Chapter 1
P oppy frantically banged on the door of the house, but there was no answer.
She waited a few moments and then tried again.
Still no answer.
A foreboding sense of dread filled her entire body.
She had learned at a very young age to trust her intuition.
And she instinctively knew something was seriously wrong.
Poppy jiggled the door handle.
The door was unlocked.
She waited, debating with herself, and then sighed, making a quick decision. She pushed the door open slightly and poked her head inside.
Hello? Anyone home?
The single-level house was eerily quiet except for some soft music playing from somewhere not too far away.
She couldnt tell who was singing, because the volume was too low.
Poppy pushed the door all the way open and slipped inside, looking back to make sure none of the nosy neighbors on the idyllic, sleepy street saw her sneaking into a house where she did not live.
Hello? she tried one more time, but there was still no answer.
She was hardly surprised.
Poppy had guest starred in enough TV crime shows in the 1980s to know this was usually the point in the show when an unsuspecting woman found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly fell prey to a mad killer or a treacherous villain seconds before the commercial break.
Still, her burning curiosity won out over her innate cautiousness, and she shut the door behind her and slowly, carefully, tiptoed farther into the foyer, looking around to be absolutely certain no one was lying in wait to suddenly jump out at her with a rag soaked with chloroform or, worse, a sharp weapon, like a carving knife or a rope cord from the curtains, which he could use to loop around her neck and strangle her to death.
Again, she had played a lot of damsels in distress during her years of acting in film and on television.
So her imagination tended to run a bit wild.
There was hardly that kind of violent crime to be found in Californias Coachella Valley, her home for the past ten years.
And yet there were alarm bells suddenly going off in her head.
She had never felt such a strong sense of imminent danger.
Poppy followed the sound of the music toward the living room, where she was finally able to recognize the familiar voice belting out a classic song on an old CD player set up in a corner, on a small wooden desk adjacent to the fireplace.
It was Elaine Stritch.
The brassy, ballsy late Broadway legend.
And the song was The Ladies Who Lunch, from the hit 1970 Stephen Sondheim musical Company .
How appropriate , Poppy thought, given the majority of women who resided here in the Palm Leaf Retirement Village, most of whom spent their days golfing during the morning and enjoying cocktails in the afternoon, during their typical, like clockwork, daily three-hour lunches.
She had moved farther into the living room in order to turn off the CD player when she caught something out of the corner of her eye.
Poppy spun around, gasping, her right hand flying to her mouth.
She struggled to steady herself as she stared at the body lying facedown on the floor, next to a cracked coffee table.
A small pool of blood seeped slowly into the pristine white carpet.
Chapter 2
Two months earlier ...
P oppy Harmon was speechless. Perhaps, for the very first time in her life.
And she was sixty-two years old.
Poppy had always been known for her enviable ability to bravely respond to a crisis with a calm, focused demeanor. She was never rattled or flummoxed or prone to overreaction, which was what made today such a momentous occasion.
Poppy Harmon was at this moment completely freaking out.
With her mouth hanging open, she finally managed to reclaim her power of speech and leaned forward.
What the hell are you talking about? Poppy wailed, suddenly light-headed, desperately trying to steady herself before she fainted and tumbled off the flimsy chair that faced her lawyer, Edwin Pierce, in his spacious, well-appointed office in Palm Desert, California.
Edwins face was drawn, his complexion as pale as pasteurized milk, and his eyes were bloodshot, with the lids hanging at half-mast. The poor man was obviously sleep deprived, having probably been up all night, dreading this unavoidable and supremely uncomfortable meeting with his client.
As I said, Chester, unfortunately, had accumulated some debt before he passed away, and according to my calculations, the sum total he owed... Edwins voice trailed off as he punched a few numbers into a calculator program on his computer screen. Poppy noticed his hand shaking as he brushed the keys with his crooked, bony fingers.
He was a bundle of nerves.
How much, Edwin? Poppy urged, wanting to get the bad news over with so she could begin dealing with the situation.
Edwin blinked at the screen, almost in disbelief at the final total, and then he cleared his throat before continuing. Roughly six hundred and seventy thousand dollars.
Poppy stared blankly at Edwin.
She must have heard wrong.
Maybe he said six thousand dollars, which would be bad enough, but surely, he could not have possibly said...
Six hundred and seventy thousand, Edwin repeated.
Thats impossible. How on earth did he... ? I would have known if he was spending that much!
It seems Chester had a small gambling problem....
He played poker with the boys twice a month. I would hardly call that a gambling problem, Poppy scoffed, still in a state of denial.
He played more than poker, Im afraid. There were dozens of weekend trips to Las Vegas, according to my records....
Those were business trips, Poppy quickly explained, as if saying the words would make them true.
Edwin gave Poppy a sad look of pity.
The wife was always the last to know.
Chester was fired from his job a year ago.
What? Poppy screamed.
Im guessing from your reaction that he never told you.
Poppy shook her head, now on the verge of tears. I dont understand. Why wouldnt he tell me something like that?
He was probably too embarrassed. You know, Chester, he was a very proud man.
Poppy stared at Edwin. Actually, Im beginning to suspect that I never actually knew Chester.
Im sure the stress of hiding all of this from you contributed to his heart attack.
Chester had died suddenly three weeks ago.
He and Poppy had been dining with friends at Wangs in the Desert, a popular Asian-fusion restaurant in Palm Springs.
As dessert was served, Chester complained of indigestion and excused himself to go to the restroom. When he hadnt returned twenty minutes later, Poppy sent his buddy Al, who was at the table, to go check on him. Al found him slumped over on the toilet in a stall, dead.
