Murder on the Angels Flight Trolley

There's a Valentine's Day killer on the loose ...

Poppy Starfire is excited to be spending the morning at an estate sale with her best friend, Birdie. Their adventure entails a trip on the Angels Flight trolley, the shortest cable car ride in the world but a necessity for traveling up to Los Angeles's famous Bunker Hill. Their highly anticipated morning goes awry when a woman keels over dead on the trolley. The police are quick to write the woman's death off as an accident but Poppy's not so sure.

When the dead woman's sister asks Poppy to find out the real cause of her sister's untimely death, Poppy and Jasper find themselves in the middle of a case that has little evidence and even less possible suspects. After a second victim turns up, they try to connect the dots, but the dots are few and far between. When the mad killer strikes closer to home, Poppy and Jasper realize they need a plan and fast.

Saturday, February 9, 1924
Dear Ginny,

What perfectly dreary weather for a Saturday. Those gray grumpy clouds loom low in the sky, teasing us with the notion of rain, but it seems they refuse to release even one droplet. I've always considered a rainy day to be delightful (unless I'm wearing new shoes, then it's a good degree less full of delight) but a dark, brooding sky with no precipitation is just plain gloomy. At least with the rain, I have an excuse to open the new sapphire blue umbrella Daddy gave me for Christmas. I think I'll bring it along on my Saturday excursion anyhow. You never know when those cantankerous clouds might decide to let loose with the waterworks.

My dear friend, Birdie, and I only just made Saturday plans yesterday over one of Duffy's tuna melts, so I haven't had a chance to fill you in on the details. Birdie saw a notice in the paper about a large estate sale on Bunker Hill. She is looking for fashion treasures. Apparently, a stylish woman, Henrietta Newsom, an heiress to a men's hair cream fortune, succumbed to pneumonia. Probably the result of a chill. Those massive Victorian mansions are so drafty, or, so I've heard. I've never actually been inside one. But that changes today! Birdie and I are going to take the Red Car to Hill Street. Then, we're hopping on the Angels Flight trolley for the short and very steep climb to Olive Street. I must admit it has been at least five years since I've taken a ride on Angels Flight. My reasons are twofold, the first being the obvious, I have no wealthy, powerful friends (only wonderful friends like you and Birdie) and therefore have no social connections in Bunker Hill. The second reason is far less obvious and much more sticky. On my last trip, I unwittingly sat on a child's lollipop (slightly used). I'm mortified to admit that I wandered along crowded Hill Street with a brightly colored lollipop glued to my bottom for a good five minutes before I caught a glimpse of the tagalong confection in a shop window. Needless to say, my tweed skirt was ruined along with my enthusiasm for riding the trolley. See, it's a good thing I don't have rich and powerful friends in Bunker Hill. This morning I will be much more vigilant and keep an eye out for discarded lollipops.

Let's see—what other news from the great big world outside your door. As you well know, I'm always scouring the headlines for a possible unsolved murder and future case, but I must say the newspaper has been rather dull since the close of the Winter Olympics in France. Every day was a new headline about a gold medal here and a gold medal there. Poor Jasper was absolutely devastated when the United States lost to Canada in ice hockey. Do you know that silly boy still refuses to have maple syrup on his pancakes because he's so angry at Canada. Although, Daddy is certain he'll tire of his self-imposed boycott soon because Jasper loves his pancakes, and he always drowns them in so much maple syrup he has to use a spoon to finish his plate. With the lack of aforementioned sensational news, I'm afraid business is rather slow. But I'm hopeful things will pick up soon enough.

Oh, here is one piece of news that might be of interest to you. I'm sure you remember me telling you about Samuel Langston, the man I dated for a short stretch of time until I came to the conclusion that we were not suited for each other. Jasper still laments our breakup every time he sees a Rolls Royce on the road, even though I've assured him time and time again that Samuel would never have allowed him to drive his luxury sedan. But, of course, that's what I love the most about my brother, Jasper. He never lets facts and hard, cold reality get in the way of his dreams. Anyhow, back to news. According to a half page wedding announcement in the Star Times, the 'highly respected businessman Samuel R. Langston will soon wed Miss Cynthia Rochester'. Apparently, her father owns several prosperous silver mines in Nevada. I'm happy for Samuel. He needed someone more fitting to his station in life.

Talk of impending nuptials has reminded me that we are inching toward Valentine's Day, a holiday that seems to have only two sides, like a flipped coin. If one has an admirer or lover, then it's a marvelous day filled with anticipation and velvet covered boxes of chocolate. However, if, like yours truly, there is no admirer or lover, then the day is a rather solemn reminder of that cruel fact. But I refuse to let the day be ruined by it. I spotted a tray of heart-shaped chocolate cakes in the window of Greta's Bake Shop. Each sugary treat is draped in silky dark chocolate. I'll buy one this week, and we can have it with tea. It will be the perfect way to celebrate the day with my good friend, Virginia Dewberry.

And with that promise of delicious future plans, I must sign off. I'm meeting Birdie at the Red Car for our day's adventure. I look forward to our next tea party.

Your devoted friend,
Poppy

I folded the letter. I no longer bothered with the formality of an envelope. After nearly six months of writing letters to my reclusive neighbor, Mrs. Dewberry, my missive was expected, and, I confess, I would miss writing them. Even though it wasn't altogether necessary anymore. After months of patiently sitting outside Mrs. Dewberry's window, sipping tea and having quick chats through the window screen, Ginny, as she insisted I call her, took the huge step of inviting me into her home for tea. She'd been holed up on her own in her small house, one that was identical to mine, with the exception of the furnishings, since her husband died, leaving her a widow who had also suffered the loss of an only child. Her grief had caused her to stay sealed up in her house, relying solely on the mercy of her nephew to bring her groceries and sundries. We'd had a total of three little face to face chats over her kitchen table, and I cherished each one of them. I looked forward to a fourth soon, but I'd found it was never good to be pushy with Mrs. Dewberry. 'Little steps' as Daddy, a wise man and once prominent physician, had recommended for someone whose life had been disrupted by trauma.

My gaze flitted past the hands on my watch. It was a quarter till nine. "Antony and Cleopatra, why on earth didn't you tell me it was so late?" Both cats stared up at me, with their usual bored indifference, letting me know that it was certainly not their fault that I'd tarried too long at my desk and even if it had been their fault, they just wouldn't care.
I plucked my navy blue raincoat and matching hat off the coat hook and grabbed my new umbrella. The rain clouds might be playing coy with those of us on the ground, but I was going to use that new umbrella, raindrops or not.

Mr. Crandell, the second of my two friendly neighbors (number three was another matter altogether) was just leaving his house as I walked outside. He locked his door and spun around with a bright red piece of paper under his arm.

"Mr. Crandell," I said cheerily, "how are you this less than lovely morning?" We stopped where our two short walkways met. "I suppose it doesn't hurt to be able to call a morning less than lovely in California. We have so many gloriously sunny days, it's nice to say something different."

Mr. Crandell's white tufts of hair stuck out from his black fedora. His big cheeks rounded like pink apples as he chuckled. "Our wonderful weather can get a little monotonous, however, I instantly miss it when clouds push in." He buttoned the top button of his coat. "And it's chilly today too." He adjusted the bright red paper under his arm. The edges of the paper were trimmed with white paper doilies, like those used beneath cakes at a party.

I couldn't stop a wide smile. "Mr. Crandell, have you found yourself a sweetheart?"

His cheeks darkened and he looked confused before seemingly remembering he had a paper valentine tucked under his arm. His laugh was loud enough to cause Mrs. Dewberry to peek out her kitchen window. Mr. Crandell pulled the valentine out from its hiding place.

"No, I think I'm well past the age of giving out paper hearts." He opened up the red paper that had obviously been cut by a very young pair of hands and with a very dull pair of scissors. "My four-year-old granddaughter, Juney, sent me this heart in a big envelope. I thought I'd hang it in my office at the produce market."

"I think that's the perfect place for it. Well, I'm off to meet my friend. Have a gray, cloudy and wonderful day."

"You too, Poppy." He headed toward the sidewalk, and I made my usual stop at Mrs. Dewberry's door to push the letter through the mail slot.

I pulled up the collar on my raincoat for no other reason except the whole rubbery ensemble looked sharper and more stylish with the collar up. I hooked the smoothly carved umbrella handle on my arm, and I headed out for my Saturday adventure.