by Sharon Sala
“You don’t dress like any doctor I ever saw.”
“Well, this is my day to spend at the free clinic, and I try not to outdress my patients. They seem to trust me more this way,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Sorry for jumping to judgment, but we can’t be too careful right now. I’m Lucy, by the way.”
“No problem, Lucy. I heard about what happened on the news this morning,” Barrett said.
“Sahara went back to her room to lie down. Follow me.”
Chris Barrett had been to this complex before and was used to treating the wealthy, but he had to admit the idea of seeing Sahara Travis in person was exciting. She was one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, and also one of the most secretive. She didn’t follow the party circuit and was rarely seen other than at red-carpet events.
He followed Lucy through the elegant living area to the door ajar at the end of the hall.
Lucy knocked twice and pushed it inward.
“Dr. Barrett is here,” Lucy said.
Chris walked into the suite, expecting to see a diva in silk and satin. Instead, he was met with bare feet, old shorts, a ragged UCLA T-shirt and a face of exquisite beauty completely devoid of makeup.
“Miss Travis, I’m Chris Barrett,” he said, and fell head over heels in love.
“He’s dressed like this because it’s his day to work at a free clinic,” Lucy offered.
Sahara rolled her eyes. “And I’m dressed like this because it’s comfortable. Hello, Dr. Barrett, I’m Sahara,” she said.
Chris grimaced when he saw her foot.
“What happened here?” he asked, as he lifted her foot onto an ottoman.
“I spilled hot coffee on it. It was a fresh pot, so it was scalding. Do you have something to make it quit hurting…like a pill, or a shot, or a magic wand? I’m not picky.”
Now he was entranced by her deprecating humor.
“I left the wand at home, but I’m pretty sure I have stuff that will ease your pain.”
He took a bottle of disinfectant out of his bag and stood up. “May I use your bathroom?”
Sahara waved a hand toward the door behind her and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.
Lucy caught the glimmer of tears on her lashes and was impressed by Sahara’s stoic manner. Somehow she’d always thought Sahara Travis was a pampered woman, but there was obviously a backbone to go with all that beauty. She knelt beside Sahara’s chair and laid a hand on her arm.
“I’m so sorry you’re hurting. This is the last thing you need right now. Can I get you anything? Something to drink maybe?”
Sahara grasped Lucy’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.
“No, I’m fine, but thank you for asking.”
The doctor returned, properly disinfected, and was all business as he gloved up and began working on her foot.
When the house phone began to ring, Lucy got up to answer, leaving Sahara alone with the doctor.
Chris wanted to talk to her, to get to know her, but this felt like the wrong time. He might never get a chance like this again, but he was a doctor first, and she was obviously in too much pain to chitchat.
Sahara leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift as the doctor worked so that pain was not at the forefront of her consciousness.
Finally, Chris taped the last piece of gauze around her foot and then gave her leg a quick pat.
“There you go, Miss Travis. This should keep you comfortable for a while.”
Sahara opened her eyes to see Lucy sitting nearby watching the process and then saw the white gauze wrapped around her foot.
“Thank you for coming here. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of the building without drawing attention to myself.”
“I can only imagine,” Chris said. “Now, don’t get it wet. Change the bandage once a day, and when you take this one off, make sure nothing looks infected, then apply some more of this salve and wrap it back up with more gauze.” He motioned to the assortment of supplies he was leaving behind. “I’ll stop by and check on you in a couple of days, if you’d like.”
She nodded.
“How long does the stuff last that you applied to the burn? Can she apply more or will over-the-counter pain meds help?” Lucy asked.
He handed her a prescription.
“If you’ll get this filled, she can take as needed. The main thing is to take it easy. Don’t be up on it too much right now and take the chance of reinjuring it.”
“Okay,” Sahara said.
“Well, I’d better be going. I’m sure there are patients waiting at the clinic,” he said. “I’ll see you in a couple of days unless you need me sooner.”
“I’ll see you to the door,” Lucy said, thus ending whatever else Chris Barrett wanted to say.
He looked back just as he was walking out the door, but Sahara was already out of the chair. So much for following doctor’s orders.
*
Sahara made it back to her bedroom before she burst into tears. Between the pain of the burn and Moira’s death, life had finally overwhelmed her. She hadn’t felt this lost since she was a child.
She eased down onto her bed and then turned onto her side away from the window and closed her eyes, trying to focus on anything but the pain.
Think, Sahara, think. Best day of your life?
That’s easy. The day I left New Orleans. It was a freedom I’d never known.
Best friend growing up? Susan, no, Emily, yes, Emily.
First time you had sex? The night of my sixteenth birthday with the boy across the street. What was his name? Larry? Harry? Well, shit. How did I forget the name of the first guy I had sex with? Bad me. Bad, bad me. It’s not like there were dozens afterward. Three, maybe four semiregular guys in my lifetime, but no one in over a year. I need to get laid.
Sahara groaned. The fact that she looked at life in this way made her sad. She’d always dreamed of sex meaning something between two people who loved each other, but she didn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore. Maybe there was no forever love, either.
Nix the pity party, Miss Travis. Some people pay good money for this kind of PR.
Lucy knocked on the door and came in, tiptoeing toward the bed.
Sahara kept her eyes closed, letting her believe she was asleep. She felt the afghan at the foot of the bed being pulled up and over her shoulders and sighed.
Lucy heard it, feared she was going to wake her up and quickly left.
Sahara waited until the door closed, and then she reached for the edge of the afghan and pulled it tight beneath her chin to keep the bad juju away. Someone had tried to kill her. It hadn’t worked, so they would likely try again.
Please, God, don’t let that happen.
It was the last conscious thought she had before she fell asleep.
*
Tom Mahan had been on the phone with the investors all morning. They were concerned about the delay in production and wanted answers the director didn’t have.
“Look, Fenton, I am aware that you have a big investment in the film, and we scored big when Sahara Travis came on board. But I called the detective in charge of the case this morning to see if he had any news for me, and he confirmed her food had been poisoned with cyanide. She’s still alive, but the young woman from wardrobe is not. Her name was Moira. Her parents are devastated. We’re all devastated by this, so we’re not going to resume filming at this time. I’ll know when it feels safe enough.”
Fenton Whiteside sighed. He knew Mahan’s hands were tied. Murder was always a messy situation.
“I’ll let the other investors know. Just keep in mind that you get a bonus if this film comes in under budget, and you’ll be kissing that goodbye if we’re shut down long. Paychecks still go out, whether they report for work or not.”
“Yes, yes, I know. This isn’t my first rodeo, but it’s damn sure the first time someone was murdered on one of my sets. I’ll be in touch,” he said, and disconne
cted.
He needed to go check on Sahara but dreaded the crowd he’d have to go through to get to her apartment. It had been all over the news this morning, so he had no doubt the Hollywood media machine would be in full swing. He made a quick call to her apartment, but when the call was answered, it was her assistant, Lucy, who picked up.
“Hello?” Lucy said.
“Lucy, it’s me, Tom. May I speak to Sahara, please?”
“Sorry, she’s still sleeping. The pain in her foot has knocked her out, and I don’t want to wake her. Can I have her call you?”
Tom was in shock.
“What’s wrong with her foot? Why is she in pain?”
“Oh, I guess I thought you knew. She accidentally spilled hot coffee on the top of her foot this morning. She has a second-degree burn. The doctor has been here and is treating her.”
“Son of a bitch! Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I couldn’t say, but I’m guessing that since filming has been put on hold, she didn’t think it mattered. She’ll heal and be back at work when you need her, and if she’s not healed, you can shoot around the fact that she’s going to be barefoot for a while. And don’t curse at me again.”
Tom sighed. “I’m sorry. It was just a surprise, that’s all. I sincerely apologize. Give Sahara my condolences on the accident, and if there’s anything I can do for her, anything at all, please let me know.”
“Yes, sir. I will,” Lucy said, and heard the line go dead.
“Prick,” she muttered, and went back to the pudding she was cooking. One of Sahara’s favorite comfort foods was banana pudding, and while she usually made it herself, Lucy knew that wasn’t happening this time around. The least she could do was have it ready.
A short while later she set the pudding aside to cool a little before putting the dish together, and as she was cleaning up, her cell signaled a text. When she saw who it was, she grinned. Wiley Johnson was who she thought of as her part-time lover…like in the song. He made her feel special. When they were together, she felt as beautiful in his eyes as Sahara Travis was to the world. It was a good way to feel.
The text was an invitation to dinner. She responded with a yes, but only if she didn’t have to work late here. The thumbs-up he gave her made her smile, and she shivered just thinking about the sex they always had for dessert.
*
Lucy was in the living room with the TV on mute and her laptop on her knees. Her fingers were flying on the keys as she worked while listening for sounds that Sahara was waking up. She glanced up at the clock. It was almost noon.
She set aside her work and went down the hall to check on Sahara. She could hear a television playing, so she knocked once, then opened the door into the suite.
Sahara was sitting in a window seat, looking out into the city.
“Hey,” Lucy said softly.
Sahara turned and smiled. “Hey, yourself.”
“Are you getting hungry? I made some lunch for us.”
Sahara swung her long shapely legs off the seat and stood.
“We could have ordered delivery, but I’m sure not going to turn down anything homemade.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Lucy said. “I’m not the Martha Stewart type. How’s your foot feeling?”
“Better after that stuff he put on it. It still hurts and certainly gives me a whole new understanding of people who suffer serious burns.”
“Life is like that,” Lucy said, as she led the way into the kitchen. “Do you want to sit in here or take the food to the living room so you can put your foot up?”
“Eat in here,” Sahara said. “I always ate in the kitchen with Billie when I was growing up.”
“Who’s Billie?” Lucy asked.
Sahara hesitated, then finally answered. “The woman who cooked for my parents.”
“You didn’t eat with your parents?” Lucy asked, and then watched all expression leave Sahara’s face.
“No,” Sahara said, but she didn’t elaborate. “What did you make? I’m suddenly starving.”
“I have cold shrimp with red sauce…heavy on the horseradish, a little pasta salad, and I made your banana pudding.”
“That sounds lovely!” Sahara said.
Lucy was pleased that her efforts were appreciated and quickly made their plates and carried them to the counter.
She poured iced tea for their drinks and then got the cutlery and napkins.
Sahara already had a cold shrimp in her fingers and was liberally dunking it in the red sauce as Lucy finished setting their places.
“I didn’t wait for you, but it’s your fault because it all looked so good,” Sahara said, as she swallowed her first bite.
Lucy pointed at Sahara’s lips.
“You have a little sauce just there.”
Sahara dabbed a napkin against her mouth and then plucked another shrimp from her plate.
“There’s likely to be more there before I’m through.”
A siren sounded as a police car sped past out on the street below. Sahara sighed.
“God bless whoever is in need,” she said, and then took a drink of iced tea.
Lucy gave her a strange look. “Why did you say that?”
Sahara looked up. “Say what?”
“About someone in need,” Lucy said.
“I don’t know. Sirens always give me the shudders. Somewhere, someone is in need or there wouldn’t be sirens, so I say a prayer.”
Lucy frowned. “Are your parents religious? Oh, maybe that’s too personal. I’m sorry.”
Sahara forked up a bite of pasta salad.
“No, they’re not religious. The only thing they ever worshipped was each other.”
Lucy smiled. “That is so sweet.”
Sahara shrugged and put the salad in her mouth.
“Mmm! This is so good! I love the little pepperoni pieces in with the pasta and veggies. I want to remember that.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said, and the rest of the meal passed with casual conversation and ended with two bowls of banana pudding.
Sahara scraped the last bite of pudding from her bowl and then licked the spoon.
“Oh my Lord, but this was good. I’ll be on the treadmill for a week. Thank you, Lucy. Thank you for doing this, even though it’s not in your job description.”
Lucy paused as she was gathering up dirty dishes.
“It has been a weird week. Sometimes change is good for what ails us. I’ll clean up here. You get off your foot.”
Sahara could already feel it throbbing and wasn’t going to argue.
She hobbled out of the kitchen, taking her iced tea glass with her, and went into the living room. She was all the way to the sliding doors to go out onto the patio when she remembered the paparazzi. She wasn’t going to give them an opportunity to make a nickel off her face if she could help it and went to her bedroom instead.
Three
The house phone rang as Lucy was wiping off the counters. She tossed the dishrag back into the soapy water as she went to answer it.
“Hello?”
“This is Detective Colin Shaw, Homicide. May I speak to Miss Travis?”
“Just a moment, please,” she said, and hurried out of the kitchen and through the house to Sahara’s bedroom suite. The door was open. Sahara was stretched out on the sofa and staring out the window with the television on mute.
“Sahara, Detective Shaw on the phone for you,” Lucy said.
“Thank you,” Sahara said, and sat up as she reached for the phone.
“Hello, this is Sahara.”
“Miss Travis, Detective Shaw here. I have some information for you. Do you have a minute?”
“Yes, of course,” Sahara said. “What’s up?”
“Lab tests are back. You were right. It was cyanide in the food that killed Moira Patrick. We don’t have any leads at the moment, though we’ve been through the hate mail your manager sent over. We’re still studying everything, but I need you to try to remember if t
here’s anyone you can think of that you’ve recently had words with?”
Sahara closed her eyes. So nothing was supposition anymore.
“No.”
“Maybe someone you work with who seems envious of your position, or resents your success?”
“I’m telling you, Detective, there’s no one. I mean, it’s believable that they exist. No one escapes that in this business. But there hasn’t been anyone who’s said anything of the sort to my face.”
“When does filming resume?” he asked.
“I haven’t heard.”
“Well, then, be careful and remember that familiar faces do not necessarily belong to friends.”
Sahara shivered. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and then hung up the phone and immediately called Harold.
Her manager was in the middle of quarterly tax reports and started to let it go to voice mail until he saw who was calling.
“Hey, honey, how are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Sahara said. “I just got word that the food was, indeed, poisoned with cyanide. I need a favor from you.”
“Anything. What do you need?”
“The address and phone number of Moira Patrick’s parents.”
“Why?” Harold asked.
“Because I need to express my sympathies and let them know I intend to pay for her services.”
“I’ll do that for you first thing in the morning,” Harold said.
“No. No, you won’t. This is my job. I want to call them before the night is over, so please get it for me now.”
He sighed. “Yes, of course,” Harold said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll get what you need.”
“Thank you, Harold. I appreciate this.”
“No problem. It’s part of the job.”
He disconnected and called Detective Shaw, rattled off what he needed and why, then sent the info to Sahara in a text and returned to doing taxes.
Sahara got the text and then stared at the number, trying to muster the courage to make the call. Basically, it came down to doing what was right, so she called, then waited.
A woman answered in a weak, shaky voice.
“Patrick residence. This is Amanda.”
