White Lies Page 5

  The kitchen wasn't cozy anymore. It was poorly lit. Goose bumps shivered down his arms as he snapped on the overhead fluorescent. This was the part of living that was hardest to face, repercussions and consequences. His eyes were drawn back to the envelope. Carefully, he opened it and pulled out a handful of paper shreds that had once been photos. He laid out the long strips, but at first glance there wasn't an image he could identify.

  His rice was burnt by the time he assembled enough to make sense of it. Three autographed photos of himself lay dismembered and askew on the table. He poked the strips closer together. The first image was of him in a period costume, stiff ruff around his neck, tights and doublet. The movie had been a confused hybrid of pirates and Zorro with a dash of comedy cobbled on. The tights made his legs look like sticks. He was too thin to be sexy in that outfit. Junkie thin. The other two were from better times, back when his name on a movie made it a blockbuster.

  With a sigh, he tossed the whole mess in the trash. There were reminders of his fall in every room of this house, in fact, the house itself. He didn't need more. A disillusioned fan had found him. That's all it needed to be, he hoped, but the photos looked familiar. They'd been in his hands recently. In fact, he'd signed them recently. He could tell, because he had purposefully changed his autograph to mark a new beginning. There was a strong possibility that he knew who had dropped off these destroyed photos. And he didn't want to follow that thought any further.

  Asher threw all his dinner makings in the trash and took a quart of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer. He'd watch cartoons and eat sugar until he went numb. He'd rather get high, but he clamped down on that thought before it went any further. Thinking about it could start him making excuses, just once, just a little, a taste to get him through this. Forcefully shutting down that line of thought, he went back to the fridge and got the chocolate sauce.

  Chapter 12

  Asher went to bed early and rose early. A solid night's sleep made the day feel less daunting. He'd been through a whole pot of coffee and six websites on crime investigating when it occurred to him to look into the movie that the gun was from. He pulled up everything he could find. Joey Amsterdam was run-of-the-mill spy fare with lots of high speed car chases, explosions and excessive exposition at gunpoint. His character didn't shoot any women during the entire course of the film, so it wasn't a reenactment. He doubted the plot had any relevance at all.

  He wrote down the places they had filmed, wracking his brain for any clues. It had been a relatively stable time. Newly married and mostly sober, he hadn't tainted that film with the crises and catastrophes of his later career. Valerie, his second wife, traveled with him. She was always there for him at the end of the day. Looking back on it, he could see that she was duly star-struck. The marriage couldn't have lasted much longer than her infatuation with him. The first true fight would have opened her eyes and she, like all the women in his life, would have rejected him. Her brothers, Scott and Paul, had joined the entourage. Free room and board in a movie star mansion, first class travel all over the world, they shared the good life with their sister. Asher wondered if they would have intervened in some way when the marriage went off the rails. Hard to guess with all the players long gone, including the Asher of that time.

  Shaking loose of his memories, he turned back to the puzzle at hand. It seemed like it might be a random murder with a random piece of memorabilia, although that answer wasn't at all satisfactory. The police would probably track the gun's registration and that should lead them right to the killer. But if that was true, why hadn't they known the gun wasn't his? He made a note to himself to find out who owned the gun now.

  As he ran through the murder again, he realized it was becoming a movie scene in his head. It was so much easier to think about in that way. The gun would shoot blanks and a stunt double would pitch over backwards with an anguished cry tracked in later. Laid out as a scene, he found himself changing the outcome and it hit him—she didn't run. An armed man walked up close enough to shoot her point blank, and she didn't retreat. She knew her killer. That was why the cops suspected him. He knew most of the people that Pam knew, so there was a good chance her killer was someone he knew. His mouth went dry. Despite the bright sunshine pouring in the window, he felt a distinct chill.

  Sharon's car squealed into the driveway. He cursed under his breath. That was going to get him another reprimand from old man Knudson.

  She exploded through the front door like a force of nature, a manic tornado of glee. Asher was sure that the furniture trembled and leaned toward her churning energy. He supposed it might be about the new purple streaks in her hair, or the curious black and white patterns on her blunt-tipped nails, surely those weren't swastikas? Or maybe it had to do with the new color of her skin, a sort of George Hamilton bronze that didn't seem to fall in the accustomed shades for humans.

  "I did it! I did it! They said they want you for the commercial." Bubbling over with excitement, she grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

  "That’s great, Sharon, for what?"

  She pumped his arm up and down as she tried to drag him toward the bedroom. "It’s going to be really cool. And they said you could have all kinds of input."

  Asher tried to pull free before she dislocated his shoulder. "Good. That’s good. What’s it for?" He forced a smile for her. This was not the right time for this.

  "Oh, it’s that car place. Come on! Go change your clothes! We need to get going." She was literally hopping from foot to foot in excitement.

  "For a car?" Asher asked hopefully.

  "They have these really cool costumes, I can’t wait. This is going to be so great!"

  "Or a dealership?"

  "Yeah, that really big one on Sepulveda. I think you should go with the cowboy outfit. You would look so sexy in buckskins!"

  Asher finally pulled free. "You did it all right." His heart sank. It really was one of those homemade commercials. How much damage would this do to his reputation? He looked down at his baggy shorts and bare feet. He already had a reputation, and it wasn't a good one. What else did he have to do? The shrink had said he had to start all over. And he wasn't making much headway on finding the killer.

  "Asher!" Sharon snapped at him. "You're thinking again, I can tell. Cut that out and go get dressed."

  He gave Sharon a real smile. "You did good, sweetie."

  She positively glowed. "I know! This is so cool." She danced her way into the bedroom and flung open the closet doors. Paging through his wardrobe, she pronounced judgment, "Nope, nope, nope, nope..."

  "It's just a meeting, right?"

  "You have to look like a professional."

  "Jeans—"

  "No!" Sharon stamped her foot and glared at him. "This." She pointed to the three-piece suit he'd used for court appearances.

  "A suit?"

  "You can't look like you need it, you know." She gave him a critical once over. "And you look really needy."

  * * *

  Many painful hours later, Asher lay in bed and stared at the ceiling unable to find release in sleep. The room was feeling claustrophobic. In the house he'd had with his third wife, Alanna, the bedroom closet had been bigger than this room. Taking a deep breath, he counted as he exhaled, trying to relax. It really wasn't the opulence that he missed. He did own nicer houses that he could live in, but that would put him too close to Hollywood. For now, he needed to stay away from any reminders of his old life. Rolling over, he wadded up the pillow under his head. Good down pillows were money well spent, in his estimation. He had things of quality. It wasn't the flash and glam he missed.

  The events of the day replayed in his head. The cameraman was young and kept treating him like an amateur. If he counted all the hours he'd spent in front of a camera, it would probably add up to longer than that kid had been alive. The dealership owner and his head of marketing fought all afternoon and into the evening. They kept changing what they wanted. It took a ridiculous amount of time t
o film what would only run a couple of seconds. And the way they questioned him. He couldn't decide if they were treating him like a fragile old gramps or a junkie they couldn't trust.

  Now that the filming was done, it all came down to the editor. He knew a couple of incredibly talented editors, in film. TV was a whole different ballgame. But in the long run, he was sure his work was solid. If one could call that work. Shilling cars had never been on his list of things to do. They'd told him it would be running by the end of the week. The entire L.A. metropolitan area would see him in an amateur commercial.

  He flopped over onto his back. The sheet was too warm beneath him. His brain wouldn't shut down. It still rankled, the apprehensive looks, asking him if he could remember a few words to repeat. Was it their impression or had Sharon said something? He ground his teeth in frustration and sat up with a groan. The ceiling fan was pushing warm air around, but it wasn't helping the stuffiness of his mood. And then it clicked. It wasn't the money and fame he missed. It was the assumption of talent. That look people gave him after a really good take. The feeling of accomplishment when he'd poured his heart into a part. That was what he missed.

  He shuffled down the hall in the colorless light coming in from the street. The kitchen was dimly lit by the clocks on various appliances. Standing in the doorway, he thought about what he might snack on, but realized it wasn't a physical hunger that gnawed at him.

  Chapter 13

  Dr. Crenshaw's small office at the state psychiatric clinic was crowded with plants. They filled the narrow windowsill and flattened their leaves against the glass, blocking the sun in their quest for light. Patients' artwork adorned the walls in haphazard columns and overlapping rows running the gamut from crayon scribbles to landscapes and portraits. Two overstuffed armchairs commanded center stage, a battered coffee table between them. Robby Rothman occupied the chair across from the doctor. Although he was just shy of thirty, he wore a baseball cap to hide his thinning hair. The brim was pulled low, and he kept his head down hoping the doctor wouldn't see his red, swollen eyes. Life just never gave him a break.

  He listened to the doctor fussing over the paltry job Robby had finally landed.

  "That’s excellent, Robby. When do you start work?"

  Robby shifted uncomfortably. "It’s not a very good job."

  Crenshaw gave him his encouraging smile. "It’s a very good start, though. Small steps, remember?" The doctor was a stocky man who wore his gray hair long enough to brush his collar. His face always seemed flushed, as if he was bursting with good news.

  Robby hated the encouraging smile. It was fake. The man couldn't care less. "It’s dirty work."

  "It’s an important job, though. You know, a restaurant can be closed down if it isn’t clean enough."

  "It’s just a burger joint." Robby didn't like the pale flicker of pride that intruded at Crenshaw's praise. His father would have had a very different response. A dark feeling of suffocation followed on the heels of that thought.

  "This is very important, Robby. If you do a good job there, the rest of the world will open up again."

  "Why can’t I go back to my old job?" He knew the answer, but couldn't stop himself from asking. Again. Despite the really bad parts, he missed his old life. Probably because it was all he knew. It was normal, especially the bad parts.

  "We’ve talked about why. You need to prove that you’re ready. That you can do the simple things, be on time, do what you're asked. Unfortunately, that means you have to start from the bottom again."

  "It’s not fair."

  "It might not be fair. But that’s how it is in the real world. And that’s where you want to live, isn’t it?"

  Robby pulled at the torn rubber trim on his old sneakers. The real world didn't seem to offer much. "That's what I'm supposed to do, right?"

  "This is progress, Robby. I don't think you would have been able to handle a job like this last year."

  Robby shrugged. Last year was a blur of medication and daydreams. He didn't remember much. But then again, why would he want to? "What's Asher doing?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  He hated the way Crenshaw asked that. "Is he working?"

  "As you know, Asher's not in group any more, Robby. So, I haven't seen him in awhile. But you know, everybody needs to start over."

  "Does he have a job?" Robby asked.

  "I don't think so. Have you seen him recently?"

  "No." Robby knotted his fingers in his lap and stared at them. Asher had said he had capable hands. He was nice. And since Asher left the hospital Robby hadn't heard from him. That made him angry. In the hospital they had been friends. Outside, it was all different. But Robby had learned the lessons well. With a razor knife and a ruler, he vented his anger benignly by slicing Asher's image into ribbons.

  Crenshaw was watching him, looking for lies, but Robby hadn't told any. He hadn't seen Asher. His house, his yard, his neighborhood was a different thing entirely.

  Chapter 14

  Alanna Wesley, dressed for success, cruised the self-help aisle in the big chain book store to check the placement of her latest book. She was wearing her power suit—jacket, silk blouse and tight skirt. Her jewelry was all top of the line, most of it wheedled out of her first husband as recompense for a train wreck of a marriage. She'd checked her makeup before she left the car. If they had relegated her to the lower racks again, she'd need to speak to the manager. Placement was everything these days, and her publisher had paid a hefty sum to have her latest work well exposed.

  She scanned the shelves looking for her books. A man was in her way. Something about him drew her attention. His clothes were worn, but fit him nicely. His hair was a little shaggier than she liked, but he was definitely her type, long and lean. Then it hit her.

  "Ash?"

  Asher looked over with a generic smile that lit up when he recognized her. "Well, well, the author herself." He held up her newest book. "I’ve got them all."

  She smiled and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of lipstick. "Ash, my God."

  "Yes, I am still alive. I am sober. And yes, I made that awful commercial."

  Alanna laughed. She wiped the lipstick from his cheek with her thumb. Her fingers lingered on the familiar contours of his face. "You look good. I did see the commercial. The buckskins looked very sexy."

  "Thanks. I’ve always trusted your opinion."

  She stared at him, nothing left to say. In her head, he'd been desperate and tortured for years. She wasn't ready to confront the truth of him now, alive and happy.

  He picked up the dangling threads with ease. "You seem to be doing well."

  "I’m great!" she sputtered. "I’ve got bookings all over the country, signings, lectures..."

  "A very busy lady."

  Alanna gestured to her books. "Ash, did they help?"

  "It helped to know that you had gotten on with your life. That you were being successful."

  Not the response she had programmed into her brain with repeated daydreams. The disconnect set her back and those blue eyes of his threatened to suck her in again. Their marriage had been a battered bus careening down a cliff, slinging its baggage and passengers haphazardly along the way. The constantly broken promises and willful lies had scarred her too deeply for simple forgiveness. But when he looked at her, in the present and totally aware of her, the world shrank down to just the two of them. He had always done that to her. Touch her soul with a rare moment of sincerity, and she accepted his failures, his betrayals, anything to feel that electric connection again.

  She gave him a false smile, floundering with the sudden rush of pain. "What are you doing now?"

  "Normal things. Eat, sleep, read books. My manager is—"

  "You have a manager?"

  Asher chuckled. "Hey, she got me that commercial."

  "Oh." She gave a little sigh as he turned his searing gaze away. Irrationally, she felt abandoned.

  "I need a slow start, Alanna. It’s working for me."
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  "You’ve changed," she admitted. He wasn't the Roman candle of passions she had tried to clutch, but there was an energy about him that made her feel very warm.

  "My options were pretty limited. And straight jackets are so hard to accessorize."

  She put a hand on his arm, unsure where to go after that comment.

  "That was a joke, sweetie. How's the new hubby?"

  "Great! He is the best." Her smile faltered. "But I didn't mean..."

  "That I was the worst?" Asher patted her hand. "I know I was, Alanna. No excuses, no contradictions. I was the worst husband on the planet, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart." He bowed grandly before her, and her imagination added the flowing cape and feathered hat.

  "Wow." She took a step back. "You really have changed."

  He gave her a breath-taking smile that sent twinges straight through her stomach and into her nether regions. Her present husband's smile never did that to her.

  "Change is good. I'm told it's a sign of life." He gave her a little salute and turned away. "Gotta go."

  She blew him a kiss. The fabric of his shirt caressed the muscles of his shoulders and hung free at the waist. She closed her eyes before they went any lower.

  Chapter 15

  Asher paid for his books and left the mall quickly. He didn't want Alanna to catch up to him. From the looks she gave him, he was sure she was still infatuated with the person she wanted him to be. Thinking of her was uncomfortable. He couldn't pull one single instance from their time together that wasn't tainted with anger or faded from a haze of intoxication. Alanna had expectations. When they hadn't been met, she'd tried manipulating him. When that didn't work, it all just tumbled down into fights and tears.

  He took the long way home, walking through a quiet neighborhood. An eighteen-wheeler rumbled past him, out of place on the residential street. He caught the name—White's Trucking—and it triggered thoughts of his second wife, Valerie White. Not that he had many memories of her. They'd been married about a year and a half before she'd died. Getting high with her and her brothers had been their main entertainment. She hadn't made any demands on him. Not like Alanna. Although, now that he was thinking of it, her brother, Scottie, had been the one always asking for things. In fact, he'd have to check with Fred, but he was sure he'd given Scottie a hotel and at least one house. He'd lost them playing a twisted game of Monopoly. Scottie had convinced him to use real money and properties. Through the haze of booze and pills, it had seemed like a brilliant upgrade. But Scottie must have been sober because he had the signed bills of sale in hand the next day.