Poppy Harmon Investigates

Book 1: Desert Flowers Mystery

by Lee Hollis

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Private Investigators

Synopsis

When Poppy goes from complacent retiree to penniless widow in a matter of weeks, the idea of spending her golden years as the biggest charity case in Palm Springs renders her speechless. With no real skills and nothing left to lose, Poppy uses her obsession with true crime shows to start a career as a private eye....

But after opening the Desert Flowers Detective Agency with help from her two best friends, Violet and Iris, Poppy realizes that age brings wisdom, not business - until she convinces her daughter's handsome boyfriend, Matt, to pose as the face of the agency. It's not long before Matt's irresistible act snags a client desperate to retrieve priceless jewelry burglarized from an aging actress at the Palm Leaf Retirement Village. Or before Poppy stumbles upon the bloodied body of the victim's arch rival....

In a flash, Poppy's innocent detective gig is upstaged by a dangerous murder investigation riddled with slimy suspects and unspeakable scandal. As she and her team uncover the truth, Poppy must confront the secrets about her late husband's past and swiftly catch a killer lurking around the retirement community - even if it means turning her world upside down all over again.

Release date: July 31, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Poppy frantically banged on the door of the house, but there was no answer.

She waited a few moments and then tried again.

Still no answer.

A foreboding sense of dread filled her entire body.

She had learned at a very young age to trust her intuition.

And she instinctively knew something was seriously wrong.

Poppy jiggled the door handle.

The door was unlocked.

She waited, debating with herself, and then sighed, making a quick decision. She pushed the door open slightly and poked her head inside.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

The single-level house was eerily quiet except for some soft music playing from somewhere not too far away.

She couldn’t tell who was singing, because the volume was too low.

Poppy pushed the door all the way open and slipped inside, looking back to make sure none of the nosy neighbors on the idyllic, sleepy street saw her sneaking into a house where she did not live.

“Hello?” she tried one more time, but there was still no answer.

She was hardly surprised.

Poppy had guest starred in enough TV crime shows in the 1980s to know this was usually the point in the show when an unsuspecting woman found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly fell prey to a mad killer or a treacherous villain seconds before the commercial break.

Still, her burning curiosity won out over her innate cautiousness, and she shut the door behind her and slowly, carefully, tiptoed farther into the foyer, looking around to be absolutely certain no one was lying in wait to suddenly jump out at her with a rag soaked with chloroform or, worse, a sharp weapon, like a carving knife or a rope cord from the curtains, which he could use to loop around her neck and strangle her to death.

Again, she had played a lot of damsels in distress during her years of acting in film and on television.

So her imagination tended to run a bit wild.

There was hardly that kind of violent crime to be found in California’s Coachella Valley, her home for the past ten years.

And yet there were alarm bells suddenly going off in her head.

She had never felt such a strong sense of imminent danger.

Poppy followed the sound of the music toward the living room, where she was finally able to recognize the familiar voice belting out a classic song on an old CD player set up in a corner, on a small wooden desk adjacent to the fireplace.

It was Elaine Stritch.

The brassy, ballsy late Broadway legend.

And the song was “The Ladies Who Lunch,” from the hit 1970 Stephen Sondheim musical Company.

How appropriate, Poppy thought, given the majority of women who resided here in the Palm Leaf Retirement Village, most of whom spent their days golfing during the morning and enjoying cocktails in the afternoon, during their typical, like clockwork, daily three-hour lunches.

She had moved farther into the living room in order to turn off the CD player when she caught something out of the corner of her eye.

Poppy spun around, gasping, her right hand flying to her mouth.

She struggled to steady herself as she stared at the body lying facedown on the floor, next to a cracked coffee table.

A small pool of blood seeped slowly into the pristine white carpet.

Two months earlier ...

Poppy Harmon was speechless. Perhaps, for the very first time in her life.

And she was sixty-two years old.

Poppy had always been known for her enviable ability to bravely respond to a crisis with a calm, focused demeanor. She was never rattled or flummoxed or prone to overreaction, which was what made today such a momentous occasion.

Poppy Harmon was at this moment completely freaking out.

With her mouth hanging open, she finally managed to reclaim her power of speech and leaned forward.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Poppy wailed, suddenly light-headed, desperately trying to steady herself before she fainted and tumbled off the flimsy chair that faced her lawyer, Edwin Pierce, in his spacious, well-appointed office in Palm Desert, California.

Edwin’s face was drawn, his complexion as pale as pasteurized milk, and his eyes were bloodshot, with the lids hanging at half-mast. The poor man was obviously sleep deprived, having probably been up all night, dreading this unavoidable and supremely uncomfortable meeting with his client.

“As I said, Chester, unfortunately, had accumulated some debt before he passed away, and according to my calculations, the sum total he owed . . .” Edwin’s voice trailed off as he punched a few numbers into a calculator program on his computer screen. Poppy noticed his hand shaking as he brushed the keys with his crooked, bony fingers.

He was a bundle of nerves.

“How much, Edwin?” Poppy urged, wanting to get the bad news over with so she could begin dealing with the situation.

Edwin blinked at the screen, almost in disbelief at the final total, and then he cleared his throat before continuing. “Roughly six hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”

Poppy stared blankly at Edwin.

She must have heard wrong.

Maybe he said six thousand dollars, which would be bad enough, but surely, he could not have possibly said . . .

“Six hundred and seventy thousand,” Edwin repeated.

“That’s impossible. How on earth did he . . . ? I would have known if he was spending that much!”

“It seems Chester had a small gambling problem. . . .”

“He played poker with the boys twice a month. I would hardly call that a gambling problem,” Poppy scoffed, still in a state of denial.

“He played more than poker, I’m afraid. There were dozens of weekend trips to Las Vegas, according to my records. . . .”

“Those were business trips,” Poppy quickly explained, as if saying the words would make them true.

Edwin gave Poppy a sad look of pity.

The wife was always the last to know.

“Chester was fired from his job a year ago.”

“What?” Poppy screamed.

“I’m guessing from your reaction that he never told you.”

Poppy shook her head, now on the verge of tears. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he tell me something like that?”

“He was probably too embarrassed. You know, Chester, he was a very proud man.”

Poppy stared at Edwin. “Actually, I’m beginning to suspect that I never actually knew Chester.”

“I’m sure the stress of hiding all of this from you contributed to his heart attack.”

Chester had died suddenly three weeks ago.

He and Poppy had been dining with friends at Wang’s in the Desert, a popular Asian-fusion restaurant in Palm Springs.

As dessert was served, Chester complained of indigestion and excused himself to go to the restroom. When he hadn’t returned twenty minutes later, Poppy sent his buddy Al, who was at the table, to go check on him. Al found him slumped over on the toilet in a stall, dead.

The days following Chester’s sudden death were a blur.

Calling friends and relatives.

Making funeral arrangements.

Providing emotional support for her daughter, Heather, who was inconsolable over losing her favorite stepfather.

There had been two others after her biological father.

But Chester was her absolute favorite.

The last thing on Poppy’s mind during all the grief and tears was their finances.

Chester had never given any hint they were in any kind of trouble.

In fact, they had just splurged on a cruise to the Greek islands.

Bought a new Chrysler Pacifica Hybrid.

Remodeled a guest suite in their five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath home nestled in the hills above Palm Springs.

The house.

Poppy absolutely loved their house.

“I’m not going to have to sell the house to pay off this debt, am I?”

Edwin swallowed hard.

She could see his Adam’s apple move up and down.

That was not a good sign.

“Not if you can make the payments on the mortgages.”

“Mortgages? But the house is paid off.”

“Chester took out two mortgages against the value of the property, each in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.”

The blood drained from Poppy’s face.

“There isn’t much equity left, and with what you owe on the credit cards and personal loans . . .”

“I’m going to have to sell.”

“I think that would be a wise move,” Edwin said quietly, eyes downcast.

“What about his pension?”

“Gone.”

“Our savings?”

Edwin hesitated but then opened his mouth to answer, but she beat him to it.

“Gone.”

Edwin nodded.

“There is some good news, Poppy. You still have your SAG pension.”

During the eighties and nineties, Poppy had dabbled in acting, scoring small parts in a string of TV shows and feature films, even nabbing a supporting role as a secretary on a private-eye series that lasted three seasons on ABC. She had made enough income before she left the business in order to get married and have a kid and enjoy a small pension when she turned sixty.

Small being the key word.

Her monthly check was five hundred and forty-eight dollars.

Before taxes.

What was she going to do now?

The thought of Chester’s betrayal was overwhelming.

And she wanted to kick herself for being too stupid not to suspect.

She knew what she was in for now.

Pitied to her face, laughed at behind her back.

Poor, ding-a-ling, aging starlet Poppy.

She hadn’t had a clue about her gambling-addicted washout of a husband.

And her fourth one, at that.

After four times, you would think she would get it right.

Edwin stood up from his desk, walked around, and placed a comforting hand on Poppy’s padded shoulder.

“You will get through this, Poppy. I’ve known you a long time. You’re a strong woman,” Edwin lied.

“Are there any more secrets you need to tell me? We might as well get it all out in the open now.”

Edwin flinched and opened his mouth to tell her something, but for some reason, he changed his mind at the last second and shook his head.

“No. Nothing.”

She knew he was lying.

If she pushed hard enough, she was convinced she could get him to spill the beans about what he was still holding back.

But she was too emotionally battered at the moment to even try. At this point, there was a part of her that just didn’t want to know.

Poppy stared straight ahead, her mind racing, bile rising in her throat.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Edwin asked softly.

“A lousy penny isn’t going to help me much right now, Edwin.”

“It’s best to let it all out. Tell me what’s going through your mind.”

“If I had known the bastard had wiped me out, I never would have chosen such an expensive casket!”

“The only reason I married Chester was so I could have a stable, stress-free life in the desert and not have to worry about my financial security anymore,” Poppy moaned as she sipped her cosmo at the 19th Hole, a popular bar located in the clubhouse of the Whispering Palms Golf Course. She sat at a table with her two best friends: Iris Becker, a very sturdy and direct German woman, her white hair beautifully coiffured and her makeup picture perfect, in a bright yellow–colored polo shirt and white capri pants; and Violet Hogan, Iris’s polar opposite, quiet and demure, bordering on mousy, but constantly trying to change that impression with her bold fashion choices, like today’s leopard-print sleeveless top and clashing black-and-white polka-dot shorts.

“Well, yes, that, and you loved him,” Violet said, gently nudging Poppy between sips of her Grey Goose and lemonade.

“Of course I loved him! But after three failed marriages, I wasn’t in a big hurry to rush right into another one! Chester was the one who convinced me that by marrying him, I would never have to worry about anything ever again. I could focus on my charities and political causes.”

“That was obviously to keep you in the dark about what he was really doing. Never trust a man who offers to take care of you, because the opposite will happen, and you will be stuck taking care of him!” Iris said matter-of-factly, never one to mince words, in her heavy German accent.

She continued. “In my twenties, there was a filmmaker I met through Fassbinder, who I went barhopping with in Munich. Well, he fell for me instantly and begged me to be in his next film, but I said no. What do I know about acting? All my friends thought I was insane to turn down such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I did not want to be tied down in one place, making a movie. Besides, I found something better to do. So he found another muse, made his film with her as the star. They impulsively married the night of the film’s opening. But then the movie flopped. He never directed another film again, and she wound up supporting him by doing soft-core porn disguised as French art films!”

“I don’t think I could have turned down a starring role in a film,” Poppy said. “What could have been better to do than that?”

“I hooked up with Mick Jagger at a beer garden in Berlin and spent the summer touring with the Stones.”

Poppy sat back in her chair, impressed. “You’re right. That is better.”

“You’ve lived such an interesting life, Iris,” Violet said wistfully. “So full of fascinating stories.”

“I suppose so, compared to you,” Iris said, nodding.

Violet was a retired high school principal from Massachusetts.

Not the most exciting past, but she did have a library named after her, and she continued to this day to receive letters from dozens of former students, heaping praise on her and gushing about how much of an influence she had been on them, which, in Poppy’s mind, was just as impressive as Iris’s wild jet-setting tales of yesteryear.

“I do not understand how he took out two mortgages against the house without you knowing about it!” Iris said. “I assume the house was under both your names?”

“Yes.” Poppy nodded, supremely embarrassed. “Edwin showed me the loan applications. My messy signature was on both of them. Either Chester had me sign them without me knowing what they were, or he forged my name. It doesn’t really matter. Either way, I’m responsible.”

“And you had no idea what he was up to?” Violet asked, placing a comforting hand on Poppy’s arm.

“That’s the most humiliating part! No. I had no clue what was going on. Chester isn’t what you would call a masterful con man. It was pretty much what you see is what you get. I always knew what he was thinking. There weren’t a lot of layers, if you know what I mean. Which means I just wasn’t paying attention. I was caught up in my own activities, blissfully ignorant of the fact that my husband was leading a secret life behind my back.”

“What are you going to do now?” Violet asked.

“Well, I’m meeting with a Realtor tomorrow to put the house on the market. It’s going to be a short sale because I can no longer make the payments, which means it will probably sell quickly, and then I have to find another place to live.”

“You will stay with me until you find a place,” Iris said, deciding the matter without even waiting for Poppy to accept her kind offer.

“You can stay with me, too,” Violet offered, feeling left out.

“Don’t be silly, Violet,” Iris said. “My house has more room, and the patio has a far superior view.”

Iris was never mean-spirited.

Just brutally honest.

“Thank you, both of you,” Poppy said. “I couldn’t ask for better friends.”

“I know,” Iris said, nodding.

“And then, I suppose, I’m going to have to find a job.”

Poppy caught Iris and Violet exchanging concerned looks.

“What was that?” Poppy asked.

“What?” Iris and Violet said in unison.

“That! That worried look between you two.”

“It was nothing!” Violet lied in a valiant effort to protect Poppy’s feelings.

Iris, however, was not one to protect feelings.

The hard, bitter truth was always best.

And she had no problem dishing it out.

“What skills do you have? You haven’t worked in over twenty years,” Iris said gruffly.

Iris was right.

Poppy’s last serious job was as a Hollywood actress.

But once ABC canceled her only steady gig after three seasons, she struggled to find acting roles. All the sexpot roles that seemed to have rained down upon her in her twenties had long dried up, and she never managed to get cast in a part that required any serious acting chops. When she was just shy of forty and her youthful looks began to fade, despite some nips and tucks and scary injections, no one was willing to give her a chance anymore.

When she left Hollywood on her fortieth birthday, she never looked back. And never worried about working ever again, especially since her third husband at the time, Ira Greenstein, was a successful entertainment attorney.

“Maybe I could get back into acting. I always said, when I was more mature, there would be so many roles I could finally play.”

“I just heard they are holding auditions for Steel Magnolias at the Palm Springs Playhouse,” Violet said excitedly.

“How much are they paying?”

“They didn’t say anything about money.”

“Which means there is none!” Iris said, waving off Violet’s useless suggestion. “She’s not going to pay her rent by playing a part that Shirley MacLaine performed better in the movie!”

“Maybe I could go back to Hollywood . . . ,” Poppy said, trying to convince herself this was a plausible course of action.

“Forget it,” Iris said. “All those mature roles you are finally ready to play are going to go to Meryl Streep, believe me.”

“I think we should try to stay positive, Iris,” Violet scolded.

“I know! I am positive Poppy going back to acting is not the answer,” Iris said. “We need a good idea!”

That one stung Poppy.

But she certainly couldn’t argue with it.

“What am I going to do? I’ve never balanced a checkbook, let alone stuck to a budget, in my life!” Poppy moaned.

“We are here to help you,” Violet said. “And so is Heather.”

Poppy gasped.

Her daughter, Heather.

She was still in the dark about the whole situation.

“Tell me you told Heather what is going on,” Iris said.

“No. I drove right over here from the lawyer’s office. I didn’t want to call her in the car and fall apart on the phone. Not until I can come up with a plan.”

“You have to tell her. If you don’t, she is going to find out from someone else, and that will not be good,” Iris warned.

“But she is so high strung and emotional, and she was so close to Chester and always held him in such high regard. How can I tell her he squandered away all our savings, including her rather sizable inheritance, before he kicked the bucket?”

A waiter appeared at the table with a piece of paper.

His face was tight, and his movements were stiff.

It was obvious he was pained to have to do this.

But he took a deep breath and powered through, handing Poppy the paper. “Your bill, ma’am.”

Poppy stared at the paper for a long moment and then calmly looked up at the nervous young waiter.

“It says I owe four thousand five hundred and thirty-nine dollars. Now, I know you raised your prices, but three cocktails and a plate of stuffed mushrooms shouldn’t cost this much.”

“I know, ma’am,” the waiter said, clearing his throat. “But your late husband, and I am so sorry for your loss, he paid for a lot of meals he had with his golf buddies over the past year or so and ran a tab, which he, unfortunately, never had the chance to pay, and now the owner is insisting you pay it off, or forfeit club membership.”

“I can’t pay it,” Poppy said, slumping in her chair.

Then she quietly picked her purse up off the floor next to her chair, stood up, and forced a smile. “I always thought golf was boring, anyhow. There. Now I can say it.”

“Where are you going?” Violet asked.

“To tell Heather,” Poppy said, glancing around the room, noticing several tables of club members either staring directly at her or averting their gaze to avoid eye contact. “Iris is right. If I don’t get to her first, there are about a dozen little birdies right here in this clubhouse who will happily do it for me.”

Poppy went over in her mind the conversation she was about to have as she sat at a corner table at Las Casuelas, a popular Mexican eatery in the heart of Palm Springs. She had promised herself not to indulge in the basket of salty, greasy taco chips that would greet her at the table when she arrived and was seated, but the stress of breaking her troubling news to her daughter that she was broke quickly dissolved any remaining vestiges of self-control. There was . . .