Poppy Harmon and the Hung Jury

by Lee Hollis

  Poppy turned back around and pressed the button on her remote to unlock her car. She was startled to see Chef Carmine Cicci suddenly appear in front of her.

  “Oh . . .” Poppy gasped.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Chef Carmine said with an apologetic smile.

  “That’s quite all right,” Poppy said, a hand on her chest as her heartbeat thumped twice as fast as usual.

  “I was already in my car about to leave when I saw you come out of the building, and so I dashed over here to catch you. . . .”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Cicci?”

  “I just wanted to thank you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I wish the outcome had been different.”

  “Me too. I want you to know I was telling the truth on the stand. I was a huge fan of Tony Molina. I was so honored to have him dine in my restaurant. I can’t tell you what a blow it was to have him come at me like that.”

  “Both figuratively and literally,” Poppy added.

  Chef Carmine chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I could tell from your body language and how you spoke to the judge that you truly wanted to find him guilty.”

  “Well, I commend you on how well you can read people. That’s exactly what I wanted to do. But as you heard, unfortunately, we had one juror who refused to seriously consider the facts of the case, so I apologize that we couldn’t collectively come to a just verdict.”

  Chef Carmine nodded. “For what it’s worth, the prosecutor has assured me that she will be retrying the case.”

  “That’s certainly encouraging,” Poppy said, noticing for the first time that despite all the swirling attention given to Tony Molina and his good looks, Chef Carmine himself was actually a very good-looking man with a certain swagger to him that Poppy found overtly appealing. And he had a warm, irresistible smile, which he shared with her now. Actually she found it a bit overpowering. “Good luck with everything. I’ll be watching for you on the Food Network,” she managed to get out.

  He bowed to her and took her hand. “Thank you. And I look forward to seeing you play your next role.”

  “Good heavens, I haven’t acted in anything in over twenty years,” Poppy said, laughing. “Those days are long over, I’m afraid.”

  “Never say never. You’re still an exquisitely gorgeous woman and I would watch you read from the phone book,” he said with a wink.

  Poppy found herself giggling like a schoolgirl. “Oh, stop. . . .”

  “I mean it,” he said, still holding her hand.

  She found his almost brazen attempts to butter her up intoxicating, unlike the far less charming Alden Kenny, who had tried playing footsie with her in the jury box. There was no mystery why the masculine, bald Chef Carmine had a lot fans. It wasn’t just for his cooking skills.

  “The next time you come into Cicci’s, your dinner will be on me,” he said before finally letting go of her hand.

  “I just may take you up on that,” Poppy said, feeling flushed and flustered. “I love a good steak.”

  “Let me guess. Medium rare?”

  “Good guess.”

  “I promise not to mess it up.”

  “And I promise not to grab a frying pan if you do,” Poppy joked.

  They shared a laugh.

  “Then it’s a date,” Chef Carmine said. “Good-bye, Ms. Harmon.”

  “Please, call me Poppy.”

  “With pleasure. Good-bye, Poppy.”

  And then he was gone.

  Poppy didn’t exactly take his overtures too seriously. After all, he was much younger and probably just grateful that she had been on his side during the trial. She hadn’t thought much about men since her husband, Chester, had died over a year ago, and wasn’t too anxious to jump back into the dating pool anytime soon, especially now, as she was trying to get her fledgling detective agency with Iris, Violet, and Matt off the ground.

  There was Sam Emerson, the former cop and consultant on Jack Colt she had recently reconnected with, but he lived two hours away in Big Bear, and so they were both keeping it casual. That’s about all she was willing to handle at the moment.

  But Chef Carmine certainly was a charmer.

  And he wouldn’t be the last man in the coming days to cause Poppy Harmon’s heart to flutter.

  Chapter 8

  When Poppy pulled up in front of Iris’s house, she met Violet in the driveway, who was picking up a bag of groceries from the open trunk of her car.

  “Is Iris having you do her grocery shopping now?” Poppy asked.

  “Oh, no, I picked up some snacks for the office. Wyatt has been working so hard. We just had a breakthrough in the Lara Harper case and it’s all because of him!” Violet exclaimed, beaming like the proud grandmother she was.

  Poppy clasped her hands together hopefully. “Did you find her?”

  “Not exactly,” Violet said as she scooted up the driveway toward the garage, clutching her plastic bag of junk food. “I’d better get these ice cream sandwiches in the freezer before they melt.”

  Poppy chased after her and got ahead of her in time to open the side door of the garage for Violet, who hurried past her. Once inside, she found her team of investigators hard at work. Wyatt was at his desktop computer, furiously punching keys as Matt hovered over him. Violet began unpacking her food in the kitchenette toward the back of the garage office, and Iris, well, Iris was on the couch, reading Vanity Fair. But she was reading her article so intently it almost appeared as if she were in the middle of some important research.

  “What have you got?” Poppy asked, crossing over to Wyatt.

  Iris suddenly noticed Poppy’s presence and dropped her magazine down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “You’re back! Is the trial over? Did you actually send that American treasure Tony Molina to prison?”

  “No, Iris, he got off. At least for now. It was a hung jury,” Poppy sighed. “But it looks like the prosecutor is going to try the case again.”

  “That poor man,” Iris lamented, shaking her head. “Being targeted by an overzealous prosecutor only interested in advancing her career by going after a celebrity who has been falsely accused!”

  “If that is what you think happened, Iris, then you’ve been fed a heaping serving of fake news,” Poppy declared. “I have been listening to all the facts for days, and the man is definitely guilty! He just got lucky!”

  Violet raced past them and over to Wyatt and handed him a wrapped ice cream sandwich. “There you go, sweetheart. Grandma’s so pleased with your progress. You should get some kind of award.”

  Matt looked up at Violet. “Don’t I get one?”

  Violet patted him on the arm. “Of course, dear. But Wyatt’s been working so hard and you . . .” She stopped short at the sight of Matt’s crestfallen face. “Hold on. I’ve got one coming right up.”

  Violet flew back to the kitchenette.

  Poppy turned to Iris. “I don’t want to talk about Tony Molina anymore. I’ll be happy if I never have to hear his name again. I want to know about what Wyatt’s uncovered.”

  Iris threw her arms up in surrender as Matt dashed over to Poppy excitedly. “It could be big. Rod told us that after his fight with Lara he threatened to cut her off financially but he didn’t follow through, so Wyatt has been tracking her credit card, which is still very much active.”

  Poppy lit up. “She’s been using it?”

  Violet returned with an ice cream sandwich for Matt and then hugged Wyatt from behind. “I wish Wyatt got his brains from me, but sadly that’s not the case!”

  “Nana, stop. . . .” Wyatt groaned, squirming and scrunching up his shoulders.

  “Someone’s been using it,” Matt said. “Either Lara is alive and well and using the card or it’s been stolen and someone is posing as her.”

  “But if we can see the charges, then we will know exactly where the card has been used,” Poppy said, thrilled. “And if it is her, we can use those charges to
trace her whereabouts.”

  “I love this! We’re a real team! Whatever we’re doing here is working like a dream!” Matt gushed.

  The women ignored Matt’s overenthusiasm as Poppy turned to Wyatt. “So where has the card been used?”

  Wyatt scanned down the charges listed on his computer screen. “Right here. All over the Coachella Valley. At a Mexican restaurant in Cathedral City, a Macy’s, a music store in Palm Desert, Starbucks in Rancho Mirage, a Regal movie theater in Palm Springs . . .”

  “If it’s her using the card,” Matt said with a smile, “then that means she’s right here in our own backyard.”

  Chapter 9

  The potbellied man with a ZZ Top gray beard that touched all the way down to his protruding navel and nearly covered the Grateful Dead logo on his T-shirt squinted as he held up Matt’s phone and stared at the photo of Lara Harper on the screen. “Yeah, I remember her. She was in here with some guy, and they were browsing the guitars over there.”

  One of the charges on Lara’s card had been processed at this small independent music shop in Palm Desert, east of downtown Palm Springs.

  Matt, in his full-on Sam Spade mode, cleared his throat and asked, “The amount you charged her was $14.99. Do you recall what she bought?”

  The gray-bearded man with the half-asleep eyes, which Poppy attributed to his probable generous use of the now fully legal marijuana in the state of California, nodded. “A guitar pick. That’s why I remember them. They must have tried out every guitar on the wall over there. I thought I was going to make a big sale, but after almost an hour, the only thing they ended up buying was a lousy guitar pick!”

  Poppy noticed a security camera set up above the register. “Is there any chance we can see the footage from that camera recorded on the day they were here?”

  “Afraid not,” Gray Beard said, shaking his head. “That thing’s been on the fritz for about a year. I keep making a mental note to get it fixed, but then for some reason I forget. . . .”

  Poppy grimaced. She was fairly certain the long-term effects of excessive drug use was the cause of his short-term memory issue.

  “What about the young man she was with? Can you describe him?” Poppy asked.

  Gray Beard shrugged. “Good-looking guy. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to him because I was more interested in her. She was hot. She had this real tight—” He caught himself as he spotted Poppy’s disdainful look. “She was pretty, ma’am.”

  “I see,” Poppy said wearily. “Well, thank you for your time.”

  As they turned to go, Matt said, “Well, at least we can report to Rod that nothing bad has happened to her. It looks like she’s just been hanging out in the desert with a new boyfriend.”

  “Perhaps. But I sure would like to know more about this young man she’s keeping company with,” Poppy said as her phone buzzed. She fished it out of her purse and glanced at the screen. “Iris and Violet are on their way to a yoga studio.”

  “Are you serious? I can’t imagine Iris bending over for anything except maybe a glass of Chardonnay.”

  “It has to be connected to the case. She just texted me the address. I’m going to meet them there,” Poppy said as they reached the door. Before Matt had a chance to open it for her, the door flew open and a tall, lanky, grizzled rocker in his late fifties or early sixties and wearing a leather vest with no shirt underneath ambled in with a glazed look in his eyes. He appeared to be more of a stoner than even the potbellied, gray-bearded owner of the music shop.

  Suddenly his dull eyes, which had been at half mast, managed to pop all the way open at the sight of Poppy. “No way . . .”

  “Good afternoon,” Poppy said, trying to get past him.

  He stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her exit. “I know you!”

  Matt instinctively moved forward, protectively putting an arm in between them.

  “You’re Daphne!” the rocker exclaimed excitedly.

  “Yes, you have a good memory,” Poppy said, mustering as much politeness as she possibly could.

  “I watched you every week! I can’t tell you how sexy I thought you were! Especially in that one episode where you go undercover as an exotic dancer at the nightclub where your boss’s niece was being held prisoner by that crazed nightclub owner! Man, I had that one playing on my VCR every night! I can’t tell you how many times I watched you while—”

  There was no way Poppy wanted to hear any more so she quickly cut him off. “Well, I’m thrilled you have such fond memories of watching that show.”

  First the judge remembered her and now Cheech of Cheech and Chong. It was like TV of the 1980s was enjoying some kind of renaissance.

  “Can I get a selfie with you?” the rocker asked, searching his pockets for his phone.

  “We’re really kind of in a hurry,” Matt interjected.

  Poppy gently pushed Matt’s arm down that was separating her from her ardent fan. “It’s all right, Matt,” she said before smiling at the man. “I’d be happy to.”

  Unable to find his phone, the leather-vested rocker recruited Gray Beard to take the photo with his own phone with the promise of texting it to him later. It took three tries before he was happy with the picture since in the first two he had his eyes closed.

  After a flurry of thank-yous, Poppy and Matt finally managed to escape the music shop and were on their way to the car, which was parked in a lot around the corner.

  “That is so cool,” Matt muttered wistfully.

  “What?” Poppy asked.

  “To get recognized like that.”

  “Well, these days it is exceedingly rare. I’m not exactly Beyoncé.”

  “I know, but it must be immensely gratifying having played a role that is so fondly remembered,” Matt sighed, almost envious.

  “I suppose so,” Poppy said. “At the time, it was just a job. I didn’t realize the impact of the show until much later, after it had been cancelled. I desperately wanted a more challenging role, on stage or in the movies. Nobody back then took TV too seriously. When I played Daphne, it was mostly just for the paycheck. I had no idea it would end up being the part people would remember me for.”

  “It’s such a gift. I would give anything to play a role that gets some kind of a reaction. To know I moved people. That would be the most awesome thing in the world. . . .” Matt said, his voice trailing off, lost in thought.

  They walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. Poppy let Matt daydream about the possibilities ahead of him, and suddenly she felt guilty. She feared she might be responsible for Matt putting his acting career on the back burner while helping her run the Desert Flowers Detective Agency in Palm Springs, a long two-hour drive from the producers and agents and casting directors in Los Angeles.

  “Matt, I don’t want you to . . .”

  He looked at her expectantly.

  She tried to find the right words.

  “I don’t want you to sacrifice valuable time out here in the desert if you need to be in LA focusing on your career. . . .”

  He smiled and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I don’t see it that way at all. I’m here to play a role. I’m Matt Flowers, Private Eye, and I am one hundred percent committed.”

  She could tell his heart was in the right place.

  His words were sincere.

  But she could not shake the feeling that she was somehow holding him back by keeping him away from the center of Hollywood and the opportunities that could come his way. But for now she needed him, and she was grateful he was on board to keep her fledgling agency afloat.

  Chapter 10

  When Poppy arrived at the Peaceful Yoga Studio in a mini mall just south of downtown Palm Springs, it was anything but peaceful. There was a loud commotion in the main studio, and when she heard ear-splitting screaming, she rushed in to find a crowd of people in loose-fitting clothing having deserted their yoga mats and now surrounding someone lying flat on the floor. Poppy pushed her way through an
d gasped at the sight of Iris stretched out, sweating, as Violet squeezed her hand. A handsome man in his midtwenties, with his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and a trim beard that made him look a little like Jesus, knelt down beside Iris. He cradled her head in his hand and spoke to her softly.

  “Please, let me call you an ambulance,” he said soothingly.

  “No! I am not going to the hospital! I have a social hour at the club tonight that I am not going to miss! I will be just fine!”

  “What happened?” Poppy exclaimed.

  At the sight of Poppy, Violet sprang to her feet and grabbed her arm. “We came here to see Falcon, but he refused to talk to us until after class was finished, and he told us we couldn’t stay unless we paid the donation and participated.”

  “Who is Falcon?” Poppy asked.

  Violet pointed to the Jesus look-alike. “That’s Falcon. He’s the owner.”

  “Is Falcon a first name or a last name?” Poppy wondered.

  Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he may just go by Falcon.”

  Poppy didn’t like him already.

  “We barely got started and were in the Downward Dog position when Iris’s back went out,” Violet recounted breathlessly. “Now she’s in horrible pain.”

  Iris, flat on her back, looked up at Poppy, blinking. “It’s about time you got here! Help me up so I can get out of here!”

  “I’m not sure moving you is a good idea, Iris. Maybe you should just let us call the paramedics so they can take you to a doctor and have you checked out!”

  “That’s nonsense! I don’t have time for that! Come on, take my hand!”

  Poppy reached down and grabbed Iris’s hand. Iris pulled on it and sat up. She screeched at the top of her lungs before quickly lying back down again.

  “Iris, this is crazy. I’m calling an ambulance,” Poppy insisted.

  “You will do no such thing! I forbid it! There is no way I am going to be wheeled out of here on a stretcher! I can do this! I just need to go home, get my heating pad out, and pop a couple of Advils.”