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.”

      “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