Poppy Harmon Investigates

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Poppy Harmon Investigates Page 11

by Lee Hollis


  “Matt, this is a stakeout. You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity.”

  “I will, I promise. I just want to tweet about it.”

  “Tweet about what?”

  “Our stakeout,” Matt said, distracted, still typing.

  Poppy snatched the phone out of his hand and gasped at the sight of a whole Twitter account created for his newly minted Matt Flowers, Private Eye character.

  “You can’t be telling people what we’re doing while investigating a case!”

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, it’s totally unprofessional. And second, it alerts any bad guys whom we might be following as to exactly where we are and what we’re up to at all times.”

  Matt thought about this for a second, then grabbed his phone out of Poppy’s grasp and continued typing.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Poppy hollered, setting down her Starbucks latte in the cup holder.

  “Yes, but look at how many followers I have already. That could translate into a lot of new business for the agency.”

  “Well, if you don’t focus on old business, like the Shirley Fox case, there won’t ever be any new business, because nobody will want to hire a detective who can’t solve a case!”

  Matt begrudgingly put down his phone and sighed. He picked up Poppy’s coffee and took a swig.

  “That is my latte, Matt,” Poppy said. “You didn’t want any coffee, because you’re off caffeine, remember?”

  “Oh, right,” Matt said sheepishly, handing her back the paper cup. He suddenly sat up in his seat and pointed at the house. “Look!”

  A grungy-looking young man with stringy blond hair and dressed in brightly colored cargo shorts and a neon yellow tank top had ambled out of the house, carrying a gym bag. He hopped in a silver Mercedes convertible parked in the driveway, which Poppy assumed belonged to his mother, Shirley, backed out, and peeled away.

  “Go, Matt, go! Before you lose him!” Poppy barked.

  Matt sprang into action, turned the key in the ignition, and fired up the Prius. He tried doing a U-turn to reverse direction, but unfortunately, he cut his turn too wide and was forced to do a three-point, losing precious seconds.

  Poppy sighed, wishing she was the one in the driver’s seat.

  Matt slammed down on the gas pedal and made up some time, and after a few guesses about street turns, Poppy spotted the Mercedes just a few cars ahead of them. Lucas drove west, and Matt swerved in and out of traffic to keep up, nearly sideswiping a diminutive grandmother—whose head barely made it over the steering wheel—who was tooling along in an oversize Chevy sedan.

  As they entered Cathedral City, Lucas turned sharply onto Perez, drove past a sea of auto dealers, and ended up in a dusty, remote industrial park. He pulled over next to a pawnshop, climbed out of the Mercedes with the gym bag, and strolled inside.

  Matt pulled in behind the Mercedes, keeping his eyes on the pawnshop, and slammed into the back of the Mercedes.

  Poppy was jolted back in her seat. “Be careful!”

  “Sorry,” Matt said, still staring at the pawnshop, completely unconcerned that he had just rear-ended their client’s car. “You think he’s in there right now pawning his mother’s jewelry?”

  “Possibly,” Poppy said. “He may have staged the break-in at his mother’s house to make it look like the work of the thief behind those other burglaries in order to throw suspicion off himself.”

  “We should get in there and stop him!” Matt shouted, struggling to free himself from the seat belt but only further entangling himself.

  “Wait. I think we should hang back until we know exactly what’s going on!”

  Matt’s fingers finally found the button that released the belt, and after the strap slapped him in the face, he managed to throw open the driver’s side door and leap out.

  “But we can catch him in the act right now!”

  He bounded across the street, and a truck, with its horn blasting, nearly mowed him down as he ran across the dividing line.

  Poppy jumped out of the Prius and chased Matt across the street. By the time she rushed inside the shop and paused to catch her breath, Matt was already confronting a wide-eyed Lucas and a confused pawnshop owner, a small Asian man with a pronounced paunch and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, man,” Lucas drawled in a disaffected, flat Southern California accent.

  “I demand you open that bag right now and show me exactly what you plan on selling to this gentleman!”

  The pawnshop owner’s eyes widened, astonished, hardly used to being called a gentleman.

  “And who are you?” Lucas asked.

  “Matt Flowers, private eye,” Matt announced proudly.

  Poppy rolled her eyes.

  It was already clear undercover assignments might not be Matt’s strong suit. He loved bragging about his new title too much.

  “Get lost, loser,” Lucas said, shaking his head.

  “What’s in the bag, Lucas?” Matt demanded.

  Lucas glared at Matt. “How do you know my name?”

  “Never mind that. Tell me what’s in the bag.”

  “That’s none of your business!” Lucas spit out, turning his back on him to resume his conversation with the owner.

  Matt tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not through talking with you, mister,” Matt said.

  Lucas turned back around, eyes blazing. “Yeah? Well, I’m through talking with you!”

  Lucas grabbed Matt by the fingers that were clamped down on his shoulder and twisted them back. Matt howled in pain and dropped to his knees, allowing Lucas to bend down and get an arm around his throat. He squeezed as hard as he could, choking him out, as Matt wheezed and coughed, trying to catch his breath.

  Poppy sprang into action, swinging her beloved and ridiculously expensive Fendi Peekaboo satchel bag over her head a few times before swatting a surprised Lucas in the head. He was momentarily stunned but didn’t let up on his hold. Matt desperately tried to pry Lucas’s strong arm away from his neck with his fingers but had little success. Poppy attacked Lucas again, this time pounding him on the head over and over as beads and buttons flew off the bag, clattering to the floor everywhere. The pawnshop owner watched the scene unfolding in his shop with utter disbelief, smoke swirling off the end of his lit cigarette.

  Finally, Lucas released his grip on Matt, who dropped to the floor, and covered his head with his hands.

  “Stop! Please, lady. I’m in pain here. Stop!” he wailed.

  Poppy finally stopped hitting him and glanced wistfully at what was left of her last prized possession, her now destroyed Fendi bag. She tossed it on the floor and knelt down beside Matt, who was lying facedown, trying to breathe normally again.

  “Are you okay?” Poppy asked.

  Matt tried to answer, but all he got out were a few wheezes and gasps, so instead he just nodded.

  Poppy stood back up, stepped over a moaning Lucas, who was curled up in a ball next to the pawnshop counter, gingerly touching his head to check for blood, and opened the bag of items he had brought to the shop.

  The owner instinctively stepped back, unwilling to confront this badass of an old lady who had so dramatically stormed into his shop and had viciously beaten up one of his customers.

  Poppy sifted through everything in the bag. There were autographed photos of Shirley Fox with a variety of screen legends. A few props from her 1970s TV show. A small stack of dresses that were labeled with the titles of a few bad horror movies Shirley had appeared in when her career was on the decline.

  There was no jewelry.

  “Who the hell are you?” Lucas barked, still rubbing his head.

  “We are investigating the theft of your mother’s jewelry,” Matt said, catching his breath.

  Poppy sighed and rolled her eyes.

  The man just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

  “Does your mother know you’
re selling her belongings?” Poppy asked.

  Lucas nodded, refusing to make eye contact with Poppy. “Yes, she knows! She wanted to donate it all to Goodwill, but I asked if I could have it . . . for sentimental reasons.”

  “So sentimental you wasted no time racing over here to pawn it off and make a quick buck,” Poppy said.

  Lucas stared at the floor, embarrassed, still gently rubbing his head.

  “For drug money, I bet,” Matt whispered in a hoarse, raspy voice.

  “Call her if you don’t believe me,” Lucas said, seething.

  Matt gripped the counter and tried to climb to his feet, but he nearly lost his balance halfway up. Poppy dashed over to his side and grabbed him by the elbow, then helped to lift him until he was finally upright.

  “Thank you, Poppy,” Matt said, brushing himself off, trying valiantly to hide his humiliation over having totally lost control over the situation. “You better believe we’ll be speaking to your mother.”

  Matt stared Lucas down for almost a full thirty seconds before stalking out of the pawnshop.

  “Have a nice day,” Poppy said, smiling at the pawnshop owner, who stood frozen in place, the cigarette still hanging off his bottom lip. And then she shot out the door.

  As Matt drove Poppy back to Betty’s house, he apologized profusely for screwing up the stakeout and assured her that from here on in, he would follow Poppy’s orders to the letter. He was grateful just to be a part of the operation and would no longer put himself front and center, or cause a scene that could potentially harm or compromise their investigations.

  Poppy wanted to believe him.

  She really did.

  But just two hours later, when Poppy called Shirley Fox’s personal assistant and their client contact, Jayden Emery, with an update, he excitedly told her that he had already heard from Matt about his brave heroics, breathlessly recounting how the vile, despicable Lucas Fox had gotten the upper hand on Matt’s devoted secretary, Poppy, nearly crushing her windpipe in a violent choke hold, and how Matt had awesomely intervened by rushing to Poppy’s rescue, karate chopping the muscle-bound baddie, and freeing his motherly helper from Lucas’s drug-fueled savagery.

  She had to hand it to Matt.

  When it came to adjusting optics, he had no peer.

  Chapter 22

  Shirley Fox belted out “I’m Still Here,” the Stephen Sondheim–penned, crowd-pleasing anthem from his 1971 hit Broadway musical Follies. It was the perfect song for Shirley, who was herself a battle-scarred survivor. Through the song, she flipped through a mental scrapbook of her life, all the good, the bad, and the ugly, and by the end she came out the other side stronger and triumphant. Shirley Fox had experienced the heady highs and devastating lows of a decades-long show business career and was still here to tell us about it.

  Even the normally unimpressed Iris sat riveted to Shirley’s big, brassy voice, which may have been a little weary from age, and was definitely tinged with undeniable cynicism from the harsh blows in her life, but was still powerful and unencumbered by the frailties of her advancing years. When she reached the final notes, Violet couldn’t contain herself any longer and leapt to her feet, applauding wildly, leading the rest of the crowd that made up the audience at the Purple Room to follow suit and jump up from their chairs, clapping enthusiastically. Iris begrudgingly joined everyone else, unable to deny that the broad deserved every ovation she received.

  Poppy noticed only one man in the house who refrained from standing. He sat alone at a corner table down front, hunched over and brooding, stirring a cocktail with his right index finger. She instantly recognized him as Farley Mead, Shirley Fox’s boozy ex-husband, a singer himself in the Neil Diamond mold.

  Farley had a couple of hits in the seventies, one that served as the theme song for a Clint Eastwood Western and was nominated for an Academy Award. Farley was asked to perform it at the Oscars ceremony, but his nerves got the best of him, and he completely blanked on the lyrics in front of tens of millions of viewers around the world. That Western was the closest the poor guy ever got to a movie career, which had always been his lifelong dream. The only problem was, he couldn’t act. That was evidenced by his cameo appearance in the film as a wisecracking barkeep in the saloon town in which Clint arrives to clean up a gang of roughriders. At the Oscars, the song lost out to a James Bond theme, and Farley’s career never recovered. After that, Farley descended into a morass of alcohol and prescription painkillers, never to be heard from again. Rumor had it he had moved to the desert, but Poppy had never crossed paths with him.

  Until now.

  Poppy checked her watch. There was only about ten minutes left in the show. Then, as she had previously discussed with Jayden, they would be escorted backstage to have a sit-down with Shirley and ask her questions about the burglary and who in her circle she might consider a possible suspect, if indeed it was an inside job. Otherwise, they had a much wider net to cast, but Poppy remained convinced that whoever was responsible for the rash of break-ins was already inside the Palm Leaf Retirement Village community.

  Shirley smiled modestly at the adoring crowd and then, feigning embarrassment over such an over-the-top ovation, gestured for them to take their seats, which they did once the raucous applause had finally begun to die down.

  “Thank you so much,” Shirley whispered breathlessly into the microphone. “Sometimes I can’t believe I am still here.”

  “Neither do I!” a man’s voice bellowed.

  Shirley shielded her eyes from the harsh stage lights and peered out into the darkened room to find the person who had yelled at her.

  The yelling had come from a corner table.

  Her ex-husband, Farley Mead.

  “Still singing for your supper and shaking it for tip money!” Farley shouted and then laughed bitterly.

  Shirley’s face soured. “Is that you, Farley?”

  “In the flesh, baby!” Farley said, struggling to his feet.

  Iris audibly gasped.

  Poppy whipped her head around. “Iris, what’s the matter?”

  Iris’s face had turned a ghostly white as she stared at Farley, who fought to keep from swaying side to side and was forced to grip the edge of the table to keep himself steady on his feet.

  “How many Johnnie Walkers is that, Farley?” Shirley asked calmly, although her face betrayed a hint of agitation and discomfort.

  Nervous titters from the crowd.

  “I lost count at five,” Farley slurred, playing along. “You should have stayed married to me, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have made you keep working.”

  “If I were still married to you, I’d be doing three shows a night just to pay your bar bill,” Shirley said loudly into the microphone.

  The audience erupted into boisterous laughter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my ex-husband, Farley Mead, is here tonight. . . .”

  A smattering of applause as Farley stood and took a theatrical bow.

  Most of the clapping came from a gaggle of middle-aged women who undoubtedly spent their teenage years pining for the suave crooner with the brooding good looks. Judging by his bloodshot eyes; leathery, sun-damaged skin; receding hairline; and the big gut hanging over his belt, those days were definitely far in the past.

  “Sit down, Farley. I’d actually like to dedicate this next song to my current husband. . . .”

  “What are you going to sing? ‘Thank God for Kids’?” Farley chuckled. “Remember that little country ditty by the Oak Ridge Boys?”

  Shirley stood frozen on the stage, not sure what to do.

  Poppy could see Shirley’s hand shaking slightly as she gripped the microphone and took a deep breath.

  The rotund piano player, who was stuffed in a purple shirt and black vest, ignored Farley’s heckling and began banging out a few notes. Shirley tried regaining control of her show by launching into a moving rendition of “I Will Always Love You,” written by Dolly Parton but made a number one pop hit by the late Whitney Ho
uston, on The Bodyguard movie soundtrack. Shirley’s voice cracked slightly after the first few notes, and Poppy feared she just might bolt from the stage in tears, but she managed to hold it together and power her way through the song.

  “She sure as hell ain’t singing that about me!” Farley shouted above the music, guffawing.

  “Sit down!” a man yelled from the back.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a young man, lean and fit, impossibly handsome, with smooth olive skin offset by a perfectly pressed white linen suit, appeared behind Farley and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.

  “Hey! What the—!”

  Before Farley could protest any further, the young man, his face filled with grim determination, hustled Farley away from his table, banging the back of Iris’s chair in the process as they brushed past, causing Iris to spill her cocktail all over the table. The young man kicked open a side door and ejected Farley Mead outside to face the last rays of the hot desert sun before it disappeared behind the grand mountains surrounding the Coachella Valley.

  The young man slammed the door shut as several grateful patrons offered supportive applause.

  Shirley, ever the trouper, kept going, as if Farley Mead had never crashed her cabaret act and tried to embarrass her, giving the song everything she had left in order to make her audience forget the ugly scene they had just witnessed.

  The young man turned to face the woman standing alone on the stage, singing her heart out, and blew her a loving kiss.

  Poppy knew that the young man who had so valiantly come to her rescue was the same man she was at this moment singing to, the man, according to the lyrics, whom she would always love, her much younger husband, Dash.

  Violet reached out and touched Iris’s arm. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re going to be sick!”

  Iris shook her head, in a state of shock.

  “Do you need some water?” Poppy whispered.

  “I’m not sick,” Iris said in her normal voice, causing a disgruntled woman at the next table to shush her.

 

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