Poppy Harmon Investigates

by Lee Hollis

  Iris didn’t pay heed to the woman’s request.

  She continued talking at her usual volume. “I know him.”

  “Who? The young man who bumped into you?” Violet whispered.

  “No. The other one.”

  “Farley Mead?” Poppy asked.

  Iris nodded. “Back in nineteen-seventy-eight. He was touring Europe, and I was living in Munich, working as an exotic dancer at a very exclusive men’s club.”

  The woman at the next table was now not so anxious for Iris to shut up. She casually leaned forward, curious to know more.

  “We met when he came to see me dance after his concert, and, well, we unexpectedly hit it off, and we ended up spending the weekend together at his hotel. . . .”

  “Doing what?” Violet asked, eyes wide.

  “Playing chess, Violet,” Iris said, irritated. “What do you think? Sex! Having sex!”

  Now everyone at the surrounding tables was more interested in hearing Iris’s story than listening to Shirley Fox sing a love ballad to her boyish husband.

  According to Jayden, Shirley was scheduled to finish her cabaret act at 9:30 p.m. sharp, but once she got through “I Will Always Love You,” she thanked everyone for coming and quickly fled the stage. It was only 9:20 p.m. She obviously had been shaken up by her ex-husband’s rude heckling.

  As the audience filed out of the Purple Room, Poppy, Iris, and Violet remained seated at their table, waiting for Jayden to arrive and usher them backstage. After twenty minutes, as the waitstaff finished cleaning all the tables and the hostess kept glancing over at them, hoping they would leave, Poppy finally stood up.

  “I’m going to see when we can talk to her,” she said.

  She made a beeline for the curtain leading backstage, but before she had a chance to push her way through, Jayden appeared, blocking her path.

  “Where’s Matt?” Jayden asked in a chilly tone.

  “He had to fly to San Francisco on another case,” Poppy lied. “Big client in the tech industry, messy divorce case.”

  Actually, he was across town, performing the last show of his play, probably ad-libbing at the moment to cover for Buddy Rhodes, who was undoubtedly forgetting his lines.

  “Well, I certainly hope he considers Shirley a priority,” Jayden sniffed.

  “Of course. He’ll be back tonight and focused one hundred percent on retrieving Shirley’s valuables. Is now a good time for us to question Shirley?”

  “Without Matt?”

  “Yes. I plan on taking extensive notes, which he will review later.”

  “I’m afraid tonight isn’t going to work out,” Jayden said, glancing back at Shirley’s dressing room. The door was closed, and Poppy swore she heard faint crying.

  “It won’t take long,” Poppy pressed.

  “Shirley is very tired,” Jayden growled.

  He was done talking to a lowly assistant.

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Have Matt call me,” Jayden said. “I’d rather deal with him directly.”

  “Of course,” Poppy said, her insides burning up.

  “I hope you enjoyed the show,” Jayden said with a fake smile.

  He stood his ground, not budging, waiting patiently until Poppy finally realized she was never going to get anywhere near Shirley’s dressing room. She finally turned around and headed toward the exit, Iris and Violet falling in behind her.

  Poppy knew poor Shirley had been devastated by her lousy ex-husband’s surprise appearance, which had ruined her show.

  They were just going to have to find some way to study the residents of the Palm Leaf without Shirley’s help.

  How could they get everyone in the community in one room?

  That was an easy one.

  Poppy knew exactly what would draw a community full of retirees.

  A party with an open bar.

  Chapter 23

  There was nothing like a fully stocked bar to loosen people up and get them talking freely. And luckily, Betty’s bar was the centerpiece of her living room. Iris served as bartender, and Violet flitted about the room with a plate of crab-stuffed mushrooms, offering them to the early birds who had already arrived. Meanwhile, Poppy played hostess as more guests arrived in a steady stream through the front door. She was surprised so many residents of the Palm Leaf were showing up, as she had hastily pulled the party together.

  Matt, excited to be posing as Poppy’s nephew visiting from out of town, held court for about a half dozen swooning and fluttery old ladies congregated around him as he entertained them with made-up stories about his “nephew” character’s exciting world travels.

  As Poppy introduced herself to all the arrivals, she made a mental note of their names and what streets they lived on and any other pertinent information they provided. She didn’t have to worry about loosening any lips about the spate of break-ins, because it was the only topic anyone was remotely interested in talking about.

  There were many theories among the locals, but the majority of Palm Leaf residents were convinced the thief was a deadbeat son or grandson of a current resident, one who was into drugs or other illegal activities. No one under fifty-five was allowed to buy a home and live in the Palm Leaf, but the rules permitted owners’ family members, no matter their age, to come for extended stays. Shirley Fox wasn’t the only one in the retirement village who was allowing her lazy, out-of-work, troublesome kid to crash at her pad.

  The house was soon packed to capacity, and there was very little room to move around by the time Shirley Fox and her husband, Dash, blew through the front door, making a fashionably late grand entrance.

  Poppy wasted no time in making a beeline for her.

  “Ms. Fox, I am so happy you could make it,” Poppy cooed, extending her hand. “I’m Poppy Harmon.”

  Shirley shook it and smiled demurely. “Of course I know who you are. I used to watch your TV show Jack Colt, PI all the time back in the day.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “I had a giant crush on the sexy star Rod Harper. Whatever happened to him?”

  Dash flinched and squeezed his wife’s arm, not in a loving manner, but more of a jealous, controlling one.

  “He’s still working in TV. We talk occasionally,” Poppy said.

  “Well, you were quite good in that show.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you still act?”

  “God, no! I fled town in my thirties, got married, and never looked back,” Poppy said. “I just didn’t have the energy, not like you. I saw your show the other night. It was wonderful. I so admire how you’re still going strong.”

  “She’s like the Energizer Bunny,” Dash joked.

  Suddenly, Matt appeared at Poppy’s side and flashed a smile at Shirley. “Hi, I’m Matt, Poppy’s nephew from Boston.”

  Poppy had overheard Matt telling a guest five minutes earlier that he was her nephew from Chicago. She worried he wasn’t going to be able to keep his backstory straight and would get tripped up when someone pressed him.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know exactly who you really are, Mr. Flowers,” Shirley whispered conspiratorially, with a flirtatious wink. “My assistant, Jayden, showed me your picture. He speaks very highly of you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dash asked.

  Shirley glanced around to make sure no other guests were within earshot, and then leaned into Dash and whispered, “Mr. Flowers is a private detective. I’ve hired him to recover my stolen jewelry.”

  “You what?” Dash growled, going pale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t have to get your approval on every decision I make, Dash,” Shirley seethed.

  Dash’s nostrils flared, but with Poppy and Matt staring at him, he quickly recovered and plastered a polite smile on his face. “I know that, dear.”

  Shirley couldn’t take her eyes off Matt.

  “Very smart, posing as the nephew of our hostess,” Shirley said with a smile
.

  Dash glared at Matt and then quickly turned his attention to Poppy. “Are you a detective, too?”

  “No, she’s my secretary,” Matt said, beaming.

  “Oh . . . ,” Shirley exclaimed. “I didn’t know you worked for Mr. Flowers. I was under the impression you didn’t have to work. . . .”

  Shirley regretted her words the instant they spilled out of her mouth.

  Poppy shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Unfortunately, at this stage of my life, I suddenly find myself in reduced circumstances.”

  Embarrassed, Shirley looked away and scanned the room to see who else was there. She spotted someone, and her face darkened.

  “What is she doing here?” Shirley hissed.

  “Who?” Poppy asked, following her gaze.

  “Olivia Hammersmith. I thought she was out of town.”

  Olivia Hammersmith was one of Shirley’s peers, an iconic actress who had starred in a string of romantic comedies in the 1960s and 1970s, in which she always played the same character, the blond ditz, in the vein of Doris Day or Goldie Hawn, only less funny and charming. When the movie parts dried up after a slew of box-office bombs, and once the novelty of her one-note performances finally wore off, she spent the next ten years out of work, before reinventing herself in the 1990s as a daytime soap opera maven, the proud, strong matriarch of a scandal-plagued family in Houston. She became such a staple, so identified with her lovable mother role, that even today the producers brought her back for small guest appearances on all the holiday-themed episodes, when the whole family gathered together.

  “I need a drink, Dash,” Shirley said, scowling.

  “That’s Iris behind the bar. She’ll make you whatever you want,” Poppy said.

  “Thank you,” Shirley said as Dash guided her away, a firm hand on the small of her back.

  Matt touched Poppy’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you with my comment about you being a secretary.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. This whole thing was my idea,” Poppy said.

  “I don’t like the husband. I caught him checking out several of the female guests. He strikes me as a real player, and I suspect he has a taste for more mature women.”

  “Or he has a taste for their money. He claims to be some kind of entrepreneur. Maybe that’s his business model. Romancing hapless widows in order to clean them out of their savings.”

  Matt chuckled. “If he is the local gigolo, that would probably give him access to a lot of homes in here.”

  Poppy stared at Matt, impressed. He was actually thinking about the case. “Yes, but he’s married to Shirley, and she’s loaded, so why would he need to steal from other women?”

  “They don’t look too happy together. Maybe he’s secretly storing up his reserves so he can eventually leave her and not have to worry about fighting for alimony.”

  “That’s a really good theory, Matt,” Poppy said, smiling. “You’re really getting the knack of this detective role you’re playing.”

  “I know, right? I am a really, really good actor!” Matt boasted. “I’m going to go chat up those ladies over there and see what they know.” He gave Poppy a quick peck on the cheek. “Later, Aunt Poppy.”

  She watched him glide over to the ladies, who stopped their conversation in mid-sentence upon his arrival, and all of them ogled the handsome young man as he introduced himself. He charmingly waved off their handshakes in favor of kissing the backs of their hands.

  Over at the bar, Iris handed Shirley a cocktail, and before she could take a sip, she spotted Olivia Hammersmith approaching from across the room. Using Dash as a shield, Shirley scurried off in the opposite direction to avoid any contact.

  Violet scuttled up next to Poppy. “I just served the last mushroom. Should I take the shrimp puffs out of the oven? They should be done by now.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Poppy said, still staring at Shirley and Dash, who were now off in a corner by themselves, quietly arguing.

  “Did you see Olivia Hammersmith? I didn’t know she lived in the Palm Leaf.”

  “Yes, and apparently, she and Shirley Fox are not on the best of terms.”

  “Oh, I know. I spoke to her a few minutes ago, when she circled around for another crab-stuffed mushroom. It’s much worse than you think. She and Shirley despise each other. Their feud makes Bette and Joan’s look like a children’s tea party.”

  “Why? What did she say?”

  “Well, back in the nineteen seventies, Shirley’s husband at the time, Farley Mead, was cast in a film with Olivia, you know, one of her frothy romantic comedies, which I loved watching!”

  “I didn’t know Farley ever starred in a movie.”

  “He didn’t. He got fired before the production even started because, according to Olivia, and I quote, he sucked in the rehearsals. But that didn’t stop her from sleeping with him. Shirley found out and never forgave her. She also spread it all over town that Olivia was a backstabbing whore. Again, her words, not mine! I’m a retired school principal. I don’t use words like that.”

  “How did I not hear about the famous Shirley Fox–Olivia Hammersmith feud? I used to be so clued in to all the juicy Hollywood scandals.”

  “Olivia’s been waiting years to exact her revenge on Shirley for bad-mouthing her, and now she has the perfect opportunity,” Violet sputtered breathlessly. “She got a book deal with a major publisher in New York, and she’s writing a tell-all memoir, and it’s going to be chock-full of stories about Shirley sleeping her way to the top!”

  “How devastating,” Poppy sympathized.

  “I know! I can’t wait to read it!”

  “I wonder if Shirley even knows about it.”

  “If she doesn’t, she will soon. Olivia’s been prattling on to everybody about it ever since she got here.”

  A bitter archrival about to expose her deepest, darkest secrets. Married to a lecherous, scheming gigolo. A drunk ex-husband stalking her at her own cabaret act. And a fortune in jewelry swiped from her home. Shirley Fox was having a really bad year.

  Almost as bad as Poppy’s.

  Chapter 24

  Over by the bar Poppy spied Iris serving a wheelchair-bound woman in her mideighties, with long, white hair and a flower-print dress. Her wheelchair was being pushed by a bespectacled man in a loud red Hawaiian shirt like the one Tom Selleck wore in his Magnum, P.I. series and in white shorts that showed off skinny, hairy legs and knobby knees. He was rather short, or at least he appeared to be, since he had bad posture and was slouched over as he gripped the handles of the wheelchair. He sported longish, shaggy blond hair, and his face was red from too much desert sun.

  They had just arrived.

  Poppy casually strolled over to join them.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m one of the hosts, Poppy Harmon,” Poppy said, extending a hand.

  The woman took Poppy’s hand and shook it. “Esther Hamilton, and this is my son Sammy.”

  The man nodded but refused to shake Poppy’s hand.

  “Don’t mind him. Sammy’s a germaphobe,” Esther said, eyeing her son disapprovingly. “We live just a few blocks over from you.”

  Iris handed Esther a drink. “Here is your cosmopolitan. What about you, Sonny?”

  “Sammy,” he whispered.

  “He doesn’t drink,” Esther said, almost disappointed. “He’s always been such a straitlaced boy.”

  Boy?

  He was at least in his midforties.

  Definitely a mama’s boy, in Poppy’s opinion.

  “I’ll have a diet cola, please,” Sammy muttered.

  Iris eyed him warily and then flicked open a soda can and poured some soda in a plastic cup.

  “You have a lovely home,” Esther said, looking around.

  “Oh, we don’t own it. We’re just renting it for the season. Betty is an old friend, and she was so kind to let us move in while she’s away. She encouraged us to throw a party and get to know the neighbors.”

&nbs
p; “How lovely,” Esther said. “Quite a turnout.”

  “Yes, and everyone seems so nice,” Poppy said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. This place is packed with vipers,” Esther said.

  “Mother, don’t start,” Sammy begged.

  “It’s true. They’re nice to your face, but then, the minute you leave the room, they’re trash-talking you. And don’t get me started on that one,” Esther said, pointing across the room.

  “Who?” Iris asked.

  “Over there. The big star!” She was pointing at Shirley Fox. “What a piece of work. She blows in here like she’s the queen of England, and has everyone buzzing, and then she has the gall to flaunt her husband, who, let’s face it, is young enough to be her grandson! So disgusting!”

  “Mother, please . . .”

  “I just speak the truth, Sammy. And I don’t want you anywhere near her. The last thing I need is you getting mixed up with that cradle robber!”

  Poppy and Iris had to suppress smiles.

  The odds of Shirley setting her sights on the nerdy germaphobe Sammy when she had the attention of the far more striking and muscled Dash were a bit far-fetched, to say the least.

  “Sammy has a weak spot for actresses. He’s watching TV all the time, too much, if you ask me. I’m always saying, ‘For the love of God, kid, read a book for once or go outside and get some sun!’ ”

  “I did that this morning, and look, now I’m as red as a tomato. Thank you, Mother,” Sammy said, scowling.

  “Poppy was an actress once,” Iris said.

  Poppy shot her an annoyed look.

  “Really?” Sammy asked, eyes as wide as saucers. “Have I seen you in anything? You look kind of familiar!”

  “Remember Jack Colt, PI?” Iris asked.

  “Iris . . . ,” Poppy scolded.

  Sammy gasped. “Now I know who you are! Of course! I watched Jack Colt every week when I was a kid! It’s so nice to meet you!”

  Sammy grabbed Poppy’s hand and pumped it excitedly.

  So much for his germaphobia.

  “Leave her alone, Sammy,” Esther ordered.

  Sammy stared, goggle-eyed, at Poppy, dazzled to be in the presence of a real, live TV star, granted one who hadn’t been on the cover of TV Guide in thirty years. “Can I get a selfie with you?”