. He grabbed Poppy in a bear hug and they stumbled across the living room and fell down on the couch, Hal on top of her, his heavy weight immobilizing her, his beefy hands wrapped around her throat. Poppy opened her mouth to scream, but her windpipe was cut off and no sound came out.

  Hal reached over for one of the throw pillows and jammed it over Poppy’s face, violently trying to smother her to death and silence her for good. “This was always my favorite part,” he hissed. “Up close and personal.”

  Poppy fought like mad but Hal was twice her size and almost three times her weight. She couldn’t breathe and was becoming light-headed and desperate as the chilling thought that she was not going to somehow miraculously break free crept into her mind along with a feeling of utter hopelessness.

  But then, she heard a thwack and Hal suddenly loosened his grip on the pillow. His body was pulled off her and there was a loud thud as it hit the floor. The pillow was then gently removed from her face and she was looking up at Sam’s concerned face.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked, clasping her hand and helping her to sit up on the couch.

  Poppy nodded, still trying to catch her breath.

  “I was in the guest room, tossing and turning, unable to get to sleep when all of a sudden I heard this commotion in the living room, and I came out to see this rhinoceros on top of you, trying to kill you, so I grabbed the first thing I could find and whacked him the back of the head.”

  Poppy was on the verge of tears she was so relieved and grateful.

  “By the way, sorry about your People’s Choice Award.”

  Poppy was finally able to speak. “What?”

  “I think there is a crack in it,” Sam said pointing to her award on the floor next to Hal’s prone body. She had won it back in the 1980s for her role on Jack Colt. It was in the first box she had unpacked and had finally come in handy.

  Poppy tried to stand up, but she was still woozy. Sam put an arm around her to keep her steady.

  “I thought for sure you’d be sound asleep and wouldn’t hear anything,” she said.

  “I forgot to take my sleeping pill.”

  Poppy rested her head on Sam’s shoulder, happy that his annoying habit of not obeying her instructions had just saved her life.

  Chapter 46

  Poppy shoved a dishrag into Hal Greenwood’s mouth and secured it with gray duct tape when she tired of listening to him spew offensive four-letter words and empty threats to her well-being as Sam tied him to a kitchen chair with several electrical cords around his chest and legs before binding his wrists.

  Hal squirmed and struggled through all his muffled screaming, but soon when it became abundantly clear it wasn’t doing him any good, he finally slumped over, defeated as they all waited for Detective Jordan to arrive.

  When the doorbell rang, Poppy sighed with relief and hurried to let the police in. But when she opened the door, she was surprised to find a short, wiry Latino man with spiky black hair and a big friendly smile standing there instead of Detective Jordan.

  “Hi, I’m Willie from Smart House Security. You must be . . .” He stopped to check his notes. “Ms. Poppy Harmon?”

  “What are you doing here so late?” Poppy asked, peering around him to see his van with
the Smart House logo parked out front.

  “We had a last-minute cancellation. Didn’t Britney call you?” Willie asked, slightly confused.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Britney had not struck Poppy as a reliable brain trust from their previous conversation, but she refrained from further comment on her competence, or lack thereof.

  “It’s almost eleven o’clock at night,” Poppy scolded, checking the time on her phone.

  “Smart House Home Security is on call twenty-four seven to insure that your home is not vulnerable to any bad guys lurking about!” Willie proudly touted.

  “Well, you’re too late. My house has been invaded twice while I’ve been waiting for you people to show up and install my security system!” Poppy barked.

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry to hear that,” Willie said, flummoxed, before taking it upon himself to attempt to rectify the situation. “How about I give you a ten percent discount?”

  “How about you call Britney and tell her she booked this appointment without even bothering to consult me?”

  “I can see that now is not convenient, would you like to reschedule?”

  “Yes, I would, Willie. I would like to reschedule with another home security company. Good night!”

  Willie finally got the message, and with a hangdog look on his face, slowly turned around and shuffled back to his van just as a white Ford Focus arrived, followed by a couple of police squad cars, blue lights flashing. Detective Jordan jumped out of his Ford and gave Willie a curt nod as he hurried up the walk toward Poppy. Four officers got out of the squad cars and followed Jordan as a curious Willie hung back, watching all the action unfold.

  “Where is he?” Jordan asked Poppy.

  “In the kitchen,” she said, opening the door all the way to allow him and his officers inside the house.

  At the sight of Jordan and his team of patrolmen, Hal’s whole body sagged, resigned to what was now happening.

  Jordan knelt down and locked eyes with Hal Greenwood. “I’m going to dispense with the usual questioning because it’s pretty clear what happened here. I’m charging you with attempted murder for starters, then we’ll be adding more as we go. Now, I’m going to remove this tape so my officers can read you your rights, and let me stress, one of those rights is for you to remain silent, and I would strongly suggest you pay close attention to that one.”