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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 (#u3b9f11f1-f3b3-5b55-bda9-e314f1e15baa)
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 there’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.”
“Hi...” she replied hesitantly. This call wasn’t going to be easy. “This is Sahara Travis calling. I’d like to speak to either one of Moira Patrick’s parents.”
“Oh, Miss Travis. I’m Moira’s mother.”
Sahara took a deep breath. “There are no words for how sorry I am about what happened to her.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Amanda said, weeping across the line. “Moira loved her job, and she admired you so much.”
“Thank you for that,” Sahara said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I’d do anything to bring her back. She was a wonderful person. This is a nightmare, and we still have no idea who is responsible. But I want to let you know that I’ll be paying for the services myself. Not the company. Me. I wish with all my heart this had not happened.”
“That’s very kind of you but not necessary.”
“It’s important to me that I do this,” Sahara said. “I insist. I just need the name of the funeral home and I’ll cover the cost of whatever you choose for the arrangements.”
“Well, all right, then,” Amanda said. “Just a moment while I get the card to make sure I relay the proper address.”
“Why don’t you just send me a text with the information when you have time,” Sahara said.
“Yes, all right, and thank you again for this kindness.”
“It is the least I can do to honor a young woman I greatly admired. I can’t show up in person to the services—I wish I could, but between the mobs of people and the media...it wouldn’t be appropriate and you deserve peace when you have to say goodbye to Moira. But I want you to know my heart will be with all of you.”
Sahara waited for the text, then forwarded it to Harold with a note to cover the cost of everything from her personal account.
* * *
The next morning she got a call from Dr. Barrett’s office, asking for an update on her burn. Sahara informed them that the pain was lessening, but that she hadn’t taken off the bandage to look.
“Would you be available today for Dr. Barrett to stop by to check the injury?”
“Yes.”
“Great. He’ll be there within an hour or so.”
The moment the call ended, she went to the bathroom to get a towel and shampoo and quickly washed her hair at the kitchen sink. Then she hobbled back to the bathroom and toweled it dry. The thick, long curls were a menace to control, but that was what professional hair and makeup teams were for. She was fine with it on a day-to-day basis, and there was always someone around to fix it if it didn’t please the people who wrote her checks.
She was wearing pink shorts and a white T-shirt, her ode to a California summer, and as usual she was barefoot. She’d sent Lucy on an errand to get makeup and her brand of toiletries, so when Lucy Benton’s name popped up in caller ID, she answered without caution.
“Hello.”
“Who is this?” a man asked.
The male voice startled her. Her heart started to pound. Was this the man responsible for Moira’s death? Did he do something to Lucy? She didn’t want to be the reason people were dying.
“Where’s Lucy?” she demanded.
“Who’s Lucy?” he asked.
“She’s a friend, and you just called me using her phone.”
“Look, lady, I just found the phone in a shopping cart at Whole Foods and called the first name on the contact list. Just trying to help out.”
“Then please drop it off at the customer service counter. They’ll page her.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“I'm her boss, and I already took a picture of your face, so if you don’t turn in the phone, I will turn you in to the cops,” Sahara said, bluffing completely, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Well, hell, lady. How did you—”
“I see where you are, and it’s nowhere near customer service.”
“I’m going, I’m going there right now,” the guy said.
Sahara could hear him panting as he ran and then heard him turning the phone over at the counter just as she heard Lucy’s voice in the background.
“That’s my phone!”
“It was just in my basket, lady. I was on my way to turn it in, that’s all...”
“Oh! Then thank you very much,” Lucy said, as the manager at the counter took the phone, verified the info and handed it over.
Lucy pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the man who’d turned it in.
“Not a lot of honest people in the world anymore. I appreciate you turning this in.”
The guy took the ten, then waved it in front of Lucy and the phone.
