White Lies Page 6

  He wondered who owned the property now. The whole family was gone, wiped out in a quest for a better high. A shadow of loss darkened the day for him. There wasn't anyone left to inherit Scottie's ill-gotten loot. He stopped and pulled a small notepad from his pocket. He'd been avoiding too much of his own history. Reluctantly, he made himself a note to check in with Fred about the hotel

  The long walk left him limp and sweaty. It was a hot, dusty day, and Asher's old house didn't have central air. The window units were cranking, but couldn't compete with the hundred plus degrees outside. He sat down at his desk with the intention of finding more clues in Pam's murder but found himself clicking through a series of cute-kitten videos on YouTube. His brain was too hot and tired to think straight. With a concerted effort, he turned off the kitties and tidied the stacks on his desk in preparation for something. Anything. He was waiting for inspiration to strike when the doorbell rescued him. He hurried to answer it hoping for Girl Scout cookies or school band boosters. He never expected to see the man on his door step.

  "Robby. Wow, this is a surprise. When did you get out?"

  "It's been awhile."

  Asher pulled the door open and waved him in. "Can I get you some coffee? Tea?" He wasn't sure how this was going to go or how to handle it.

  Robby stood just inside the door. "You were on TV."

  Asher smiled in relief. Maybe it wasn't going where he feared. "The commercial. Yeah, I got a little bit of work."

  Robby folded his arms and glared in Asher's direction. He rarely made eye contact, usually focusing just past a person's left ear. It was the first thing Asher noticed about him when they'd met in group therapy. After a month of side-stepping, Asher had forced himself to stop trying to get into the range of that unfocused gaze.

  "Dr. Crenshaw said we had to start at the bottom."

  Asher plunked down on the couch. "Have a seat, Robby. Commercials are the bottom for me."

  Robby stayed by the door, fists clenched at his sides. "I bet you made a lot of money."

  Asher could practically see Robby's anger burning off him like a toxic cloud. That anger would ultimately hurt Robby. In the hospital, it had become obvious that he wasn't very skilled in handling difficult situations.

  "Not really. It’s just a single payment. Not like a regular job where you get paid every week."

  Robby's eyes lit up. "I get paid every week."

  Asher gave him a thumbs-up, feeling sincerely glad for him. "That’s great. Puts you one up on me."

  But the scowl returned. "How much did you make?"

  "Oh, it’s all relative, isn’t it? My manager takes a percentage and then ..."

  Robby stomped toward him. "Manager? You have a manager?"

  Asher didn't move a muscle. He remained sprawled across the couch, harmless, unintimidating. "Yes. It’s how things are done in my field."

  Robby stood before him rigid with fury, panting, eyes glaring. "Somebody does the work for you. He finds work for you?"

  Asher slowly stood to face him. "She. Yes, she finds the work for me to do." He was a good six inches taller than Robbie, forcing him to look up.

  "That’s not fair!"

  Asher spoke calmly. "But then I do the work."

  Robby backed up. "Acting isn’t work. I mop floors all day. That’s work. That’s real work." He stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

  Asher took a deep breath, and then another one. He didn't know if he could mop floors all day. He knew a pounding case of what-ifs would drive him to using again if he was forced to do something like that.

  But Robby's claim that they had to start over sparked a thought. Why had Pam started over? He dug out an old address book and with fingers crossed, phoned his favorite Hollywood gossip.

  "Yes?" The voice was curt.

  "Harold? Hi, it's Asher Blaine." He held his breath waiting for the response.

  "Asher, you dog! I wondered when you would call me!" Harold sounded a bit breathless.

  "Do I owe you a million apologies?" Asher kept his tone light.

  "Two million! Honestly mon ami, you have broken my heart more times than I can count. I saw Yvonne at the Ivy on Sunday, and she mentioned you were back. Now I believe every word that woman tells me, but I could not believe that you were in town, and you hadn't called little old me."

  "I'm incognito."

  "Ha! Like that would ever work. Have you seen that nasty look-alike that did the car commercial?"

  "That's me, Harold."

  "Ouch. Is it really that bad, sweetheart?"

  "Not sure. I haven't knocked on any doors that might slam shut."

  "Oh, brave heart, there, chum. If you're hoping I can help you with that..."

  "No. No, not at all. It's about Pam."

  "God help us! Can you believe it! Shot right there in the driveway! I'm telling you, I dialed up the security around my house."

  "Yeah, it's awful. And you know she was killed with the gun from Joey Amsterdam."

  "That is so insane."

  "Yeah, so the cops are all over me..."

  "No way. Asher Blaine, you wouldn't hurt a fly!"

  "Thanks. It's nice to know other people think it's nuts."

  "Anytime."

  "So, I was wondering why Pam was going back to work with the barracudas." Asher hoped he sounded casual.

  "They were flat broke. Rich hubby's firm went belly up with the stock market, and they were in debt to the eyeballs. And seriously, muchacho, who else would hire her but a bunch of barracudas? That agency has poached clients from practically everyone! They knew she didn't have any scruples when it came to a little trespassing."

  "Wow, sounds nasty."

  "Oh, you don't know the half of it. Hubby had a huge insurance policy out on her. Suspicious, don't you think?"

  "Is that what the police are saying?"

  "Didn't you see that press conference? LAPD is floundering. Hubby has an ironclad alibi and not enough cash in the bank to have hired a hit man."

  "I think she knew her killer," Asher said softly.

  "Yuck. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. So, sweet pea, tell me all about your come-back movie."

  Asher laughed. "There isn't one."

  "Ohh, they've sworn you to secrecy! Who is it? Speilberg?"

  "No such animal, Harold, I promise."

  "Well I don't believe you, but we'll put it aside for the moment. Who are you dating?"

  Chapter 16

  Asher had a crick in his neck from being on the phone with Harold for forty minutes. He was stretching out the kinks when the thump-thump of car speakers on steroids announced Sharon's arrival.

  "Asher!" She screamed his name before she even set foot in the house.

  "I'm right here," he said quietly.

  "We're late."

  "For what?"

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the office. "Chat room. It was supposed to start five minutes ago." With a push, she aimed him at the computer.

  "Chat room?" He obediently sat at the desk.

  Sharon hovered over his shoulder, prompting him, as he logged in. Seemed like every day he was learning a new thing on the computer.

  "Who are these people?" he asked.

  "Your fans."

  Asher took in all the popping, flashing and dancing on the website. "What’s the Asher Store?"

  "You can buy all kinds of stuff like autographed pictures, DVDs, coffee cups, t-shirts."

  "Huh. I guess people will buy anything."

  "Where do you think I sold those posters you signed? Now pay attention." She pointed to the screen.

  A small, but persistent bell went off in Asher's head. He scrolled down the page. "Make checks payable to Sharon Ladeen," he read aloud.

  "Yeah. That's me."

  He looked at her, but saw not a drop of concern in her face. "They pay you?"

  "Well, yeah. I do a lot of work on this thing. Besides, the company doesn't know." She gave him a conspiratorial wink.

/>   "They don't?" It occurred to him that Sharon couldn't see that he was the company. "What about Fred?"

  "Nope. And I'm not telling him. He gets all crazy about taxes and shit."

  The little bell turned into klaxons. Sales without sales tax sounded like fines and penalties to him. He needed to talk to Fred about this. He clicked through a couple of pages, but there was no mention of his own company, Fly Ash Productions. Hopefully that would keep him clear of responsibility for whatever she was doing.

  "Stop messing around." She yanked the mouse out of his hand and paged through to the forum.

  Asher made a mental note to pursue it later, and turned to the emails from fans that had been piling up all week. "I can’t answer half these questions."

  "Well, I told them you were really busy, so just pick a couple easy ones."

  Asher looked over his shoulder at her. "What am I really busy doing?"

  "Important stuff."

  "Right." He read the first few questions again. "They’re asking me personal questions about fictional characters."

  "So make it up."

  He pointed to the screen. "Joey Amsterdam, that's the one the gun is from."

  "So answer that one"

  Asher took his hands off the keyboard. "I don't know. Does that strike you as a weird question?"

  "They're all weird. Some chick wants to send you her underwear. And some dude wants to know what you wear to bed. You really bring out the weirdos. Did you see that guy at the dealership?"

  "Which one?"

  "I think he knows you. I saw a picture of him and you somewhere." She scanned the walls checking out all the photos.

  Asher hunched against a bad feeling. "I didn't see him. Did he seem angry?"

  "I dunno, maybe." Not finding the image she wanted, she chucked the search and turned to squint at the computer. "How does Joey feel about collateral damage?"

  "I don't remember any collateral damage in that movie, do you?"

  "What movie?"

  "Joey Amsterdam."

  "Never seen it."

  Asher blinked at the screen, debating the pros and cons of wading in on that topic. His curiosity won. "Sharon, which of my movies do you like best?"

  "The one with the dogs, I guess."

  He turned in the chair to face her. "Why that one?"

  "I was dating this really hot guy, and we made out through the whole thing."

  "Oh." He bit his lip to curtail any response. She was just a kid, not a real manager in any sense of the word. It was his own fault if he expected more from her. He leaned forward and typed.

  Sharon read aloud. "Dear AsherLover42, it’s been a while since I visited Joey. I’ll have to check in with him and get back to you." She smacked his shoulder. "That’s no good. Now they won’t believe it’s you." She leaned over his shoulder pointing at the screen.

  "Do this one."

  "Who’s the most important person in my life right now? Should I say it’s my therapist?"

  Sharon smacked him again. "You don’t have a therapist."

  Asher typed.

  Sharon leaned against his back and slid her arms around his neck. She read off the screen. "The most important person in my life is...me? Me! Yippee!"

  She watched the words trail across the screen. "Hey. No fair talking about ex-wives." She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "Do you really still love them?"

  Asher turned away from the computer, giving her his full attention. "I was the dirty dog, Sharon. They worked hard at loving who they thought I was. And believe me, I was high maintenance. At the very least, I have a lot of respect for them."

  "But you’re not in love with them."

  "No. Not in love."

  Sharon scrutinized him. "Because, you know, it’s a whole lot easier to promote a bachelor."

  Asher smiled. "I thought you said it would be easier if I was a young starlet."

  Sharon gave him a puzzled frown. "You're a guy." She turned her attention back to the screen. "Next question. Come on, the fans are waiting."

  * * *

  Knudson stood at his fence, gossiping over the rose bushes, with Mrs. Browning. "That girl is there again," he said through gritted teeth. "She’s young enough to be his daughter."

  Mrs. Browning pulled a weed or two along the fence. She was getting too old to do the heavy gardening. She had a boy for that now.

  "We could get him arrested for statutory rape."

  Her head popped up. "Oh, my, do you think they’re having sex?"

  Knudson watched Asher’s house, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. "Why else would she be there? A lot of girls are that way. They just want to jump into bed with a movie star."

  "He’s not much of a star anymore."

  "They work their way up. Blaine today, Clooney tomorrow."

  Mrs. Browning's eyes lit up. "Ooh. Was George Clooney here?"

  Knudson frowned at her. "No, I’m just saying..."

  "He can put his shoes under my bed anytime." With a saucy smile, she went back to weed pulling.

  Affronted, Knudson finally took his gaze from Asher's house to scowl at his neighbor. "That’s disgusting."

  Mrs. Browning tossed another weed into the pile. "I’m old, but I’m not dead."

  "It's nothing to joke about."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake, Joshua, you're going to give yourself an ulcer over this. The man's harmless."

  "He's not. The cops have been here. You've seen them."

  Mrs. Browning shook her head. "I need to get out of the heat. Go drink something cold. I think your brain is melting."

  Knudson scowled at her back. "This won't end well, mark my words!"

  Chapter 17

  Closing time at the mall, and Robby loitered at the entrance closest to the bookstore. People were leaving in clumps and trickles. They wandered off to all corners of the parking lot, passing in and out of pools of light cast by streetlights that were spread too far apart. Robby just wanted to talk to her. He'd ask her the question, then leave.

  Alanna, arms full of books, came out with two women trailing her.

  "Really, I can’t thank you enough," fawned a woman in a pantsuit.

  "Well, that’s why I wrote them, to help people." Alanna juggled her load of books, briefcase and purse.

  The second woman looked like she was dressed for a dance class with skin-tight leotard and leggings on a body that hadn't seen that kind of effort in years. She took a handful of books from Alanna, clutching them possessively. "We’re starting our own chapter," said Leotard. "It would be so great if you could come to a meeting. Do you still see Asher?"

  Robby unconsciously leaned forward, eager to hear the answer.

  Alanna sidestepped her way to her car with the women dancing attendance. "Um, no, I don’t see Asher, and you’ll have to contact my secretary."

  The lot was emptying. Robby followed at a distance, parallel to them in the next row. There were only a few cars now, scattered across the broad stretch of poorly lit asphalt.

  * * *

  "It’s right up the coast. Thousand Oaks isn’t that far," wheedled Pantsuit.

  "Call my secretary," Alanna said firmly. "I have a lot of things on the calendar right now."

  "This is incredible. You know before I read your book, I'd never be brave enough to just walk up to you and ask." Leotard gave her a greedy smile. "Do you know how I could get in touch with him?"

  Alanna reached her car and popped the trunk. She was parked at the far end of the lot, by a border of overgrown oleanders. She took a deep breath and pasted on her professional smile. Being married to an actor had taught her a thing or two. "A lot of people ask me about Asher. We don't keep in touch. Now, I’m sorry, I have to go." She took the books back from Leotard and stacked them in the trunk.

  "Of course, of course. Thank you!" Pantsuit retreated as if from royalty, moving backwards with a few hesitant bows.

  "Yes, thanks! Bye, bye." Leotard jogged off.

  Alanna slammed the trunk shut, grumbli
ng under her breath. Asher cast a huge shadow that inevitably managed to tarnish the sparkle of all her personal achievements. She had had such dreams when he was courting her. Only to find he didn't have an ounce of drive.

  "You’re Alanna Blaine."

  She was jolted out of her musing. A short, mousey-looking guy fidgeted at the side of her car. "Actually, it’s Wesley now."

  "You left Asher."

  She ground her teeth. "I did. A long time ago."

  "But he still cares about you."

  "How would you know?"

  "He told me."

  "I doubt that," she snapped. A prickle on the back of her neck made her look over her shoulder. Pantsuit, in a gray sedan, waved as she drove by. There was no sign of Leotard. The final group of employees dribbled out of the mall and ghosted away.

  The guy hung his head, looking at her sideways. "He did." Stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, he shuffled a step away. "Why did you leave him?"

  Uneasy at being alone and irritated by the question, she let her façade slip. "Why do you people always ask me that? Why do you think?"

  "He said he wasn't a very good husband."

  "He was right," she snapped. "Get out of the way. I need to go." To her relief, the stranger retreated. She waited till he was a good distance before she unlocked the door. The car chirped as the interior light went on. She was just reaching for the door handle when something came through the oleanders.

  Chapter 18

  Asher rushed down the hall of the ER, checking different exam rooms. He saw the police and made a bee line for that room. They stopped him, pushing him back down the hall a few steps.