by Lee Hollis
“Nineteen sixty-nine. What a year of upheaval and unrest, so full of significant events. The first man on the moon. The Vietnam War raging on. The Beatles’ last public performance. The horrific Manson murders. And then there was Barbra Streisand, so woefully miscast in the movie musical Hello, Dolly!”
Olivia glanced up from her manuscript and looked down at Shirley, her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “She was way too young to play that role, don’t you agree, Shirley?”
Shirley sat frozen in her seat and refused to respond.
“I remember another film that came out that same year, as well. Your first role, I believe as a young ingenue, in a musical called Let’s All Dance. Not an auspicious beginning for you, as I recall.”
Olivia flashed Shirley a devious smile and then continued reading. “Let’s All Dance was MGM’s last gasp from the past, a time when movie musicals dominated, but now with more socially relevant films emerging in the culture, when it was released, it was scorched by critics and ignored by audiences. But it is remembered mostly for one thing—the debut of future star Shirley Fox as a coat-check girl at the Coconut Grove, with big dreams of stardom!”
Poppy held her breath.
Was Olivia actually going to take the high road?
Was she going to pay an honest tribute to the guest of honor?
No such luck.
“Despite the dated feeling of the whole film, Shirley made an indelible impression. The question on everyone’s lips was, ‘Where did this girl come from?’ No one had ever heard of her. I mean, she came out of nowhere! Of course, the gossip around town at the time was that the director, Frank Collins, had spotted her in a seedy bar downtown, and that Shirley’s skills unrelated to acting were what sealed the deal for a screen test, but that’s unfair. I know for a fact Shirley never slept with her director on that film.”
Another round of audible sighs of relief.
“What got Shirley the part was her undeniable raw talent.”
An appreciative round of applause.
“And, of course, she boffed the producer of the film, Harvey Cohn.”
Absolute silence.
“Cohn was sixty at the time. Shirley was twenty-five. I’m sure many might cringe at the ick factor over the age difference. But who cares? A star was born!”
Some uncomfortable shifting in seats.
Olivia looked up from her manuscript and then raised her champagne glass.
“You’ve come a long way, Shirley! Here’s to you, still singing for your supper after all these years!”
And then she downed the rest of the champagne.
Shirley remained in her seat, not moving a muscle.
“You can read more about it in my upcoming memoir, which will be out next spring! I have four whole chapters dedicated just to you, Shirley!”
And then, the host, unable to take any more, sprang forward, took Olivia forcefully by the arm, and escorted her off the stage and down the steps to the aisle, where he handed her off to an anxious usher, who hustled her out. The host speedily returned to the podium and spoke into the microphone, his mouth too close, which caused earsplitting feedback.
“Now, again, without further ado . . . Shirley Fox!”
The audience exploded with encouraging applause, but the damage had already been done. The devastated screen legend was already racing up the aisle and out of the theater, covering her face to hide the flood of tears.
Chapter 30
After the flummoxed host swiftly wrapped up the proceedings following Shirley Fox’s dramatic exit, Poppy and Violet hurried out of the theater together. Outside, they spotted Olivia Hammersmith on the curb, swaying back and forth, trying to fish her car keys out of her purse.
“She’s in no condition to drive,” Poppy said to Violet. “I’ll see you back at the Palm Leaf.”
“Okay,” Violet said, watching with concern as Olivia, her eyelids at half-mast, tried desperately to press the button on her key to unlock her firehouse-red Chevy Malibu.
Poppy skittered over to Olivia to intercept her before she managed to climb behind the wheel.
“Whoa. Hold on just a minute, Olivia. Why don’t you let me drive you home?”
Bleary-eyed, Olivia stared at Poppy with suspicion. “Why would I want you to do that?”
“I think you may have had a bit too much champagne.”
“Why, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Olivia slurred. “I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.”
Reasoning with her wasn’t going to work, so Poppy decided to try another tack.
“If you come with me, I’ll fill you in on a little dirt I heard about Shirley Fox that would be a perfect addition to your tell-all book.”
That got Olivia’s attention.
“What kind of dirt?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Poppy said, gently taking Olivia by the arm and guiding her safely away from her Chevy Malibu.
Poppy plucked the keys out of Olivia’s quivering hand and surreptitiously pocketed them.
Olivia craned her head back around toward her Chevy Malibu. “What about my car?”
“It’ll be fine parked here overnight, and I promise I will come around and get you first thing tomorrow morning and drive you back here to pick up your car. Deal?”
Olivia mumbled something unintelligible.
Right after Poppy got her situated in the passenger’s seat of her own car, Olivia’s head drooped back against the headrest and her mouth hung open. She had passed out.
Poppy obviously had nothing dishy to report about Shirley Fox, but the ruse had worked, and she had successfully prevented Olivia from attempting to drive herself home while heavily under the influence of alcohol.
Tomorrow Olivia would probably have no memory of their conversation and Poppy’s promise to pass along some delicious gossip.
Poppy drove them back to the Palm Leaf in twenty minutes and was able to rouse Olivia enough to get her inside her house and into bed. She didn’t bother trying to undress her and just pulled the comforter up to her chest to keep her warm, since Olivia apparently liked to keep her home at a chilly sixty-eight-degree temperature.
And then Poppy tiptoed out of the room and soundlessly closed the door behind her.
* * *
True to her word, the next morning, after an energetic power walk around the Palm Leaf golf course, followed by a hot cup of coffee and one of Violet’s homemade sweet cranberry-orange scones, Poppy drove the few blocks from Betty’s house over to Olivia Hammersmith’s house in order to drive her back to Palm Springs to retrieve her car. Poppy hoped enough time had passed for her to sober up to the point where she could safely drive, but just in case, she brought along a hot, steaming paper cup of black coffee with a plastic lid on the top to keep it from spilling.
When she arrived at the house and rang the bell, there was no answer.
Was Olivia still passed out in bed?
She banged on the door with her fist and waited.
Still no answer.
Perhaps Olivia was already up and out of the house.
Maybe she found a neighbor to drive her back to Palm Springs.
But there was a gnawing feeling in the pit of Poppy’s stomach that she just couldn’t ignore.
She knocked on the door again.
Something seemed wrong.
She had nightmarish visions of Olivia getting sick in her drunken stupor and choking on her own vomit.
She kicked herself for not staying with her overnight to make sure she recovered from her bender.
Poppy jiggled the door handle.
The door was unlocked.
She entered the house.
She followed the raspy voice of Elaine Stritch singing “The Ladies Who Lunch” on an old CD player into the living room. And then she spotted something out of the corner of her eye.
Turning her head, Poppy gasped, then struggled to steady herself as she stared at the body lying facedown on th
e floor, next to a cracked coffee table.
A small pool of blood seeped slowly into the pristine white carpet.
Olivia Hammersmith was on the floor, dead.
Chapter 31
When Detective Lamar Jordan and his officers finally arrived on the scene, Poppy’s heart was beating so fast, she thought she was going to faint. After all her months of going through the process to become a bona fide private detective, the one thing she had never considered was discovering an actual dead body during the course of one of her cases. She knew enough to know that she should not disturb the body in any way, but during the interminable wait for the police to arrive after she called 911, she did carefully step around the body and kneel down to inspect it thoroughly, making mental notes of her observations. Her on-the-fly inspection came to an abrupt end when she heard the wailing screams of a police siren fast approaching Olivia Hammersmith’s house.
There was loud banging on the door, and Poppy opened it without delay, then ushered Detective Jordan and his intrepid band of detectives inside the house.
“Where’s the body?” Detective Jordan asked, eyeing her distrustfully.
“In here,” Poppy said, then led them into the living room, where Olivia remained facedown on the white carpet.
Detective Jordan, who hadn’t encountered many murder cases in this sleepy, arguably dull retirement community, kept a poker face, but Poppy could easily surmise from his stiff countenance that he was somewhat shaken. He ordered his officers to keep at bay any nosy neighbors and passersby outside. They scurried off, leaving him alone with Poppy and the poor victim lying at their feet.
Detective Jordan glanced once more at Poppy. She was expecting him to request that she exit the house immediately, but after a moment, he turned away from her and left her standing by the fireplace, awkwardly out of the way but still very close to Olivia’s lifeless body.
He circled Olivia, carefully studying the scene, then leaned over the coffee table to inspect a small crack near the edge. He then got down on his hands and knees to observe Olivia’s forehead, which sported a deep gash that had obviously bled out onto the carpet.
He peered up at Poppy.
“You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“No,” Poppy sighed.
Detective Jordan popped back up on his feet and continued his examination. “Was there any sign of forced entry when you arrived?”
“The door was unlocked, so I let myself in. That’s when I found her. . . .”
He nodded curtly, then stared down at Olivia.
“You told the nine-one-one operator she had been drinking?”
“Yes. We were at an event in Palm Springs yesterday afternoon, and she had consumed way too much champagne and was too impaired to drive, so I gave her a lift home, and then I came around this morning so I could drive her back to retrieve her car.”
“How was she when you left her?”
“Barely conscious, but I managed to get her into bed, and she fell right to sleep, so I left.”
“Seems to me that she must have woken up sometime during the night and come out of the bedroom to get a glass of water or something, and she was still intoxicated and tripped or stumbled and fell. . . .” He pointed to the crack in the wood of the coffee table. “She probably hit her head on the coffee table on the way down, and it was the blow that killed her. . . .”
“Like William Holden,” Poppy said.
“Who?” Detective Jordan stared at her blankly.
“William Holden. The movie star? The Bridge on the River Kwai? Sunset Boulevard? Won the Oscar for Stalag 17?”
“Sorry. I’m not much of a movie buff. More of a sports fan myself.”
Plus, he was barely forty, so a silver-screen legend like Bill Holden was way before his time.
“He died in a similar fashion. He was heavily intoxicated, slipped on a rug, lacerated his forehead on a teak bedside table, and bled to death.”
Detective Jordan was not impressed with her knowledge of Hollywood history. He barely acknowledged her as he shrugged and went back to inspecting the body.
“Overall, I’m thinking we’re looking at a tragic accident,” he said.
“Really?”
Detective Jordan stared at Poppy with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”
“Well, I just noticed a couple of things, that’s all.”
“Like what?” Detective Jordan said, glaring, challenging her.
“There’s a display case over there that has some photos and memorabilia from Olivia’s acting career. If you look inside, you will see a couple of framed pictures and awards have been knocked over.”
He stared her down for a few seconds before turning on his heel and marching over to the display case and peering through the glass.
“Do you see?”
“Yes,” he hissed, mad at himself for not noticing this detail before.
“It appears that there may have been some kind of struggle.”
“Or maybe Ms. Hammersmith was just so drunk, she bumped into it on her way into the living room. Did you think of that?”
“Yes, I did,” Poppy said. “But if you look closely at her fingernails, you’ll find what looks like tiny pieces of skin underneath.”
“Wait just a minute, Ms. Harmon!” Detective Jordan barked. “I thought you said you didn’t touch the body.”
“I didn’t! I swear! But you’ll notice the palm of her hand is turned out and her nails are really long, so I was able to get down on my hands and knees and get a really good look.”
Detective Jordan did a slow burn before turning his back on Poppy, walking over to the body, dropping down to his knees, and then bending his frame over, one eye closed to thoroughly observe the long, sharp, pink-painted nails.
He jumped back up. “You can’t be one hundred percent certain that’s human skin there.”
“I said it looked like skin. I didn’t say I was positive.”
“Look, I know you’re having fun playing this little game of pretending to be a detective. . . .”
“Actually, I’m licensed with the state of California. . . .”
“I thought you were just a secretary.”
“I can send you my certificate, if you don’t believe me.”
“Fine. Whatever. You’re a detective. But just because you found a few items out of place and something that may or may not be human skin underneath the victim’s nails, that doesn’t necessarily make this a crime scene.”
“I was just sharing a couple of observations.”
“And I appreciate it, Ms. Harmon. But this is my case, not yours, and I am not going to make any assumptions until I have my CSI guys comb this place. They’re trained in determining whether or not any foul play is involved here, and so I don’t need you doing their job for them.”
“I understand completely.”
“So why don’t you go home, and if I have any further questions for you, I will give you a call, okay?”
“Yes, Detective Jordan,” Poppy said. “Thank you.”
Poppy glanced down at Olivia Hammersmith’s body one more time before nodding sadly at the detective and heading out the door.
Detective Jordan was right.
Poppy was an amateur.
The highly trained crime-scene investigators were far more skilled than she was when it came to determining a cause of death.
And by the following morning they had issued their findings.
Olivia Hammersmith’s death had been ruled a homicide.
Chapter 32
Panic permeated the Palm Leaf Retirement Village after word spread that Olivia Hammersmith had been found murdered in her home. It quickly became clear to all the residents that not only was a brazen thief with unexplainable access to all the targeted homes still on the loose, but also his or her crimes had suddenly escalated from simple nonviolent burglary to murder. Suddenly, the happy hour mixers at the club were like a ghost town, as residents stopped socializing and remained locked up tight in t
heir homes, some with guns at hand in case the killer decided to prey upon them in the middle of the night.
There was also a small faction of gossipy folks who pointed fingers at Shirley Fox as Olivia’s obvious killer. After all, she had good reason to want to see Olivia dead. Perhaps she was willing to go to extremes to keep Olivia’s tell-all memoir from ever seeing the light of a bookstore display window.
The police finally released a statement, reporting that Olivia had indeed died from the traumatic blow to her head when she hit the coffee table as she fell to the floor, but that there were also signs of a physical struggle. The killer had either pushed her too hard or intentionally banged her head against the table.
Poppy was not entirely convinced that Olivia’s murder and the rash of burglaries were necessarily connected, but since there had been next to zero crime in the Palm Leaf prior to the first break-in, it would seem logical that perhaps the thief believed Olivia was not home when he decided to strike, and when she surprised him, he panicked and killed her.
Shirley Fox had been lying low ever since Olivia’s death became public, canceling her remaining shows at the Purple Room and avoiding reporters camped outside the Palm Leaf residents’ gate, hoping to get an interview with her.
Which was why Poppy was surprised to receive an urgent call from Shirley’s personal assistant, Jayden, requesting a meeting between Shirley and Matt at the Desert Flowers garage office in Palm Springs as soon as possible.
Poppy was able to catch Matt, who was leaving to drive to Hollywood for a commercial audition, and he swung by on his way to play his Matt Flowers, PI role for their client.
Matt insisted on wearing a fedora for the meeting just to make himself look more the part, and he stood in a corner, making strange noises, which he called his vowel groups, to warm up for the show.
The noises irritated Iris to the point where she plugged a headset into her computer and played selections from Mozart to drown him out.
When Shirley Fox—dressed in a wide white hat with black trim and a matching suit right out of Alexis Carrington’s closet from Dynasty, a pair of oversize black sunglasses shading her eyes—finally breezed into the office forty-five minutes late with her assistant Jayden in tow, Matt was ready to perform.
