Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  “Apparently, Mother told her not to. Mother says bail bondsmen are crooks. Rosalia says Mother offered to pay his full bail.”

  “I thought he didn’t want anyone’s help.”

  “He was pretty adamant when I talked to him yesterday, but he’s been moved to the California State Prison. He might change his mind.”

  “Can you force someone to accept bail?”

  “I have no idea. But we’re talking about Mother; you know how persuasive she can be.”

  “So anything’s possible,” Marshall agreed. “You ever catch up with Jorge’s cousin? The one Eddie was sparring with?”

  “Nope. No one has heard from her. She won’t answer calls. Jorge’s sister sent her husband over to her place to check on her this afternoon. Hector says her roommate says she hasn’t seen her all weekend.”

  “Interesting. Maybe she killed Eddie,” Marshall suggested. “The police think of that?”

  “She’s only five feet tall, Marshall. How would she have carried him to the alley after he was dead? He was killed elsewhere, then posed in the alley.”

  “How do you know that, Detective Smarty Pants?”

  “No blood. No sign of a struggle. Just like with Rex. The body was moved postmortem.”

  “I’m just throwing ideas out there. You’re the expert, not me,” Marshall said good-naturedly. “I heard the funeral is tomorrow. Should I come?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s not as if you’re close to the Bernard family.”

  “Or Eddie,” he piped in. He paused for a moment. “Okay, so out with it, my little secret P.I. What else did you do today? Who did you talk to about Eddie’s murder?”

  “I worked today, Marshall. I sold a six-point-five-mil house. How would I have time to—”

  “Come on,” he teased. “You’re a lousy liar.”

  “Actually, I think I’m getting better at it.”

  “And?” Marshall asked.

  “There was no lying involved . . . not today, at least,” she said preemptively. “But I talked to Ginny’s assistant, who says Ginny was upset that Eddie was already using—this was days before the party—and that she had given Abe an ultimatum.”

  “Juicy . . .”

  “According to Ashley, Ginny’s assistant, Ginny told Abe it was her or Eddie and it was Ginny who ended up at the Beverly Wilshire.”

  “Oh my God. I knew Abe had a hard time telling Eddie no, but I had no idea . . .”

  “I also found out that Eddie was doing steroids . . . or at least had been before his last stint in rehab.”

  “Not that surprising.”

  “The interesting thing is that the guy he bought from was there at the party that night.”

  “Ooh! Maybe Eddie owed him money.” He hesitated. “Did Eddie look to you like he’d been using steroids?”

  “No, definitely not,” Nikki said, thinking back to Eddie’s soft, flabby body.

  “So maybe he owed him money from before rehab and the dude came to collect?”

  Traffic had begun moving again, and Nikki was nearly to Wilshire and only blocks from home. “Sounds a little far-fetched. I don’t think people are killed over owing their steroid provider money. But it’s a place to start. And I talked to a guy who was at the party that night. I think he can give me names of some of the people who were there, so—”

  “You’re really doing this?” Marshall interrupted.

  “What?”

  “You know what. Again, Nikki?”

  “It’s Jorge.” She groaned. “You know, you sound like Jeremy. He thinks I should mind my own business.”

  “Good for Jeremy. You should listen to him.”

  “He says I need to consider the possibility that Jorge could have done it.”

  “He thinks Jorge could have done it?” Marshall went back to his gossipy tone.

  “No,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t. He just . . . thinks I need to take into consideration . . . the evidence.”

  “Meaning the pruning shears.”

  “Meaning the pruning shears,” she repeated, turning onto Wilshire. “Speaking of pruning shears, I was wondering if you would mind if I gave Rob a call? I’d love to know what was in the autopsy report.”

  “Beyond the fact that Eddie was stabbed through the heart with a pair of pruning shears?” he asked dryly.

  “We don’t know that.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “We don’t know for sure that that was what killed him.”

  “No, you’re right. But I doubt the gardening tool in his heart was good for his health.” He sighed. “I’ll ask him for you. It’s not his department, but you know cops. They’re like a bunch of teenage girls. They all talk.”

  “No, no, Marshall. I don’t need you to do that. I can ask him myself.”

  “I don’t mind. Besides,” he said conspiratorially, “it’ll give me an excuse to call him at work.” He sounded like a little kid. “I’m not supposed to call him while he’s at work.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I know you can, sweetheart. Let me do it for you.”

  “Okay.” She smiled as she turned onto Roxbury. “I’m home. Call me later if you get lonely in that big house.”

  “I will.” He made kissing sounds over the phone.

  Nikki pulled through the white wrought-iron gate and watched it close behind her, eyeing a dark van parked on the far side of the street. More ghoulish paparazzi hoping to get a snapshot of one of the Bernards? As she pulled up the circular drive in front of the white Paul Williams Georgian, Stanley and Oliver sprinted around the side of the house, crossed the drive, and raced around the massive three-tiered marble fountain in the middle of the front lawn. No stone dolphins for Victoria, only sheer elegance.

  Nikki got out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “What are you guys doing out here? I go to work and you two have the run of the place, is that it?”

  The dogs barked and leaped and chased each other as Nikki leaned over to give them each a stroke down their silky backs. As she stood up, she realized she smelled a distinct aroma . . . one you didn’t often smell in Beverly Hills.

  Barbeque?

  Nikki followed a stone path around the side of the house, into the backyard. On the terrace, she found her mother lounging in a chaise, reading a magazine. Amondo stood at a stainless steel barbeque grill, the source of smoke and the heavenly smell.

  “You have a grill?” Nikki asked.

  “We do now.” Victoria didn’t look up from her copy of The Economist. On the table beside her chair were copies of Women’s Day and The New Yorker. Her mother had eclectic taste. “Amondo bought it for us at one of those do-it-yourself stores. You know, where they sell lumber and such. I went with him.”

  Nikki could only imagine Amondo pulling up to Home Depot in the white Bentley.

  “He put it together himself,” Victoria went on, turning the page in her magazine.

  Nikki glanced at Amondo, dressed casually in slacks and a polo—polo tucked in, of course. An Italian ex-pat, Amondo had been a member of Victoria’s staff almost as long as Ina had. He was not only Victoria’s chauffeur and bodyguard, but her assistant and her friend. In light of his appearance Saturday morning from Victoria’s bedroom, Nikki wondered, for a brief moment, if she needed to revisit her interpretation of Amondo and Victoria’s relationship. The thought passed quickly. Eddie was dead. Jorge was in prison, accused of murder. Nikki’s brain could handle only so much stress.

  “We’ll eat shortly, mia cara,” Amondo told Nikki, a pair of stainless steel tongs in his hand. One thing Amondo did not usually do was cook for the household. That was purely Ina’s domain.

  “Where’s Ina?” Nikki asked.

  Victoria looked over her reading glasses and took a sip from her glass. Apparently cocktail hour had begun without Nikki. “Working.”

  Nikki glanced over her shoulder . . . as if Ina might magically appear in the kitchen doorway. “I thought she worked here.”

  “
There was a problem with one of Jorge’s employees.” Victoria sipped from her glass with great relish. “That Southern boy who works for him. The one with the unfortunate lisp.”

  “Harley?”

  “Yes, Harley,” Victoria confirmed. “Amondo, you’ve outdone yourself.” She held up her glass. She liked her margaritas in tall, slender glasses. “This is divine.”

  “Limes Mr. Hefner sent over, il mio amore,” Amondo said.

  Nikki felt a little like Alice. Was there any escape from this rabbit hole? “Mother,” she said firmly. “What are you talking about? Where is Ina and why is Amondo cooking dinner?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, Nicolette. The boy with the lisp.”

  Nikki closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Harley. Who’s probably thirty.”

  Victoria nodded. “Harley. He had a fender bender with some singer, Britney something. Not the fault of the gardener, I might add”—she raised a finger—“but the Mercedes. Anyway, Ina went to settle the matter with the police and all, and then to get one of Jorge’s other trucks up to that Jackson girl’s house.” She put her glass down and fluttered her hand. “The one from the singing family.”

  “Janet Jackson?” Nikki questioned.

  “I don’t know who his clients are, Nicolette. Anyway, apparently this young woman was having a dinner party and it was imperative that her yard be trimmed today. She seemed to have no empathy for Jorge’s situation.”

  “So, Jorge is in jail for Eddie’s murder and Ina is taking up the slack with his lawn care business?” Nikki asked.

  Victoria put down her magazine as if perturbed. “That would be an accurate assessment, Nicolette. Would you like to go upstairs and freshen up before dinner? Amondo and I thought we would eat on the terrace. We’re having grilled fish tacos.” She smiled. “It seems that Amondo has talents of which we were unaware.”

  Nikki dropped down to sit on the end of the chaise longue. “Mother, what are we going to do about Jorge?” Oliver and Stanley, seeming to sense Nikki’s sudden feeling of inadequacy, both parked themselves beside her. Stanley leaned against her boot and gazed up at her with big, soulful eyes.

  “I know you know that bail was set at half a million,” Nikki went on. “That means the DA’s office is serious about this case. He’s been charged with first degree murder.”

  “I’ve offered an attorney. I offered to put up bail. Jorge has refused both.” Victoria folded her petite hands, looking Nikki directly in the eye.

  There was something about Victoria’s gaze, even at her age, that could still capture and hold an audience. Even an audience of one. Even her firstborn child. Nikki was still in awe of her, just as she had been as a child permitted to visit on set with her mother.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Nikki said quietly, unable to break the spell or look away.

  “Did Jorge do it?” Victoria asked very softly, her pink lips barely moving.

  Nikki’s eyes stung. “I don’t know.”

  “Then find out, and respond accordingly.” Victoria held Nikki’s gaze a moment longer and then popped her legs over the side of the chaise and tossed her reading glasses on a table. “Shall I set the table, Amondo?”

  Nikki stared at her mother, pretty certain Victoria had never set a table in her life.

  “Certainly not.” He waved her back onto the chaise and she didn’t put up a fight.

  “Guess I’ll go up and change.” Nikki rose.

  “Excellent,” Victoria said, stretching out again and reaching for her glass. “Over dinner, we’ll discuss our plan for tomorrow.”

  “Our plan?” Nikki turned back. The dogs, hot on her heels, hit their brakes. Oliver was so close, he bumped into her. “We’re going to Eddie’s funeral. Then back to the Bernards’ to pay our respects.”

  Victoria glanced at her over the rim of her frosty glass. “Which is exactly why we need a plan.”

  Chapter 12

  The service at the synagogue and burial at Hillside Memorial Park were just as awful as Nikki had anticipated they would be. Abe and Melinda, dressed all in black, escorted by their daughter, who had made it home in time, looked the part of the grieving parents. Ginny, fashionably dressed in Oscar de la Renta, again was dry eyed and looked like a third wheel. Her daughter, Lissa, did not sit with her at either of the services.

  Because they were private services, only family and close friends were invited, but there were still over a hundred people present. After the burial, Amondo drove Nikki and Victoria back to Roxbury in the Bentley, and left them at the Bernards’ front door. Both women were dressed in Coco Chanel black dresses, Victoria’s from the previous season, Nikki’s, 1950s vintage. Victoria wore her trademark white pearls. Nikki’s were a delicate gray, a gift from her father for her twenty-first birthday, which had been a bit of a joke between the two of them at the time, making a slight mockery of his then-twice-divorced ex-wife. After his death, the string of pearls became one of her most prized possessions, and was no longer a mockery of her mother, but a tribute.

  “You look lovely today, Nicolette,” Victoria said as she led the way up to the Bernards’ front door. “Appropriate, elegant, and lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Did a daughter ever outgrow beaming under her mother’s approval?

  Victoria rang the doorbell and Mozart’s allegro chimed. “You’d do well to wear those spiky heels more often,” she said, glancing at Nikki’s red-soled Christian Louboutin pumps. “They make your long legs even longer.” She sighed, presenting herself to the security monitor so she’d be prepared when it came on. “I was always envious of those long legs of yours.”

  Nikki, surprised by her mother’s confession, had no time to respond before the door opened. No video camera today; it was Ashley in the flesh, in a black dress and heels. “Ms. Bordeaux, Ms. Harper, please come in. The family is expecting you in the North Salon.”

  Victoria tucked her Hermès clutch (ancient, but still quite fashionable) under her arm as she strolled through the front hall. “Thank you so much. I know the way.”

  “Ms. Bordeaux?” Ashley called after her.

  Victoria turned on her kitten heels. “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to thank you for the Jay-Z tickets.” The assistant clutched her hands to her heart. “The concert was amazing.”

  “I’m so pleased.” Victoria gave her the smile.

  Nikki hung back as her mother walked into the parlor on the right side of the main hall, opposite the parlor they’d occupied the last time they were in the house. “I’m glad you had a good time, Ashley.” She glanced quickly at the young woman. “I hate to ask. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but . . . have you heard anything about the case against my mother’s gardener?”

  “Just that he’d been charged and that he was in jail. Ginny said she couldn’t believe bail had been set at all, him being such a danger to society and all. But I don’t know,” she added quickly. “That detective, Dowbronski . . . Donbroski—”

  “Dombrowski,” Nikki offered. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski.”

  “Yeah, the hot cop. Looks just like Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Ashley said. “I’m not so sure he thinks the gardener did it. He’s called a couple of times wanting to speak to Mr. Bernard or one of the Mrs. Bernards. And he was here again yesterday taking statements from all the staff. He talked to everyone, one at a time, in Mr. Bernard’s study, with the door closed. Of course, the staff was off the night of the party, so I don’t know what the point was. I had to answer questions, too.” Ashley moved closer to Nikki. “About Ginny’s house staff. And Ms. Bordeaux’s,” she added in a whisper.

  “Detective Dombrowski asked you questions about my mother’s staff?” Nikki asked, not bothering to whisper. “How could you answer questions about her staff? You don’t know her staff.”

  “But how would I know that unless I asked?” a male voice questioned.

  Nikki looked up to see Detective Dombrowski
walking toward them, a plate of canapés in his hand.

  “Sorry,” Ashley mumbled. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you that he asked Mr. Bernard if he could come back to the house after the funeral.” She gave Nikki a sheepish look. “I need to check on things in the kitchen. Ginny didn’t like Ms. Mar’s salmon.”

  Nikki turned to the detective, offering her hand. If she was caught, she was caught. She might as well make the best of it. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski. Nice to see you again.”

  He smiled, shaking her hand, holding it just a second longer than necessary. “And you as well . . . though, obviously I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

  She fingered her black clutch; it was a no-name found in a little vintage shop in Santa Monica, but it had character. Surprisingly enough, so did this cop. “This typical, Lieutenant Detective? Attending victims’ funerals, undercover?”

  “Not exactly undercover. I asked Mr. Bernard’s permission to be here and I’m wearing my badge.” With his free hand, he opened his suit jacket to reveal the gold shield on his shirt pocket.

  Again, he was wearing a nice suit; it didn’t scream cop salary. It suggested . . . family money? A wealthy wife? She glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring. No white band of skin suggesting he’d worn one recently. But a lot of men didn’t wear rings. Her guess, though, was that he was single. He wasn’t being overt about it, but, like Saturday morning, he seemed to be cautiously interested in her.

  “You, on the other hand,” the detective went on, “you could possibly be undercover. The mourning attire, the innocent look on your face.”

  She frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski.”

  “I think you better call me Tom.” He popped a salmon canapé into his mouth. “I know some people at the Hollywood station. There was talk last fall about you being involved in the Rex March case.”

  “Involved?” Nikki arched an eyebrow, imitating one of her mother’s best looks on film.