“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