by Sharon Sala
“Catherine.”
Cat gasped, then leaned down.
“I’m here, Wilson. I’m here.”
“I hur oo.”
His voice was so soft, and his speech so tangled from the drugs in his system, that Cat couldn’t understand what he’d said.
“What, honey? What did you say?” she asked.
Wilson felt her hand against the curve of his cheek and leaned into it, taking his strength from her, and repeated his words.
“I heard your call,” he said. “I came back…for you.”
The jolt from his words rocked Cat to the core. She leaned down and kissed the side of his face. When she stood up, she staggered.
Carter caught her and promptly sat her down in a chair, with orders to stay there.
Cat nodded without taking her gaze from Wilson’s face. He’d come back to her, and, God willing, he would get well and they would live happily ever after, just like in the movies. Of course, that would be right after she saw Jimmy Houston drawn and quartered.
Then they would live happily ever after, but not before.
* * * * *
If you love the novels of Sharon Sala,
be sure to check out her latest release,
LIFE OF LIES.
Fame, fortune…and a fatal obsession
Keep reading for a sneak peek from
LIFE OF LIES.
CHAPTER ONE
Dust motes stirred within the sunlight streaming into the hayloft of the abandoned barn. The hay bales that had been left behind were busted and moldy, fit only for the rats that wintered there, and partially hiding the couple making love on the mattress nestled along the back wall.
The heat of the day and the lack of moving air coated their bodies with beads of sweat, but it was the heat building inside them that was out of control.
Alicia groaned, and Jerry slid his fingers through her long dark hair and kept on moving, shifting his body just enough so that the camera in the shadows on the other side of the loft caught the bounce of her breast and the long length of her legs beneath him.
In the midst of their passion, Alicia heard voices approaching the barn. Her eyes widened. They were about to be found out! She grabbed Jerry’s arms.
“Someone’s coming!”
Jerry froze, then put his hand over her mouth and motioned toward their clothing in a pile at the foot of the bed. With the mood broken and their affair on the verge of being discovered, they scrambled to get dressed. But their bodies were slick with sweat and their hands were shaking. All they got on was underwear before the men entered the barn below.
Half naked and shaking in terror, they huddled together on the mattress, listening in disbelief to what sounded like a drug deal going down. Jerry turned toward the camera, his eyes widening in horror, then looked back at Alicia just as a gun went off below them.
Alicia clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming as more gunshots sounded, and as hay sprayed around them, she realized some shots were flying into the loft. She buried her face against her knees, trying to make herself as small a target as possible.
The shots ended as abruptly as they’d begun. She heard footsteps running out of the barn and turned with relief to Jerry until she saw him slumped down behind her, blood spilling onto the mattress.
“Jerry! Oh my God, Jerry!” she cried, and knelt beside him, trying to feel for a pulse. But there was none.
He was dead.
She leaned over his body, sobbing uncontrollably at the reality of what had just happened, then rocked back on her heels and screamed.
“Cut!” the director said, and then jumped out of his chair while Sahara Travis pulled herself up from the hayloft as gracefully as if she’d just curtsied before the queen.
She held out her arms as someone from wardrobe came running with a dressing gown to cover her up.
The director was pleased with both actors, and the lilt in his voice showed it.
Bobby French, the actor playing Jerry, stood up scratching his bare belly and waiting for someone to bring him a robe.
“That was great, Bobby. Absolutely riveting, Sahara. We’ll break for lunch now. Everyone back on set in one hour.”
Sahara nodded as she began fastening her dressing gown while looking around for her personal assistant.
“Has anyone seen Lucy?” she asked.
One of the cameramen waved toward the craft service area.
“Catering was here. She might have taken your lunch to your trailer.”
“Thanks,” Sahara said, and strode off the set and then outside into the sunny California heat.
She was halfway to the trailer when she heard someone calling her name.
“Wait a second!” Lucy called, as she ran to catch up. “I was dropping off your lunch, and I got a call from wardrobe. They wanted you to stop in before you get back on set, but I told them to send someone to your trailer for measurements instead.”
Sahara frowned. “Thanks, but why do they need new measurements?”
“Your director doesn’t like the wardrobe in tomorrow’s scenes,” Lucy said.
“Whatever,” Sahara said, and walked up the steps and into the trailer with Lucy behind her.
The air-conditioning was welcome as she entered. Sahara turned toward the kitchen to wash up and was startled to see a woman curled up on the floor.
“It’s Moira,” Sahara cried, running to her.
She dropped to her knees beside the wardrobe assistant, assuming Moira must have fainted. But then she felt for a pulse and there was none.
“She’s not breathing! Call 911,” Sahara shouted to Lucy, then rolled Moira onto her back to begin CPR, while her assistant frantically pulled out her phone.
Sahara tilted Moira’s head back and ran her finger inside her mouth to make sure the airway was clear, only to realize it was packed with food Moira never got to swallow. She leaned closer, intent on clearing the airway when she smelled something that nearly stopped her heart. She yanked her finger out of Moira’s mouth and frantically wiped it on her robe, then jumped to her feet to wash her hands at the sink.
The tray with Sahara’s catered meal was on the counter and it was obvious that the food in Moira’s mouth came from that plate. Sahara smelled the food and then shoved it aside, staggering toward a chair to sit down, trembling in every muscle. The ramifications of what she was thinking were too horrifying to accept.
“The police are on the way,” Lucy said, as she turned around, and then saw her boss sitting at the table, staring at the body on the floor. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you doing CPR?”
“She’s dead. I think she’s been poisoned.”
Lucy gasped. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“Her breath…I smelled bitter almonds. Someone put cyanide in my food, and she ate it.”
Lucy ran toward the counter and lifted the cover off Sahara’s lunch. Sure enough some food had been eaten off the plate. She smelled it, then spun toward Sahara with a look of disbelief.
“I smell it, too, but—cyanide? How do you know?”
Sahara was rocking back and forth where she sat with her hands curled into fists, shaking uncontrollably. She ignored Lucy’s question completely, focusing instead on the implications of what had just happened.
“Why would she eat my lunch? Maybe she thought I’d never miss it. Who cares—she’s dead, Lucy! But if she was poisoned by my food, then… Oh my God! She died because someone tried to kill me! Why? Why?” Sahara cried, and then burst into tears.
Lucy ran to comfort her as the sound of sirens filled the air. By the time the police cars were on the lot and heading for Sahara’s trailer, most of the crew was already there.
Tom Mahan, the director, was in a panic, thinking something had happened to the star of his movie. He was relieved to see Sahara sitting at the table in tears, but that ended abruptly when he saw the body.
“Oh my God! Moira! What happened?”
“We don’t know. She wa
s here to take measurements, and it looks like she ate some of Sahara’s catered meal and…died. Sahara thinks Moira was poisoned,” Lucy said.
“I don’t think it, I know it,” Sahara insisted. “Remember the movie I did with Rhett Coulter? The stalker used cyanide on Rhett’s character to get rid of him so he could get to me. It was the medical examiner who smelled bitter almonds and said he’d been poisoned.”
“Yes, I remember!” Tom said. “Wow, good call, Sahara.”
She looked up at him in disbelief. “Can we please not celebrate my memory right now? Moira is dead.”
“Right! Sorry!” he said, and darted out of the trailer. Moments later he was back with a half-dozen uniformed officers from the Hollywood division of the LAPD, followed by a couple of detectives from Homicide who began issuing orders. To the director’s dismay, shooting would have to be stopped and everyone would be on lockdown until statements were taken.
A couple of officers were unrolling crime scene tape around the trailer as everyone was sent back to the set. An interview site was set up near craft services by commandeering one of the long serving tables to use as a desk.
Because she found the body, Sahara was called up first. The video camera was on and once again she was being filmed, but this time she wasn’t going to have to fake emotions. She was sick to her stomach and scared to death.
The detective doing the interview sat down on the other side of the table and introduced himself.
“Miss Travis, I’m Detective Colin Shaw from the Homicide division. We’re going to be filming all of the interviews for our records.” He gestured toward the video camera set up on a tripod nearby. “I need you to tell me in your own words what happened, beginning with where you were the hour prior to the discovery of Moira Patrick’s body.”
Sahara was suddenly aware of how naked she was beneath the dressing gown and pulled it tighter around her neck.
“We were on set. The crew, the director, Chris, the actor in the scene with me. We were all there filming a rather difficult scene. It was our third take, so I’d guess we’d been there at least an hour and a half? Then Tom called a lunch break. I was going to my trailer and met my assistant, Lucy, on the way. We found Moira Patrick’s body inside.”
“Why was Moira in your trailer?”
“She’s part of…was part of wardrobe, and I was told that the director wanted some changes made for tomorrow’s scenes. She was sent to my trailer to get measurements,” Sahara said.
“What did you do then?” Shaw asked.
Sahara started to shake as she described beginning CPR, then seeing the food lodged in Moira’s throat and smelling the scent of bitter almonds.
“How did you know about that scent being linked to cyanide poisoning? Most people don’t know that.”
She told him what she’d already explained to Tom and Lucy about her previous movie role, then tears began to spill.
“She ate food meant for me. I was the intended victim.”
Shaw frowned. “Who would want you dead?”
Sahara grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know. Lots of people. You would have to ask my manager, Harold Warner. He keeps track of all my hate mail.”
Shaw shook his head. Considering this was Hollywood, hate mail was as common in their business as spam in email.
“Is there anything in particular you’ve received recently that gave you cause for concern?”
“Nothing that I know of. Harold doesn’t usually show me any of it. Why would I want to see those angry letters?”
“Okay, what about your lunch? Where does your food come from?” Shaw asked.
“I don’t know the name of the company. Lucy, my personal assistant, might know. She usually picks it up for me and brings it straight to my trailer to put in the refrigerator. Nothing stays fresh in this heat.”
“How do you get on with Lucy? Would she have any reason to want you dead?”
“Lucy? No, absolutely not. We get along fine. She’s been with me for almost a year, and I pay her very well. I can’t imagine a reason why she’d want to end a monthly income.”
Shaw continued with the questions he’d prepared, making sure he’d covered every detail with Sahara before finishing.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Shaw said once he’d gotten all the information he could.
Sahara was pale and trembling.
“Am I allowed to leave the set now?”
“Yes, ma’am. Where did you intend to go?”
“Home. I just want to go home. I don’t suppose my assistant is allowed to leave with me?”
“Not yet. We’ll need to question everyone before they can head out. I can have an officer take you home, though.”
She nodded. “Yes, please. Can I go back to my trailer to change clothes and get my purse?”
“I’m sorry, but no. Right now, everything in that trailer is part of the crime scene.”
“Lord have mercy,” Sahara muttered. “Then I guess I’ll clean up in wardrobe and borrow some clothes to wear home.”
“The officer will be waiting out front.”
“Am I still in danger?”
“Until we get confirmation from the lab that your food was actually poisoned, I can’t say.”
Sahara shoved a shaky hand through the tangles in her hair.
“Great. Hopefully I won’t have to die before someone makes up their mind.”
* * *
Harold Warner was a Mel Gibson look-alike and a Hollywood veteran. He’d started out as an actor, but quickly tired of the casting calls and went to work on the other side of the business as an agent, then later moved to personal management.
He was just about to pull into valet parking for lunch with a friend when his cell phone rang. Still focused on getting into the proper turn lane, he hit the hands-free button to answer in his usual abrupt and impatient manner.
“Harold Warner.”
“Mr. Warner, this is Detective Shaw with the LAPD. I need to talk to you about Sahara Travis.”
Startled, both by the man and the question, Harold swerved into the wrong lane, barely missing the Porsche just behind him.
The driver honked at him loud and long as he flew past, but Harold was already trying to get off the street.
“What about Sahara Travis? Has something happened to her?”
“Not to her, no. But we are concerned about her safety after the incident that occurred today. There’s been a death on the set of her movie, and we think Ms. Travis may be in danger, as well. We’re still in the early stages of the investigation but—”
“A death? What the hell? Is Sahara okay? Where is she?”
“I had an officer take her home,” Shaw said.
“Did you put a guard on the penthouse?” Harold asked.
“No, sir. Not at this time.”
“Talk about leaving the barn door open,” Harold grumbled. “I’m heading to her apartment building right now.”
“I need to talk to you about the hate mail Ms. Travis has received recently. If you’ve kept it saved, I’ll need to see what’s come in.”
“Okay, send an officer over to my office. I’ll have my secretary make copies for you.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Shaw said, getting only a disconnect for his troubles.
Harold was in a panic. Sahara was his paycheck, and a nice one at that, but he also adored her. It would be a tragedy if anything happened to her. He turned around and headed downtown, blowing through yellow lights and cutting corners too close for comfort.
He was sweating by the time he pulled into the parking lot at The Magnolia. He sat there long enough to give his secretary instructions and then ended the call and ran inside. He was sweating and puffing, thinking he probably should’ve been using that gym membership he kept in his wallet when he saw Adam, the security guard, in the lobby.
“Afternoon, Mr. Warner.”
“Afternoon, Adam. Is Miss Trav
is in?”
“Yes, sir. She came back about thirty minutes ago. You go on up. I’ll ring her for you.”
* * *
Sahara was still rattled by the events of the day and was about to make herself some hot tea when the house phone at her elbow suddenly rang. It startled her enough that her heartbeat hit a hard, solid thud before it went back into a normal rhythm.
“Good Lord,” she muttered, as she picked up. “Yes?”
“Afternoon, Miss Travis, this is Adam. Mr. Warner is on his way up.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
Moments later there was a knock at her door. She looked through the peephole and felt a huge sense of relief at seeing Harold’s familiar face.
“Come in,” she said, as she opened the door.
“Are you okay?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.
“I am not physically injured in any way, if that’s what you’re asking. If you want to know how I feel inside, I’m sick to my stomach. A friend ate food meant for me, and it killed her. I can’t describe how sad that makes me feel. Who the fuck wants me dead this week, Harold? What do you know that I don’t?”
“Nothing new on that front. I promise. You’re on the upswing with marriage proposals. Your hate mail won’t amp up again until this movie comes out. You know how people feel about women who cheat on their husbands…”
Sahara rolled her eyes. “Does no one understand the meaning of fiction, and that acting means it’s not me, it’s me being a character in a story?”
“It’s all part of the life, you know that. Now tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out,” Harold said.
“Do you want some tea?” Sahara asked.
“No, I want answers,” Harold said.
“Then come into the kitchen because I want tea.”
So she talked as she worked, making and pouring her tea while telling him everything from the moment she got to work, until they walked into the trailer and found Moira.
Harold was used to her cool demeanor, but today he could tell his ice princess was cracking. By the time she finished her story, her voice was shaking.