Asher Blaine Mysteries Collection: Asher Blaine Mysteries

By Alice Sabo

Murder and lies, addiction and forgiveness. Asher's just trying to be a nice guy. Somebody is trying to kill him.

 

White Lies

Asher was learning how to be normal when the police arrested him for murder. The evidence pointed to him, and his history as a Hollywood bad boy didn't help. Trapped in a web of deceit, he discovers a stunning lie from his past that just might get him killed.

 

Dark Deeds

Asher's been sober for three years, and is about to star in a grand scale come-back movie. He's rented a cottage in the mountains of NC where they'll be filming soon. On his first day, he finds a body in the woods.

 

Blood Relations

Murder, suicide and a ghost from the Civil War.

Asher's stuck in a strange hotel in the middle of a cornfield, up to his neck in lies, deceit and bad coffee. When vultures start circling the cornfield, Asher fears a body is involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alice Sabo
• Release date: May 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201214876

Alice Sabo

Alice Sabo is the author of over 25 novels in 7 series. Her character-driven stories range across multiple genres including science fiction, post-apocalyptic, high fantasy, mystery and contemporary fantasy. Whether seeking lost cultures in an unforgiving galaxy or fighting the Darkness on the streets of the city, her books have strong world building, multi-layered characters and a satisfying culmination.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Asher was in the garage inspecting a beast of a lawnmower when the police arrived. The grass needed mowing, and he was determined to get it done himself. After all, wasn't that the whole point of living alone in this quiet neighborhood, in this small house? The aging ranch with its shaggy lawn and overgrown shrubs, tucked away in the Los Angeles suburbs, was a clear indication of his meteoric fall. Torrence was the closest he allowed himself to get to Hollywood. Any closer and he was sure he'd get into trouble. Asher didn't question the hows and whys of where he was now. He was alive, and he was here. That was all he needed to start over.

The mower was heavier than he had expected. It smelled of grease and gasoline. The arbitrary upbringing his parents had begrudgingly provided hadn't included a lot of practical instruction, like cooking, laundry or starting a lawnmower. He was poking around in hopes of finding a manual when a shadow crossed the doorway. Asher blinked against the glare reflecting off the cement to see two figures in black suits approaching.

Asher Blaine? A balding man and a blonde woman presented badges. I'm Detective Bledsoe, the man said. He indicated the woman, and this is Detective Smythe.

Asher's heart sank and with it, his place in the present. How many times had he been arrested for being over his head in his vices? A stampede of memories—handcuffs, rough hands and angry voices engulfed him. A car honked out on the street, and his persnickety neighbor's scolding reply brought Asher hurtling back to his new reality. He was clean and innocent of any wrongdoing. He might not have a clue as to what he should be doing with the shiny new life he'd struggled to create, but everything in it had to be done right.

With a sincere smile, he offered his hand. Pleased to meet you.

The woman looked surprised. She had that look on her face that sized him up and found him lacking. He'd seen a version of it on the faces of teachers, nurses and pretty girls who wanted stability in a husband. One more obstacle for him to work through.

What can I do for you, detectives?

Your fingerprints showed up in a murder we are investigating, Bledsoe said.

Asher backed up a step. Murder? My God! Who's dead?

Where were you between the hours of midnight and two am on Tuesday? Smythe asked, a look halfway between boredom and disgust on her face.

Asleep.

You answered that too fast, she said.

I'm a good boy now, in bed by eleven.

Alone? Bledsoe asked as he pulled out a notebook.

Yes.

The detective made a note that seemed a lot longer than a simple affirmative. Sweat slid down Asher's back despite the cool air in the garage.

Smythe glared at him.Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?

Asher ran his hands through his hair leaving a smudge of grease on his temple. You want proof I was asleep?

The detective frowned at him. Yeah, I do.

Despite the frown, Bledsoe had a much gentler look to his round face. His full lips and brown eyes were bracketed by assorted smile lines. Stocky, but not pudgy, his clothes fit him comfortably.

Unaccountably, Asher found himself wanting his approval. No, I don't have any proof that I was home, alone in my bed, asleep.

The synthetic jingle of an ice cream truck trickled in around his rising hysteria making it that much more surreal.

Asher's eyes strayed beyond the detective's shoulder to see the imminent circus brewing out front. There were patrol officers stationed across the front yard. He could see at least two police cars, with lights flashing, parked in the street, and a growing crowd of neighbors. All it needed was a covey of reporters and a ringmaster.

OK. Look, this is a mistake. But I’ll do whatever, you know, to sort this out. What do you need? Urine sample? Blood? I didn’t do anything.

Smythe pulled out her handcuffs. We’ve got evidence that says otherwise.

Asher's eyes locked on the cuffs. This had to be a nightmare. I, I really didn't do this. He took a breath to steady his voice. But I'll go with you. Do we really need . . . He nodded toward the cuffs.

Smythe looked angry enough to spit. She seized his wrist in a bruising grip. You're a murder suspect. What do you think?

Chapter 2

The interrogation room was small and chilly. Most of one wall was taken up with a large mirror. A scarred table with four metal chairs stood in the center of the room. Asher, in rumpled shorts and sweaty tee shirt, sat staring at his folded hands. So far, things had been quite civil. When you were polite and cooperative, the police tended to be polite right back. That was a revelation for him. His previous arrests were inebriated blurs, but he was quite certain that neither polite nor cooperative had been involved.

He forced himself to keep a calm façade. That was one skill that he had retained from years of acting. His breathing was fast and shaky. That was a little harder to control. Clenching his hands tighter, he dragged air deep into his lungs. He needed to stay calm. Hysteria would only make it worse.

How could this have happened? They arrested him for murder. Obviously, a terrible mistake had been made. He would tell them the truth, cooperate in every way, and it would be all right. He hoped. But an insistent sliver of fear asked what might have happened in those stretches he couldn't remember. There was a fertile ground of possible catastrophes lurking in his unremembered hours. He had vague flashes of speeding cars, late night swims and carousing through dark alleys. People came and went in his life, access controlled by his well-meaning keepers. Many had disappeared. Had he lost them as friends or was the absence more permanent? Were there actual deaths to be tallied to the long list of collateral damage he kept in his heart? Could his apparent disregard for the lives he'd so disastrously impacted lead some to believe that he was cold-blooded enough to kill?

*   *   *

On the other side of the two-way mirror, the detectives stood looking in at Asher. Bledsoe could feel his partner bristling. Her thin lips were pressed into a flat line.

Drug addicts, she said.

Bledsoe nodded patiently. He'd worked with Smythe for six years. She was a good cop, but she had her baggage like everyone else. Normally she was level-headed and methodical. They made a good team, but he could see that this case was going to push her buttons.

No sign of gunshot residue, he said.

He could have washed it off.

Forensics said the house was clean.

But I doubt he is, she snapped back at him. Her hazel eyes sharp with anger. Have you seen his rap sheet?

Bledsoe nodded but kept his eyes on Asher. Preliminary tox screen should be back soon. He gave her an apologetic shrug. He is being very cooperative.

Depending on what he was on, he might not remember. He could believe he’s innocent.

Her voice held a very old, bitter anger. Bledsoe wondered if she'd ever get past the loss. Drugs had taken her sister, too young, too sudden. It was an old pain that smoldered underground most of the time. Cases like this made it flare up into a wildfire, destructive and furious. He had to keep her in the here and now.

If that’s true, the full tox screen will show it when we get that back. One step at a time, Smythe. The evidence will lead us to the killer.

One of the younger lab techs delivered the results of the urine test to Smythe. She flipped the folder open to read it as Bledsoe's phone rang.

Damn. He is clean. She scanned the list of substances tested for detectable levels. Maybe it's a designer drug. That might not show up.

Bledsoe leaned over her shoulder to read while listening to the terse report from a forensic tech at the house. Huh. OK, thanks, he said, ending the call. They checked the neighbors' trash cans. No bloody clothes or shoes. Doesn’t make sense. Why leave the murder weapon with your fingerprints but get rid of any other evidence?

Smythe pulled her suit jacket tight against her as if chilled. Drug addicts live in their own crazy little worlds. None of it will make sense to us.

*   *   *

Asher looked up hopefully when Detective Smythe entered the room holding a file. Her face was drawn in an expression of distaste. She was all sharp angles, thin and sinewy. The cut of her pantsuit emphasized her thinness and the dark color made her skin seem very pale. He thought she had a sparse beauty, a slim-lipped mouth, a slender nose and just a pencil line of brows. Curly blonde hair and big hazel eyes eased the severity of her looks. She took a rigid stance in front of the table, pulled a photo from the file and placed it before him.

Recognize this?

It's a gun, he said politely, determined to be extremely cooperative.

Is it yours?

Asher shook his head. I don't own any guns.

She stabbed the photo with her finger. It has your fingerprints on it. She paced a step or two, as if she had to move or explode.

Oh. He could feel her anger and wondered if she'd known the victim. He rubbed his face and thought hard, shaking out the ragged cloth of his memories. He'd handled a lot of weapons over the years, guns, swords, knives, even a raygun or two. There was something familiar about this one. Oh, OK. Is it a Beretta?

Yes. She took off her jacket and put it on the back of a chair. The white silk blouse she was wearing was short sleeved with a scoop neck. He found it surprisingly feminine. Restlessly, the detective paced to the side of the room. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She was slender but solid. Her arms were ropey with muscle and the tendons in her throat stood out when she spoke.

OK. Yeah, I used a Beretta in a spy movie I did. Tommy, Johnny something? No, it was a city name...Antwerp? Well, whatever. I remember because it was shiny like that. He pushed the photo back toward her.

So, it is yours?

No. It was a prop. Her harsh regard made him elaborate. Prop guns would belong to the armorer.

She stared at him in silence for a long minute. When did you make this movie?

I don't know, six, maybe eight years ago? You want me to look it up? He knew he was being too flippant, but his anger was rising. He was innocent of whatever they wanted to lay at his door.

She gave an exasperated huff and glanced over her shoulder at the mirror. And when is the last time you saw this gun?

Back then, he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Couldn't she connect the dots on her own? But, he should cover all the bases. I gave it back to him at the end of every day. People get pissed if you lose important props like guns.

And what is his name?

He bowed his head so she wouldn't see him gritting his teeth. He could barely remember that year, and she wanted to know the name of the armorer? I'd have to look that up.

Um hm. She took a seat opposite him, shuffled papers and laid a photo of a woman in front of him. Do you know this woman?

Sure, that's Pam Mitchells.

And what was your relationship with her?

Asher cringed at her tone. It was as if she was insinuating that any relationship he had was wrong. He pushed back on his paranoia. He was probably just imagining it. Leaning forward he scooped up the photo. It was easily ten years out of date. She was my business manager, but I haven't seen her since Denny fired her.

Who's Denny?

My agent, well, ex-agent, Denny Croft.

And why did he fire her?

Asher put the photo back on the table. More bad memories. It wasn't really Denny's place to fire her, but he'd done it because Asher couldn't face her.

Um...hand in the cookie jar, I guess.

What does that mean? Smythe snapped. She had a frown on her face that made him think that a head-slap was in his near future. The creases and folds of her skin said she wore that look too often.

She was..., Asher found a dozen euphemisms popping into his head to soften the blow. Saying things out loud gave them unreasonable power. It was one more thing that he needed to face, accept and move past, ...stealing from me.

And when was this?

Years ago.

And when is the last time you saw Ms. Mitchells?

Asher leaned back with a sudden chill, suspicions blossoming. He hadn't filed any charges against Pam. That was all ancient history. He tried to reason out why the police would come to him about her and came up with only one answer.

Has something happened to Pam?

Pamela Mitchells was killed with that gun.

No, she can't be dead. The words fell out before he had a chance to think. No, not Pam, are you sure? He hadn't forgiven her, yet.

The detective didn't reply. She snatched the photo off the table and stuffed it into the folder. Her chair scraped across the floor so loudly Asher winced. The door snicked shut behind her, swinging gently on its automatic closer.

Asher stared at the empty table top in shock. Pam was dead, and they thought he'd killed her. He had no reason to want her dead. She'd been a good friend once, or so he had thought. Even when he'd found out that she was stealing, he hadn't wanted to hurt her. He just wanted her out of his life. But that was so long ago that the pain was more an assumption than a presence. A small betrayal among so many others, it was easy to set aside.

*   *   *

Smythe rejoined Bledsoe in the hallway. He was looking at a card of fingerprints. He may be telling the truth.

Smythe stifled a groan. What have you got?

It was just a fluke, he said apologetically. He was protective of his hand, so it caught my eye. He showed her the card. Right thumb. He has a recent scar across the pad.

So?

There is no scar on the thumbprint on the gun.

She gritted her teeth. And he denies seeing the gun in six years. She glared through the mirror at Asher. It was a nice tidy lead when we started.

We've got a little news on the weapon. The current owner died four years ago. He left everything to his wife, and she's moved to Bermuda. We've got calls in.

Where's this gun been that there are no other fingerprints in six years? Smythe closed her eyes and groaned with frustration. If this bastard is guilty, we cannot let him walk.

We won't. Bledsoe patted her shoulder. We'll go back to the house. We'll interview neighbors. If he's guilty, we'll find the evidence.

Chapter 3

Joshua Knudson was a fastidious old man. Every day he wore a clean white shirt with a starched collar and tan linen slacks. It didn't matter that he was retired, he still dressed in appropriate business attire. His face was clean shaven and his unruly hair, now more gray than red, was pomaded into submission.

Every morning, before the day got too hot, he watered his perfectly mowed and trimmed front lawn. The square bed by the front door was mulched with red woodchips and outlined with gray scalloped edgers. In the exact center of it, a dwarf pine was shaped into cascading pompons. His rose beds, along the perimeter of the yard, were the envy of the neighborhood. Or so he imagined.

After the sun had sucked the moisture off the sidewalk, he patrolled his tiny kingdom searching for weeds, fungus, grubs, anything that might intrude on the clipped green perfection. Today he found a small circle of yellowing grass. It might be grubs, and it might be from the neighborhood dogs. He glared down the street, eyeing each house in turn. That one had a lab, that one had two corgis, that one had a basset. His review stuttered to a halt at Asher Blaine's house.

Hollywood scum.

Knudson was sure that Blaine was a drug addict and a womanizer, two things he couldn't abide. Multiple arrests, three divorces, he considered the man a reprobate. Knudson had consulted a lawyer. Until Blaine broke a law, there was no way to legally remove him from the neighborhood. 

Blaine’s house looked empty. The unkempt yard gave it a derelict feel, a sore thumb on a neatly manicured hand. Knudson could feel his blood pressure rise. He didn't even have the decency to keep his lawn mowed. A sign, in his book, that Blaine was spiraling out of control, and quite probably insane. It was well known that one's environment reflected one's personality.

The old man poked the yellowed grass at his feet. He needed to add a gate across the front path to keep out the dogs. His eyes returned to the shabby house and its shoddy yard. That man had no right to be living in this neighborhood. There was no knowing what kind of trouble he would drag them down into. He turned his back on the botanical mayhem that so offended him. It was only a matter of time before drug dealers and prostitutes showed up.

Chapter 4

Asher's kitchen was a narrow galley ending in a breakfast nook that looked into the backyard. He sat at the table, in numb disbelief, with a cup of coffee gone cold. The sun was on the other side of the house. Long shadows blurred the transition from weedy lawn to overgrown shrubs making the whole yard a spiky, scruffy jumble. With a clatter and rumble, the landscapers arrived and proceeded to trim, clip and mow. They attacked the yard like artistic locusts, swarming the greenery and making it behave. He watched them, feeling helpless and fragile. He didn't even have the energy to make a fresh pot of coffee. Scratching his bristly chin, he wondered how long scruff could get before it was no longer fashionable, simply unkempt.

Tucked into the corner of the kitchen was an array of photos, all the ex-wives and ex-in-laws. He could feel disapproval radiating from the images. Rita, the first wife, left him before he made it big. She told him he had a dark streak. Even so, they had parted on reasonable terms. Valerie, the second wife, died of an overdose. Her two brothers, Scotty and Paul had died with her. He hardly had any memories of her. Alanna, the third wife, was always trying to fix him. What he remembered of her was the continuous battles, recriminations and demands.

Who were those women, truthfully? Had he ever know them? Had they ever looked past the money and stardom to see him? Asher, the husband, was a far cry from the public relations façade. At some point, they must have realized the bad deal they'd gotten. That’s when the fights started and tension escalated. He'd start hiding to avoid the confrontations. All that was left was the glitz and the money, not enough to sustain a real marriage.

He stared into his coffee. The cream left a slick on the surface. Three good women damaged by knowing him. And now an old friend dead. How could it be his fault?

The whine of power tools irritated him out of his funk. His brain re-engaged, and he decided the police were going about this the wrong way. The gun must be a distraction. But who would want to kill Pam? She'd gone through four husbands and had an ex-client list as long as her arm. If she'd stolen from Asher, there was a good chance he wasn't the only chump. He had no idea how to get his hands on her client list, but the cops would surely follow up on that. He had to be a little more creative.

Detective Smythe had been more than happy to give him the gory details. The murder was done at close range. That was cold. In the right part of town, it could be blamed on some gang banger, but she was shot in the driveway of her Brentwood home. Someone walked up to her house and while she was getting in the car, put a gun in her face and pulled the trigger. Asher shivered at the brutality. It was an ugly way to die. The fact that the weapon was linked to him was especially disturbing.

Asher! Sharon howled his name from the living room.

Kitchen, he growled back at her.

I got a fabulous new list. Sharon Ladeen, his twenty-two year old assistant started talking the minute she entered the house, jarring him out of his gloomy thoughts. Perky, peppy and just a whisker shy of manic, she was bright and shiny like a brand new car, one of those cute sub-compacts. And what did that make him? In his heart he felt like an abandoned race car up on blocks without even a tarp to hide his rusted paint and battered frame. The whole world saw him, and even worse, passed him by without a second thought.

Her unannounced arrival didn't surprise him. She kept an erratic schedule, popping in with food or errands or just a demand to be elsewhere. She thundered into the room with an armful of manila envelopes and multicolored flyers which she dumped on the table. Asher snatched his coffee out from under the avalanche. 

We need to get these stuffed and into the mail today. She clattered and tinkled with bracelets, anklets and long, swinging earrings as she sorted and rearranged her prizes. The layers of tank tops she wore were very tight and barely reached her waist exposing a firm, tanned expanse of skin above her low-slung short-shorts. Her navel was pierced, and there was a butterfly tattoo on her spine in the small of her back. He made a point not to look at them.

I was arrested this morning, he said.

Great! For what? Her eyes were on her piles of paper. Will it be on the news?

Murder.

Sharon missed a beat. Papers in hand, she turned her eyes to him. Murder?

I didn’t do it.

She blessed him with a sunny smile. Of course not. That’s crazy. She was back to cruising altitude. Listen, I figure it’s time for a blanket mailing. We’ll send out a hundred, hundred and fifty. The website is up and running, so we’re going to get a lot of attention.

Now that he'd said it out loud, his anger came welling back up. They actually considered me a suspect.

The cops?

They think I’m capable of murder.

Well, I know you aren’t. She grabbed his head and planted a noisy kiss on top.

Asher wondered if she understood the finality of death, the cruelty of murder. She might be too young to have lost a loving, breathing person, out of her life forever. Do you?

Do I what? She switched the order of the piles and gave each one a satisfied pat. Here, one, two, three, four and into an envelope.

Asher looked at the stacks before him, screamingly bright paper with a bizarre letterhead that had snakes of film careening around the edge of the page. The dense paragraphs, in multiple fonts, were decorated with small flocks of exclamation points. His mind ground gears and jerked in a new direction.

Chop chop! We’ve got to get these all stuffed and to the post office before three, if we want them to go out today.

He picked up the closest one and tried to read it. He had a momentary flash of a studio head squinting at fuchsia paper with, God help us, purple ink, and confusion gave way to full blown panic. Who are you sending these to?

Sharon pulled a rumpled list out of her satchel and handed it to him. Too bad you’re not a girl. I saw an ad today for 'talented starlet needed'.

Asher scanned the list and skidded to a halt halfway down. These companies do porn.

Some. They do other stuff, too. She shook a ring-laden finger at him, bracelets hopping down her arm. Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. This might bring you some work.

I don’t do porn, he said firmly. He looked her in the eye to make sure she was paying attention.

Sharon put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. I’ve seen you do naked stuff.

A love scene, in context, when the story required it.

You said you would take anything.

No, not anything.

Sharon smacked one of the stacks of papers. Well, you're going to have to be more flexible now. You're not as hot as you used to be.

Asher flinched. It was true. No matter how much it hurt to hear her say it, it was true. He looked at the list again. No, this most definitely was not the path he wanted to follow. I won't do porn, Sharon. If I have to start over with homemade commercials and horror flicks, fine. But that's as low as I go. He folded the list and put a hand on the brilliant blue stack. Let me look these over, OK? I can tell you who we should really pursue.

That's my job! You're always screwing up my plans. Ya know, sometimes I wonder why I took you on.

Asher blinked at her. Was that really the way it was? He needed to think about this relationship, but right now he needed to make amends. No more burnt bridges. I'm sorry. Maybe I'm not ready for this.

Sharon pouted. I worked really hard on this.

I know, sweetie. And I appreciate it. How about you go get us something yummy?

Your treat?

He pulled a handful of crumpled bills from his pocket and tossed them on the table. She pushed the dollars to one side and snagged a twenty.

Sticky sweet, he said.

She folded the bill and tucked it in her bra. Sticky sweet it is.

He watched her leave, a little wobbly on her stiletto sandals. His eyes lingered on her tattooed ankles. She was young enough to be his daughter. Sometimes he felt like one of those B-movie monsters that fed on the life force of randy teenagers. He needed her. She filled his silences with sounds of life, but he had to remember how very young and naïve she was. Which brought him back to the disastrous mailing.

One of the stacks was photos Sharon had taken of him. He pulled one over, surprised at his image. Apparently the camera still loved him. His handsome face, weathered by storms of self abuse, managed to kindle its old magic. His blue eyes had that special sparkle. Dark, tousled locks, sparingly peppered with gray, framed a lean face with high cheek bones. Lines by his eyes and around his mouth gave his face a seriousness that the mischievous twinkle in his eye belied.

When he heard the car door slam, he gathered up all the hot pink, purple, blue and neon green papers and tucked them into a corner of the office. He'd wait a week or so, till she'd forgotten about them, then he'd pitch them into the recycling. She might become a liability. If she had sent this out, it would have been more than humiliating, it would have been detrimental. He needed to make sure that she got his approval first before she tried something like this again.

The landscapers fired up the leaf blowers and the noise went through his aching head like a bazooka blast. He grabbed his mug and headed for the coffee pot, Pam's murder pressing on him like the heavy air before a dangerous storm.

Chapter 5

Sharon returned two hours later with several bags and no change from his twenty. They didn’t have Danish, so I got cinnamon buns, she yelled from the kitchen.

Anything’s fine, he said as he wandered back from his office.

She wagged a finger at him. No. Wrong attitude, hon. We deserve to get what we want, right?

Asher smiled at her hackneyed mottos. She was always spouting cobbled together bits of pop-psych. Whatever you say.

Sharon unpacked one bag, her long earrings swinging with every movement. He noticed she had new highlights in her hair, today's color was cherry Jell-O red. Artfully disheveled and heavily moussed locks hung in her face nearly hiding one eye. I am going to get you back up there. You mark my words. A-list in a year.

That would be great, Sharon. It was an automatic answer. That hope or wish was much too fragile right now. He needed to take the days as they came and not expect too much of them.

Will be! Positive thinking, remember.

She had come to his door on a particularly bleak day, and stood on his porch just glowing with life, the raw enthusiasm of youth dripping out of every pore. He had to let her into his house, into his life. She bubbled and giggled and chased away some of his shadows. She hadn't a clue as to the job she'd taken on, but that didn't matter at all. That wasn't why he needed her.

I’m trying.

No try, do, she said as she opened the box and helped herself to a cinnamon bun. Or whatever the hell Yoda said.

A smile tugged at his mouth. But I'm not supposed to listen to little green men anymore.

Sharon upended the bag scattering napkins across the table. Green men? She handed him one.

Yoda?

She wrinkled her nose. What about him?

Asher watched her a moment, then with a shake of the head, turned his attention to the pastries.

Sharon announced that if she didn't have to do a mailing, she had better things to do with her time and left.

Asher ate three cinnamon buns, dripping with thick white icing, and drank two more cups of coffee. He felt high on the jittery buzz of caffeine and sugar, all of the shakes and none of the euphoria. He stayed in the kitchen, staring out the window and racking his brain for some kind of logic that would explain Pam's death. The phone interrupted him, and he was glad to put that line of thought aside.

Asher, it's Fred.

Hey. Ash grinned. Fred had been his accountant for well over a decade, and yet he always identified himself in the first breath as if worried Asher would hang up.

I have a man here from a landscaping company demanding payment. Did you hire someone?

No, must have been Sharon. But pay him, Fred. They did a wonderful job.

There was a smudge of sound as Fred covered the phone and relayed approval to his assistant. OK. I, um, I also wanted to ask if you'd heard about Pam.

Asher sighed. I can't believe it.

It's a shock.

The cops questioned me. He dropped that bomb fearing the response.

Why?

Relief flooded him at Fred's tone of indignation. The gun was from that spy flick.

"Johnny Amsterdam?"

Wow, you remembered.

I have the signed poster in my waiting room.

Huh. I can't figure out why anybody would kill her.

Other than being obnoxious, conniving and a thief? There was a snarl to Fred's voice that seemed uncharacteristic.

Ouch. You are speaking very ill of the dead there, buddy.

I couldn't stand that woman, Ash, and you know it.

Asher noted that down on the corner of Sharon's mailing list. Other than you, who would want her dead?

Anyone who's worked with her, Fred snapped. I gotta go. Have to sign the check for the landscaper.

OK, bye.

Asher stared at the phone for a moment. He hadn't known that Fred hated Pam that much. There were some vague memories of head-butting over odd expenses, but nothing that shrieked hatred. It grated that the first name on his list of suspects was a man that had not only stood by him through the worst of the worst, but had also made a point of protecting him from himself.

The day was heating toward a scorcher. Asher made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grabbed a Coke. With fortification in hand, he forged onward to the Internet. He was fast mastering his search skills. They'd introduced him to the Internet in rehab, with the idea that he might need job skills. He pulled up a handful of articles on Pam and made a list of her ex-husbands' names – Ron, Dave, Mike and Joe, remarkably common names for ultimately unremarkable men. Pam was a charismatic bully, and she ended up with men who would easily capitulate, which was probably why Fred didn't like her. He was a straight arrow. All her crumpled invoices and smeared receipts set off alarm bells for him. Which, thank heavens, meant Asher still had enough in the bank to get by until he started working again.

According to the last article, Pam was on her way to a new job. It was her first day at Franklin Taylor Agency as an agent-in-training. He hadn't heard of it, but a lot of boutique agencies had popped up lately. He scanned a few more articles to confirm that she'd left the industry right after being accused of embezzlement. Her present husband had big bucks, some insurance group or something, so she didn't have to work. He wondered what made her decide to wade back into the shark tank after so many years.

Too many unrelated thoughts were circling his brain. He dug through the desk until he found a stack of journals. On the advice of a shrink, he had bought them to write out his inner thoughts. After cracking the cover of the first one, he discovered that journaling was definitely not his forte. He ripped out the four measly entries, each of which consisted of a list of mundane activities like: Got up, showered, didn't shave today. He would put them to a better use now.

Chapter 6

Sharon burst through the back door onto the little porch nearly knocking Asher over. Here you are! Exasperation dripped from her words, as if searching for him in the small, five room house was more than anyone should demand of her. What are you doing?

He held up the bag of cat food and pointed to the freshly filled bowls.

You aren't supposed to feed strays. They carry diseases. I'll call those people that trap them.

No! Asher was surprised at how that thought disturbed him. I'm going to adopt them.

Sharon rolled her eyes. Great. An unemployed actor with too many cats. That's really going to help your rep. Which is why I am here. We need to go out tonight.

He chose to ignore that barb, squeezing past her, back into the kitchen.

Ew. You don’t smell so hot either. Go hop in the shower. We need to go be seen.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. In his opinion, their nightly jaunts were just an opportunity for Sharon to get a free night on the town.

*   *   *

Asher glanced through the menu, no prices. There would definitely be a phone call from Fred about this credit card bill. The restaurant was new, a place he'd never been before. He was painfully underdressed, and he couldn't even imagine what talk Sharon's ensemble was generating. Asher had gotten used to her over-the-top fashion sense, but it was totally out of place here. The maître'd deserved a big tip. One look at Sharon's skintight leggings and rhinestone trimmed bustier had him blinking and sputtering. He was about to turn them away when he recognized Asher. God bless the man. The small table in the dark alcove was perfect. With luck, no one would even notice them.

I don't know why you said a quiet corner, Sharon scolded from behind her menu. We're here to be seen.

Asher smiled indulgently. He'd seen a couple of politicians and a lot of businessmen. Although it might be expensive, he was fairly sure this wasn't the right venue for rubbing influential Hollywood elbows. Which, to him, was a relief. He wasn't ready to view all those burned bridges, yet.

We're being mysterious, he replied in a stage whisper.

She nodded knowingly and batted her cerulean blue eyelashes at him. He rubbed his mouth, fighting a hysterical giggle. She looked so young. They'd all think him a pedophile. He might need to rethink being out and about with her. It wasn't at all the image he wanted to cultivate.

Sharon slapped her menu down. No crab dip.

Asher looked over the selections. How about crab-stuffed mushrooms?

Not the same. She flipped open the menu and tapped the appetizer listing. No nachos, no poppers, God!

Would you prefer Mexican? he asked. It would be a relief to slink out.

She shook her head and pouted. We need to be seen.

Asher glanced at the wedge of dining room visible from his vantage point. Heavy wooden chairs with thick upholstery were tucked into long white tablecloths that hung to the floor. Deep pile carpeting swallowed the noise of the diners, dimming it to a distant murmur punctuated with the tinkles and clinks of cutlery and crystal. Strategically placed palms and ficus trees created privacy screens between tables. He relaxed a bit. There was very little chance he'd run into anyone he knew.

He ordered artichoke brochette on toast points, crab-stuffed mushrooms and something in French, just to see what it was. Sharon sashayed off to the ladies' room as soon as the waiter left with their orders. Asher cringed as she cut through the center of the room. Was any lighting soft enough to tone down that outfit? If he'd known their destination, he'd have pulled out the suit he used for going to court. At the very least, he'd have brought a suit jacket. Sitting here in jeans and an old polo shirt made him angry. It wasn't a rebellious statement or a jab at the world of couture, it was simply an oversight. He shouldn't have let Sharon bully him into coming here.

Asher?

Despite the alarm that spiked through him at the sound of that southern drawl, he had to smile. She stretched his name into three syllables and dropped the 'r'.

Yvonne. He stood as she approached the table. She held out her hand, and he gently kissed her arthritis-swollen knuckles. A delicate fragrance teased his nose making him think of flowers and incense and a temple he'd seen in India.

He offered her a seat, but she declined with the slightest shake of her head. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with pure white hair in soft curls around her face. She looked like a fading southern belle. In reality, she was the font from which sprang some of the most successful projects in Hollywood. Her imprimatur could green-light a project before A-listers were attached. She was a weighty celestial body affecting the orbit of all within her compass. And he was just a burnt out comet that had once sparkled across a star-filled sky.

Well sugah, have you come back?

He knew she meant other than geographically. Not really.

Uh huh. And what brings you to town then? Slummin'?

Her teal silk dress with fine lace trim made him feel like a grubby interloper. More like sightseeing.

And your, um, charmin' companion? Her raised eyebrow felt like the worst accusation of sexual depravity.

Just a friend.

With benefits, as the young are wont to say?

No. Not at all. She wants to put her toe in the water, and I'm just watching for sharks.

He felt graced by her soft chuckle. She glanced behind him as the waiter placed their drinks on the table, beer for Sharon and a pricey bottle of water for himself. When he glanced back at her, she was smiling. A-ya-sha, deah, are you sobah these days?

Two years. His breath caught a little, with a rush of emotion. He hadn't been able to say that to anyone who mattered, anyone who understood how far he'd come.

She touched his arm. Good work, sugah. Now the really hard part begins. She glanced over her shoulder to where a man in a dark suit hovered. My condolences on Pamela. She wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but we all know how well she could carve.

Asher bowed his head. I'm in shock.

It was a brutal thing. She tipped her head away from her escort and lowered her voice. But to use your analogy, if one's going to swim with the barracudas, one must be most vigilant.

He met her eyes. Barracudas?

Yvonne gave him an incongruous smile. Might be best you had a lifeguard of your own, sugah. At her nod, the man came forward and offered his arm.

Asher gave her a courtier's bow. Your word is my command.

You have been missed young man, she said, smiling at him. It felt like an absolution and for a moment, he felt meteoric fires rekindling. She put her gnarled hand on her escort's sleeve and allowed him to lead her away. Asher watched her go, feeling as if he could see the impending demise of polite society as that generation faded away.

Hey.

He turned to see Sharon take a swig of beer out of the bottle.

What's going on?

Just an old friend, he said quietly. Being seen by her would start wheels turning. His hands started to shake just thinking about it.

Chapter 7

As she entered the room, Detective Smythe could see his late wife's touch in every aspect of Mr. Knudson's kitchen. The teapot motif on the curtains was repeated in the wallpaper border. All the appliances had quilted cozies with embroidered labels. The old man served them freshly brewed ice tea. The placemats were spotless on a table that smelled lemony with wax. She felt guilty letting the frosty glass drip condensation on them.

They’re a blight on society, leading our children astray. Knudson pulled a chair out from the table and sat looking away from the detectives.

Is that all actors in general? Bledsoe asked.

Hollywood. Period, he snapped. He leaned forward, his eyes bright with passion. It entices with shiny sugar candy that is, in reality, a deadly poison. His sermon delivered, he leaned back, arms crossed and regarded them with disdain.

Bledsoe traded a look with Smythe. That sounds personal.

My daughter wanted to be an actress. She was a sweet girl. They killed her.

Smythe raised an eyebrow. Literally?

Knudson launched out of his chair to peer down the hallway, scowling in the direction of Asher’s house. "It’s his fault. Him and everyone like him."

Did your daughter know Blaine? Smythe asked.

Knudson moved restlessly through the kitchen tweaking things into place, polishing the shiny counter, refolding dish towels on their rack. "She knew a lot of people. Too many people that we didn’t know. My wife worried sick about her. That’s what gave her the cancer. I don’t care what the doctor said. All that worry. It made her sick."

He moved back to a point where he could see through the house to the living room windows, facing the street. I had to bury them both. And he has the nerve to move into this neighborhood. Man can't even mow a lawn. Idiot! His lips twitched into a sly smile. But I fixed that, he said, barely audible.

Smythe shot a glance at her partner. Bledsoe rolled his eyes.

But did she know Blaine? Smythe asked again.

Does it matter? He threw a hand up in furious disregard. They're all interchangeable. Over-sexed drug addicts the lot of them!

Well, I've got to agree with you there, Smythe said.

How was your daughter killed? Bledsoe asked.

Knudson turned angry eyes on him. It's their fault! She took their candy, and it poisoned her.

We're sorry for your loss, Smythe said softly. She closed her notepad.

Bledsoe nodded. Thank you for your time.

On the precisely trimmed path across the manicured front yard, Smythe sighed. He's nuts.

Bledsoe shrugged. There's a grain of truth in there somewhere. Kid probably overdosed at a party of the not quite rich and famous trying to fit in with what seemed like the right crowd.

Smythe looked back at the house. Knudson was watching them from behind a lace curtain. I know how he feels, but you can't let it take you over like that.

Bledsoe gave her shoulder a squeeze before they got in the car. All you can do is try to remember the good.

She gave him an automatic smile. Platitudes had worn thin a long time past.

Chapter 8

Asher's living room was sparsely but comfortably furnished. He had walked into a warehouse type furniture store and had bought the first display that didn't have flowers, stripes or the color orange. The salesman's eyes had popped a little when he'd told him he'd take it all, pillows, rug and paintings on the wall. The room might have the generic quality of a hotel, but Asher didn't mind. He had spent a lot of time in hotels. This was the first home that he had furnished by himself, no wives, girlfriends, designers or assistants involved. It might be plain or boring, but to his surprise, he'd grown to like it.

He sat on the couch, reading the letter that Sharon had forced on him. She stood over him, arms folded, nostrils flaring.

This is the third one. She shook a finger at it, a sparkly row of bracelets jangling in counterpoint.

Only three? Asher tossed the letter onto the coffee table and sank back into the cushions.

I think we should call the police. She paced frenetically. Her tight skirt shortened her stride so much it made her trot.

Sweetie, I’ve gotten plenty of hate mail over the years. People don’t act on their threats. It’s an outlet for them.

She skidded to a halt, hands on hips. He said he was going to kill you.

They all do. He waved away her concerns with a lazy hand. It really isn’t a problem.

I’m the manager, and I think it’s my call.

Asher fought a smile. She really sounded like a child playing dress-up when she said things like that. The police won’t do anything. I don't think any laws have been broken.

She snagged the letter and brandished it. Uh, hello, a threat against you? There’s a law against that, right?

Um, no, I don't think there is. It’s a letter, Sharon. As long as it doesn’t blow up, or anything, it’s not going to do any harm.

Unhh! She stomped to the front door, her spike heels leaving dents in the plush carpet. After a dramatic pause, she turned back and pointed at him. You're wrong! The front door slammed behind her.

Asher stared at the ceiling in the echoing silence. People had run his life for years, until they had ridden him down to self-destructive insanity. He wouldn't let that happen again. Which was why he hired Sharon. She could barely manage her own life; she was really no threat to his. But she was volatile, unpredictable and dangerously naive. He needed to decide how long he