Poppy Harmon Investigates

by Lee Hollis

  Poppy bit her lip and forced herself to stand there silently and take it.

  She should at least give Heather the opportunity to release all her pent-up anger before diving in and stating her case.

  “Honestly, I’m worried about you. Every therapist I’ve ever been to has told me never to make any major life decision for at least two years after the death of a spouse or loved one. Chester’s been gone only a couple of months! Have you gone off the deep end? Are you so consumed with grief that you’re experiencing some sort of psychotic break?”

  Poppy waited a few moments to make absolutely sure that it wasn’t a rhetorical question and that Heather was actually waiting for her to answer before she responded. “Actually, I’ve never felt more focused and alive in my whole life.”

  Heather slumped, like a punctured tire fast losing air. “Oh, Mother . . .”

  “I’m not in this alone. Iris and Violet are helping. . . .”

  “I suspected it was Iris and Violet who put you up to this crazy idea. Sometimes they’re not exactly the best influence.. . .”

  Best influence?

  Poppy didn’t appreciate the role reversal her daughter was engaging in, treating her like some wayward, impossibly impetuous teenager.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why did you hide it from me?”

  “I didn’t hide anything. . . .”

  “We talk at least two times a week. Not once did you mention you were training and studying to be a private detective! I probably would have remembered if you had casually brought it up in conversation!”

  “Okay, I didn’t tell you, because I expected this reaction, and I was afraid it might scare me off from seeing it through.”

  “Why, Mother? What’s really going on here? You must have some reason you’re doing this! What is it?”

  Poppy hesitated, reading her daughter, knowing she was never going to stop until she knew the whole unvarnished truth.

  “Does it have anything to do with Chester’s debts?”

  She had told Heather about her stepfather’s financial crisis shortly after their dinner at Las Casuelas.

  Chester’s gambling problem.

  A mountain of debt that was going to have to be paid back.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to let Heather know just how dire the situation was, and so she’d omitted key information, that she was on the verge of bankruptcy, that she was going to lose the house any day now, and that Heather’s inheritance had been obliterated.

  She’d thought doling out the bad news in increments would somehow soften the blow.

  But then she began studying for her PI license, and Heather was preoccupied with her egotist boyfriend, so they hardly saw each other, and then as time wore on, it became more difficult to tell her, and so she left it on the back burner.

  “I’m broke,” Poppy whispered.

  “Oh, Mother, don’t be such a drama queen!”

  “I’m dead serious, Heather. In fact, when I knew you were coming over, I ran outside and took the FOR SALE sign off the front yard and hid it in the garage.”

  This finally got Heather’s attention.

  “You what... ?”

  “Chester didn’t just rack up a few gambling debts. He completely wiped us out.”

  Heather’s eyes grew wide and round as she processed this news. Her bottom lip quivered slightly, and by the time she used her index finger to draw away a few stray strands of hair from in front of her face, her complexion was a ghostly white.

  “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “There’s nothing left.”

  “But the trust fund he set up for me when you two married, that’s still there, right? I mean, he couldn’t have . . .”

  “He cleaned it out.”

  Heather stumbled over to the couch and sat down. She wrapped her arms across her chest and rocked back and forth as a flood of tears streamed down her face.

  “I can’t believe he would do such a thing. . . .”

  Poppy trailed after her daughter and sat down next to her, then put a comforting arm around her and kissed her cheek. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll both be fine.”

  She knew once Heather had time to think about everything, she would get angry at her for concealing the whole truth for so long, but until then, she would try to be a rock of support for her daughter.

  After ten minutes of feeling sorry for herself and worrying about her own future, Heather turned her attention to her mother, who had also been so severely wronged.

  “Where are you going to live?”

  Poppy shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  “You can come live with me.”

  “Your apartment is too small for the both of us. I can stay with Iris or Violet, at least until I can afford to get my own place.”

  “But you’re my mother. It’s my responsibility to take care of you in your old age . . . ,” Heather said, choking on the words, consumed with guilt.

  “Okay, first of all, you need to retract that last statement about old age, because I will not have you talking to me that way,” Poppy said, only half joking.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to worry about money in your golden years. . . .”

  “Golden years? Again, not a term that is going to boost my morale!”

  “You’re right! You’re still young enough to start over,” Heather said, choosing a path of measured optimism.

  “That’s right!”

  “But a private detective? Oh, Mother . . .”

  That was her girl.

  Take the path of optimism and then veer right to Negativity Road.

  “Do you really think you’re going to make ends meet that way? I mean, even Jessica Fletcher had her mystery novels to fall back on.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about making it work, okay? You concentrate on your own life. Your job, your boyfriend. . .”

  That boyfriend.

  Matt Cameron.

  Poppy’s greatest fear was that the self-possessed, long-winded, good-looking cad Heather had so recklessly fallen head over heels with would flee the scene once it became known that she would no longer be an heiress to a small but comfortable fortune someday, after both her parents finally passed.

  And Poppy once again would have to be there to pick up the pieces.

  Was she being fair to her daughter’s budding romance?

  Probably not.

  Was she convinced she was right?

  Absolutely, without a doubt.

  Chapter 12

  Poppy stared at the twelve-year-old boy standing in front of her. He kept wiping his nose with his finger and blinking his watery eyes. His spindly, skinny legs were like sticks protruding from his oversize cargo shorts, fastened tight around his waist with a scuffed brown belt. A chocolate-stained orange T-shirt was draped over his tiny bony frame, and on the front of it was printed IF HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF, I’M GETTING A DINOSAUR! He was suffering from a cold and clearly wanted to be anywhere else, and he hung closely to Violet, who beamed as she introduced him to Poppy and Iris.

  “I just cannot believe you have never met my grandson Wyatt, but he rarely visits from LA. He’s so busy with school and his friends, and no matter how much I whine and plead, I get to see him only once or twice a year!”

  “Stop it, Maw-Maw . . . ,” the boy murmured into her side.

  “He’s a bit shy,” Violet explained.

  “Maw-Maw?” Iris asked with a decidedly raised eyebrow.

  “That’s what he’s called me ever since he was a baby. Isn’t it cute?”

  Poppy flashed a look at Iris, warning her to keep her opinion to herself, and for once, Iris surprisingly obeyed and kept mum.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wyatt,” Poppy said, stepping forward and extending her hand.

  She instantly regretted it when Wyatt begrudgingly shook her hand and she noticed his fingernails were caked with dirt and his hands were cove
red in gooey snot. Wyatt suddenly sneezed and didn’t bother using his free hand to cover his mouth.

  Poppy ducked to avoid the kid’s saliva shower and quickly withdrew her hand, then slowly backed away. “I’m sure Wyatt is a lovely boy and gets very good grades, but I’m still confused about why you think he is what we need to jump-start our business.”

  “I am an expert in all the latest wiretapping and hacking techniques,” Wyatt boasted, straight-faced and businesslike.

  And then he sneezed again, startling Iris, who struggled not to order him out of her garage before he spread his nasty germs to all of them.

  Violet fished in the pocket of her white shorts and pulled out a small package of Kleenex. She yanked one out of the plastic opening and handed it to her grandson.

  “He’s very tech savvy,” Violet said, beaming with pride.

  “Well, we’re a very low-tech operation, and I’m not sure when we would need someone to hack into someone’s computer,” Poppy said, locking eyes with Violet, who ignored her pleas to stop this well-rehearsed sales pitch.

  “Let’s say you’re hired by some old lady to find out if her husband’s cheating,” Wyatt said, irritated that he had to make a case for his mad skills. “With just a few strokes of the keys on my laptop, I can have all his texts and e-mails and every app on his smartphone up on this screen for you to look at in minutes. You can find out who he is secretly talking to without ever leaving this office.”

  “Okay, that sounds impressive,” Poppy agreed. “But it also sounds illegal.”

  “Every private investigation firm needs a surveillance division if it’s going to be taken seriously,” Wyatt said. “I just do what the U.S. government and all the Internet and phone corporations already do to us every day . . . monitor our communications.”

  “So you’re twelve?” Iris asked, not quite believing it.

  Wyatt nodded. “You also have no online presence. Maw-Maw showed me the sad ad you put in the supermarket Pennysaver. That’s not going to draw any clients willing to put up real money to hire you.”

  “What do you suggest?” Iris wanted to know, suddenly intrigued.

  “I already designed you a Web site and opened Desert Flowers Facebook and Twitter accounts,” Wyatt said.

  “You did what?” Poppy gasped. “Now everyone is going to know what I’m up to!”

  “That’s the whole point, Poppy,” Violet said excitedly. “We need to raise our profile and get our name out there.”

  “Wait until you see the site I designed. It’s totally awesome and interactive.” Wyatt smiled. “Normally, you would pay something like five thousand bucks for a site like this.”

  “We can’t pay you even close to that,” Poppy said.

  “No worries.” Wyatt shrugged, just like his grandmother. “You can give me a cut, like you will with Maw-Maw and Aunt Iris, once your billing system is up and running.”

  “I’m not your aunt.” Iris glowered at him.

  “Yeah, but it’s okay if I call you that, right?”

  “No,” Iris said flatly. “You can call me Ms. Becker.”

  Wyatt nodded, chastised. He obviously wasn’t intimidated by much, but Iris was an exception. The kid turned back to Poppy, and after another brief sneezing fit and blowing his nose into the wadded-up Kleenex, he continued.

  “Your Facebook and Twitter accounts went live this morning. I posted a few articles about some of the cases the agency has recently solved, and you already have ten inquiries from potential clients.”

  “But we haven’t solved any cases!” Poppy cried.

  “Fake news doesn’t work just for the Russians,” Wyatt said matter-of-factly.

  “Mark my words, this kid is going to be working for the NSA someday,” Iris said, shaking her head.

  “I don’t feel right about any of this!” Poppy said before whipping around and staring down Wyatt. “I want you to shut it all down until we’ve had a chance to thoroughly discuss this.”

  Violet gulped. “That may be a problem.”

  “Why?” Poppy moaned.

  “We have a consultation with a client scheduled in five minutes.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Violet said sheepishly, only now considering the downside to her actions. “His name is—”

  “Call him right now and cancel before he gets here!”

  “Mrs. Harmon, I’m confused. Maw-Maw said you wanted to make money as a private investigator to help dig yourself out of debt,” Wyatt said.

  “You told him all that?” Poppy said, spinning on her heel to confront Violet.

  Violet shrugged, guilty as charged.

  Poppy turned back to the kid. “Yes, Wyatt, I do,” she sighed. “But this is all happening so fast, and I’ve never actually investigated a real case before, and I basically lied about my practical experience, and now this whole thing feels like a really bad, misguided idea. Maybe Heather was right.”

  There was a knock at the side door of the garage.

  “That’s him,” Violet said. “What do I tell him?”

  “Tell him there’s been a mistake, and send him away,” Poppy pleaded.

  “No,” Iris said. “This is my house, and I can invite in whomever I please.”

  “Iris!”

  “We might as well hear what he has to say. If it sounds too difficult or if he is some kind of nut job, we will just send him away,” Violet said.

  Iris bounded over to the door and swung it open.

  A wiry, skittish young man with dark glasses and a high forehead, dressed in a formless red T-shirt and khaki shorts that rested below the band of his Hanes underwear, stood there. He was short, about a foot smaller than Iris, and stared up at her commanding figure.

  “Is this the Desert Flowers Detective Agency?”

  “Yes. I am Iris Becker, and that is Poppy Harmon and Violet Hogan, and the kid is our tech supervisor, Wyatt something or other,” Iris said.

  “Wait, you three are the Desert Flowers?” the young man asked, eyes widening.

  “Yes. Are you deaf? Iris Becker, Poppy Harmon, and Violet Hogan. Now get in here. The open door is sucking out all the cool air,” she commanded.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, frowning.

  “Do I look like I joke?” Iris asked, towering over him and glaring down at his incredulous face. “Now, how can we help you?”

  “Forget it! You three old bags should be sued for false advertising on your Web site!” the man yelled before turning around and storming off, stopping only once to hike up his shorts, which had shimmied all the way down to his knees.

  “What was that all about?” Poppy asked.

  “And who is he calling an old bag?” Iris spit out.

  “I may have exaggerated a few things on the Web site to get some people in the door,” Wyatt said.

  “Show me that Web site right now, young man,” Poppy demanded.

  Wyatt once again shrugged just like his grandmother Violet and flipped open his laptop as he set it down on Poppy’s desk. Once he typed in his password, he brought up the home page for the Desert Flowers Detective Agency Web site.

  Poppy stumbled back with a start. Three young, gorgeous girls with California tans—and wearing teeny, tiny string bikinis, one pink, one yellow, and one kelly green; sporting matching right-shoulder tattoos; and identifying themselves in cursive script as Poppy, Iris, and Violet—smiled and waved in a picture underneath the company logo and contact information.

  “Dear God, what have you done?” Poppy whispered.

  “Hey, sex sells!” Wyatt exclaimed, staring happily at his handiwork.

  Iris turned to Violet. “Did you know about this?”

  “No! I swear!” Violet shouted. “Wyatt, sweetheart, that young man is right. This is false advertising.”

  “This is going to get people to show up here, and maybe nine out of ten will turn around and leave because they were expecting hot babes to take care of their needs. . . .”
/>   “That sounds dirty for a twelve-year-old,” Iris said.

  “But trust me, there will be one who will stick around and lay out what he wants you to investigate, and it only takes one to get things going.”

  The kid made sense.

  But it was an utterly humiliating way to conduct business, and Poppy’s ego was not willing to endure it, especially after years of playing an object of male desire in a string of television shows and movies.

  “Shut it down,” Poppy said. “Now.”

  “Fine,” Wyatt huffed, clicking keys on his computer.

  Violet hugged her grandson from behind. “I’m very proud of you for being so enterprising, dear, but you just went about it the wrong way.”

  “Whatever,” Wyatt scowled.

  “Before you shut it down, print me out that list of inquiries from potential clients,” Iris said.

  “Why?” Poppy asked.

  “I’m going to call everyone left on that list and explain to them what happened, and if they want to see a real photo of us, I’ll show them the one of us on vacation last year, bodysurfing in Maui, so they get a clear picture of who to expect, and if any of them still want to sit down with us, I’m setting up an appointment.”

  “Iris, no, I couldn’t . . . ,” Poppy objected.

  “Stop being a negative Nellie, Poppy,” Iris barked. “This whole private-eye scheme was your idea. If we want to make it work, we’re going to have to get creative. The kid is right. It only takes one.”

  Poppy wanted to argue.

  But deep down she knew they were right.

  The point for a new business was finding customers.

  And maybe that was going to take a little creativity.

  Chapter 13

  When Poppy read in The Guide, a magazine chronicling Palm Springs life, months ago that Oscar-winning actress and popular 1970s sitcom star Shirley Fox was bringing her cabaret act to the Purple Room on East Palm Canyon Drive, she had immediately gone online and purchased two tickets for her and Chester. Chester was a huge fan, and Poppy had thought dinner and a show starring one of his favorite performers from the past would be a nice birthday gift. She had forgotten all about the tickets until she happened to be driving past the Purple Room and saw Shirley’s name and the show dates on the marquee.