If you love the novels of Sharon Sala,
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Fame, fortune…and a fatal obsession
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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 was 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 Travis 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.
She sat with her hands in her lap, staring down at the petit four on her plate. She’d taken one bite before the memory of the food inside Moira’s mouth flashed in her mind and she had to put it aside. It took half her cup of tea to wash down the bite she’d taken.
Harold knew she was bothered. Hell, he was bothered, too.
“I’m getting a bodyguard for you.”
She looked up. “No.”
“Don’t be hardheaded, girl. Someone wants you dead.”
Her chin jutted in defiance, even as her eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t need a bodyguard. They’ve shut down filming until the crime scene is released, so it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I won’t let anyone in the house, so there’s no need for a guard, and that’s final.”
“But—”
“No buts, Harold. I’m serious. Lucy can run errands for me. You’re running interference for me. The media is going to be all over this when it breaks, but I’m not talking and I’m not budging from my home. I get that I need to stay safe, but I can do that by staying here—alone.”
He sighed. “Okay for now, but if anything else happens, you’re getting one whether you like it or not.”
“Nothing else is going to happen. I’ll even cook my own food. I can cook, you know.”
He sighed. “Actually, I didn’t know that. Good for you.”
She glared at him. “That sounded patronizing.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” she said.
Harold’s voice was rising. By the time he got to the end of his apology, he was yelling.
“You’re right! I’m not sorry. I’m frustrated. Part of my job is taking care of you…making sure you’re okay at all times, and you won’t let me do my job.”
She got up and carried her dirty dishes to the sink, dumped everything down the garbage disposal and turned it on, grinding out the sound of his disgust. When she turned around, he was still there.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” he said.
Her shoulders slumped. “You should be. Go home, Harold. If something happens I need to know, you will call me.”
“Fine.”
She walked him to the door.
“Remember the code to go down?”
“Yes, I remember the damn code.”
She grinned. “Your Texas roots are showing, Mr. Warner. Stop cursing.”
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead, then left her standing in the doorway as he crossed the hall to the elevator and punched in the code on the keypad. The door opened. He stepped in and then turned around to wave at her, but she’d already gone inside and closed her door.
“Damn hardheaded woman,” he muttered, and rode the elevator down.
* * *
Four hours later Lucy arrived at Sahara’s apartment with her clothes, purse and a six-inch Italian meatball sub from the drive-thru of a deli she’d stopped at on the way over. It was just past four o’clock when she rang the doorbell.
Sahara opened the door to her personal assistant and was surprised to see that Lucy had her purse.
“My bag! How did you get that? I didn’t think we could remove stuff from the crime scene,” she said.
Lucy shrugged. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, right?” She smiled. “I took it with me when I left the trailer and put it in my car. The sandwich, on the other hand, is fresh. Have you eaten anything?” she asked.
Sahara shook her head. “No, I can’t get anything down.”
“Well, yes, you can and will,” Lucy said. “I bought it on the way home, so we know it’s safe. It’s a meatball sub—your favorite.”
Sahara eyed the short, dark-haired woman and sighed.
“My Achilles’ heel. Thank you, Lucy. You know me too well.”
Lucy eyed Sahara closely, the worry obvious on her face. “You took a shower. That’s a plus. Now why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you something cold to drink to go with your food.”
Sahara’s heart hurt. She kept picturing Moira’s body on a slab in the morgue and wondered if her parents had been notified. If only this day would be over.
She followed Lucy to the kitchen and slid onto a bar stool at the end of the counter, thinking, as she watched her assistant working, that Lucy knew the kitchen better than she did even though Sahara had lived here for more than three years.
She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes, wishing she was anywhere but here, wishing she hadn’t even accepted this role. The character of Alicia Lewis was like nothing she’d ever done, and now it felt tainted—the whole shoot felt tainted—as if it wasn’t supposed to happen. If it hadn’t, Moira would still be alive and working on some other project for another director, maybe sneaking bites of someone else’s food.
“Here you go,” Lucy said, as she set a plate in front of Sahara with the sandwich cut into thirds, a handful of chips on the side and a tall glass of sweet iced tea.
“Thank you so much,” Sahara said. “Have you eaten?”
“No, but—”
Sahara pointed at the bar stool beside her. “Sit. I can’t eat all of this anyway. We’ll share.”
Lucy blinked, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t that Sahara didn’t treat her well, but she’d never done anything so…friendly.
“You want me to eat from your plate?”
Sahara looked startled. “I’m not sick. You won’t be catching anything, but if you don’t want to it’s—”
Lucy shook her head. “No, no, that’s not it. I was just surprised, I guess.”
“I won’t share my tea, though. You’ll have to get your own,” she said, and grinned.
Lucy laughed, a little embarrassed. This was the first time since she’d started working for Sahara that she’d been this open.
“Yes, I’ll get my own drink,” she said, and poured another glass of sweet tea before she sat down.
Sahara pushed the plate between them, then reached for one of the pieces and took a bite. The thick red sauce permeated the meatball in spicy perfection while the toasted bun provided a crunch of texture.
“It’s so good,” Sahara said, and picked up a chip to chase the bite. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, and took a piece for herself. She wouldn’t let herself think of how weird this felt, and hoped her boss didn’t regret the familiarity tomorrow.
Don’t miss
by New York Times bestselling author
Sharon Sala,
Coming October 2017.
Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Sala