by Lee Hollis
Poppy refrained from rolling her eyes, choosing to stay positive and supportive. “That’s wonderful, Matt. So who is this new client?”
“Rod Harper,” he said.
The room fell silent except for Wyatt, who continued playing his video game, which seemed to have a lot of retro-futuristic sound effects.
Poppy was stunned. She had not seen Rod, her former costar on the popular 1980s detective series Jack Colt, PI, in almost ten years.
“Rod reached out to you?” Poppy asked, incredulous.
“Yes, what a nice guy,” Matt said. “He’s on Instagram, too, so I started following him. He has all of these photos of himself running on the beach shirtless with his dog, and, man, he still looks good for an old-timer.”
“He’s only two years older than I am,” Poppy said, seething.
Matt’s eyes popped open as he realized his faux pas and tried to quickly recover. “I forget because you look at least ten years younger than your actual age.”
“Nice save,” Iris sneered.
Violet, who was done hiding in the corner, scurried back over, curious. “What kind of case is it?”
“Missing person,” Matt said excitedly as he bent down to peer inside the minifridge. “Oh, hey, my lucky day. There is a bottle of bubbly in here.”
He yanked it out and then began unwrapping the foil from around the cork.
“Who is missing?” Violet asked.
“His daughter, Lara,” Matt said.
“Lara? I remember when she was a little girl. She was so shy. She used to hide behind her father’s pant leg whenever they were in public. Oh my, she must be in her early twenties by now,” Poppy said, smiling at the memory.
“She’s a singer, or trying to be,” Matt said. “Rod saw her a few weeks ago and after that she just seemed to vanish. He hasn’t heard from her since.”
“Did he go to the police?” Iris asked.
“No,” Matt answered.
“Is that not what most people would do first?” Iris scoffed, shaking her head.
“I guess he has his reasons. I didn’t push it because we could really use the hefty retainer fee that I quoted to him and that he’s totally offering to cough up, like right now if we decide to take the case.”
Poppy smiled to herself. This young man, who should be in Los Angeles auditioning for guest parts on TV shows but instead was in Palm Springs fronting a detective agency run by three women old enough to be his grandmother, was looking out for their livelihood, and she deeply appreciated it. But she did have questions.
“Rod lives in LA. Why does he want to hire a Palm Springs–based firm?” Poppy asked.
“I’m not sure, but he has a house out here and mentioned that he had read some local articles about our first case and me being the big hero and all. I told you that publicity would be invaluable. We can find out all the details tomorrow when you and I have breakfast with him,” he said pointing at Poppy.
“Matt, I have jury duty,” Poppy said.
“I know, that’s why we’re doing it really early,” he said with a wink.
“I see,” Poppy said. “Does Rod know that I’m a part of Desert Flowers?”
“Of course he does,” Matt said. “But don’t worry, I let him believe that this was my agency and you were just a hired hand, like we agreed.”
Matt was only doing what Poppy had ordered him to do. Keep the idea alive that he was the one in charge. But it bothered her on some deeper level mostly because Rod Harper had played Jack Colt, a crackerjack private eye, and she had toiled as his loyal secretary Daphne for three seasons. And now, decades later, Rod, who had always been somewhat of a male chauvinist pig, to coin an old phrase, was under the impression that Poppy herself was still consigned to that same familiar role in real life. In his mind, she was exactly the same, except with many more years under her belt.
Still, once Matt told her the five-figure retainer fee he was willing to pony up the following morning at breakfast once they officially accepted the case, Poppy was able to put her ego aside.
Having a wealthy new client was far more important. Let Rod Harper assume that Matt was the Flowers in the Desert Flowers Detective Agency.
Chapter 3
Rod Harper placed a big, strong hand over Poppy’s much smaller one that rested on the table and gently squeezed it. She looked up from the small pad of paper on which she was jotting down some notes, startled.
“Look at her,” Rod seemed to say to no one in particular. “She’s just as beautiful today as she was when we worked together back in the eighties.”
Matt couldn’t resist cracking a smile. “I caught some old episodes of Jack Colt on the Nostalgia Network recently, and I could not agree more.”
Poppy was more embarrassed than flattered by the free-flowing compliments, and so she was relieved when the perky waitress appeared with their breakfast. They were dining at Spencer’s, part of the Palm Springs Tennis Club that was nestled against the soaring San Jacinto Mountains. It boasted an elegant outdoor patio surrounded by large banyan trees. Poppy and Matt were seated with Rod at a corner table that was hidden enough so they would not be bothered by any old fans who might be excited by this Jack Colt, PI cast reunion.
When Poppy and Matt had first arrived at the restaurant to find Rod already at the table waiting for them, she was struck by how much of a star he still was. It wasn’t just his ruggedly handsome good looks that had aged so well or his intoxicating masculinity; he still had that swagger and confidence that had made him so popular in the 1980s. As they quickly caught up on their lives, Poppy learned that Rod was still a working actor, appearing occasionally in some TV movies for cable, mostly Westerns and detective retreads that were reminiscent of his glory days playing Jack Colt, only more age appropriate. His last role was as a sixty-something CIA spy with heart problems and early signs of Alzheimer’s who was forced to recruit his antigovernment son to help him carry out his last mission. Matt had seen it on Netflix and gave it a rave review, although Poppy suspected he hadn’t really watched the whole thing and was just using that as an excuse to butter up their new client.
Rod kept holding Poppy’s hand as the waitress set the breakfast plates down, and it was only when she reached for her fork to eat her eggs over easy that she managed to slip her hand out of his warm grip. She glanced up and found him staring at her, beaming. She looked to Matt for help in steering the conversation back to the case of his missing daughter.
Matt dove into his waffles and turned to Rod. “So what was it like starring in your own TV show back in the days when there were only three networks?”
Poppy sighed. This was not some reunion special for TV Land. This was about getting their hands on Rod’s retainer fee check.
“We had a lot more eyes on our show than you get today, that’s for sure. What was it, Poppy, something like twenty-seven million viewers a week?”
“Something like that,” Poppy said, forcing a smile.
“Wow,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wish I could have been an actor back then instead of now just to know what it was like to have that wide of an audience watching my work.”
Poppy kicked Matt under the table. He jumped in his chair, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He looked at Poppy, and suddenly it dawned on him that he had just blown his cover as Matt Flowers, Private Eye.
Rod looked up from his spinach and wild mushroom frittata. “Did you say you’re an actor?”
“I dabbled,” Matt said, laughing, quickly covering. “In college. But I didn’t take it too seriously and got bored very quickly, so instead I followed my true passion . . . criminal investigation.”
“I see,” Rod said, seeming to buy his story.
Poppy piped in, attempting to coax Matt into moving on to the topic at hand. “So Matt says you’re worried about Lara?”
“Yes,” Rod said solemnly, looking down at his plate. “Did you know she’s twenty-two now?”
“I can hardly believe it,�
�� Poppy said, smiling, before shifting into a more serious mode. “And you say she’s missing?”
Rod nodded.
“When did you last see her?” Poppy asked, picking up her pen to write down the facts as she heard them.
“A few weeks ago last Sunday,” Rod said, setting down his fork. “We had an argument. She showed up at my house in Beverly Hills wanting me to bankroll an album she was planning to record. I am already supporting her with rent and an allowance, and I had already paid for three other recording studio sessions that went nowhere, so I finally put my foot down and refused, and boy, she did not like that at all.”
“She’s not used to Daddy saying no?” Matt asked.
“That’s an understatement. Ever since her mother took off to parts unknown when Lara was twelve and cut off ties with both of us, I have felt terribly guilty about it, and so I spoiled Lara. I gave her everything she wanted, thinking that might help with the healing and bring us closer together. But it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. Now she just blames me for everything that’s wrong in her life.”
Poppy scribbled everything down as fast as she could.
Rod noticed her bent over writing furiously and grinned. “I’m having déjà vu watching you right now, Poppy.”
Poppy glanced up from her notepad. “I’m sorry?”
“Seeing you take notes for Matt makes me think I’m in a scene with Daphne on an episode of Jack Colt.”
Poppy was not amused nor nostalgic. She just wanted to get all the facts down and finish her breakfast and deposit his check. But knowing he was in a wistful mood, she nodded and smiled sweetly. “Daphne lives on apparently.”
Rod couldn’t take his eyes off her to the point where Poppy was starting to feel uncomfortable, so she decided now was the time to change the subject. “So how did the argument end?”
“She called me a bunch of names I don’t care to repeat, and then I told her that I was going to cut her off financially if she couldn’t show me some respect. After that, she stormed out of my house, and that was the last time I saw her.”
“Did you go through with your threat and cut her off?” Matt asked before stuffing his face with a big hunk of waffle.
“Not really. Her rent is paid for the next three months and I didn’t cancel her Platinum Visa card so it was pretty much an empty threat.”
Poppy stopped writing. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
Rod sighed. “Lara has gotten into some trouble before with her wild behavior. A joy ride on the Pacific Coast Highway that turned into an arrest for DUI. A case of kleptomania that resulted in a shoplifting charge at a boutique on Melrose Avenue. A false accusation of sexual assault against one of her professors at USC who was going to fail her for skipping the final exam. The police have long run out of patience for her antics and I’m afraid my very expensive lawyers are not going to be able to keep her out of jail the next time.”
Matt leaned forward. “But she’s missing and could be in real trouble. . . .”
“Yes, that’s possible, but my gut is telling me she’s just angry with me and acting out, and this is all just a ploy to get me worried enough so that when she does eventually turn up, I’ll have my checkbook ready.”
“Then why not just wait for her to reappear?” Matt asked.
“Because I could be wrong. I just want to make sure she’s really all right,” Rod said, shaking his head, frustrated. “So instead of involving the cops, I’m hiring you.”
“Rod, there is one thing I don’t understand. There are plenty of private investigation firms in LA. Why us?” Poppy asked.
“Besides the fact it’s a good excuse to see you again?” Rod asked with a wink. “I’ve been in contact with some of her old Beverly Hills friends, and although they all claim not to know where she is, they did tell me she had been spending a lot of time recently here in Palm Springs, so I wanted a detective familiar with the desert, who could be on the ground here.”
“Any idea why she would be out here?” Matt asked.
“Not a clue,” Rod answered.
“Well, don’t worry, Rod, I’ll find her,” Matt said, brimming with all the confidence in the world.
“Thank you,” Rod said, heartened as he pulled a checkbook out of his back pocket. “Oh, before I forget . . .”
As Rod wrote enough zeroes on the check to delight both Poppy and Matt, Poppy slowly began to worry that despite how cocksure Matt was of locating Lara, she was still a newbie in the PI game. She was going to have to pay a lot more than just lip service in order to get results. And she had no idea just how challenging and dangerous this run-of-the-mill missing person case was about to get.
Chapter 4
Poppy listened with intense interest as the feisty prosecutor with the mop of curly red hair walked around the table and approached the jury, making eye contact with each and every one of them as she delivered her closing argument. “I’m sure you probably listen to Tony Molina’s music and have watched many of his movies. I know I have. And I have to admit, I love the sound of his soothing, melodic, and, yes, dare I say, sexy voice.”
Poppy glanced over at Tony, who couldn’t suppress a smile.
“In fact, I’m a huge fan! There. I said it. I adore him. My mother adores him. My grandmother adores him.”
Tony’s smile slowly faded. He didn’t like to be dated.
“He is a national treasure, in my humble opinion.”
Poppy knew a “but” was coming.
“But . . . that does not excuse him from having to pay a debt to society when he breaks the law. And lady and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is clear. Tony Molina broke the law. We have eyewitnesses who saw him assault Chef Carmine Cicci. We have Mr. Molina’s fingerprints on the weapon he used to attack Chef Carmine, a frying pan. We have the medical records from the hospital confirming Chef Carmine’s serious injury. And we have the testimony of the victim himself, a world-renowned celebrity chef, with absolutely no reason in the world to lie. You heard him yourself. He loved Tony. Just like I do.”
The prosecutor pointed to a few jurors in the second row. “And you probably do. And you. And you . . .”
Poppy stole another glance over at Tony, who was now scowling, not happy where this was going.
“Unfortunately, this case has nothing to do with whether we love someone or not. This case is about a vicious, unprovoked attack by a privileged crooner and movie star who believed his fame was sufficient enough to save him from having to face justice. Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to send the message that no one, and I mean no one, not even Tony Molina, is above the law. And so, as you go back to the deliberation room with this overwhelming amount of evidence, I believe that you all know in your hearts that, despite any personal feelings you may have for the defendant, there is no other choice here but to find Mr. Molina guilty of aggravated assault.”
She stopped, her hands gripping the wooden railing of the jury box, and stared at the entire jury, her intense eyes daring them to disagree with her. Then she offered them a brief but pleasant smile. “Thank you.” She dramatically turned to Judge Linscott, who was listening, stone faced. “And thank you, Your Honor.”
The prosecutor marched back to her table and sat down.
The juror sitting next to Poppy, a pudgy man with a bulbous nose and wisps of white hair on the sides of his otherwise bald head, wrote copious notes on a pad of paper with a pen. It suddenly dawned on Poppy that she hadn’t taken any notes during the trial and suddenly she began to feel guilty about it.
“Mr. Calloway?” Judge Linscott nodded to one of the sharks surrounding Tony Molina. The oldest one of the three, a strikingly handsome man with gray hair, a lanky build, and an expensive Brooks Brothers suit, slowly stood up.
“Thank you, Your Honor. We have no closing argument.”
There was silence in the courtroom.
Poppy noticed the prosecutor’s jaw drop open.
Judge Linscott raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Yo
u already waived calling any witnesses for the defense, and now you’re not going to make a closing argument before the jury deliberates?”
Molina’s first-chair lawyer, Mr. Calloway, calmly opened his arms and shrugged. “Why waste the jury’s time when the prosecutor has already failed, spectacularly, I might add, to present a compelling case.”
Poppy, along with her fellow jurors, couldn’t believe what was happening. In Poppy’s mind, Chef Carmine was a believable victim, the kitchen staff were credible witnesses, and there was strong physical evidence. It was unfathomable that Tony Molina would not want his team of expensive lawyers to at least try to refute the charges. When it had been time to cross-examine the witnesses who had observed Tony Molina bashing Chef Carmine in the head with the frying pan, the lawyers had declined, except for a busboy, whom they revealed was an illegal alien and thereby should not be taken seriously, which Poppy found abhorrently offensive.
Judge Linscott leaned forward, almost trying to help them. “Are you sure, Mr. Calloway?”
“Your Honor, it’s plainly clear what happened here,” he said calmly and confidently. “The members of the jury appear to be smart people. I’m not going to insult their intelligence by walking them through it. They know what really happened.”
Poppy was dying to hear what he had to say since she was already convinced in her mind that Tony Molina was guilty.
“Go ahead and insult my intelligence. I really want to hear what you think happened,” Judge Linscott strongly suggested.
“If you insist, Your Honor. Chef Carmine’s TV ratings have plummeted in recent months and he badly needed some publicity to goose his public profile. My client just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He walked into a trap. A setup. Chef Carmine staged the whole thing to make it look like my client hit him with that frying pan. The kitchen staff all worked for him. He probably put a little extra in their paychecks if they backed up his story. As for the fingerprints, Mr. Molina was dining at the restaurant. They could have easily transferred his fingerprints from a wine glass to the handle of the frying pan. There are ways to do that. We’ve all seen it done on TV. There were no security cameras in the kitchen, so we have no photographic evidence, just the testimony of some devoted employees and one illegal immigrant who was probably blackmailed with deportation if he didn’t go along with this abject fantasy. These charges are a joke, Your Honor, and we refuse to play this game anymore. The good people of the jury have their own lives to get back to. . . .” He paused dramatically and then turned to the prosecutor. “This woman has wasted enough of their time.”
