Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  “Ina, I’ll call for you.” Nikki gently took the phone from her, but didn’t dial. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  “Calm down, Ina.” Victoria took her housekeeper’s hand and rubbed it between hers, peering up into her face.

  “What’s happened?” Amondo, not usually excitable, was still fumbling to get his robe closed.

  “Muerto.”

  “Who’s dead?” Nikki murmured.

  “Lo han puesto en la basura!”

  “Slowly,” Victoria insisted, lifting up on her tiptoes to look eye to eye with Ina. “En Inglés, por favor. You know my Spanish is atrocious.”

  Ina pressed her free hand to her chest. “In the garbage. They . . . they put him . . . out in the trash!”

  “Who is in the trash?” Nikki asked, still not following.

  All Ina could do was point to the back door, left standing open.

  “The garbage? In the back?”

  “I . . . I was . . . carrying out . . . the trash,” Ina managed. Her English was perfect. It was just that after all these years, she probably still thought in her native language. “I took . . . the trash . . . to . . . to the receptacle in the alley. And there he was. Dead.” She pulled her hand from Victoria’s, clutching her head and rocking back and forth. “My hijo! My poor hijo!”

  Her hijo? Jorge? Suddenly, Nikki couldn’t breathe. She dropped the phone on the counter and raced out the open back door. Her heart was pounding. Please, please no, she prayed silently. She ran down the sidewalk that led to the back gate to the alley behind Victoria’s house, and ran past Ina’s little Honda. Ahead, the small back service gate was still open.

  Ina, Victoria, and Amondo hurried after her.

  “Amondo, take her back!” Nikki called over her shoulder. “Take them both back.”

  “You stay with them. Let me go,” Amondo insisted. He, too, was spry for his age; he had to be somewhere in his sixties.

  Amondo and Victoria both wore slippers. His were blue corduroy. Hers were pink silk mules, which didn’t seem to slow her down.

  Nikki burst through the open gate into the alley, where there was a long row of multicolored garbage receptacles and recycling bins against the fence. The alley ran the entire length of the 1000 block of Roxbury Drive.

  Nikki stopped short in front of the bins. For a moment, she thought she might be sick. But only a moment. Unfortunately, this was the third time she had come in direct contact with a dead body. It wasn’t Jorge, though.

  “Amondo, please,” she said, sounding amazingly calm. She couldn’t take her eyes off the blue receptacle directly in front of her. “Go back to the house and call nine-one-one. Give them our address, but tell them they need to come to the rear alley.”

  Amondo tried to block Victoria’s view of the body, but she was not a woman to be kept from anything.

  “Oh, heavens,” Victoria sighed, sounding more sad than horrified. The body was posed like a wax figure, eyes open wide. “I was afraid something like this was going to happen.” She gestured toward the body, propped up against the trash barrel. “Didn’t I tell you, Amondo, that it was only a matter of time before this happened?”

  Ina cried quietly, her hands covering her mouth.

  A pair of pruning shears protruded from Eddie’s chest.

  From where Nikki was standing, she could clearly read the name etched on the wooden handle. J. Delgado.

  They were Jorge’s pruning shears. The same shears she had seen him using on Victoria’s azaleas the previous night, just before his argument with Eddie. The argument where he threatened to kill Eddie.

  “Dios a mio,” Ina mumbled. She and Amondo crossed themselves simultaneously.

  The shock of the moment passed. Nikki turned to the others. “Everyone, go back to the house. Amondo, call nine-one-one. I’ll stay here.” She swallowed hard. “With the body.”

  “Nicolette.”

  Nikki met her mother’s gaze, Bordeaux blues to Bordeaux blues. Nikki knew what Victoria was thinking. This was Nikki’s third dead body, but it was the second time she and her mother had been together in the presence of one. A tumble of memories filled Nikki’s eyes with tears.

  “Nicolette, I’ll stay. You go back to the house.” In a rare demonstration of affection, Victoria rested her hand on Nikki’s forearm. Her eyes were dry. The woman was honed of steel and, at this moment, Nikki realized how thankful she was for that. Victoria’s strength gave her strength. It had always been that way between them.

  “No,” Nikki said. “You’re not dressed. I’m sure the police will want to speak with you. You need to be ready.”

  Amondo had his arm around Ina. Her chest was heaving with each sob and she laid her head on his shoulder. He offered his free hand to Victoria.

  Victoria lifted her chin a notch, refusing his assistance. “I suppose there’s no rush, at this point, but the call has to be made. It’s my garbage can. I’ll make the call.” She brushed past Amondo and Ina, her pink silk gown fluttering in the morning breeze like a queen’s robe. As she made her dramatic exit from the alley, she glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll send Amondo back with a pair of shoes for you, Nicolette.”

  And then Nikki was alone. Sort of.

  Her gaze settled on Eddie again. It was truly a horrific scene. His pudgy body was propped up, elbows back as if he were casually leaning on one of the rolling blue garbage bins. His bare feet were crossed, his vacant eyes wide, his skin tone ashy. He was wearing the same pair of pink hibiscus-flowered swim shorts and red Ralph Lauren polo that he’d been wearing the evening before. The shirt looked stained beneath the trademark polo horse appliqué, around the blades of the pruning shears, but Nikki didn’t want to get close enough to see if it was blood.

  Did it matter?

  Jorge’s name was practically flashing at her in neon lights.

  But surely Jorge couldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t.

  Nikki looked up and down the alley. It was only eight a.m. None of the neighbors were up and about on a Saturday morning. The only movement she saw was the flutter of several Burger King hamburger wrappers caught around a spike in the wrought-iron fence. She wondered which of Victoria Bordeaux’s ritzy neighbors was a closet Burger King addict.

  She glanced at Eddie again.

  He was looking at her. Sort of.

  She took a step closer. Should she close his eyes? They did that on TV. But that would be tampering with a dead body at the scene of a homicide. Probably not a good idea.

  She exhaled, feeling shaky. By now her mother would have made the emergency phone call. She’d soon hear sirens.

  She waited.

  Eddie seemed to be waiting, too.

  She caught a whiff of blooming roses and sour milk on the cool morning breeze. Someone had had fish for dinner the night before. She took a step back from the garbage bins, now acutely aware that she was barefoot and that she may have spilled raspberry sorbet on her t-shirt last night.

  She scratched at the spot over her breasts; she was braless, but she doubted anyone would notice. Victoria had been referred to as stacked once upon a time; she had been the decisive sweater girl of the silver screen. Nikki had inherited her father’s mammaries, apparently.

  She glanced at Eddie again. She really wanted to close his eyes. She wanted to pull the shears out of his chest and . . . dump them elsewhere. The Pacific Ocean came to mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly under her breath. She made herself look into Eddie’s eyes. Victoria had always insisted that was important, no matter who you were addressing—Robert De Niro or the girl who worked the grill at the studio commissary. “I’m really sorry this happened to you, Eddie. Even if I didn’t like you,” she added, not wanting to seem two-faced. Eddie had always known she didn’t like him. She just didn’t want him to think—

  Realizing how crazy her thoughts were, she walked to the other side of the alley, crossing her arms over her chest. (If she kept them like this, maybe the police wouldn’t see the
sorbet.) She looked in both directions of the alley again, wondering from which way the cops would approach. The Beverly Hills Police Department was on Rexford, but—

  Nikki heard the wail of a police car, then a second, and she shivered. She glanced at the bloody shears. Ina had good reason to cry. The police would waste no time in arresting a first-generation American gardener from Mexico if he was a suspect in the killing of famous producer Abraham Bernard’s only son.

  The question was, what was Nikki going to do about it?

  Chapter 4

  By the time Amondo returned with a pair of shoes for Nikki (Bruno Magli vintage black flats, which went fabulously with her sweats and tee) the police had arrived in full force. The alley was full: black-and-white Beverly Hills precinct cars, two ambulances, and several unmarked police cars. Nikki sent Amondo back to the house to retrieve her cell phone and take her dogs out while she remained to answer the police officers’ questions . . . without giving up any information on Jorge. She needed to talk to him. Better yet, she needed to see him. But first, she had to deal with this mess.

  The first officers on the scene were a Mutt and Jeff pair, one tall, one short, only the tall one had the gut and the short one looked like he needed a sandwich. They both wore black uniforms with shiny oval badges and shinier shoes. Once Nikki identified herself and the victim, it only took the tall cop, Officer Mendez, three questions to get to the owner of the gardening shears, information Jorge had conveniently etched in the handle for him.

  “This J. Delgado, you know him?” Officer Mendez (Mutt) asked, pen poised over a little notepad. So far, he’d been very professional about Eddie’s celebrity status and hers; maybe it just went with working Beverly Hills. Drew Barrymore, Johnny Depp, Annette Bening, Ron Howard—Nikki never knew who she’d run into at the post office or the market. Mendez had recognized her immediately as Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter, but had been polite enough to pretend not to notice that she was wearing the odd combination of sweats and designer shoes, no makeup, and had a zit coming up in the middle of her forehead. Not exactly the way celebrities liked to be seen in public.

  “We have a friend of the family, his company does our gardening,” Nikki explained. “His name is Jorge Delgado. I . . . I don’t know if those are his, though.”

  “Right.” The officer scribbled something down. He was standing close enough that she could smell garlic on his breath. Everything bagel?

  Down the alley a little ways, behind the Bernards’ portion of the fence, a nice-looking plainclothes cop in khakis and a white polo was talking with a guy in bare feet and wrinkled shorts and t-shirt. He looked pretty hungover. A by-product of Eddie’s party?

  “Ms. Harper?”

  There were so many people in the alley by now, cops and bystanders, making so much noise, that Nikki had to concentrate to hear what the uniformed cop was asking about Eddie’s next of kin.

  “His parents. That’s their house. Someone should go over and tell them what’s happened,” she said, glancing at their portion of the fence. “There’s no way someone at the house hasn’t heard the sirens.” All she could think of was poor Melinda. No mother should have to see her child this way.

  Nikki glanced at Eddie. He still hadn’t been moved. His eyes still stared, sightless, at the fence across the alley. The cops were still taking photos. “Or at least call them. Someone should call the Bernards.”

  “I need you to answer my questions, Ms. Harper, and let us do our jobs.”

  He seemed to be taking a lot of notes. What could he be writing?

  “We’re going to have to talk to everyone who was in your house. And the housekeeper who found the body. Her name, please?”

  “Ina . . . Delgado.”

  He didn’t look up. “Illegal?”

  She frowned, and tried not to sound as irritated as she felt. The police weren’t supposed to be biased, and certainly not one with the surname Mendez. But when did mankind ever live up to Nikki’s expectations?

  “No. She’s a U.S. citizen, same as you and me.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he was a U.S. citizen. She left it there.

  He flipped back a page in his notebook and looked down at her. “Delgado? Maid’s name is Delgado? You sure the pruning shears aren’t hers?”

  “Ina Delgado is my mother’s housekeeper, not a maid.” She paused, giving him time to think on that for a moment. “As I said, Officer Mendez, I don’t know who the gardening shears belong to.” A white lie, really. Jorge had a pair that looked like those, exactly like those, but who could say for sure if they were his?

  “Jorge. That’s spelled with a J. Probably his.”

  “Even if they are his, how do we know he had them? This is too easy. It’s obviously a setup,” she argued. “For heaven’s sake, my mother was pruning roses yesterday morning. She could have used them, for all we know.”

  “Victoria Bordeaux?” He looked up from his notes. “She have a beef with the deceased?” Scribble. Scribble.

  He was serious. It was all she could do not to laugh. The answer was yes, of course. She had a beef with him. So did half of L.A. “No,” she answered.

  “But these are her garbage cans?” More scribbling.

  The guy’s questioning seemed random. Was that his technique? To rattle a witness so badly that they accidently confessed?

  “I guess, technically, yes, these are my mother’s bins, but she didn’t kill him. Neither did Ina Delgado or Jorge Delgado.”

  “You know who did kill him?” Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.

  Was he taking down recipes or something? Maybe he was actually a writer for the National Enquirer. With a badge, a gun, and a cop car.

  Nikki massaged her temples with her thumb and forefinger. She was beginning to develop a headache. She needed a latte. A venti. Possibly splurging on 2 percent milk instead of the usual skim. It was looking like a 2 percent–milk kind of day. “I don’t know who killed Eddie. But as you can see, the entire block leaves their cans here. And it’s an alley. Anyone could come back here.”

  “Sister, Sister, it’s one of our favorite movies. The wife and me. Some of the best work Victoria Bordeaux ever did. I don’t know why she didn’t win an Oscar for that one.”

  It took Nikki a beat to catch up. “A lot of people say that.”

  He looked up from his notepad, glanced in the direction of Eddie’s body, then back at her. He lowered his voice. “I’d ask for an autograph, if it was . . . you know . . . appropriate. For the wife. Her being a big fan and all. She collects autographs. She’s got sixty-some. Brad Pitt, that’s her newest.” He shook his head. “But . . . I’m on duty. I’d never ask.”

  She smiled distractedly. Who had gone to the Bernards’ house? She couldn’t see that any of the first cops on the scene were missing. “Right.” She glanced up at him. “Officer Mendez, are you sure someone’s gone to tell the Bernards? I would hate to have Eddie’s mother or father . . . see him this way.”

  “Taken care of, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Then . . . do you think I could go back to my house and take a shower? Get dressed?”

  “We’ll have more questions for you later.” He nodded in the direction of the cutie in the polo shirt who had a The Way We Were–era Robert Redford look. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski will need to speak with you.”

  Mendez’s garlic breath was mixing with the aroma of sour milk in the alley and Nikki was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Maybe she’d just go for black coffee. Amondo made decent coffee, better than Ina, who always skimped on the coffee beans. “I’ll be happy to answer as many questions as you want, but I’m in my PJs here.” She opened her arms wide. “No woman likes to be seen in her PJs, Officer Mendez. It’s only a matter of time before the paparazzi show up.”

  He looked at her and seemed to notice, for the first time, that she was, indeed, dressed . . . casually. Even for an early morning homicide in the alley. “My wife would never be seen in her PJ
s,” he told her. “Fire alarm goes off in our apartment building, she has to get completely dressed. Lipstick, too. She doesn’t have a lot of pigmentation in her lips.” He motioned to his lips with his pen.

  Nikki didn’t know what it was about her that made people tell such personal things about themselves. It happened to her all the time.

  She offered a quick smile, giving him a flash of the Bordeaux blues. “So it’s okay. If I grab that shower?”

  “This is your house?” He pointed to the open pedestrian gate leading to Victoria’s property. He didn’t seem to be taking in the Bordeaux blues . . .

  “My mother’s house. I was staying the night . . . actually, staying a few days. I had a water leak and my house is being painted.” And repainted, she thought. She’d apparently hired the paint contractors from hell. Three days ago she’d walked into her carefully restored 1940s bungalow to find that her kitchen had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink. Somehow, her color swatches had gotten mixed up with another client’s.

  Officer Mendez hesitated. “Hang on a second.” He turned to the guy in the white polo. “Hey, Dom.”

  The cop walked over to them and waved, indicating the barefoot stranger should approach them. “Yeah?”

  “Okay if Ms. Harper here goes to her mother’s home and gets dressed? Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski,” Mendez introduced.

  Nikki nodded, glancing at the guy standing behind Dombrowski. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Who didn’t?

  “Sure,” Dombrowski said. “I need you to get this guy’s information and let him go. He doesn’t need to be seen, either,” he said.

  Nikki gave the guy a little nod. She didn’t know who he was, but apparently he was someone. “Nikki Harper,” she said.

  The guy nodded but didn’t offer his name.

  “No problem, Lieutenant.” Mendez turned to Nikki. “You can go back to your mother’s house, but you need to stay there. Everyone who was there at the time of the discovery of the body needs to remain in the house for questioning.”

  “Right. Sure. No problem.” Nikki took one last look at Eddie and headed for the back gate to her mother’s property. She wanted to go straight to Jorge’s house, but it didn’t seem like that was going to be possible. This wasn’t the kind of news you wanted to break over the phone, but she was afraid she might have to.