Poppy Harmon and the Pillow Talk Killer by Lee Hollis (famous ebook reader .txt) 📗

Danika’s death was in any way connected to the original Pillow Talk Killer murder spree that had plagued Hollywood in the 1980s. At this point, Rosemarie Carter was her only lead and so Poppy called her. As expected, Rosemarie initially resisted Poppy’s request to meet, especially since she made it crystal clear she did not want to talk about the horrific crimes that had engulfed her husband all those years ago. The past, along with her husband, was long ago dead and buried.

But when Rosemarie realized Poppy was the Poppy Harmon from the old Jack Colt show, she wavered, as if the idea of a TV actress swinging by for coffee and a chat would be some kind of novelty, a way to brighten up an otherwise dull day. She had told Poppy that she could stop by for a visit in the morning before eleven and stay for thirty minutes tops because Rosemarie had to take her dachshund, Shelby, to the vet in Palm Desert at noon. Iris and Violet did not like the idea of Poppy driving out alone to a remote house in Indio to see a woman who might have been married to a serial killer and known about it, and so they had insisted on accompanying her.

And so here the three of them were, sipping bitter coffee and eating stale sugar cookies in a ramshackle house with an unkempt, oddly mannered woman whose late husband had been a prime suspect in the murders.

Rosemarie finished dabbing her face and crumpled the tissue up in her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I never knew Don was mixed up in any of that horrible mess, not until we were married, and some reporter came poking around, asking me questions about how it felt to be sleeping in the same bed as a murderer! It was awful! I had no idea what he was talking about. I confronted Don that day when he got home from work, and he finally admitted that he had been with that Appleton woman on the night she was killed, but when she left his hotel room, she was very much alive.”

“When did you and your late husband meet?” Violet asked gently.

“In 1989, years after the murders. Don said he didn’t tell me about being a suspect in a homicide investigation because he loved me so much, and was afraid I might be scared off. But I wouldn’t have been. I loved him too much, and there was no way in my mind that he could be in anyway depraved or violent. I trusted him. He was a good man who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Poppy studied Rosemarie’s clownish face, which despite her efforts with a massive amount of rouge to cover it up, managed to convey a sense of trustworthiness.

Iris, whose arms were stiffly folded across her chest, was not as inclined to believe what Rosemarie was saying. Violet, on the other hand, offered Rosemarie an encouraging smile, which went a long way in keeping her calm as she spoke of her dear departed husband.

“Apparently it was an anonymous tip from some actress he had met that got the police after Don. I’d sure as hell like to know who it was,” Rosemarie spat out.

Poppy swallowed hard as Iris and Violet threw her nervous glances. Poppy remained steady, choosing not to share the information with Rosemarie that the actress in question was at present sitting at her kitchen table, because she did not want Rosemarie abruptly shutting down the conversation and ordering them out. Instead, she decided to breeze right past it. “So your husband did admit leaving the bar with Ms. Appleton?”

Rosemarie nodded sedately. “Yes. He never lied about that. They went to his room for a nightcap, and then, well, he was divorced from his first wife at the time, nobody should blame him for wanting to be . . . social. Anyway, after they, you know, finished, she went home. And that’s where she was killed. In her home. Not Don’s hotel room. I never understood why people thought Don could have done it. The desk clerk at the hotel said he saw Don leave right after the Appleton girl, like he was following her, but Don was a smoker and he just went out for a pack of cigarettes. Of course, the desk clerk was on his break when Don came back and didn’t see him. It was a nightmare. Don spent the rest of his life denying he was in any way involved, trying to set the record straight, but because the cops never found the killer, there was always that constant suspicion hanging around him. I can’t tell you how many crank calls we used to get, asking if the Pillow Talk Killer was at home, saying Don was going to burn in hell. We had to change our number every six months. The stress finally took its toll on poor Don, and he died of a heart attack nine years later. I was devastated, of course, but I remember thinking, finally he’ll get some peace.”

There was absolute quiet in the kitchen broken only by Rosemarie’s sniffles. She raised the wadded-up tissue in her hand and began wiping her face again.

Poppy finally stood up. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Rosemarie. Thank you for the coffee and cookies. And I hope everything turns out fine for Shelby at the vet.” She glanced over at the dachshund, who was snoozing in a quilted doggie bed next to the refrigerator.

Rosemarie nodded, thanked them for coming by, but did not make a move to show them to the door. Poppy turned and left through the kitchen door, which led to a walkway to the street as Iris and Violet followed suit.

After they all piled into Iris’s car and were driving away, Violet, who sat in the back, reached over and gingerly touched Poppy’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, and I want you