Sharon Sala - Life Of Lies

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 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.”