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“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, Bobby, 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 Miss 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 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.
