by Sharon Sala
“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 Miss 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 penthouse, 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 doors 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 Sahara’s 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 work, 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 acc
epted 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.
Two
Sahara walked the floor after Lucy left. Every sound startled her. Every siren outside made her feel hunted. By the time sundown came, she was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for almost an hour, then gave up and turned on the lights. There were only two things that helped her relax. One of them was sex with a willing man, but since she was missing a partner, she opted for the other option and headed for the kitchen.
She opened the freezer and then leaned forward, welcoming the blast of cold air against her heated skin as she scanned the choices.
Butter Pecan, Rocky Road or straight Vanilla Bean.
“It’s been a rocky day. I think this fills the bill,” she said, reaching for the pint of Rocky Road ice cream. She closed the door with her elbow as she reached for a spoon and crawled back up on the bar stool to take off the lid.
The first bite was sweet salvation…chocolate, marshmallow and walnut bits.
Sex on a spoon, Sahara thought, and sighed as the cold treat slowly melted on her tongue.
She flashed on Moira again, but this time remembering what a sweet, funny girl she’d been and how she did love to eat. Her eyes welled with tears as she scooped up a bite and lifted it in a toast.
“To you, sweet Moira,” she said aloud in the empty kitchen. “May you have ice cream forever wherever you are.”
*
The killer was walking the floor and pissed beyond measure. This should have been an easy kill, and yet it had gone horribly wrong. Who the hell could have known that anyone would have the gall—the daring—to eat food off Sahara Travis’s personally prepared plate?
He finally headed for the bathroom to get ready for bed and paused at the mirror, eyeing his reflection. He was a long way from the years when his mother called him Bubba, but every time he looked in a mirror, that was who he saw.
Whatever. The plan had failed, but he wouldn’t let himself be discouraged. This didn’t mean anything except that there would be a next time.
*
Sleep was as frightening as the day had been. Sahara was up before daylight, exhausted and heartbroken. She stayed in a hot shower until her skin felt raw, trying to wash away yesterday’s horror, then dressed in old gym shorts and a T-shirt and went barefoot to the kitchen. She disliked the one-cup coffee makers and quickly started a full pot to brew, then toasted an English muffin while she waited and ate it with strawberry jam.
Soon, the scent of freshly brewed coffee was permeating the room, and it was just the wake-up she needed. After pouring herself a cup, she opened the sliding door leading out to her balcony, intending to take her first sip along with a breath of fresh air.
But the moment she stepped out on the balcony, a roar erupted from the crowd of people that had gathered below, startling her to the point that she splashed hot coffee on her bare foot and then cried out in pain.
She hobbled back inside to get ice on the burn and then called downstairs to the lobby to ask Adam what the hell was happening.
“Good morning, Miss Travis,” Adam said.
“Good morning, Adam. What’s going on outside?”
“Seems to be a gathering of fans and the media, I think.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes, ma’am. News broke about what happened on your set yesterday.”
“The vultures are already descending,” she muttered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s great, just great. So much for a trip to the ER. What do you have on hand that’s good for burns?”
“Oh no—are you okay?”
“Not the end of the world. Just hot coffee on the top of a bare foot, but looks like it’s going to blister and hurts like hell.”
“Keep ice on it, and I’ll have a doctor here shortly.”
Sahara winced at the pain shooting up her leg.
“Thank you, Adam. Sorry to be a bother.”
“No, ma’am. This is no bother. This won’t be the first time we’ve had to call a doctor to this building. It shouldn’t be long. I’ll call right now,” he said, and disconnected.
Sahara hung up the house phone and then hobbled into the kitchen for more ice just as her cell phone signaled a text.
It was Lucy, asking if she needed anything and saying that she was on her way over.
She responded with a text to bring some bananas, a box of cook-and-serve vanilla pudding mix, milk, a box of vanilla wafers and anything else that looked good. Might as well stock up if she was going to be stuck here for a while.
She got a thumbs-up and a laugh emoji from Lucy, then disconnected and put some more ice on her burn.
*
Lucy came out of the supermarket with a whole extra sack of groceries above what Sahara had asked for. She already knew about the media chaos. She’d seen it on the early-morning news, which meant it was time to prepare for a lockdown. No way could Sahara go anywhere without bodyguards today, and Harold Warner was in charge of all that.
Lucy blew a lock of hair from one eye as she put the bags inside her car. It wasn’t quite 9:00 a.m., and it was already hot. If only her boss had a place up in the hills, one with a big pool and an even bigger wall around it, work would be so much better. She didn’t understand why an actress as famous and rich as Sahara Travis insisted on living in the middle of such a huge city, even if it was at The Magnolia, and even though she owned the penthouse. Sure, this place had a pool, but it was on the roof opposite the helipad at the other end, and it was even hotter up there—closer to the sun. Technically, the other residents of The Magnolia were on the same social level as Sahara, but it just didn’t fit Lucy’s idea of Hollywood glamour.
She upped the air-conditioning to frigid as she drove and breathed a sigh of relief as her car finally began to cool. She knew the media was already on-site, but upon arrival, it suddenly felt as if she was driving into a riot.
“Oh good Lord,” she mumbled, then honked loud and long to move a group of paparazzi as she took a quick turn into the adjacent parking garage.
She got out, unfolded a portable cart she kept in t
he trunk and transferred the two sacks of groceries into it before heading into the building.
Adam saw her coming. “Do you need any help, Miss Lucy?”
“No, I’ve got this, but thank you,” she said.
“All right, then. You tell Miss Travis that the doctor is on his way.”
Lucy frowned. “Doctor? What doctor? Is she hurt?”
“She burned the top of her foot with hot coffee.”
“Oh no,” Lucy said, and began hurrying toward the elevator.
“I’ll ring her and tell her you’re coming up,” Adam said.
Lucy waved to indicate she’d heard him and kept on going.
*
Sahara was in misery when she got word that Lucy was on the way up. The burn was worse than she’d thought. Nothing was alleviating the pain, not even the ice. She stumbled to the door and opened it just as Lucy came off the elevator at a fast clip, dragging the grocery cart behind her.
“Adam said you burned your foot.”
Sahara pointed down at the top of her left foot as Lucy raced in with the groceries. She locked the door and then knelt to look closer at Sahara’s burn.
“It’s making a blister. Oh wow. That looks really painful.”
“Ice isn’t helping,” Sahara said. “I don’t suppose you know how to treat a burn?”
“No, but Adam said to tell you the doctor was on his way over. He should be here soon.”
“Thank God. I’m going to lie down. Will you listen for the doorbell and let him in?”
“Of course,” Lucy said, following Sahara into the kitchen as she got another handful of ice cubes, wrapped them in a dishcloth and left.
Lucy began putting groceries away, wondering what else this day would bring.
As she washed her hands a few minutes later, she heard the doorbell, so she dried them quickly before she hurried to answer.
The man at the door was not exactly what she was expecting, but he was carrying a black bag and properly identified himself with photo ID.
“Dr. Barrett to see Miss Travis?”
Lucy frowned at the jeans, sandals and casual cotton shirt hanging loose over his pants, and then eyed the three-day beard and sunglasses pushed up on the top of his head.
