by Lee Hollis
“Forget it! I don’t care! I want you two out of here!” Hal bellowed before spinning Julia around in her rolling chair and shouting down at her as she quite literally shrunk in her seat. “Why did you let them in here?”
“I d-d-didn’t,” she stammered. “They wouldn’t leave and—”
“The last thing I need is a couple of private eyes poking around my business trying to dig up dirt on me or my people!” Hal pointed a fat finger at the phone on her desk. “Call security! If they don’t leave voluntarily right now, I want them thrown out!”
“Yes, sir,” Julia cried, her hands shaking as she frantically searched for the right number to press on her phone.
“We just want to talk to you and Greta about Lulu,” Poppy said calmly.
Hal appeared genuinely perplexed. “Who?”
“You don’t remember her name?” Poppy scoffed.
“Lucy?” Hal asked, sweat slowly forming on his furrowed brow.
“Lulu,” Matt reiterated. “She was an extra on the set of Palm Springs Weekend.”
“I don’t know any Lulu!” Hal screamed before whirling back around to Julia again. “Did you call security yet? What’s taking so long?”
“I-I am working on it,” Julia said unsteadily, finally finding the correct button on her phone.
Hal barreled toward the door leading from the reception area to the production offices. When he tried the handle, it was locked.
“What are you waiting for, buzz me in! What the hell’s wrong with you?” Hal shouted at the frazzled receptionist whom he had been shamelessly flirting with just two minutes earlier.
“I-I was calling security, wait, I will—” Julia murmured, her trembling hands finally managing to press the button to open the door.
“What? You can’t do two things at once?” Hal barked.
Mercifully there was a buzz indicating the door was unlocked and Hal shoved it open and bustled into the back, the door slamming shut behind him.
Julia, who was now near tears, spoke in a jittery voice into her mouthpiece. “Yes, this is Julia on twelve. I need security up here immediately.”
Poppy climbed to her feet and joined Matt. “You can relax, Julia. We’re leaving.”
Matt called for the elevator, which was already on the twelfth floor, and he and Poppy casually stepped inside. As the doors closed, Matt called out to Julia, “If you’re not getting any combat pay for this war zone, I’d seriously consider finding a new job.”
It was the best advice he could have given anyone working at Hal Greenwood Productions, especially an attractive young woman with admirable physical assets.
Poppy and Matt rode the elevator down to the parking garage where they spotted Greta Van Damm’s car still parked in her reserved space. There was an empty visitor parking space at the end of the same row. Matt went to bring around his rental car and claim it so they could watch to see if and when Greta Van Damm believed they had finally gone and that it was safe to come down to her car and drive home unaccosted.
It was a long wait.
Matt slurped what was left of his Big Gulp and was now chewing on the ice. Poppy sat patiently in the passenger’s seat, her bones tired, dreading the two-hour drive back to Palm Springs they would have to endure after finally confronting Greta Van Damm.
Three hours later, when seven o’clock rolled around, and there was still no sign of Greta, Matt suggested they hang it up and head home. But Poppy insisted they give it a little more time, and her instinct paid off. At seven forty-five, the parking garage elevator doors opened, and they spotted Greta Van Damm, phone clamped to her ear, a large Marc Jacobs crossbody bag flung around her shoulder, march straight for her car in her assigned space. Poppy and Matt immediately jumped out of the rental, a Ford Fusion, and hurried over to intercept her. Greta heard the rapid clicking of heels, sensing them coming up behind her, and spun around, almost striking a defensive posture. She groaned and lowered her guard when she saw Poppy and Matt.
“You two just won’t give up, will you?” Greta sighed. “What can you possibly hope to gain by stalking me?”
“We had a very interesting conversation with Lulu Hopkins,” Poppy said sharply.
This got Greta’s attention. She appeared to steel herself for what was about to come next. “I’m sorry, who?” Greta asked lamely, her performance even more lackluster than the receptionist Julia’s.
“The extra who I saw you pay off with a big wad of cash,” Poppy said, taking a step closer. “Or are you going to deny that even happened?”
Greta’s nervous eyes flicked back and forth between Poppy and Matt. She was obviously agitated, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “Lulu should not be talking to anyone. She signed a legally binding NDA.”
“How many other women out there have signed similar NDAs for Hal Greenwood Productions?” Matt asked.
Poppy could feel her anger rising and she could no longer keep her thoughts bottled up inside of her. “The idea of these NDAs designed to cover up Hal Greenwood’s sexual misconduct is grotesque. But what I find even more insidious, more revolting, Greta, is your blatant complicity to protect a predator.”
Greta’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How dare you!”
“Am I mistaken?” Poppy spit out. “Are you saying you did not turn a blind eye to your boss’s abhorrent behavior, that you did not play a critical role in covering it all up for the sake of the company’s profit margin?”
“I-I don’t have to stand here and take this,” Greta sputtered as she fumbled in her bag for her car remote while hurrying toward her car.
Poppy and Matt did not chase after her, but stood in place, watching her run off, as Matt called out to her, “Did you do the same with Danika?”
Greta had just retrieved her remote and unlocked her Lexus when she stopped cold, stared at the ground a few moments, and then slowly turned back around to face Poppy and Matt. “Hal and I had nothing, repeat nothing, to do with that poor girl’s murder, and if you dare to suggest otherwise, we will sue you for defamation.”
“Okay, maybe you are innocent, but how can you be so sure about Hal? Were you with him on set at the time Danika was murdered?” Poppy asked.
Greta hesitated as she apparently went over the timetable in her mind, quickly realizing she could not vouch for her boss’s whereabouts, and managed to squeak out a resigned, “No.”
There was an icy silence.
Greta took a step toward them. “Look, I know Hal has his problems, and he’s many things, a jerk, a bully, a misogynist, but a killer? That’s ridiculous. I have to go.”
Greta was so rattled she dropped her car remote and had to bend over and pick it up off the ground, trembling even worse than the poor receptionist’s shaky hands back up on the twelfth floor. She glanced back at Poppy and Matt one more time, her eyes filled with fright, and then slid behind the wheel of her car and shut the door. The Lexus roared to life, the front and rear lights popping on, and Greta hastily backed out of the parking space to make a fast getaway. But her nerves obviously got the best of her, and she hit the gas a little too hard and banged right into the back of a BMW 750 parked directly across from her, smashing out both taillights.
Matt turned to Poppy and shook his head, grinning. “Looks like these car accidents are becoming an epidemic.”
Chapter 26
Lynn Jordan loved posting photos on Instagram. She was one of those people, the kind Poppy could not understand, quite frankly, who relished social media, always keeping her friends, family and followers up-to-date on all of her various activities. There was Lynn shopping for avocados at a local farmer’s market. Lynn with her yoga mat underneath her arm and a Starbucks coffee in hand on her way to a Bikram class. Lynn, doubled over laughing, as she tried discussing an embarrassing sex scene from this month’s selection at her book club meeting. And it was with great interest that Poppy studied this morning’s post. Lynn making breakfast for her loving husband, who was on his way to the gym. There was Lynn dishi
ng out pancakes on a plate as her husband sat at the kitchen table behind her, a resigned expression on his face, as he glumly reached for his orange juice. It was obvious Detective Lamar Jordan did not appreciate his wife’s savvy when it came to social media, but as an aspiring clothes designer, it was in Lynn’s best interest to gain a public profile, so her husband more or less had to go along and accept it.
Poppy leaned back in her chair at the small kitchen table in her new house, amidst stacks of still-unpacked moving boxes, sipping her coffee, as she grinned knowingly at the tank top Detective Jordan was wearing with the logo for In-Shape gym. There was one location in Cathedral City, not too far from where the Jordans resided in Rancho Mirage. That had to be where he was going after breakfast. It was still early enough for him to squeeze in a quick workout before heading into the office.
Poppy jumped up from the table, ran to her bedroom, and whipped open her half-empty closet. She had only managed to hang about a third of her outfits, and quickly realized her own workout clothes were probably buried in one of the boxes stacked against the wall. She frantically began cutting them open one by one with a box cutter, and got lucky on the third one. There were a bunch of sweats and T-shirts and leggings and even a pair of unused Nike women’s running shoes she had bought during the short time she had considered taking up jogging, which not surprisingly never materialized. Poppy quickly donned the appropriate attire, raced out of the house, hopped into her car, and drove straight to In-Shape.
After signing up for a guest pass, claiming to the sweet Latina girl at the front desk that she was still weighing options on what facility she was going to join full-time, it took all of forty-five seconds to zero in on Detective Jordan, in the same tank top he had been wearing in the Instagram photo, huffing and puffing on a treadmill, sweat pouring down his face, which he wiped away with a towel, his muscles glistening. Earbuds were nestled in the crevice of both his ears and his phone was perched on the display screen calculating his progress as he stared ahead, grim-faced, seemingly devoid of emotion.
The treadmills on either side of him were occupied, one with a bored-looking woman in her seventies who was checking out the butt of one of the male personal trainers doing squats on a nearby mat. On the other side was a young kid who had just started, increasing the speed of the belt until he was running full speed. Poppy figured her best chance was to wait for the woman to finish first. Sure enough, the same trainer she had been leering at ambled over and kissed her flirtatiously on the cheek before taking her hand and leading her off to her personal training session. Poppy made a beeline for the free treadmill and hopped on, taking a few minutes to figure out what buttons to press to get the damn thing going. Finally, she just pressed the manual button and the contraption whirred to life as the belt started to move and Poppy began walking at a leisurely pace.
She glanced over at Detective Jordan a few times, but he was so entrenched in his own thoughts he didn’t notice her at first. Poppy decided to be a little less discreet. She began gesturing her hand toward him, slowly at first, then a little more forcefully, and when that still didn’t get his attention, she started waving her arms spasmodically.
Jordan, finally alerted to the crazy woman on the treadmill next to him who appeared to be having some kind of seizure, jerked his head around to see Poppy smiling broadly at him. Confused, he reached up and took the buds out of his ears.
“Well, isn’t this the wildest coincidence?” Poppy cooed.
“Good morning, Ms. Harmon,” Jordan said gruffly. “I didn’t know you were a member here.”
“I just joined today!” Poppy said brightly, convincing herself this was mostly the truth and not a convenient fib. “I really want to try the cardio dance class, I hear it’s loads of fun, but I thought I would start out slow and take a crack at this treadmill.”
Jordan nodded with the thinnest of smiles and then put the buds back in his ears.
“What are you listening to?” Poppy yelled.
He didn’t answer her, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“What are you listening to?” Poppy repeated, louder.
He flicked his eyes over in her direction to see her talking, and then with a heavy sigh, he popped the buds out again. “I’m sorry?”
“I was just curious what you listen to while walking on the treadmill. I’m searching for suggestions.”
“Oh, it’s a podcast. They talk about famous unsolved murders in US history, and revisit them, looking for clues that might lead to them being solved.”
“Wow, talk about taking your work home with you.”
Detective Jordan cracked a slight smile. “I know, my wife says the same thing. She’s always on me to listen to something lighter, like show tunes or comedy shows, but I don’t know, the dark stuff kind of relaxes me in a weird way.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to interrupt, I won’t keep bothering you, I promise. . . .”
Jordan nodded gratefully, and was about to shove his earbuds back in when Poppy quickly blurted out, “But I was curious if you were able to find Byron Savage?”
Jordan did not seem surprised by Poppy’s question, in fact he looked as if he had been expecting it. He dropped the earbuds in a plastic holder for keys and personal items and pressed a button to slow down the treadmill so he could talk.
“I’m afraid the trail’s gone cold on him, for now anyway, but we still have an APB out on him, and we’re hopeful someone will report something, and he’ll turn up. We are a little closer on locating the brother, Axel. We arrested a couple of his biker friends for possession of some unregistered firearms, and after some intense questioning, they told us Axel may be hiding out with a girlfriend, well, one of them anyway, in Barstow.”
“Barstow? He must really not want to be found!” Poppy joked.
Jordan chuckled.
Poppy considered it a triumph that she had managed to make the usually stone-faced detective crack a smile, if ever so slightly.
“There is someone else you should look into,” Poppy said casually, not wanting to push him too much.
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Hal Greenwood.”
“The movie producer?”
“Yes. My agency has obtained information—”
Detective Jordan wiped his face again with his towel and snickered, “Your agency . . . ?”
He still refused to take the Desert Flowers Agency seriously, but instead of taking umbrage, she allowed the comment to pass unchallenged.
“Yes,” Poppy sighed. “Hal Greenwood has proven time and time again that he is a serial predator, making unwanted sexual advances on numerous actresses looking for a part, female assistants who just want to hang on to their job, any women who lack the power to stand up to him.”
“And you think he might have been trying to come on to Danika Delgado?”
“I’m quite confident of the fact. He is undoubtedly three times her size. He might have made a pass at her in her trailer, and when she rejected him, he became angry and forced himself on her. When she started to scream for help, he could have pushed the pillow down over her face to silence her until she stopped breathing. Perhaps it was an accident or intentional.”
“Sounds like an interesting theory, but I need proof, and you don’t seem to have any,” Jordan said, losing patience.
“Not yet,” Poppy sniffed.
As dismissive as Jordan was, Poppy was satisfied she had at least planted the thought in his mind now, and hopefully that would mean Hal Greenwood would remain on the detective’s radar during his investigation.
Poppy turned away from Jordan, pressed a button, and her treadmill came to a grinding halt. She stepped down and was about to walk away when Jordan called out, “That was quick.”
She spun back around. “What?”
“Your workout. You done already?”
“I don’t want to overdo it on my first day,” Poppy said tightly.
Jordan grinned as he sopped his sweaty face
and arms.
“What?” Poppy snapped.
“Nothing,” Jordan said, looping the towel around his neck.
Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think I only came here because I wanted to talk to you about Hal Greenwood?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it!”
“Maybe,” Jordan shrugged, still grinning.
There was no point in arguing with him any further because he was one hundred percent correct in his assessment. Poppy threw him an annoyed look and had started sauntering off when Jordan called out behind her, “I’ll follow up. . . .”
Poppy swerved around, expectant. “Pardon me?”
Jordan was reaching maximum impact level and was running as fast as the kid on the treadmill next to him. “I’ll look into Greenwood, I promise. . . .”
“Thank you, Detective,” Poppy said, clasping her hands together, and headed out of the gym. Her leg muscles were already starting to feel sore.
Chapter 27
Outside the gym, as she approached her car on the far side of the packed parking lot, Poppy stopped short at the sight of a folded-up piece of paper lodged underneath the windshield wiper, flapping in the wind.
Please, not a parking ticket, Poppy thought, dreading the idea of having to pay a fine. But the only restricted spaces in the entire lot were clearly marked for the disabled, and this was definitely not one of those. Poppy marched over and reached for the paper, realizing this was not an official document of any kind, but rather a regular sheet of paper torn from a notebook. She wrenched it free from the wiper and unfolded it.
Mary Pickford Theatres
Bradley Cooper
10:45 AM
Back Row
The Mary Pickford was a state of the art cinema complex in Cathedral City, named after the late, great silent film actress. Poppy was a big fan of going to the movies there with Iris and Violet several times a month. She knew who Bradley Cooper was, an Oscar-nominated actor whom she found particularly moving in the A Star Is Born remake with Lady Gaga that had come out a few years ago. Poppy assumed “Bradley Cooper” must mean a film he was currently starring in, and that there was a 10:45 AM showing.