White Lies

by Alice Sabo

  Asher rubbed his face, breathing deeply. This house had hosted a lot of parties. "Yes, please."

  George threw an arm around Asher's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "You'll always be safe here, my friend. Now, come get your milk and cookies."

  Chapter 24

  Asher swam laps. At the dinner hour, he was the only one in the hotel's pool. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe; the repetition was calming. He could empty his mind and just work his body. He knew it was a stalling tactic, but he needed a space to calm down and think clearly. This was when he'd usually get high, when he needed to take himself out of the world for a while. Then while he was gone, someone else would deal with the problems for him. Only this time there was no one else to fix this mess. George's theory of coincidence was comforting, but not realistic. In his gut, he knew better. He turned underwater, pushed off the edge of the pool, and started another lap, even though he was at his limit.

  By the time he reached the other side of the pool, he was gasping for air. He pulled himself out to sit on the edge. With a jaded eye, he coldly examined his physique. Arms were a little thin, but the biceps had a solid shape. No six-pack, but his abdomen was firm and flat. He could still do a shirtless scene if it was called for. Maybe he should talk to Fred about hiring a trainer. This body was the product he was trying to sell. At his age, he needed every advantage he could get.

  A stocky, middle-aged woman wearing a dark blue bathing suit with a red and white polka dot skirt, clip-clopped into the pool area. She corralled two lounge chairs and loaded them with her towels and over-stuffed beach bag. Asher watched, fascinated. There was no one else here, yet she marked her territory aggressively. Despite the pool being indoors, she wore a floppy straw hat. After giving every corner of the room a stern scrutiny, she doffed the hat and placed it on its own chair.

  She trundled over to the water's edge. Hands on formidable hips, she looked down the length of the pool at him. "Excuse me?"

  Asher raised a hand in greeting. "Hi."

  "Is it OK to swim?"

  "I am."

  "I wasn’t sure if you were practicing."

  The acoustics were horrible. Asher walked over to her, enjoying the way she surreptitiously checked him out. Did the men in her life wear Speedos? Her sudden blush said no.

  "Practicing what?"

  "Well, you look like an Olympic swimmer or something."

  Asher smiled, finger-combing his wet hair. "That made my day."

  She let out a sudden gasp and slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, my great Godfrey, you’re Asher Blaine!"

  "Now that made my week," he said.

  She bustled over to her swollen beach bag, dumped out a pile of towels and offered him one with a winking Mickey Mouse. "I just saw that tape on the news. It’s a sin what they tried to do."

  He took the towel automatically. "What tape?"

  "The one they cut up. I saw the whole interview. It’s disgusting what they did."

  Asher covered his sigh of relief with Mickey. "Thank you, Denny," he mumbled softly. When he looked up a camera flash nearly blinded him.

  "Doreen! Look, it's Asher Blaine!"

  He tried to blink the after-image away. Another stocky woman, looking remarkably like the first, gave him a thorough onceover.

  "No, Blaine's dead, Drucilla." She stated the fact in blunt surety. "He's one of those look-a-likes."

  "No. This is him."

  Asher smiled and nodded, not sure what part he should take in the argument.

  "Hmph." Doreen turned her back to fill yet another chair with bags, towels and her own jaunty straw hat. "I thought he had 'Isabelle' tattooed over his heart."

  "That was just make-up, for the movie," he explained.

  "What about the scar on his cheek?"

  "Just for the movie," he assured her, trying to remember which one it had been.

  Doreen scowled at him so fiercely it made him feel a fraud. Who was he pretending to be? Was he no longer himself? Or more importantly, who was he, as himself, now?

  "You're here because of the fire." Another statement of fact.

  "Yes." He felt like he was in another interrogation. This one even worse because to be judged at fault was to lose the esteem of his few remaining fans.

  "Oh, we saw it on the news. I bet the water damage was awful," Drucilla chimed in. "Remember what Cousin Roger went through?" she asked Doreen, confirming Asher's guess that they were related.

  "That was his own fault. Never leave the kitchen when you're deep frying," she intoned with the weight of a sacrament. "What started the fire?" she demanded of Asher.

  "I don't know, the police—"

  "Where did it start?"

  "Garage."

  "Hmph. Lots of flammables in a garage." The tone of her voice was condemning.

  He felt he had to offer some defense. "The police say there was a break-in."

  Doreen pulled out a frilly thing from her bag. Asher was startled to see it was a swim cap decorated with floppy pink loops in a daisy motif.

  "Do you think it's the same guy who murdered Pam and attacked Alanna?" Doreen asked.

  Asher took a step back feeling overly vulnerable. "How—"

  Doreen advanced two steps, a look of gleeful intensity on her face. "I've been following it all. You have had a heck of a time since you got out of rehab, poor thing. But don't let that send you back to the drugs."

  Asher shivered. His life was flayed open for every Tom, Dick and Peggy Sue to poke around in. The women misinterpreted his goose bumps and ordered him off to the sauna to warm up. He returned the Mickey towel and gratefully retreated.

  * * *

  The sauna was dimly lit and scorchingly hot. Unfortunately, it made him think of the heat blasting out from the house fire. The skin on his face prickled where it had gotten slightly singed. Doreen's words were repeating in his brain. Don't let that send you back to the drugs. And hadn't he been thinking that exact thing? He followed that thought to its ultimate conclusion. Who would profit from sending him back into rehab?

  Was someone gaslighting him? Clear in his mind's eye, a terrified Ingrid Bergman feebly defended herself from Charles Boyer's evil machinations. Boyer's character made her think she was losing her mind, so he could claim a treasure that had obsessed him for years. Murder and psychological torture because of a man's malevolent greed. That made Asher circle around to Scott. Was there such a treasure in this instance? But how could Pam's death connect those two ideas?

  Chapter 25

  Still half asleep, Asher sat across the table from Detectives Smythe and Bledsoe in the interrogation room, a photo of a bloody knife between them. It had been a nightmare repeat of the previous trip, only this one started with the police banging on his hotel door in the middle of the night. The harsh fluorescent light made him squint. There was a sour smell of disinfectant and damp cement that intensified a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  "What's happened?" he asked.

  "Dead body and a jeweled dagger. We thought of you." Smythe tapped the photo. Her thin lips pressed into a tight line.

  He rubbed gritty eyes. "It looks familiar. Could be from an action flick I did. Sort of a Zorro knock off. Um, something about shadows. Running in Shadows? Fighting....no, um..."

  "Did you kill anyone with it in the movie?" she asked.

  "Um..." Asher closed his eyes and tried to remember the character. The dagger had been on his belt. He touched the waistband of his jeans, willing the memories to return. "No, I don't think so. It was mostly sword fights." He pulled the photo over and stared at it. "You know they never trusted me with sharp objects. Especially on this one, since I was high all the time. This blade should have been blunt, or even rubber."

  He looked up to see if the detectives thought that was helpful. Bledsoe made a note in his ever-present notebook.

  "Please tell me who's dead." The somber looks he got only increased his anxiety. He hoped it was a stranger although he didn't want to wish anyone dead. />
  "May I see your arms?" Smythe asked. Her tone was civil, but her face was another story.

  Asher pushed up his sleeves and presented his arms. "Never did the needle thing. It was always pills." He searched her eyes but found only cool professionalism.

  With gloved hands, Smythe turned his hands over. Her latex covered fingers were firm and cool. She spread his fingers and looked between each one. That stuck him as odd. He looked at her partner for a clue.

  "There were defensive wounds on the victim," he told him. "The attacker should have scratches or bruises. Maybe his blood on the handle." He tapped the photo. "A jeweled dagger is a very unusual weapon. And all these gems and doodads make great places to trap blood. We didn't wait for DNA."

  "We thought of you right away," Smythe added. "Will we find your blood on this knife?"

  "Probably," he admitted. She let go of his hands and Asher tucked them into his armpits. Smythe always made him feel defensive. "That movie was a nightmare. I got hurt a dozen times. Of course, it probably didn’t help that I was...uh, usually high."

  The detectives exchanged glances. She handed the file to Bledsoe and left the room.

  "When was it filmed?" he continued the interrogation.

  Asher pushed unruly hair back off his forehead. "Oh, let’s see...it was right before the jungle flick, not long after I met Val...about eight years ago?"

  Bledsoe made a note. "And where has this knife been?"

  Asher shrugged. "Haven’t a clue. Sometimes I took clothes or some tchotchke off the set, but I never took weapons. Anyway, that was a really bad time. I don’t remember a lot of it."

  "Then you could have taken it," Bledsoe suggested, as if catching him in a falsehood.

  "No. Not weapons," Asher insisted.

  "OK. Then who do you think has been holding on to it for all this time?"

  "Oh God, I don't know." He pressed his fingertips against his eyes then rubbed his temples. "You know what? The accountant. Track him down. They know everything that goes on. He'd know every detail about that knife."

  Bledsoe wrote that down.

  "Are you going to tell me who was killed?"

  The detective pulled a photo out of the file and placed it in front of Asher.

  "No!" he barked out the word, sharp and angry as a gunshot

  "You're wrong!" He lurched to his feet and kicked at the chair he'd been sitting in. It tipped over and crashed, loud enough to bring someone to the door. Asher didn't see who it was. He turned away and smashed his hand into the cement block wall. "NO!"

  Hands grabbed him and sat him back down.

  "No." This time it sounded like the whine of a dog begging for release from the kennel. He closed his eyes and tears escaped. "Oh, Sharon."

  * * *

  Smythe tossed a report down on Bledsoe's desk. "The blood trace on the knife handle tested positive for opiates."

  He scanned the paper before looking up at her. "And according to his medical records, he’s been clean for two years." He tapped his notebook with his pen.

  "Did we test him again?" She had her hands on her hips in an aggressive stance, but the anger was gone from her eyes.

  Bledsoe pulled a paper out of the scattered stacks on his desk. "Today’s tox screen is also clean."

  Smythe frowned at the report. "So, old blood on the knife."

  "Does that surprise you?" He leaned back in the chair to stretch. A long day had turned into a very long night. "I'm starting to believe that he's being set up."

  Smythe chewed on her lip. "Unless he has a partner."

  "To implicate himself?"

  She shrugged. "For media attention?"

  Bledsoe rubbed his chin in thought. "He seems awful shaken up by her death."

  "Maybe he's a good actor."

  Bledsoe stared across the room, toward interrogation. "Good enough to break his hand?"

  Chapter 26

  A trip to the hospital took up the rest of the night. There were doctors and nurses, paperwork and x-rays of his hand. Asher wondered if he was in shock because it all seemed to happen in jerky bits and pieces of stretched out hours and chaotic minutes. When it was done, Detective Bledsoe insisted that he should take Asher back to his hotel. The thought of being trapped in the car with him that long made Asher feel sick. He knew it was a long shot, but he called Ellie. She picked him up and took him to Hermosa Beach, a place they'd haunted at the beginning of his career, before going anywhere became a traveling circus of bodyguards and paparazzi. After one look at his face, she'd respected his request for no questions. In the early morning shadows, they walked the strand past Manhattan Beach before curiosity got the better of her.

  She cupped a hand under the cast and lifted his arm. "What happened?"

  "I punched a wall."

  Ellie stopped and pulled him around to face her. "Why?"

  "Sharon's dead."

  "Oh, Ash. What happened?"

  He closed his eyes and put his face into the cool wind blowing off the ocean. Everything about him felt raw. He emptied his mind and floated in the sea air, just the smell of wet sand and the sound of the waves on the shore. Ellie stood next to him, silently. A jogger went by, music so loud on his earphones that it startled Asher out of his Zen moment. He had to gulp several breaths before he could make his voice work. "Murdered."

  "And they think you're involved?"

  "It was another prop, a dagger."

  She turned him around to head back to Hermosa and slid her arm through his. "I know you would never hurt anyone, Ash."

  He automatically crooked his elbow, a gentleman's response. "Thanks." He squeezed her hand where it rested on his cast. "I feel like things are spiraling out of control. I'm scared, Ellie."

  "Not out of control. Are you still sober?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you still all in one piece?"

  He brandished the cast. "Mostly."

  "Are you still on the cops' good side?"

  "I think so."

  "Ok. That's a good place to be."

  He sighed, sputtered through a dozen thoughts and wound down to silence. They walked back with the gentle morning sun shining on them, a brief respite before the heat of the day arrived. Speed-walkers, joggers and skaters flew past them. Waves crashed, music blared and a group of teenagers squealed with laughter. Asher felt disconnected from his surroundings. Lack of sleep and grief made him feel like he was watching it all through a misted window.

  Ellie steered him off the strand and up Second Street to The Spot, another old favorite. The restaurant was cool and quiet after the bustle on the beach.

  "Nope." She snatched the menu out of his hands. "I will order you a healthy meal and you will eat it all."

  He gave her a wan smile. "I'll try my best." His gaze wandered the walls. The place felt familiar, safe. He could remember good things happening here. Lunches, dinners with friends, walks on the beach, plans made, dreams divulged.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

  "What is there to say? She's dead and it's my fault."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Another one of my movies." He hugged himself. Suddenly the air conditioning felt too cold. "I don't understand the point of all this. Is it to blame me? Punish me? Drive me back to using?"

  Ellie reached across the table to him. "You haven't..."

  He squeezed her hand. "No. The ER docs were great when I said no pills. I don't mind the pain." He looked at the cast. His whole arm was throbbing. "It feels appropriate." Tears burned his eyes. "She was just a kid."

  "I'm sorry, Ash. I know you were close to her."

  "George was wrong. It isn't just coincidence."

  She huffed a sighed. "George has serious ostrich syndrome. He doesn't want to see what's right under his nose. For Pete's sake, Jeanine cheated on their honeymoon!"

  "Damn." Asher felt bad for his friend. He'd been too involved with his own little dramas to see that George was hurting. "I think sometimes you need the comfort more
than the truth. You just can't look too closely when you're in need like that."

  She gave him a reluctant nod. "He never really let himself mourn her."

  Asher eyes filled again. He let go of her hand to wipe the wetness away. They sat without speaking until his breathing slowed and he felt more under control.

  "I have to figure this out, Ellie. I know I've burnt a lot of bridges. Could that have anything to do with it?"

  "Eh." She shrugged it off. "Shit happens. People get angry because you got jobs they wanted. People get angry because you didn't take jobs they wanted you to. No offense, but that's old news. Unless you've stepped on some toes recently?"

  Asher shook his head. "That's the weird thing, this came out of the blue."

  "Something triggered it," she said.

  "Pam going back to work?"

  She frowned at him. "Were you two back in touch?"

  Asher shook his head. "I hadn't seen her since the embezzling came to light."

  The waitress arrived, and Ellie ordered for both of them. Asher covered his face and concentrated on breathing. He couldn't believe Sharon was gone. Brutally gone. He heard a clunk and smelled coffee. Wiping his eyes again, he looked at the steaming mug that had appeared. Ellie nudged the sugar toward him.

  "Free pass today. Load it up."

  He pulled out two sugar packets and shook them. They were the usual white, generic sugar packets, but they unleashed a pinball tumble of memories. He dragged his gaze up to her face. "I've hurt a lot of people."

  Ellie gave him a stern look. "You haven't hurt anyone."

  "Disappointed?"

  "Like Denny?" She shook her head. "Sweetie, we all saw it coming. We are all to blame for letting you self-destruct. There're a thousand what-ifs in my pocket, and a whole lot of them have Denny's name on them. Let's all just forgive ourselves and leave it at that." She waited for him to acknowledge her words with a hesitant nod. "There's got to be something linking this all together."

  "Just me."

  "Maybe that isn't the only link. Let's think it through. Pam was your business manager..."

  "Who stole from me."

  "And Alanna was your wife..."