by Lee Hollis
As Poppy grabbed a lukewarm bottled water from her bag next to an empty chair, she noticed Violet scribbling something down on a pad of paper as Iris looked on approvingly.
“What are you two up to?” Poppy asked.
“We are coming up with a list of your attributes in order to help you find a position more suitable to your skills,” Iris said, checking Violet’s work. “Read what we have so far, Violet.”
“Honest, loyal, responsible, compassionate . . .”
“You two are going to make me blush,” Poppy said, smiling.
“Well, they may speak to your character, but they won’t help you land a job. How many words per minute can you type?” Iris asked.
“I never learned to type,” Poppy said, embarrassed.
“She didn’t have to,” Violet said. “She was working as a model by the time she was sixteen.”
“And after that, the acting parts started to roll in, so I was too busy to finish college.”
“You were an actress, so you have experience working with people. I would say that’s a plus,” Violet said, trying to remain upbeat.
“Great. That makes her qualified to become a greeter at Walmart,” Iris said, shaking her head at Violet.
“I basically have no skills,” Poppy said, grabbing a towel draped over the empty chair and wiping herself dry. “Which does not bode well for a future that does not include homelessness!”
“Let’s not panic just yet,” Iris said. “You have to be good at something besides acting!”
“Frankly, there was a TV Guide critic back in the eighties who would argue even that. I remember his quote verbatim in the fall preview issue the year my series premiered on ABC. He said, ‘Poppy Harmon’s physical gifts, including her shapely legs, her firm buttocks, and her ample chest, work hard to help the viewer overlook her stiff line readings and vacant stare as the hero’s breathlessly sexy, devoted secretary.’ ”
“You must have been devastated reading that,” Violet said, frowning.
“Not really. I worked hard to get that body, and I was making five grand a week. I didn’t let it get to me. But now that my legs aren’t so shapely, my buttocks are not nearly as firm, and my ample chest has suffered from the unforgiving forces of gravity, his words hurt a hell of a lot more.”
“Think. There must be something, anything you’re good at,” Iris said, concentrating between gulps of her Bloody Mary.
“This is really starting to get depressing,” Poppy whined, dropping her towel and plopping down in the chair.
“You’re an excellent gift wrapper!” Violet blurted out suddenly. “You always make a present look so pretty with flowers and ribbons and glitter. I didn’t even want to open the gift you gave me for my birthday last month, it looked so pretty.”
“That would actually be helpful, Violet, if the Christmas season was not months away!” Iris barked. “There is not a shortage of professional gift wrappers this time of year!”
“So did you finally open it and read the book I gave you?” Poppy asked.
“Yes, and you were right. It was a real page-turner,” Violet said. “It had me guessing right up until the end.”
“I figured out who the killer was after the first twenty pages, but I still enjoyed it,” Poppy said.
“That’s why I refuse to go to a movie with you or watch a TV show that has some kind of mystery to solve,” Iris said. “You always ruin it by blurting out the answer!”
“I can’t help it! Chester loved all those true-crime shows that played late at night on cable, but he would wait until I was asleep, because he hated watching them with me. I always knew who did it, how, and why before the first commercial.”
“Where do you think that comes from?” Iris asked.
“She’s always been hyper observant,” Violet said.
“If she was hyper observant, she would have known Chester was frittering away their life savings,” Iris said before noticing Poppy was crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I just speak the truth.”
“Have you always been good at solving puzzles, Poppy?” Violet asked, trying to change the subject, after shooting Iris a stern look.
“As far back as I can remember,” Poppy said. “When I was playing Daphne on Jack Colt, PI, we had this producer, Sam Emerson, who had gone to law school and then opened his own business as a private investigator in New York before he realized his true calling was writing scripts for television, so he chucked it all and moved to Hollywood and wound up on the show’s staff. Well, whenever he would write himself into a corner, he would take me to lunch and pick my brain, and I would always come up with the solution. He was the only one who didn’t see me as a brainless starlet. He actually liked me for my mind. That was pretty much the first inkling I had that I had a knack for that kind of stuff.”
“That’s it! The answer is right in front of you, Poppy!” Violet shouted, almost startling herself.
“What?” Iris wanted to know.
“That’s what you should do! Solve mysteries!” Violet exclaimed, quite pleased with herself for coming up with this brilliant thought on her own.
Poppy sat back in her chair and laughed.
What a sweet but utterly ridiculous suggestion.
Did Violet actually think Poppy could become some kind of crime investigator? What was she going to do? Apply to the Palm Springs Police Department as a trainee or put out a shingle and become a private eye?
I mean, it was such a crazy notion.
And yet oddly compelling.
She had always fantasized during her acting days of starring in a series where she was the detective and not just the secretary. She had considered herself far more adept at deductive reasoning than Angie Dickinson in Police Woman or the rotating lineup of women in Charlie’s Angels. Still, how would anyone, starting with herself, even begin to take her seriously as a licensed professional detective?
“Well, why not?” Violet asked.
“Because I’m too old, for one thing,” Poppy said.
“No you’re not. Sixty is the new forty,” Violet said encouragingly. “And Jessica Fletcher was in her fifties.”
“Jessica Fletcher is a fictional character,” Poppy argued.
“I’m sorry, but you’re never too old to write,” Violet said.
“Write?” Poppy asked, confused.
“Mystery novels. You’re never too old to write mystery novels,” Violet said.
“Oh, I thought . . .” Poppy let her voice trail off, suddenly embarrassed.
“What did you think she was talking about?” Iris asked.
“I thought you were suggesting that I try my hand at actual detective work,” Poppy said softly.
Iris and Violet looked at one another and burst into roars of laughter.
“You mean literally solve crimes out in the field, not in front of your computer?” Iris managed to get out between guffaws. “Oh, honey, that’s a good one!”
Poppy chose to laugh along with her girlfriends.
She couldn’t blame them.
It was an absurd and wacky idea.
And yet, as her two best friends finally calmed down from all the hilarity and summarily dismissed the idea before moving on to the topic of where the three of them should have lunch, Poppy just couldn’t seem to shake it.
In fact, after salads at Spencer’s, Poppy drove straight home and began to research on her laptop how one actually became a private investigator in the state of California.
She told herself she was just Googling it for fun.
But by the time she crawled into bed that night, having filled out the preliminary application online, she knew on some deep level, a serious plan had just been set in motion.
Chapter 8
When he opened the door of his cabin on Big Bear Mountain, Poppy swore she was staring into the face of the ruggedly handsome Sam Elliott, with his bushy mustache, silver hair, lanky build, and laid-back, laconic charm. She had met the actor when she landed a small role in a 1981 TV minise
ries called Murder in Texas, based on a true story about a plastic surgeon (a sexy, shaggy-haired Sam, in his midthirties at the time) who murdered his wife (the iconic Farrah Fawcett) in order to marry his mistress (played by Sam’s real-life spouse, Katharine Ross). The lovable sheriff Andy Taylor himself, Andy Griffith, played Farrah’s father, who was determined to prove his scheming son-in-law had offed his beloved daughter, and his performance garnered Griffith his only Emmy nomination in a long, storied career. Anyway, Poppy had a tiny role, barely seen in the final cut, but she’d been struck by Sam’s winning personality during the four days she spent on the set.
And here he stood now, right in front of her.
But she knew this was not the real Sam Elliott.
This was another Sam from her past, one who simply bore a striking resemblance.
This was Sam Emerson, the ex-lawyer and private eye who had worked as a producer for three seasons on her TV show Jack Colt, PI.
Sam stepped back, mouth agape, as he looked Poppy up and down. “My God, Poppy. You haven’t aged a bit.”
“I’m sorry to hear you have cataracts, Sam,” Poppy laughed as she threw out her arms and the two embraced.
“Damn. How long has it been?”
“Gosh, must be going on thirty years now.”
“I was so surprised when I got your message on Facebook,” Sam said, leaning back to take her in some more, his arms still clasped around her. “I can’t stand the whole social media thing, but my grandkids insist I stay connected to the world. Personally, I’d be happy just dealing with the bears and squirrels and raccoons and the rest of the wildlife I live with up here.”
Poppy leaned back as she smiled at him. He gazed into her eyes. His bright green eyes were hypnotic. She felt a wee bit awkward once she realized she was still in his embrace, his hands dangerously close to resting on her butt. He must have sensed her discomfort, because he suddenly released his grip and waved her into the cabin.
The interior of the cabin was rustic but tidy, with only a few hints of civilization, including a laptop computer and a small TV and DVD player. There was a loft with an unmade bed, the kitchen was tiny but serviceable, and there was a massive fireplace with a stack of burnt wood, crackling with the last embers of a fire that was quickly dying out.
Poppy had been to Big Bear only once, when she had a girls’ weekend with Iris and Violet. They had rented a cabin and had intended to go skiing, but they’d wound up reading dime-store romance novels, drinking wine, and spending most of their time lounging and gossiping in the hot tub on the wooden deck, even as a snowstorm raged around them.
After she contacted Sam and he invited her up to see him, she’d dreaded the long hour-and-a-half drive straight up a mountain from Palm Springs. But she was on a mission and was not to be deterred. Sam didn’t even bother to ask why she had written him out of the blue, and by the look on his face now, he simply didn’t care. He was just happy to see her.
“Can I offer you a drink? It may look like I don’t have much up here, but I’m never without a fully stocked bar,” he said.
“Maybe a glass of wine,” Poppy said.
“Red or white?”
“Whatever you have.”
Sam opened a bottle of pinot noir, poured two glasses, and led her onto the porch, with its breathtaking view of the lake, which was just bouncing back after a long drought, and the seemingly endless surrounding forest.
They sat down in rocking chairs and spent the first twenty minutes talking about everyone connected to Jack Colt, PI—the cast, the crew, the memorable guest stars, those who had passed away, the ones who were still working in Hollywood, and all the people who had fallen off the map, living quieter lives as far away from the crushing glare of show business as they possibly could, which, of course, included Sam himself.
Sam told her that he had made enough money writing scripts for TV to buy his cabin and that he had a modest income from his Writers Guild pension to pay his bills. He saw no need to travel the world at this point, having seen most of it during his younger years. He was perfectly content hunting and fishing and skiing up here in the mountains.
“What about you?” he asked. “You still married to . . . what’s-his-name?”
“Chester.”
“Yeah, Chester. Sweet guy, as I remember. How is he?”
“Dead.”
Sam rocked back in his chair. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation as he took a sip of his wine, and all they could hear were the birds and the crickets ardently making their presence known in the surrounding nature.
Poppy took a deep breath and explained everything she had gone through the past two months.
She could see on Sam’s face that he was more curious to hear about why she had come all the way up here to see him.
Was she looking to rekindle something that was long in the past?
Yes, it was true he and Poppy had dined together many times during the run of the show and, on several occasions, after too much wine, had stumbled into bed together.
Oh no.
Poppy suddenly panicked, afraid she was giving the wrong impression. Here they were, drinking wine together, which had precipitated their hookups four decades ago.
She quickly set her wineglass down on the wooden coffee table between them, which he had probably carved and built himself.
“I should probably explain why I came all the way up here . . . ,” Poppy said after clearing her throat.
Sam leaned back in his chair again, a peaceful look on his face, his eyes twinkling, as if he was sending the message that if she really wanted to go back there, he was game.
“I need to get a job in order to support myself, so I’ve decided to become a private investigator.”
She could tell Sam had not expected to hear this. She waited for him to break out laughing, like Iris and Violet did when she first proposed the idea, but he didn’t. He nodded, thought about it, and then said, “I think you’d be very good at it.”
Poppy wanted to jump in his lap and kiss him.
Which he probably would not have minded.
But she resisted the urge.
Still, this was the first person who had anything encouraging to say about her decision. Not that she had shared the idea with many people. Outside of Iris and Violet and her lawyer, Edwin Pierce, everyone in her life was basically in the dark, including her daughter, Heather, who was too wrapped up in her new romance with the irritating wannabe actor to care all that much what her mother was up to.
“I passed the exam with flying colors, and I borrowed the money from my friends to pay for the license. The only thing left to do on my to-do list is find someone who will vouch for my practical experience.”
“What kind of practical experience are we talking about?”
“I have to have three years of paid investigative work if I don’t have a law degree or an associate’s degree in criminal justice or police science.”
“I’m guessing after Hollywood, you didn’t have a second career studying criminal law.”
“No. And I don’t have the luxury of going back to school. But I do have three years of paid investigative work.”
“You have experience working for a PI?”
“Well, you were technically still a private investigator when you wrote on Jack Colt, right?”
“Yes. What are you getting at?”
“Well, the show lasted three seasons, so that’s three years, and I was paid. . . .”
“As an actress playing the secretary of a fake private eye. I wouldn’t count that as real, practical experience.”
“Yes, but you were a real one, and I helped you solve many cases.”
“Those were pretend cases I dreamed up for scripts!”
“Many of which were based on actual crimes you personally investigated. There is a case to be made that during your time as a writer on the show, you were still solving cases as a fully licensed investigator, and so . . .�
�
Poppy reached into her bag and produced a piece of paper. She carefully set it down on the wooden coffee table, along with a ballpoint pen.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a form I need to submit to the licensing board, stating that I was under your employ for three years, assisting you in your investigative work.”
Sam stared at the piece of paper and shook his head, smiling.
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“It’s my only option at this point, and I can’t do it without your help.”
Sam didn’t move at first. She could tell he was mulling over the ramifications of signing the paper. He glanced over at Poppy, who sat still, holding her breath, waiting for him to decide if he was going to help her out or not.
Then, after winking at her, he leaned forward, picked up the pen, and scribbled his signature.
Poppy let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh, Sam, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“Anything for you, Poppy. Now, how about some more wine?”
“I better not. I have to drive down that long, curvy mountain road, and it’s almost dark.”
“You can’t leave yet. If you’re going to be a private investigator, you’re going to have to show me you can shoot.”
“A gun?”
Sam stood up. “Come on. I got a sexy Smith & Wesson in my cabinet with your name on it.”
“No! Honestly, Sam, I couldn’t! I hate guns! I could never actually shoot anything, especially a live animal or a person! I could never live with myself!”
“You never know. You may have to in your new line of work.”
“Forget it, Sam. I just don’t have it in me.”
“You’d be surprised. Now relax. I’m not suggesting we go out back and shoot a squirrel out of the trees. I have some empty beer cans I can line up on the woodpile for you to aim at.”
Sam took her by the arm and guided her back into the cabin. She had never thought about actually using a firearm. Taking some pictures with her phone of a cheating spouse was more her speed.
But remarkably, despite her apprehension, within twenty minutes she was out in the woods, with Sam standing so close behind her she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, his arms wrapped around her as he guided her aim. She had one eye closed, both hands wrapped around the pistol, her finger on the trigger. Sam gently released his grip and stepped back and whispered, “Anytime you’re ready!”
