White Lies

by Alice Sabo

  He ordered artichoke brochette on toast points, crab-stuffed mushrooms and something in French, just to see what it was. Sharon sashayed off to the ladies' room as soon as the waiter left with their orders. Asher cringed as she cut through the center of the room. Was any lighting soft enough to tone down that outfit? If he'd known their destination, he'd have pulled out the suit he used for going to court. At the very least, he'd have brought a suit jacket. Sitting here in jeans and an old polo shirt made him angry. It wasn't a rebellious statement or a jab at the world of couture, it was simply an oversight. He shouldn't have let Sharon bully him into coming here.

  "Asher?"

  Despite the alarm that spiked through him at the sound of that southern drawl, he had to smile. She stretched his name into three syllables and dropped the 'r'.

  "Yvonne." He stood as she approached the table. She held out her hand, and he gently kissed her arthritis-swollen knuckles. A delicate fragrance teased his nose making him think of flowers and incense and a temple he'd seen in India.

  He offered her a seat, but she declined with the slightest shake of her head. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with pure white hair in soft curls around her face. She looked like a fading southern belle. In reality, she was the font from which sprang some of the most successful projects in Hollywood. Her imprimatur could green-light a project before A-listers were attached. She was a weighty celestial body affecting the orbit of all within her compass. And he was just a burnt out comet that had once sparkled across a star-filled sky.

  "Well sugah, have you come back?"

  He knew she meant other than geographically. "Not really."

  "Uh huh. And what brings you to town then? Slummin'?"

  Her teal silk dress with fine lace trim made him feel like a grubby interloper. "More like sightseeing."

  "And your, um, charmin' companion?" Her raised eyebrow felt like the worst accusation of sexual depravity.

  "Just a friend."

  "With benefits, as the young are wont to say?"

  "No. Not at all. She wants to put her toe in the water, and I'm just watching for sharks."

  He felt graced by her soft chuckle. She glanced behind him as the waiter placed their drinks on the table, beer for Sharon and a pricey bottle of water for himself. When he glanced back at her, she was smiling. "A-ya-sha, deah, are you sobah these days?"

  "Two years." His breath caught a little, with a rush of emotion. He hadn't been able to say that to anyone who mattered, anyone who understood how far he'd come.

  She touched his arm. "Good work, sugah. Now the really hard part begins." She glanced over her shoulder to where a man in a dark suit hovered. "My condolences on Pamela. She wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but we all know how well she could carve."

  Asher bowed his head. "I'm in shock."

  "It was a brutal thing." She tipped her head away from her escort and lowered her voice. "But to use your analogy, if one's going to swim with the barracudas, one must be most vigilant."

  He met her eyes. "Barracudas?"

  Yvonne gave him an incongruous smile. "Might be best you had a lifeguard of your own, sugah." At her nod, the man came forward and offered his arm.

  Asher gave her a courtier's bow. "Your word is my command."

  "You have been missed young man," she said, smiling at him. It felt like an absolution and for a moment, he felt meteoric fires rekindling. She put her gnarled hand on her escort's sleeve and allowed him to lead her away. Asher watched her go, feeling as if he could see the impending demise of polite society as that generation faded away.

  "Hey."

  He turned to see Sharon take a swig of beer out of the bottle.

  "What's going on?"

  "Just an old friend," he said quietly. Being seen by her would start wheels turning. His hands started to shake just thinking about it.

  Chapter 7

  As she entered the room, Detective Smythe could see his late wife's touch in every aspect of Mr. Knudson's kitchen. The teapot motif on the curtains was repeated in the wallpaper border. All the appliances had quilted cozies with embroidered labels. The old man served them freshly brewed ice tea. The placemats were spotless on a table that smelled lemony with wax. She felt guilty letting the frosty glass drip condensation on them.

  "They’re a blight on society, leading our children astray." Knudson pulled a chair out from the table and sat looking away from the detectives.

  "Is that all actors in general?" Bledsoe asked.

  "Hollywood. Period," he snapped. He leaned forward, his eyes bright with passion. "It entices with shiny sugar candy that is, in reality, a deadly poison." His sermon delivered, he leaned back, arms crossed and regarded them with disdain.

  Bledsoe traded a look with Smythe. "That sounds personal."

  "My daughter wanted to be an actress. She was a sweet girl. They killed her."

  Smythe raised an eyebrow. "Literally?"

  Knudson launched out of his chair to peer down the hallway, scowling in the direction of Asher’s house. "It’s his fault. Him and everyone like him."

  "Did your daughter know Blaine?" Smythe asked.

  Knudson moved restlessly through the kitchen tweaking things into place, polishing the shiny counter, refolding dish towels on their rack. "She knew a lot of people. Too many people that we didn’t know. My wife worried sick about her. That’s what gave her the cancer. I don’t care what the doctor said. All that worry. It made her sick."

  He moved back to a point where he could see through the house to the living room windows, facing the street. "I had to bury them both. And he has the nerve to move into this neighborhood. Man can't even mow a lawn. Idiot!" His lips twitched into a sly smile. "But I fixed that," he said, barely audible.

  Smythe shot a glance at her partner. Bledsoe rolled his eyes.

  "But did she know Blaine?" Smythe asked again.

  "Does it matter?" He threw a hand up in furious disregard. "They're all interchangeable. Over-sexed drug addicts the lot of them!"

  "Well, I've got to agree with you there," Smythe said.

  "How was your daughter killed?" Bledsoe asked.

  Knudson turned angry eyes on him. "It's their fault! She took their candy, and it poisoned her."

  "We're sorry for your loss," Smythe said softly. She closed her notepad.

  Bledsoe nodded. "Thank you for your time."

  On the precisely trimmed path across the manicured front yard, Smythe sighed. "He's nuts."

  Bledsoe shrugged. "There's a grain of truth in there somewhere. Kid probably overdosed at a party of the not quite rich and famous trying to fit in with what seemed like the right crowd."

  Smythe looked back at the house. Knudson was watching them from behind a lace curtain. "I know how he feels, but you can't let it take you over like that."

  Bledsoe gave her shoulder a squeeze before they got in the car. "All you can do is try to remember the good."

  She gave him an automatic smile. Platitudes had worn thin a long time past.

  Chapter 8

  Asher's living room was sparsely but comfortably furnished. He had walked into a warehouse type furniture store and had bought the first display that didn't have flowers, stripes or the color orange. The salesman's eyes had popped a little when he'd told him he'd take it all, pillows, rug and paintings on the wall. The room might have the generic quality of a hotel, but Asher didn't mind. He had spent a lot of time in hotels. This was the first home that he had furnished by himself, no wives, girlfriends, designers or assistants involved. It might be plain or boring, but to his surprise, he'd grown to like it.

  He sat on the couch, reading the letter that Sharon had forced on him. She stood over him, arms folded, nostrils flaring.

  "This is the third one." She shook a finger at it, a sparkly row of bracelets jangling in counterpoint.

  "Only three?" Asher tossed the letter onto the coffee table and sank back into the cushions.

  "I think we should call the police." She paced fre
netically. Her tight skirt shortened her stride so much it made her trot.

  "Sweetie, I’ve gotten plenty of hate mail over the years. People don’t act on their threats. It’s an outlet for them."

  She skidded to a halt, hands on hips. "He said he was going to kill you."

  "They all do." He waved away her concerns with a lazy hand. "It really isn’t a problem."

  "I’m the manager, and I think it’s my call."

  Asher fought a smile. She really sounded like a child playing dress-up when she said things like that. "The police won’t do anything. I don't think any laws have been broken."

  She snagged the letter and brandished it. "Uh, hello, a threat against you? There’s a law against that, right?"

  "Um, no, I don't think there is. It’s a letter, Sharon. As long as it doesn’t blow up, or anything, it’s not going to do any harm."

  "Unhh!" She stomped to the front door, her spike heels leaving dents in the plush carpet. After a dramatic pause, she turned back and pointed at him. "You're wrong!" The front door slammed behind her.

  Asher stared at the ceiling in the echoing silence. People had run his life for years, until they had ridden him down to self-destructive insanity. He wouldn't let that happen again. Which was why he hired Sharon. She could barely manage her own life; she was really no threat to his. But she was volatile, unpredictable and dangerously naive. He needed to decide how long he should let this game run. Glancing at the front door, he wondered if it had just ended.

  With a huff and a grunt, he forced himself back into action. A cup of coffee to clear his head, and he'd get back to poking old wounds. There were many rivers to cross if he wanted to dive back in with the sharks. Which made him think of Yvonne's odd comment about barracudas. Who were the barracudas in Pam's life?

  The coffee was fresh. He'd ground the beans this morning. He measured out fragrant spoonfuls and filled the reservoir with water. He didn't want to go back in the office. There were letters on the computer that he'd written and was afraid to send. And then there were the unanswered questions in Pam's death.

  Procrastinating, he stood at the window searching the yard for signs of the cats. The bowls were empty again. Grabbing the bag, he went out to refill them. The backyard was no longer a jungle of unchecked growth. He stood on the porch, the cement cool beneath his bare feet, admiring the overall tidiness of it. A stripe of sunlight warmed his calves, glowing on his skin. Glancing down he noticed that his shorts might be too short, showing a lot of hairy leg and ropy muscle. He needed to catch up on fashion. His pineapple print shirt was worn and faded, probably also long out of fashion.

  The coffee pot gurgled and whooshed with the last bit of water, calling him back in. He rinsed his cup slowly, letting the warm water flow over his hands, still not ready to go back to the computer. There was too much serious thought and planning required before he took that next step, and he wasn't absolutely sure of his destination.

  As he poured a fresh cup of coffee, his mind wandered back to last night and Yvonne's suggestion he get himself a lifeguard. He grabbed the half and half out of the fridge. Did she mean he needed a keeper because of his addiction? What else would he need protection from? He picked up a spoon and froze as a chill crept down his spine. He went back in the living room to collect the threatening letters. Perhaps he should pay a little more attention to something this angry.

  * * *

  Detectives Bledsoe and Smythe watched as Asher laid out the hate mail on the table in the conference room. He was very grateful that they took him here instead of that small windowless room he had been in before.

  "Just these?" Bledsoe asked.

  "I think there were a couple more that Sharon threw away." Asher leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Back when there was a constant influx of the stuff, he'd never paid attention to the specifics of the hate mail. Surrounded with people who were hired to think for him, he hadn't had to deal with any of it. Now, it worried him that a fan might be out of control. He'd heard all sorts of horror stories, and had one or two of his own, but it'd been a long time since he'd had any real active fans. Nowadays most of his were middle-aged women who expressed their pent up emotions in erotic fan fiction on the Internet. He avoided those sites assiduously.

  Smythe picked up a letter with a gloved hand. "Why did she do that?"

  "They upset her."

  "This girl is your girlfriend?" Bledsoe asked.

  "Sharon? No, not a girlfriend. She’s sort of my manager." Asher balked at the statement. He needed to change that very soon.

  Smythe narrowed her eyes at him. "Sort of?"

  Asher wobbled his head, sorting out words. "Well, she’s my sort-of manager. You know, she’s young, just learning the ropes. If she gets me some work, it’s good for both of us."

  "How altruistic of you," she said.

  He could tell from her eyes that charm wouldn't work. Detective Smythe hated him. And since she didn't know him, it had to be for reasons that he had no control over. Another hard lesson learned in rehab: not everyone loved Asher. And he had the scars to prove it. To survive, to go forward, he'd found other ways to deal with people. To his amazement, truth was usually helpful. "No, not really. She can’t get any clients, and I can’t get anyone to return my calls. Jack Sprat."

  Bledsoe tapped the papers on the table. "No idea who sent them?"

  "I’ve had a couple of stalkers over the years, but no one in a long time."

  "And you think this is related to the murder?" Smythe asked.

  "I don't know. But it seems weird that I started getting these out of the blue and then Pam's killed."

  Detective Smythe sucked in a breath, and he saw muscles tighten all over her body. "Are you seriously suggesting that an angry fan committed murder and framed you for it?"

  Asher knotted his fingers in his lap and stared at them. "Fans can get crazy." He heard her loud exhale and could feel her anger about to ignite. "Not regular fans. What I mean is... um, crazy people become fans, literally fanatics. When something comes along that, um, intrudes into their fantasy world, it can set them off. And they can do some frightening things."

  He looked up to see the detectives exchanging a look. Bledsoe raised his eyebrows and ducked his head in a shrug of assent. "Stranger things have happened."

  Detective Smythe stared at Asher for a full minute before she put the letter down and took the next. "What service do you use for your fan mail?"

  "Don’t need one. Most of it's online and Sharon handles that."

  Bledsoe pointed to the letters. "So this is it?"

  "So far."

  Smythe looked at him over the edge of the letter. "We’ll need a list of your stalkers."

  "Oh, uh, I don’t remember who they are."

  "Did you take out restraining orders?" Bledsoe asked patiently.

  Asher frowned in thought. The faces of bodyguards and security men flashed through his head. "I’m sure somebody did something. I’ve got some pretty serious memory holes."

  Smythe's lips thinned with anger. "Well, go talk to somebody and find out something. You need to give us a reason why someone would kill because of you."

  Chapter 9

  Asher took the bus to his ex-agent's office. He could have called Sharon to pick him up, but he didn't want her involved. She was a little too volatile for something this delicate. Or maybe he just didn't want her to see how painful this would be. Figuring out where to catch it, where to change buses and getting to the bus stop was an adventure in itself. He felt quite proud of himself as he boarded and deposited his exact change. The fun lasted about 15 minutes, then monotony set in. The bus stopped, people got off, people got on and the bus lumbered on. At first, the parade fascinated Asher: young women with fussy toddlers, men in shabby clothes with body odor, elderly women clutching shopping bags, arrogant teens with thumping bass leaking from ear-buds. There was a delicate choreography of nonchalant avoidance, but after the fourth or fifth repetition, it lost its appeal.

/>   He glanced out the window to find a landmark and realized the trip was going to take a lot longer than he'd expected. A middle-aged woman wearing clothes that were too tight for her doughy figure sat down next to him. A cloud of perfume arrived with her, strong enough to make his eyes water. A nervous Latina got on and steered her little boy towards the back. Asher offered his seat, as much to be a gentleman as to escape the rampant scent. He found a place in the crowded aisle and loosened his knees into the roll and shudder of the bus.

  Negotiating the change of routes was more aggravating than gratifying. Surrounded by the worker-bees who kept the city buzzing, he felt distinctly outside his own reality. When he'd come to Hollywood, just out of high school, doors had opened for him. His story was the fairy tale version, discovered and famous in the blink of an eye. Busses, waiting tables and living with roommates in unsavory neighborhoods wasn't part of his education. Staring out the filthy window at a somber city of concrete office buildings gave him a dose of anxiety. He had no skills besides acting. What would he do if they wouldn't let him back in?

  Halfway down Wilshire, they passed the La Brea tar pits and his hands started to sweat. His stop was finally coming up. He stumbled off the bus onto Santa Monica Boulevard and was assaulted by scorching sun, a cloud of diesel exhaust and an earsplitting trio of motorcycles. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings. He didn't think he'd ever been to Denny's office before. He'd never had to be the petitioner begging at the gate. They'd started conducting business in restaurants and clubs, then living rooms and on sets and ended in sickbeds and hospital rooms. Joining the mob at the crosswalk, he put the past aside. Things had changed. He had changed. Glancing up at the glass building, he hoped that he would be allowed to start over.

  Denny Croft worked in a boutique agency on Avenue of the Americas. The office was lushly appointed: thick carpet, subdued lighting and a receptionist like a pitbull. Photos of their most famous clients graced the hallways. Asher noticed that his picture was not among them. Perhaps that was why the receptionist hadn't recognized him. Behind her desk a huge photo dominated the wall, a young hero, green-eyed and shaggy haired, tattoos across his bare chest, smiling sexily at the camera. Asher felt the cold burn of simple envy. He'd been that hot, young face once. Now he was a non-descript, middle-aged man, sweaty and tired from hours on a crowded bus.