by Lee Hollis
Poppy shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Rod, but I really have to say no. I’m sure Iris and Violet will want to get home.”
“And what about you?”
The question startled Poppy. Mostly because deep down she already knew the answer. She quite liked the idea of having dinner with her former costar. She still found him engaging and charming and remarkably handsome. But she had also promised when she opened the doors of the Desert Flowers Detective Agency that she would always maintain her professionalism, and socializing with a client was, in her mind, strictly forbidden. She could already feel herself becoming compromised. She was still reeling from the fact that he had professed his love for her at Cicci’s in Palm Springs. But she had decided to chalk that up to too much wine during dinner.
“Thank you, Rod. Perhaps another time.”
“Well, no one can say I didn’t try,” he said with a wink.
God, he was so handsome.
Even more so with age. The gray in his hair had given him such gravitas and a confident, experienced, distinguished air. When he was in his late thirties doing Jack Colt, he certainly had an intoxicating swagger about him. He was tough and rugged with a Burt Reynolds–like macho mustache. He was swimming in masculinity and she sometimes confused the brute force aggression of his character with Rod’s actual personality. Now that Jack Colt and his seventy-two episodes and three two-hour TV movies were relegated to Amazon Prime, she had a much clearer picture of the real man behind the character, and he was far more pleasing than she had remembered.
“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” Rod asked, reaching for her mug, which she had just set down on the glass coffee table between them.
“No, I’d better get going,” Poppy said, standing up. “I’m sure Iris and Violet must be having dessert by now. They’ve been there almost two hours and will probably be ready to leave soon.”
“I read about the drowning of that juror you served with on the Tony Molina trial,” Rod said, as if searching for some subject that would keep her from fleeing his home.
“The police suspect the autopsy will reveal he was the victim of foul play,” Poppy said gravely. “I know I do.”
“Is it true you were the one who found him?”
Poppy sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. It was just like back when I played danger prone Daphne on Jack Colt and stumbled across corpses in at least five episodes over the course of three seasons.
Rod nodded and chuckled as he remembered. “The writers seemed to have run out of ideas awfully fast.”
Poppy quickly filled him in on the mysterious phone call she had received from Alden Kenny, his insistence on her coming over to his house, and how she had found him floating dead in his swimming pool barely twenty minutes later.
“Do you have any idea who might have had a motive to murder him?” Rod asked.
“No, but I’m quite certain that whatever the reason he was killed, it had something to do with Tony Molina. I believe that they knew each other before the trial, and that Kenny might have been a jury plant to ensure Molina was not convicted of that assault on Chef Carmine Cicci.”
Rod sat back in his chair. “Wow. That makes perfect sense.”
“Of course I have no proof, and it’s not like anyone has hired me to look into it, so it’s really none of my business. . . .”
“You found the body. Naturally you’re curious,” Rod said. “It’s a shame you can’t stay another day.”
“Why is that?”
“Tofu is in town.”
Poppy perked up. “She is?”
“Yes, her favorite artist, this guy who lives in Venice and paints a lot of Southern California landscapes that rich people wildly overpay for, is having an art show tomorrow at a gallery in Beverly Hills.”
“And you’re sure she is going to be there?”
“She’s never missed one. I know because I have three of his works hanging in my upstairs hallway.”
Poppy practically drooled at the prospect of talking with Tony Molina’s wife. As much as that little voice inside was screaming at her not to worm her way into an official police investigation that she had nothing to do with, she just couldn’t help herself.
“Excuse me,” she said, then walked down the brick steps of the patio toward the expansive pool and waterfall for a bit of privacy. She scooped her phone from her bag and called Violet.
When Violet answered, she was breathless and delighted. “Poppy, I am so glad you called! Guess who is at the very next table!” Poppy opened her mouth to hazard a guess but didn’t have the chance before Violet screamed, “Cate Blanchett!”
“How nice. Listen, I’ve decided—”
“She was so nice and allowed us to take a selfie with her! It’s so lovely here. You should smell the fresh flowers everywhere! Iris was not impressed with her lobster ravioli, but she’s normally so hard to please. My lime chicken breast was delicious, and this pecan square with praline gelato and hot fudge sauce I’m having for dessert is absolutely to die for!”
“Violet . . .”
She could hear Violet not paying attention and talking to someone. “I hate to interrupt your lunch again, but I have my dear friend Poppy on the phone, and she would be so appreciative if you said hello. . . .”
Poppy rolled her eyes and shouted, “Violet, no! I really don’t need to speak with Cate Blanchett!”
“Hello, Poppy, this is Cate Blanchett.”
“Ms. Blanchett, I’m a big fan of your work, and it is so nice of you to take the time to say hello,” Poppy said, dying of embarrassment.
“Thank you,” Cate Blanchett said. “What was your favorite film I did?”
Poppy went blank.
She couldn’t think of one.
Finally, Violet blurted out in the background, “I loved The Talented Mr. Ripley! Oh, and of course the two movies where you played Queen Elizabeth!”
After some perfunctory small talk, Cate Blanchett finally handed the phone back to Violet, who squealed, “How exciting was that?”
“Violet, when you’re done at the Ivy, I want you and Iris to drive home. I’m going to stay in LA one more day. I have some business to attend to tomorrow.”
She heard Violet relating what she had just said to Iris, who promptly snatched the phone away from her and bellowed, “What business are you talking about?”
Poppy knew there was no hiding the truth from her two best friends, so she just came out with it and told them about her going with Rod to the art show so she could meet Tony Molina’s wife, Tofu.
“Why are you focused on a murder case that the police are investigating that really has nothing to do with you instead of working on the case we’re getting paid to investigate?” Iris demanded to know.
“I will be with our client, so technically I’m working on both at the same time. It’s called multitasking.”
“That’s a load of crap and you know it, Poppy,” Iris admonished. “How are you going to get back to the desert?”
“I’ll rent a car.”
Rod, who had stepped outside and overheard her, smiled. “There is no need. I was planning on heading out to my house in Palm Springs after the show tomorrow. I can drive you.”
Poppy decided against sharing that part with Iris.
“Have you booked a hotel for tonight?” Iris asked pointedly.
“No, I haven’t had a chance to book a hotel because I just now decided to stay,” Poppy said quietly.
“There is no need. You can stay here,” Rod eagerly offered.
“Did I just hear him say you can stay at his place?” Iris asked pointedly.
Poppy tried reassuring Iris. “Yes, but of course I know that’s completely inappropriate and I will respectfully decline his generous offer.”
“I have six bedrooms. Five of them are unoccupied. A hotel is a waste of money,” Rod said, getting more excited by the minute about this impromptu slumber party.
Poppy threw him a stern look. She overheard Iris filling Violet
in on her plans, and Violet gasped, “She’s spending the night with our client?”
“It appears so, if you can believe it!” Iris shouted.
“I can hear you both right now. I am not spending the night with Rod! Now I have to go! I will see you back at the office late tomorrow afternoon.”
She hung up and dropped her phone back in her bag.
Rod joined her by the pool. “I’m serious. You can stay here. And despite the fact I’ve been very clear about my feelings, I promise to be the perfect gentleman. And just so you know, the doors in all my guest rooms lock from the inside as an extra security measure.”
Her gut told her that the last thing she should do was spend the night at Rod Harper’s house. But she also didn’t want to spend a lot of money on a hotel room. So she reluctantly accepted. She indulged in only one glass of wine at dinner so she could keep a clear head, and when they returned from the restaurant, she retired immediately to her room, making sure to lock it from the inside. Rod was true to his word and never showed up knocking on the door in the middle of the night.
The following morning, by the time she showered and dressed for the art show, Rod had a full breakfast waiting for her in the kitchen.
“You look absolutely ravishing,” Rod said as she sat down at the table and he served her a vegetable omelette and a glass of orange juice.
“I’m wearing the same outfit as I did yesterday. I didn’t expect I would need a change of clothes.”
“I can take you shopping before the show if you like,” Rod offered.
“No, I’ll stay in this. And then after the show, we head straight to the desert.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” Rod said.
He had been such a player back in the day.
And she couldn’t quite figure out if he still was.
Or, if by some chance, Rod Harper was actually sincere and was truly in love with her, as he had so passionately professed. The thought scared her. Because there was a time decades ago when she would have welcomed this unbridled attention from him. But so much time had passed. So many years were now in the rearview mirror. And after her husband had died so unexpectedly with so many upsetting secrets about him that came bubbling to the surface after he was gone, Poppy just wasn’t sure if she could ever trust another man again.
Especially this man.
Chapter 18
When Tofu spotted Poppy and Rod arrive at the Crystal Wick Gallery on Robertson Boulevard, named after its wealthy benefactor, a big movie studio executive, she was like a magnet drawn to Rod. Tofu made a beeline right for him, slipping her arm through his and ignoring the fact that he had just walked in the door with another woman.
“Shame on you, Rod. You didn’t tell me you were coming today,” Tofu cooed.
Poppy marveled at just how stunning Tofu still was. She hadn’t had a hit song in decades and had kept a relatively low public profile since marrying Tony Molina ten years ago. Poppy studied her face, which appeared to have had very little work done on it. Many women in show business sadly succumbed to the pressure of a few nicks and tucks to keep the face tight and tidy, but Tofu was such a natural beauty with perfect dark skin and hardly a trace of wrinkles. Her youthful glow was quite astonishing.
“I only heard about Devon’s show at the last minute. I’ve been entertaining a friend who is in town so I thought I would bring her along,” Rod said, gesturing toward Poppy. “This is Poppy Harmon. She is from Palm Springs as well.”
Tofu basically ignored her and kept her eyes trained on Rod. “There is an ocean painting over there I’ve already paid too much for. Devon has outdone himself this time. His entire collection is selling fast.”
“What’s Devon’s last name?” Poppy asked.
“It’s just Devon. He doesn’t really have a last name,” Tofu said, annoyed that she had to explain that to this interloper who was on the arm of the man she was currently lusting after.
“I saw Tony the last time I was in the desert,” Rod said.
Tofu frowned. “He told me. I apologize if he was rude to you.”
“It’s totally fine. I understand,” Rod said, chuckling. “I didn’t expect to run into him at Cicci’s, of all places.”
“Tony wasn’t about to let a little trial get in the way of him enjoying his namesake steak dinner,” Tofu said, shaking her head. “He can be very determined and pig-headed and Chef Carmine wouldn’t dare ban him from the restaurant. Tony’s a living legend. It would destroy his business. By the way, Tony mentioned you were there on a date.”
“I was there with Poppy,” Rod said, gesturing toward Poppy again.
“And who are you again?” Tofu asked, not the least bit interested.
“An old friend of Rod’s,” Poppy said, careful to avoid characterizing their relationship as anything other than just friends.
“You look awfully familiar,” Tofu noted, staring at her.
“Poppy was my costar back in the nineteen eighties when I did Jack Colt. She played my faithful secretary, Daphne,” Rod said, smiling.
“Maybe that’s it,” Tofu said, crinkling her nose and cocking her head. “You just look very different now.”
“Well, it was over thirty years ago,” Poppy said.
“Yes, I suppose . . . the ravages of time and all that,” Tofu said with a knowing smile.
Poppy resisted the urge to kick her in her shins because she didn’t want to scare her away before they could discuss the trial some more.
Rod tightened his grip on Poppy’s hand and kept his eyes fixed on Tofu. “In a remarkable coincidence, Poppy here was on the jury in Tony’s trial.”
“Really? I heard the final vote was eleven to one guilty,” Tofu said.
“Yes, Tony got lucky,” Rod remarked.
“I would have been there to show my support for Tony, but, unfortunately, I had to stay away because frankly the stress of the trial, the constant calls from reporters, it all led to me having an anxiety attack. I had to check into the Rancho Valencia Spa to recuperate until the whole nasty business was finally over,” Tofu said.
“I can certainly understand how you must have suffered,” Rod said, intentionally placating her.
“Thank you, Rod, but there is nothing like a desert-fig facial to make your problems go away. I came back feeling refreshed, like a new woman, and I was elated that my husband was still a free man.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Rod said, smiling.
Tofu spun around to face Poppy. “Tell me, Pansy . . .”
“Poppy,” she said through gritted teeth. Now she knew how Violet must have felt at Stitch McKenzie’s house.
Tofu folded her arms and glared at Poppy. “Were you on the side of guilty, or were you that one heroic juror who saw through all the noise and false accusations and voted for what was right?”
“I voted guilty,” Poppy said with a fake smile without a moment’s hesitation. “The one holdout unfortunately is no longer with us. He drowned in his swimming pool.”
“I read about that. There was an article in the Desert Sun. How horrible. I knew he was a juror on the trial, but I had no idea he was the only one who believed my husband’s side of the story. That makes it even more tragic.”
“Yes, and there is a good chance his death will be ruled a homicide,” Poppy added.
Tofu gasped. “Oh my! That’s awful! Who on earth would want to harm a simple small-town boy from Abilene?”
Poppy shot a suspicious glance at Rod, who seemed to be oblivious to Tofu’s last remark. “Abilene?”
“Yes. Abilene, Texas. I read in the Sun that he was from there originally, but had moved out to the Coachella Valley for some kind of a job,” Tofu said.
Poppy knew for a fact that this was not true. She had pored over that same newspaper article online, so she knew that the reporter had only mentioned that Alden Kenny was from Texas. He had never mentioned the town of Abilene. How did Tofu know that specific detail? Before she had the chance to ask, they were accoste
d by a rail-thin man dressed all in black with spiky blond hair and thick dark glasses. This had to be the artist Devon.
“I see we have some prospective art buyers,” Devon said with a sly smile. “I hope you see something that strikes your fancy, Mr. Harper.”
“You know I’m a big fan of your talent, Devon,” Rod said.
“Then help yourself to some wine and cheese and be sure to check out my more expensive pieces toward the back of the gallery,” he said.
He wasn’t joking.
He practically had dollar signs in his eyes before he floated away as a woman in an expensive designer jacket entered and caught his attention.
Poppy tried to redirect the conversation back to Alden Kenny. “It’s funny, I don’t remember the newspaper article mentioning—”
Tofu was bored with the conversation and cut her off. “Devon’s going to need some hand-holding. Whenever he is around really rich people he gets nervous and tries making jokes, which are usually inappropriate and insulting. I don’t want his social ineptitude to affect any potential sales.” She sidled up to Rod’s right side and with her luscious ruby red lips planted a soft kiss on Rod’s cheek. “If you have any free time later, Rod, be sure to call me.”
And then she flitted off, having completely forgotten that Poppy was standing next to him.
“She’s lovely,” Poppy sneered.
“I know she can be rather catty sometimes.”
“And petty and jealous and rude . . .”
“You’re right on all counts. She used to be nicer back when we dated . . . before she met Tony. . . .”
“She’s also hiding something.”
Rod raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yes, she knows more about Alden Kenny, the dead juror, than she’s letting on.”
“Can you explain it to me in the car? I want to get out of here before I’m pressured into buying a painting by that tragic Andy Warhol wannabe!”
Rod grabbed Poppy by the arm and quickly steered her out the door.
Chapter 19
When Rod slowly leaned in to kiss Poppy, her instinct was to resist, to pull back, put her hands up to separate them. But this time, she didn’t. She kept her arms to her sides, and as his lips grazed hers, lightly at first, tentatively, still not completely sure if she would accept his advance, her whole body shivered. The warm memory of their one night of intimacy together, which happened over thirty years ago, washed over her, and she allowed him to put his arms around her and draw her close, enveloping her. He still wore the same inviting Calvin Klein cologne. He always smelled so good.