Poppy Harmon and the Pillow Talk Killer, Lee Hollis [ebook reader 7 inch txt] 📗

big fan at the first mention of her name in their morning staff meeting. His outburst had startled Violet so much, she spilled coffee all over her new blouse she had just bought on sale at TJ Maxx.

The assistant had not explained why Danika wanted to hire local private detectives, just that she would like to meet with them ASAP. Once Poppy read Danika Delgado’s net worth online, she immediately called the assistant back and happily informed her that they luckily had an opening to meet this very afternoon.

Danika was at the Sundial Luxury Resort just outside of downtown Palm Springs shooting a reboot of the early 1960s camp classic Palm Springs Weekend. The original had featured the sizzling hot stars of the time including Troy Donahue, Connie Stevens, Robert Conrad and Stefanie Powers. In fact, Poppy had been friends with Stefanie Powers, who was co-starring with Robert Wagner on Hart to Hart, about a globe-trotting wealthy married couple who solve murders, at the same time Poppy was appearing in Jack Colt. Now, after all these years, Netflix, or Hulu, it was one of those giant streaming services, was currently producing a remake, or reboot, Poppy could never keep the lingo straight, of Palm Springs Weekend, with an all-new Gen Z cast.

The production assistant, Timothy, cranked his head around to Poppy and Matt, who was so distracted by a bevy of bikini-clad extras, he tripped over a lounge chair, and asked, “Would you like to stop by craft services for some coffee, or a Danish before I take you to Danika’s room?”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Poppy cut him off with a curt, “No, thank you, Timothy.” She was too anxious to hear what kind of case Danika wanted to hire them for and didn’t want to waste time while Matt dithered over whether he should have a cruller or go for a healthier option like a granola bar.

Timothy nodded and they kept moving until they reached a glass door leading inside toward the large corner suites. Timothy opened it and stepped aside to allow them both in ahead of him when the man in the T-shirt and red baseball cap, his script rolled up in his fist, bounded toward them.

“Wait!” he yelled, catching up to them, breathless. He took a moment, his eyes fixed on Poppy before continuing. “I’m sorry, I’m Trent, Trent Dodsworth-Jones,” he said in a clipped decidedly British accent.

“Trent’s our director,” Timothy said, slightly concerned he had done something wrong, bracing himself to be dressed down in some unexpected way.

Trent ignored him and remained focused on Poppy. “Are you who I think you are?”

“That depends on who you think I am,” Poppy said dryly.

“You are, aren’t you? I’d recognize that smoky, sexy voice anywhere! You’re Daphne!” Trent practically exploded.

Matt smirked. He loved it whenever Poppy got recognized for her signature role on Jack Colt.

Poppy graciously extended her hand. “Poppy Harmon.”

Trent excitedly pumped her hand. “I grew up watching you back in the eighties. I was a huge fan of Jack Colt when it finally made its way across the pond! My family comes from a dreary little town called Preston in Northern England. There is absolutely nothing to do there. Our only claim to fame is that we are about an hour’s drive from Liverpool where the Beatles got their start. That’s it. There is no other reason to ever go to Preston. We were dirt poor, but we did have a color TV which was my only lifeline to the outside world and I would watch you every week!”

Poppy had heard from friends that Preston was a lovely little city, but was not about to argue with someone who had grown up there and had probably harbored dreams of getting out to make it big in the film business.

“I am so happy to have played a small part in your adolescence,” Poppy said politely.

“Yes, if anything, you helped get me through puberty!” Trent said, a lascivious smile suddenly plastered on his face.

Okay, way too much information, in Poppy’s opinion.

“What brings you to our little set?” Trent inquired.

“They’re here to see Danika,” Timothy offered.

“Oh, are you friends?” Trent asked, curious.

“No, this is a professional call,” Matt chimed in.

Poppy resisted rolling her eyes at him. She did not like to burp out information she didn’t have to, but Matt was her exact opposite, exceedingly chatty and unfiltered. It could be a burden sometimes.

“I see. Are you an agent, or a manager?” Trent asked, eyeing Matt.

“Neither,” Poppy snapped, staring down Matt, who finally got the message to keep his mouth shut from further comment. She turned back to Trent. “It was a pleasure meeting you, but we should go before we’re late for our meeting.”

“Of course,” Trent said, turning to Timothy. “Tell Danika we should be ready to shoot in ten.”

“Got it!” Timothy chirped.

Before Poppy had a chance to escape, Trent reached out and touched her arm. “Please, Poppy, before you go . . .”

She turned and warily eyed his hand on her, but didn’t want to immediately shake it off and appear rude. “Yes?”

“Let me just say, in my humble opinion, you never got your due,” he said solemnly.

Poppy was confused—what on earth he was talking about? “I beg your pardon?”

“As an actress. I know you probably got cast as Daphne because the show needed window dressing, and you certainly fit that bill . . .”

This was now getting downright creepy but Poppy held her tongue.

Trent sighed, realizing how inappropriately he was coming across and quickly added, “But you were quite good in that role. You gave Daphne depth and heart, and I always thought with the right opportunity, you would have risen to the heights of a Jessica Lange or Sissy Spacek.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say,” Poppy murmured, flabbergasted.

“And she’s rarely speechless!” Matt cracked.

Poppy threw him a stern look, like a mother trying to drive the car while her rambunctious preteen son caused too much of a ruckus in the back seat.