Diva Las Vegas by Eileen Davidson

Better wait for his call. In the meantime, I could check out what these medications of Barry’s and Shana’s were used for.
    I typed the names into Google and quickly got the results. The first two were most commonly used as painkillers, and the second two after surgery to combat infection. It was quite obvious that Shana wasn’t shy about going under the knife, but Barry? He looked fairly homegrown to me. And who would need so many pills? I knew a little about plastic surgery, but clearly there were all sorts of procedures being done today I didn’t know about. But I knew someone who did.
    I changed back into my street clothes and checked over my lines to make sure I remembered what I would be doing in the next few scenes. Then I headed out the back door of my dressing room and quietly into 43B. I had to relock those drawers I had jimmied. The only problem was how do you do that once I’d opened them with a bobby pin.
    I got down on my knees and saw it was a spring lock. I set the spring and shut the drawer. I pulled, and it held. Hooray!
    I looked around to make sure I had covered my tracks, then retraced my steps back into my room and out the front door. As I was walking down the hall to the elevator I pulled out my cell and called Herbie, the stage manager.
    “Herbie! I’m going to be out of the building for a little while. Call me if you need me, will ya?” Herbie is a doll and always has my back.
    “Sure thing, honey. See you, ummm . . . probably right after lunch.” That gave me just about three hours. I could do it. Bel Air Estates was only twenty minutes from the studio. But I’d have to hurry.

Chapter 14
    Riley Scott is one of those friends you have who, if nothing else, is entertaining. One whom you never know what they’re going to do next—although, with Riley, it usually involved plastic surgery. She had something done after each marriage or live-in relationship ended, which meant she was going to the doctor every two or three years. If anybody could be my expert on plastic surgery, she could.
    She had become a fabulously wealthy woman by combining settlements from each husband. After number six, she moved herself to Bel Air Estates. When her maid showed me to the pool, I expected to find her with a fresh bandage covering something.
    Riley’s real name was Marianne Weber; she was born in a small town in Iowa. She had won a Miss Something or Other back in the day, and came to Hollywood to pursue the Dream. I had met Marianne in an acting class when we were both in our early twenties. She was a very sweet person, and we became friends and stayed friends, even after I started working as an actress and she didn’t. Riley was a very pretty girl, but she didn’t have much talent and wasn’t tall enough to model. As a result, she began reinventing herself. First she changed her name and got boobs and a nose job.
    Soon after came husband number one, an Eastern European businessman. And she was off and running. She lived fast and furiously. Although it looked as though her life was glamorous and fabulous, one couldn’t help but think it was all so sad.
    Each of her surgeries made her more perfect than the one before, and yet she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t as if she wanted to look like anyone else. She wasn’t having Barbie doll surgeries; she was having procedures that made her just look more, well, Riley. An exaggerated version of herself.
    Out by the pool, Riley, clad in a string bikini, was lying on a chaise longue. Her surgically enhanced boobs looked as if they were about to burst, with only the smallest strips covering her nipples.
    “Mrs. Peterson, ma’am,” her maid said.
    Riley opened her eyes, looked at me from behind rose-colored sunglasses and smiled.
    “Alex! I am so happy to see you, girl. How are you?” She stood up and grabbed a robe from the back of the lounge. “Maria, bring Alex a—”
    “Iced tea,” I said, quickly.
    “Ohhh, good idea! Long Island?” Riley