Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  “What time was Eddie killed?” Victoria asked.

  “Sometime early Saturday morning, between one and four, according to the coroner’s report.”

  “Where was I between one and four a.m. the morning of Eddie’s murder?”

  “Mother, this is—”

  “Where was I?”

  Nikki exhaled. “This is silly,” she muttered. But she had little choice but to play along. “You were in bed. Asleep. Wearing that cute little black silk mask”—she drew two fingers across her eyes—“to block any light that might creep in from under the drapes.”

  Victoria didn’t even crack a smile. “Do you have proof I was in my room?” She went on before Nikki could answer. “You don’t. And I don’t. None that I would be willing to reveal, at least. And I don’t have any security cameras monitoring the grounds and neither do the Bernards. For all you know, I could have done it.”

  Nikki gave her mother a look. “How could you have done it?”

  “When I excused myself to go to the restroom when I first returned to the terrace with Marshall after the fight at the Bernards’, I could have gone in through the kitchen and out another door. While Jorge and Hector were loading their trucks and doing whatever it is they do to pack up to go, I could have taken Jorge’s shears that he left in that bucket beside the house. I could have then hidden them until I had the opportunity, in the middle of the night, to slip out. I could have killed Eddie while he was immobilized by whatever alcohol and drugs he had consumed and then transported his body to the alley.”

  “Mother—”

  Victoria threw up her hand, silencing Nikki. “I could have moved the body. I’m strong for my age and size”—she held up one finger—“and you know it.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I got Amondo to help me. He’d kill for me if I asked . . . and go before a firing squad without ratting on me. Then I could have returned to bed, all in time for Ina to find the body.” She opened her arms and let them fall. “So, like it or not, I’m a suspect.”

  What Victoria was saying was so preposterous that Nikki didn’t know what to say. She would have laughed, but she could tell by the look on Victoria’s face that she was serious.

  “Write down my name.” Victoria tapped the piece of paper.

  Nikki hesitated, then wrote Victoria Bordeaux.

  “Excellent.” Victoria picked up her paper, took a sip of her orange juice, and glanced at her daughter again. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work? Or are you taking the day off? You’ve got a lot of leads to follow up on today.” She began to scan her newspaper. “Did you know the president of the United States is coming to California today? His helicopter lands at Stanford University at three. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Nikki picked up her list of suspects and her cup of coffee and headed inside. She hadn’t thought about taking the day off, but maybe it would be wise. “Have a good day.”

  “You, too, darling.” Victoria’s attention remained on her paper. “Say hello to Ellen when you see her for lunch.”

  Nikki grabbed a second cup of coffee, then a shower, and sat down on her bed in her robe, hair piled up on top of her head in a towel, and opened her laptop. She Googled Wesley Butterfield. A little trick Marshall had taught her. He was always Googling friends, acquaintances, what have you. She got a couple of hits for Facebook and MySpace pages, but it was a prepubescent in New Jersey . . . not the right guy.

  She Googled the name again, and found a Wezley Butterfield. In his early thirties. Resided in Los Angeles. Bingo. A Wikipedia page. She scanned it.

  He was the son of a man named Colin Butterfield, who was the founder and leader of a large independent church in L.A. That’s how Nikki knew the name! The Church of Earth and Beyond followed beliefs that involved self-improvement through various means of counseling and health practices and . . . alien life forms. Colin Butterfield had been a Scientologist and had broken off—or maybe been kicked out, she couldn’t tell—from the group a few years ago, forming his own church. The previous year, the church had been recognized by the federal government as a religious organization and given tax-free status.

  Nikki scrolled down to the middle of the page to check out a grainy photograph. The caption read Colin and Wezley Butterfield, 2011. She recognized the father right away. He’d been featured on the cover of a magazine recently. But the thirty-something young man with dark, curly hair looked vaguely familiar, too.

  Nikki grabbed her Cheaters off the bedside table and slid them on. She leaned closer to the computer screen, then pulled her glasses off in surprise. Wezley Butterfield was the disheveled man she’d seen in the alley Saturday morning.

  Nikki Googled Wezley Butterfield, this time with a z, and on the second page of results, found a blurb from the L.A. Times from the year before. He’d been arrested for a D.U.I. . . . and for possession of cocaine—Eddie’s favorite party drug—with the intent to sell. Was that why the police had questioned Wezley multiple times? Obviously, he must have been at Eddie’s party. How else would he have ended up in the alley that morning, looking the way he had? Did they suspect he provided the cocaine Eddie used the night he was killed? Or had he just been with Eddie that night? Could he account for Eddie’s final hours?

  Nikki closed her laptop and went to her window. Before she left for work, she wanted to speak to Hector, but she hadn’t heard the mower in a while. She couldn’t see him from her window. He must have gone.

  She got dressed, thinking her mother was right; there was no way she’d have time to work today. She’d take a personal day. Her first stop would be Astro’s gym. She was curious as to why he hadn’t contacted her. He’d seemed like such a fan of Victoria’s that she thought for sure he’d take advantage of having Nikki’s personal number. She wanted to see if he knew anything about Wezley, and if he knew what time the party broke up that night. Had Eddie been murdered during the party, or after?

  Dressed in black jeans, short boots, and a cute Matsuda cardigan sweater over a tank, Nikki hurried out of her bedroom. On impulse, she stopped at her mother’s bedroom door and knocked. No answer. She slipped in. Victoria had no privacy issues; Nikki was welcome in any room in the house, but she always felt strange in her mother’s pink boudoir without her being present.

  Nikki opened the top drawer of a pretty little French acacia wood dresser and grabbed three signed glossy photos of her mother. Surely Astro would love to have one, and there was just no telling when extras would come in handy. She’d throw them in the trunk of her car. Next to the photos, she located a manila envelope of gift certificates and coupons Victoria received in swag bags. These gift bags were given to her and other celebrities in green rooms, at premières, and at fundraisers. The two bottom drawers held more swag gifts: perfumes and colognes, watches, cashmere pajama bottoms, jewelry, makeup, and who knew what else. And Nikki was sure there were several small appliances like toasters in a closet somewhere. Victoria regifted the gifts, and encouraged Nikki to do the same.

  Nikki flipped through the gift cards. She was sure she’d seen one for Villa Blanca. She’d treat Ellen to lunch. She found gift cards for all sorts of restaurants, gyms, and golf courses. There were also gift cards for manicures, facials, a surf butler—whatever the heck that was—at a hotel on the beach. Even a five-hundred-dollar gift card at a tattoo parlor that had been featured on the TV reality show LA Ink. Nikki chuckled. Her mother could certainly use that one. . . . Finally, at the bottom of the pile, she found the one she was looking for. She closed the drawer with her hip.

  Next stop, B. H. Fitness . . .

  Nikki walked into the gym through the double-glass front doors, her handbag slung on her shoulder with the signed Victoria Bordeaux eight-by-ten glossy inconspicuously tucked inside. She’d even had her mother personalize it. The Sharpie signature on Astro’s bare chest would eventually fade, but glossies on acid-free paper could last decades.

  Nikki was disappointed that she didn’t spot Astro in the open workout room. She didn’t see Kaiser or hi
s female sidekick, either. However, Gwen, with the spiky orange hair, greeted her with a grin at the front counter.

  Gwen folded her hands and leaned on the counter. Leaned close. “Change your mind about that Jamba Juice?” she asked seductively.

  The smile. “Sorry. Still have that boyfriend,” Nikki said sweetly. She glanced around. “I . . . I was hoping to find Astro.”

  Gwen was wearing tiny, tight, black boy shorts and a pink tank top that accentuated her muscular arms and the tattoos that ran from the shoulder to just below the elbow of her left arm. Nikki tried not to stare; there were bright green vines, big flowers in pink and blue, and . . . were those monkeys?

  “You like?” Gwen asked, running her hand down her arm.

  “It’s really . . . something,” Nikki said enthusiastically. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with monkey tattoos.”

  “It’s an original design.” She turned sideways so Nikki could get a better look. “This one’s a tamarin.” She pointed to an orange monkey that was entirely too realistic looking to be on a woman’s arm. “And this one’s a snub-nose.”

  That one’s creepy, is what it is, Nikki wanted to say, but she pretended to be interested.

  “You have any?”

  Nikki looked up. “Any?”

  “Tats.”

  “Me? Oh, no.” Nikki shook her head. “I have a hard time ordering lunch. I’d never be able to come up with something I wanted on my body permanently.” She took a step closer, placing her hands on the countertop. “So, Gwen . . . have you seen Astro?”

  “He, um”—she glanced up, in the direction of the open gym—“called in sick today.”

  “So he didn’t come in at all? Not even for client appointments?”

  Gwen shook her head.

  That was weird. Astro didn’t seem like a guy who called in to work sick. “Was he here yesterday?”

  Gwen looked around again, obviously checking to see if someone was there. A particular someone. “Called in sick yesterday, too.”

  Nikki frowned. That seemed doubly odd. “So, have you seen him since Monday, when I was here?”

  The young woman looked uneasy. “No. He left Monday. Kind of suddenly.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Gwen hesitated. “I’m really not supposed to talk about employees. You know. HIPAA and all.”

  “I think that pertains to medical records.”

  Gwen nibbled on her lower lip.

  “Did you give Astro my business card the other day? When I couldn’t find him?”

  Gwen grimaced. “Look, I really like you. I think you’re super cute, in a conservative kind of way.”

  Conservative? Nikki glanced down at the tight black jeans that were practically jeggings, her cool Japanese designer cardigan, and semi-high-heeled boots. She thought she’d left the house looking modern and hip.

  “I really don’t want any trouble,” Gwen said in obvious discomfort.

  “And I’m not here for trouble.” Nikki held up both hands. “Definitely not trouble. I’m just trying to find Astro.”

  Gwen looked like she wanted to say something. She just needed a little nudge. Nikki glanced at the jungle of tattoos on her arm. Tattoos . . . She leaned on the counter. “You plan on getting more tattoos? You know . . . finishing up that sleeve?”

  “Ah . . . I’d love to finish my sleeve right to the wrist.” Gwen ran her hand down the length of her arm. “But tats are pricey. Good tats.”

  “Would you like a gift card for five hundred dollars for that tattoo parlor on LA Ink? Free?”

  Gwen looked at Nikki. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  Nikki felt her face flush. She stood up to her full height. “I . . . it wasn’t so much—”

  “I love it!” Gwen declared, slapping the counter with her palm. “I swear to God, you ever dump that boyfriend of yours, you give Gwendolyn a call.” She curled her finger, beckoning Nikki.

  Nikki stepped closer, again.

  “I tried to give your card to Astro,” she whispered, keeping an eye on the gym floor and its occupants. “But Kaiser snatched it right out of my hand.”

  “He took it?”

  She nodded. “Then he and that weird girlfriend of his and Astro talked over at the incline press. Kaiser seemed hot. Then Astro took his bag and left and he hasn’t been back since.”

  “Weird,” Nikki said, thinking out loud.

  “Right,” Gwen said.

  Nikki looked at the orange-head again. “You have a home address for Astro?”

  Gwen hesitated.

  “Look, I won’t tell Astro how I found him and I sure as heck won’t be saying anything to Kaiser.” Nikki waited. “And I was serious about that gift certificate. Someone gave it to me.” (Barely a lie. And totally harmless.) “It’s just lying in a drawer. Someone might as well use it.”

  “You sure you won’t use it?”

  “Fairly sure,” Nikki said.

  Gwen thought for a minute, then turned to the computer on the counter. “Hang on.” She hit a couple of keys, then grabbed a notepad and jotted an address down. She ripped off the top page and slid it across the counter to Nikki. “If anyone asks—”

  “I didn’t get it here.” Nikki glanced at the piece of paper, then slipped it in her bag. “Thanks, Gwen. I appreciate this. I’ll drop off the gift certificate tomorrow.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  A young woman in matching shorts and a bra top approached the front desk. “Excuse me,” she whined.

  “Have a good day,” Nikki said cheerfully to Gwen, and walked out the door.

  In her car, Nikki pulled the photo of Victoria out of her bag—she didn’t want to wrinkle it. As she closed the door and tossed the photo on the passenger seat, she spotted an envelope sticking out from beneath a folder she’d planned to drop off with her client.

  The unfamiliar business-size envelope had been between the mail she’d picked up at her house the day before and the comparative analysis for a client she’d dropped on the seat that morning. The envelope had her name written across it . . . in letters that appeared to have been cut from a glossy magazine, à la ransom-note style.

  “What the heck?” she muttered. And ripped open the envelope.

  Chapter 17

  Nikki unfolded the piece of ordinary printer paper. Like the outside of the envelope, cuttings from a newspaper or magazine were glued together to make the words.

  Oh my God! Was this a death threat?

  Nikki dropped her hands, with the paper, to her lap and looked around. Cars passed on the street. A woman dressed in a navy blue suit hurried down the sidewalk in heels, a gym bag in one hand, a cell phone in the other. No one was paying any attention to her.

  Nikki hit the LOCK button on her car door. Then she hit it a second time, just to be sure . . .

  Then, she realized she was being silly. The car had been locked when she just got in it. It had not, however, been locked at her mother’s overnight. There was no need. The property was gated.

  Heart pounding, she opened the letter and read it again.

  It still said the same thing.

  Hands a little shaky, she folded it carefully and slipped it inside its envelope. She set the envelope on the passenger’s seat and started the engine of the Prius.

  But then she just sat there, hands on the wheel.

  What should she do now?

  She was scared, but probably not as scared as she should have been. The threat made her angry. All she was doing was looking out for Jorge’s best interests.

  Who the heck had gone to the trouble of writing that note and leaving it in her car? The why was pretty simple—because she was on to someone.

  But who could have left it there?

  Only someone with access to her car, parked in her mother’s driveway, in the last twelve or so hours. The envelope hadn’t been there when she left her car in the driveway the previous night. Only someone with access to the security code to the front gate could have done it.


  She ran quickly through the short list of names: her, Victoria, Amondo, and Ina. Then there were those who provided services to Victoria, but, unlike many celebrities, her mother was very selective as to who could gain access without permission. Many people in Beverly Hills had florists, manicurists, even massage therapists coming and going as they pleased. But not Victoria.

  Besides those who lived in the house, and Nikki, the only people who could get through the front gate without someone in the house unlocking it were Jorge and his crew . . . and the pool boy who came every other day or so. Rocko. Who Eddie had fought with the day of the party.

  Nikki took a deep breath, exhaled, and took another.

  She’d heard a mower earlier . . . when Melinda was there, but by the time Nikki got out of the shower, he was gone.

  Melinda had been there. Obviously, she didn’t do it. Her son was the one who had been murdered. Besides, she’d walked right up to the front door and rung the doorbell. Ina had said so. But that meant if Melinda could have walked from the Bernards’ to Victoria’s, through the side-yard gate, anyone else in the Bernard household could have walked through it, too. Anyone on the Bernard property could have entered the Bordeaux property by the unlocked gate, left the note on Nikki’s front seat, and gone back through the gate without being seen.

  Had Ginny really been sleeping in, as Melinda had thought? Could she have left the note? Was Lissa at the house? And who else had access to the Bernards’ security code at the front gate? Not Ashley because she had been waiting at the gate when Nikki gave her the Jay-Z tickets. Maybe Abe’s assistant? And Rocko, who also cleaned the Bernards’ pool. And who knew how many other service people?

  Nikki decided, at that moment, that she was calling a security service today and making arrangements for cameras for Victoria’s property, whether she liked it or not.

  Nikki glanced at the envelope on her seat again. Should she call Dombrowski? No. He would tell her to stop talking to people, and to keep her nose out of cop business. She’d keep it to herself... at least for now.