Murder on Holiday Lane

It's a warm and sunny Christmas season in Los Angeles. Things are slow at the Starfire Detective Agency, but Poppy is sure things will pick up after the holidays. When a pretty young starlet who works part-time as an elf at Santa's Workshop on Holiday Lane is murdered, Poppy's close friend, the up and coming director, Wyatt Blaze, becomes a prime suspect. Wyatt needs Poppy's help to find the real killer. Gossip travels fast in Tinseltown and an arrest, even a false arrest, will destroy Wyatt's career for good.

Now Poppy must start from the very beginning to find out just who had it out for the elf. Is it possible Santa himself is behind the diabolical deed?

Saturday, Dec. 13, 1924
Dear Ginny,

We're closing in on Christmas, and, might I just add—in the words of the infamous poet Ebenezer Scrooge—Bah Humbug! Of course, I don't mean to sound so grumpy and out of character, but, truly, would it inconvenience Mother Nature too much to sprinkle a little holiday weather our direction? It was so warm this morning, I had to open my front window. The sultry breeze that wafted through the screen knocked one of the glass ornaments off my tree. It was a favorite, a festive gray kitten with a red Santa hat and a wry smile. The hat broke off so now he's just a regular old tomcat with a grin.

I browsed a fashion magazine at the newspaper stand yesterday afternoon. The pages were plastered with photos of stylish models wearing thick, fur frosted coats, luxurious gloves and elegant snow boots. Oh how I long to dress in sumptuous winter garb. I suppose I could just do it. However, I would quickly succumb to heat exhaustion. Old Man Winter seems to have avoided Los Angeles entirely. Yesterday, I overheard several women at Duffy's Soda counter (where I was sipping a ginger ale to cool off) mention that they were planning a picnic at the beach on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve! The rest of the world will be cozy in front of a roaring fire, sipping spiced nog, hot cocoa and every other form of delightful hot drink, and we're going to be sipping cool sodas in front of open windows. Snow. There should be snow. I don't mean a blizzard or torrents of the white stuff. Just enough to sprinkle some of the trees with wintry white. Just enough to scoop up a ball or two for a jolly snowman. I don't think it's too much to ask. So, that is my Christmas wish this year. Snow. I want to wake to fluffy, sugary mounds of the stuff all over the city. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
Phew, you'll have to excuse my long, tedious rant about snow. I just felt I had to get it all off my chest. When I complain about the perpetual summer weather to Jasper and Daddy, they both dive into their harrowing tales of snow and ice and suffering through abominable storms in Europe and the eastern side of the country where Daddy went to school. Still, I won't be dissuaded from wishing for a white Christmas.

And now it seems I've added to my rant even after my apology for having a rant in the first place. On to more exciting things. As I write this letter, I'm anxiously waiting for my boyfriend, Kellan (how marvelous those two words sound together) to pick me up for one of Daddy's weekend dinners. He's attempting to make homemade lasagna tonight. I'm sure it'll be delicious. He's so talented in the kitchen! I'm certain my mother is looking down from heaven with her hands on her hips and her head at a questioning tilt. I know just the words she'd be uttering— 'Henry, all of a sudden you can cook? You never buttered a piece of toast when I was in the kitchen, and now you're making lasagna?' I, for one, am glad he's discovered his culinary genius. His food is fabulous. Tonight is a special dinner too, not just because of the cheesy wonder that awaits us but because my brothers will be there too. Max is bringing his girlfriend, Bridget and Jasper is bringing, Betsy, the charming and intelligent nurse he's been seeing. And, of course, Kellan is my date.

Oh, Ginny, I must say my cheeks grow warm and fluttery nerves overtake me just writing his name. I hope those reactions never go away. After several relationships, I've finally discovered what it's like to be in love. Months ago, you told me that your husband Gabe's kisses made you weak in the knees, even years after your wedding day. I want that. I want knees of jelly and a belly full of butterflies for an eternity just as you had with your beloved Gabe.

Well, enough about me. I tend to be rather self-centered in these letters and I do apologize. How was the fruitcake your Aunt Frida sent you from New York? I love a good fruitcake when it's chock full of cherries and nuts. Jasper insists they make much better bricks or paper weights than desserts, but I feel they deserve more praise than derision. I suppose they are one of those sweet treats that you either love or despise. I hope you've been enjoying yours, and if it's not too forward of me, I would love to try a piece next time we sit down to tea. I do so enjoy our tea chats.

I need to sign off now. I heard the distinct rattle of Kellan's car out front. Poor, sweet little jalopy, a 1908 Tin Lizzie. Kellan bought it for mere dollars off one of the customers at the station. The customer was ready to, and I quote, 'put it out of its misery'. Kellan felt sorry for the Ford. He had also been itching to buy a car. Unfortunately, his pockets are rather threadbare and cash poor, so when the man asked him where he could sell his broken down Model T, Kellan exclaimed 'look no further, you've found a buyer!' Kellan is skilled with a wrench and he knows his way around a motor, but I must admit, he has to spend an inordinate amount of time under the hood tapping, twisting and cajoling the stubborn car into running.

That's all for now, my dearest friend. I hope we can talk over tea and cake soon. There's always so much to tell you, and I promise I won't dwell on the ridiculously delightful warm weather while we're sipping tea.

Best wishes,
Poppy

Kellan knocked as I folded the letter. I hopped up, startling Antony from his nap. He peered at me through slit eyes as if I had caused great offense. "Oh, don't look at me as if I stepped on your tail. You're the one who decided to curl up on my letter writing desk."

I rubbed my lips together to make sure my lipstick was fresh and glossy, then I hurried to the door. My blushing confession to Ginny Dewberry, my reclusive neighbor, was hardly an exaggeration. A small breath caught in my throat every time I laid eyes upon Kellan Holden with his sparkling gaze, slightly crooked nose and breathtaking smile. And there was always something else, something that couldn't be captured in a photo or written description. It was an air of charisma and natural confidence that made him like no other man I'd met.

"Hey, Duchess, you ready to roll?" He whistled silently as he took in my dress, a simple French blue cotton frock with just enough lace trim to make it right for a Saturday night dinner at Daddy's. The way he looked at it made me feel as if I was wearing the most splendid designer dress in the world.

"Come on in, I just need to get my coat," I said.

"And cover that pretty dress? Besides, it's warm enough to cook an egg out there."

I put my finger against my lips. "Shh, I'm pretending it's winter and we're days away from a white Christmas."

"It's going to be a white Christmas all right," he laughed. "Those sidewalks are white hot." He pulled off his dark green fedora, a new addition and necessity once his old hat, a black fedora so worn and threadbare it could hardly be classified as a hat, had been carried off when he drove his newly purchased car, top down, on the highway. He spent hours on the side of the road searching for the runaway hat but finally decided it was time to let go of his dear, tattered friend. It took him weeks to find what he called 'just the right noggin warmer' before finally settling on a deep forest green fedora with a black band. It was quite dashing but didn't always match what he was wearing. But this evening he'd pulled on his best gray and green flannel shirt, a perfectly stylish companion for the new hat. (Not many men could pull off his style, but Kellan was a man who could make flannel look like it belonged in a high end Hollywood party. Or maybe I was just biased.)

White hot sidewalks or not, I decided to continue with the charade that we were in the middle of winter and, thus, a coat was required. I walked to my closet and pulled out my gray cape wrap coat. It was lighter than my wool wrap, a compromise for the weather.

Both cats were circling Kellan's ankles as I returned to the front room. Antony tended to be friendly to anyone, but it was rare for Cleopatra to show affection—even to me.
Kellan smiled down at them. "Guess I have to stop using that sardine oil aftershave. Or maybe I should start a new trend—tabby striped gaiters."

I laughed as I straightened my beret and tucked up my pin curls. "Oh yes, my letter." I scurried over to the desk and plucked up the folded paper.

"Another letter for Mrs. Dewberry?" Kellan opened the door. "Did you mention me in the letter?"

There was nothing I could do to stop the warmth in my cheeks. Kellan never let a good blush go unnoticed.

He pointed at me with his new hat. "Ah ha, you did mention me. Hope it was flattering."

I held up the note. "Everything in this letter is top secret between my good friend, Ginny, and me. As to the flattery—my lips are sealed." My heels clacked over the paved path as I scooted up to Mrs. Dewberry's mail slot and slipped the letter through. I hadn't seen her at her window all day, but she'd mentioned she would be spending the day washing and ironing the linens and would most likely be too busy for a visit. My letter would have to hold us over until we were able to chat in person.

Kellan offered a pleasing smile and a warm hand as I returned from the letter delivery. He clutched my fingers between his and our arms swung happily as we walked out to the road.

"What's your pop making for dinner? I'm starved." He patted his belly.

"He's trying something new. Lasagna."

"Laza-what? Never heard of it."

I rolled my eyes. "You Ohio boys sure aren't very continental. It's Italian and it has a lot of cheese and noodles and sausage."

"Cheese, noodles and sausage? That's all I need to hear. I'm in. And I must be continental. I'm holding hands with a beautiful Duchess."

I smiled coyly. I wasn't sure about the nickname at first, but I'd grown quite fond of it. Again, I was biased. After a lovely Valentine's Day dinner, which had followed a harrowing afternoon where I planned and outwitted a serial killer (but that's a story for another time) Kellan and I had suddenly, without announcement or fanfare, become a couple. We were just suited for each other. Almost from the first moment we met, when he had decided to slip into my office to hide from the police, we became fast friends. He was so easy to talk to, so easy to like, so easy to fall for. He didn't have money or expensive clothes or cars, but he had a treasure chest of charm and humor.

Kellan beamed at his run-down car with the dents and the faded black paint as if he was looking at a Rolls Royce or Cadillac. I loved him for his untarnished admiration of the old Model T.

I smiled. "I can only hope you'll look at me with that same sparkle when I'm old and faded."

Kellan leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Of course I will. But don't get rusty. Old and faded is one thing, but I draw the line at rusty."

The passenger door took special handling, namely Kellan had to hold on to it so it wouldn't break off. I slipped past him into the seat, and with a good deal of effort, he shut the door tightly.

Kellan set forth on the aggravating task of cranking the motor while I settled into the seat. There were several tears in the upholstery. I had to strategically place my bottom between them to spare the delicate fabric of my dress. My feet rested on this morning's paper. Jasper and I always bought the paper during the work week. It often contained information on crimes and possible cases, but on Saturday, I usually gave myself a break from all the bad news and calamities. Aside from advertising the occasional sale on stockings or handbags or the announcement of a new movie at the theater, the newspaper tended to dwell on the darker aspects of city life. It was nice to step away from all of it once in a while. Still, curiosity caused me to move my heel for a quick scan of the headlines.

"Goodness gracious." I leaned forward and picked up the paper.

"What's that, Duchess?" Kellan called from somewhere in front of the car. He was slightly breathless from turning the crank over and over.

"This headline." The top of the car had been rolled back permanently (a misfortune that was only a problem when it rained) but I spoke loudly so he could hear me over the turn of the crank. "There have been a series of break-ins and robberies at the Warner Brothers Studio. That's where Wyatt has his office," I said the last part more to myself. Kellan was never keen on me bringing up old male acquaintances like director Wyatt Blaze.

Kellan muttered some colorful words to himself as he turned the crank again. The car was being extra stubborn. I filled the time by skimming the article. "The studio has hired three new security guards to keep an eye on things at night. Studio guard, Patrick Muir, stated that the scoundrels seemed to have found a weak spot in the fencing around the studio lot. There have been three midnight break-ins. The thieves got away with expensive camera equipment and petty cash boxes from the commissary."

The car chugged and lurched as the motor sputtered then roared to life. I paused my reading to reset my bottom squarely between the rips in the seat. "While most of the illicit activity has occurred at night, many of the studio employees have purchased handguns to protect themselves," I read as Kellan sat in the driver's seat. My finger swept down to a familiar name. "Oh look! There's a quote from Wyatt in the article. 'None of us are safe until these thieves are caught. We must take every precaution.'" I sat back. "Huh, not a terribly exciting quote."

Kellan pulled away from the curb. The car waddled side to side and let out a few loud bangs before settling into a nice roll. "If you ask me, those guys are all a bunch of cowards. A few cameras and clams go missing, and they arm themselves as if they're in some kind of rowdy western boomtown."

"I suppose it might be a slight overreaction." I placed the paper on the floor and smoothed my dress over my lap. I knew his comment was pointed more toward Wyatt than those guys in general. Kellan and I had run into Wyatt twice in the past few months, and Wyatt being that brash, gregarious Hollywood type never thought twice about kissing my cheek or commenting on my appearance, even with my new boyfriend looking on. Wyatt's forwardness, something that was part of his character, definitely didn't sit well with Kellan.

I decided to change the topic. "Looking forward to this dinner."

"Me too," he said eagerly. The car lurched ahead and then slowed. Kellan gave the steering wheel an encouraging pat. "Don't fail us now, darlin'. There's a plate of cheesy noodles at the end of this trip, and I'm hungry as a bear."