by Lee Hollis
“I’m in the hospital.”
Poppy gasped. “What?”
“Apparently I had a heart attack,” he said, disconcertingly calm. “I had been feeling weird all day, and then last night I felt chest pains, shortness of breath. I was going to drive myself to the emergency room, but then I thought better of it and called an ambulance.”
“Sam . . .” Poppy gasped, already looking for her bag with her car keys so she could drive herself up to Big Bear pronto. “I’m on my way.”
“Poppy, you don’t have to do that. It’s nothing serious,” Sam said.
“Don’t be that man, Sam,” Poppy admonished.
“What man?”
“The kind of man who downplays everything, pretends he’s got everything under control when he is actually in a very serious situation . . .”
Sam remained silent on the other end of the call.
“What hospital are you in?”
“Bear Valley Community Hospital. Pretty much the only one up here,” he said.
“Hold on. I’m coming to you.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Poppy jumped in her car and raced on the 10 freeway to Calimesa where she exited onto CA-38 in San Bernardino County, continuing on up the mountain to Big Bear. She made it in less than two hours. Her GPS got her to the hospital, and after parking, she was at the admitting desk. A receptionist directed her up to the second floor where Sam was recuperating.
When Poppy burst into his room, she stopped in her tracks at the sight of him. He looked thinner, weak, pale. It was so startling because she had only known Sam Emerson as a rough-riding, macho, strong-as-nails cowboy.
It was a dramatic change.
Sam seemed to notice her troubled reaction.
“The doc gave me two stents to open up the blockage. Says I’ll be as good as new in a few weeks so you can stop worrying.”
Poppy employed her acting skills to quickly cover up her obvious dismay and project a more lighthearted tone. “I’m sure you’re a terrible patient,” she teased.
“That’s not true. The nurses say I’ve been a dream,” he said, trying to sit up in bed. He winced, obviously in pain, and eased himself back down, hoping Poppy hadn’t noticed.
But of course she had.
“Oh, I’m certain the nurses have been dreaming about you. You’re a serial flirter.”
“Whatever gets me an extra Jell-O,” he said, smiling.
There was a brief silence before Poppy reached out and squeezed Sam’s hand. “I wish you had called me earlier.”
He nodded. “I didn’t want to worry you.” Then, still holding hands, he shakily raised them up to his lips and softly kissed the back of Poppy’s hand. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Poppy was floored. For Sam to freely admit that much, well, he might as well have proposed to her. That’s how rare it was for Sam Emerson to show any overt emotion.
She was touched by it, and thankful that she was by his bedside now, too, because she knew he was going to need her support now more than ever. Her biggest fear at the moment was just how much Sam might be downplaying the current state of his health.
She wanted a blunt conversation with his doctor as soon as she could get one.
Chapter 32
Poppy spent the rest of the day running errands for Sam, picking up his mail at his remote house in the woods, buying some magazines and paperback westerns for him to pass the time with and a box of his favorite cookies at a nearby bakery, before walking up and down the halls of the hospital in search of Sam’s doctor to get a realistic idea of what they were facing regarding Sam’s overall recovery. She finally managed to corner Dr. Brad Levin by the elevator.
“Are you Mrs. Emerson?” Dr. Levin asked.
“No,” Poppy said quickly.
“Then I’m afraid if you are not family, I can’t discuss Mr. Emerson’s condition—”
“I’m his sister!”
Dr. Levin eyed her suspiciously. “Sister?”
“What, you don’t believe me?” Poppy asked evenly, an indignant look on her face. The actress was always prepared to deliver a convincing performance in a pinch, especially in an emergency.
Luckily Dr. Levin was not in the mood to argue given his busy schedule.
“My apologies,” he said before launching into a detailed explanation of exactly what happened with Sam’s heart.
As he talked, Poppy sized the doctor up, his baby face and boyish demeanor doing nothing to assuage her fear that Sam might be under the care of someone not even old enough to vote. But her mind was quickly put at ease by Dr. Levin’s meticulous description of Sam’s coronary blockage that resulted in the attack, how he had inserted two stents after an angioplasty in order to help keep the blood flowing and the artery from narrowing again, how he was going to prescribe a regimen of anti-platelet drugs and clot-busting medications for him to strictly follow in the months ahead. Dr. Levin may have looked like he was twelve years old, but he came off as exceedingly knowledgeable and competent.
“Will you be looking after him once we discharge him?” Dr. Levin asked.
The question surprised Poppy.
She had never imagined Sam might need home care.
Would he even allow her to move in and play nurse?
Probably not.
Sam could be frustratingly stubborn.
But that was a discussion for later.
“Yes,” Poppy answered. She thanked the doctor and walked back to Sam’s room where she found him cracking open a William W. Johnstone gunslinging novel.
He smiled warmly at her as she entered. “They say they’re going to keep me here a couple more days, to monitor me and make sure there are no complications from my surgery, so you don’t have to stick around.”
“I know I don’t have to,” Poppy said. “I want to.”
“Seriously, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I don’t want to be a burden, and I know you’re very busy right now investigating a case.”
“Sam, you’re a lot more important to me than any case. . . .”
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his bed. She knew he despised being vulnerable or dependent on anyone. In his mind it was of utmost importance to project strength, and he was not going to allow a pesky little heart attack to chip away at that image. “Doc says the worst is over, I don’t need to be fussed over . . .”
Poppy sighed.
Frustratingly stubborn, indeed.
She decided to let him win this battle.
For now.
But the war was far from over.
Sam was going to allow her to help him through this heavy ordeal, whether he wanted her to or not.
“Fine,” Poppy said. “If you have everything you need, I’ll drive back to Palm Springs and we will pick up this conversation when I return tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow? You don’t have to come back here—”
“Tomorrow,” she said firmly.
Sam shrugged and threw his hands up in the air.
Poppy marched over, planted a firm kiss on his lips, which he most certainly enjoyed, and then spun around and left the room, stopping at the nurses’ station to leave her contact information in case there was any sudden change in Sam’s condition.
Within minutes, she was back in her car driving down the mountain. Matt had texted her earlier when she was at Sam’s house to alert her to the breaking news—Fabian Granger’s death had unsurprisingly been officially ruled a homicide. He did not down too many sleeping pills or drink too much liquor and accidentally drown in the tub. Someone had deliberately and cruelly held him under the water until his lungs had been filled with bathwater and he was dead. Now, on speakerphone, they were formulating a plan on how to proceed.
“I was thinking we could meet at the Parker Hotel where it happened, maybe get a look at who came in and who left the hotel during the time of the murder, if they’ll let us watch the security footage,” Matt suggested.
“I’m sure the polic
e have already beaten us to the punch,” Poppy said, carefully maneuvering around a slow-moving Mercedes on the long, winding, downhill road.
“Yeah, but who knows? Maybe we’ll pick up something they missed.”
He had a point.
There was no harm in double-checking.
Matt’s gusto and thoroughness was about to pay off in dividends.
They met in the lobby of the Parker two hours later and approached the reception desk, this time manned by a handsome young, wiry Latino man who practically lit up like a Christmas tree when Poppy and Matt approached. “Good afternoon. Checking in?”
Poppy stood back, allowing Matt to take the lead since the receptionist couldn’t tear his eyes off the exceedingly good-looking man who was accompanying her.
Matt’s eyes fell upon the receptionist’s name tag pinned to his chest. “Matt Flowers, private investigator, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Gustavo.” Matt let the name roll slowly off his tongue as he locked eyes with the receptionist, who for a moment was stricken mute. Matt gestured toward Poppy. “This is my assistant, Poppy Harmon.”
Gustavo didn’t even bother to look at Poppy; instead his puppy-dog eyes remained firmly glued on Matt’s handsome face. As Matt explained why they were here, how they were investigating the Fabian Granger murder, how a brief look at the hotel’s security cam footage would be immeasurably helpful, Poppy began to assume from Gustavo’s troubled expression that even Matt’s considerable charm might not be enough this time.
“I don’t know . . . I’d have to ask the manager, and I’m not sure he would want me to—”
Matt reached out and gently placed a hand on top of Gustavo’s, which was resting on the check-in desk counter. “I understand. The last thing I would want to happen is for you to get into any kind of trouble. I’d feel terribly guilty.” Then he lightly patted Gustavo’s hand. Poppy saw a slight shiver rushing through Gustavo, who glanced around to see if his manager was anywhere in the vicinity. Satisfied, Gustavo leaned closer to Matt and said in a whisper, “I can’t let you back there where we keep the footage, but I could download it on my iPad and show you out here.”
“You would do that for me?” Matt asked, a hand on his heart.
Gustavo nodded with a conspiratorial smile.
And a lot more, I’m sure, Poppy thought.
For a straight man, Matt was a master at the seduction of gay men.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be lifelong friends, Gustavo,” Matt purred.
“I’m going to hold you to it,” Gustavo giggled, lighting up again with the force of not just any Christmas tree, but the one towering every year in the middle of Rockefeller Center. “Be right back.”
Gustavo flew out a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
“Impressive,” Poppy said, shaking her head. “Do you find it at all tiring handling all the unrequited crushes these countless girls and boys seem to have on you?”
Matt tossed her a knowing smile. “Oh, please, Poppy, I know you had your own long line of admirers back in the heyday of your acting career, still do from what I can tell.”
“Perhaps, but you are a master, when called upon, at using it to your advantage. I’m afraid that’s a skill I sorely lack.”
“I can teach you,” Matt eagerly offered. “It’s all in the eye contact.”
Poppy let loose with a throaty laugh.
He was being sincere not boastful, but Poppy still found it amusing.
The door opened and a chastened Gustavo returned, clutching his iPad. Behind him was a stern-looking much older man, in his sixties, Ralph printed on his name tag along with Hotel Manager.
Poppy swallowed hard.
It was clear Gustavo had been caught downloading the security footage onto his iPad.
Ralph pushed in front of Gustavo, who flashed Matt an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry, but it is against hotel policy for us to hand out our security footage to just anyone to watch. Gustavo should have known that.”
“I’m sorry. Matt Flowers, private investigator,” Matt chimed in, thrusting out his hand to shake.
Ralph limply accepted it, clearly nowhere near as enthralled with Matt as Gustavo had been. No, Ralph could not have been less impressed and it was becoming increasingly clear that their efforts to see the footage were about to be curtailed.
Until . . .
Ralph finally noticed Poppy.
Matt was still prattling on about how deeply personal this case was to him, how he only wanted to assist the police and not get in their way, but all of his entreaties fell on deaf ears because Ralph the hotel manager was now solely focused on Poppy.
Or Daphne, Poppy’s character on Jack Colt.
Ralph’s eyes flickered back and forth, and Poppy wondered if he was trying to place her from somewhere, not quite remembering where he knew her from, but that notion was quickly dispelled.
“I was such a huge fan of yours,” Ralph announced, practically drooling.
“Why, thank you,” Poppy said, almost with a Southern drawl, which she couldn’t explain. She just wanted to come off as friendly.
“My wife is never going to believe this. She’s always joking that I’d rather be married to you because I still watch old episodes of Jack Colt on MeTV when I’m feeling down and need to lift my spirits. Rhonda, that’s my wife, likes you, too, mostly from that perfume ad you did in the late seventies.” Ralph gestured toward Matt. “He with you?”
“Yes, he’s my associate,” Poppy answered.
“You mean, you’re a private detective, too? Are you kidding me? You played a detective’s secretary on TV back in the day, and now you’re one in real life? That is so awesome!” Ralph barreled out from behind the reception desk, waving his phone. “Do you mind if I get a selfie? My wife is going to die!”
“Of course,” Poppy said cheerfully.
Matt offered to take it, but Ralph waved him off, preferring to snap it himself. Once he got one he was satisfied with, Ralph hurried over and snatched the iPad out of Gustavo’s hand before hustling back over to Poppy’s side. “Rules are made to be broken and all that, right?”
“We’re so grateful for your help, Ralph,” Poppy purred, even more seductively than Matt.
Matt, standing next to Poppy, whispered under his breath, “I don’t need to teach you a damn thing.”
Ralph thrust the iPad in front of them and began playing the footage. “Cops went over this with a fine-tooth comb. We only found one person entering the hotel, besides yourself, Ms. Harmon, who was not a registered guest.” Ralph fast-forwarded through the footage. “The police had no idea who this guy was, and the girl on duty at reception didn’t even remember seeing him, but the camera picked him up entering around eight-thirty and leaving again around eight-forty-five.” Ralph tapped the screen to stop the footage. “There he is. Recognize him?”
Ralph held the iPad up in front of him.
Poppy and Matt stared hard at the footage.
Matt crinkled his nose. “I feel like I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know where.”
“You have seen him before,” Poppy said solemnly.
“Who is he?” Matt asked.
“That’s Violet’s new boyfriend.”
Chapter 33
“I don’t understand,” Violet muttered softly while sitting on the plush sofa at the Desert Flowers garage office, knees together, hands clasped resting on top of them, while staring wide-eyed at Poppy and Matt, who stood across from her, both with pained expressions on their faces.
“What’s not to understand? Your boyfriend is a fake just as I suspected!” Iris snorted from the kitchen area as she poured herself a glass of white wine.
“We don’t know that for sure, Iris, so stop saying that,” Poppy scolded. Then she turned and said gently to Violet, “Do you have any idea what he might have been doing at the Parker on the night I found Fabian Granger dead?”
Violet shook her head vigorously. “No. But I cannot believe that Phil had anything to do with some
thing so horrid—”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Matt asked.
“The day after we had dinner. I texted him to say what a lovely time I had at John Henry’s and he texted back and said he agreed and was looking forward to doing it again soon,” Violet said.
“Maybe you should call him now and make another plan to get together, you know, to see if he’s for real or not,” Wyatt suggested, sitting at his desk in front of his computer, swiveling around in circles on his stool, chewing on a candy bar.
Matt nodded. “That’s not a bad idea, Violet.”
Violet hesitated. “I don’t know. . . .”
She was scared. Scared they would turn out to be right about this Phil they had never heard of until just a few days ago. It would be humiliating and heartbreaking for her.
Poppy walked over and sat down next to Violet, lightly touching her arm. “It’s the only way to be absolutely certain his intentions are noble, Violet.”
Violet sighed, still not sure. She glanced over at her grandson, who was wiping some chocolate off his face with the palm of his hand before lapping it up with his tongue.
“Better to know now than later,” Iris said, folding her arms. “It is like ripping off a Band-Aid. It is going to hurt no matter what, but better to do it fast and get it over with, rather than slow and making the pain last longer.”
Poppy threw Iris an annoyed look as Iris casually sipped her wine.
Resolute, Violet picked up her phone off the coffee table in front of her and made the call. She put the phone to her ear, waiting a few moments for Phil to answer. Slowly, Violet’s face began to fall. Then her whole body sagged.
Poppy leaned forward, concerned. “Violet, what is it?”
Violet’s lips were now trembling as she handed the phone over to Poppy, who turned on the speaker so they all could hear an operator report in a robotic tone, “The number you are calling is no longer in service.”
“Oh, dear,” Poppy mumbled.
Violet stared helplessly into space, not moving.
“I’m so sorry, Violet,” Matt said earnestly.
Something dawned on Violet and she was drawn back from her trance. “But he also gave me his home address in Palm Desert when we exchanged contact information. Why would he do that if he was just using me to keep tabs on us for Hal Greenwood, or God only knows what other reason?”