Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  Nikki pushed her Persol sunglasses up on her head. “She was pretty upset about Eddie.”

  “Jorge really kill him?”

  “No,” Nikki said firmly. “Jorge didn’t kill him.”

  “I thought as much.” He looked up and down the street. “I read the Warren Commission Report.”

  Nikki furrowed her brow. It was always this way with Jimmy. He’d seem perfectly normal for . . . minutes. Then the crazy would begin to spill over. She didn’t say anything, though she had to admit she was a little curious as to what her brother thought was the connection between JFK’s murder and Eddie Bernard’s.

  “So, where you headed?” he asked, saving her from stepping into his pit of crazy.

  “Um . . . across the street.” The glass-and-cement building that was the Church of Earth and Beyond was on the opposite corner from Billy’s Bargains. Along with its parking, the building took up almost a full block.

  Someone honked their horn and yelled out the window as they went by in a car, “Viva Las Vegas, baby!”

  “Viva Las Vegas!” Jimmy shouted back, standing up and fisting the air.

  Nikki clung to the steering wheel. She wasn’t exactly embarrassed. She just felt awkward when she was around Jimmy. Maybe inadequate, because she had never been able to help him.

  Jimmy leaned back in the window. “So exactly where across the street are you going?”

  “The Church of Earth and Beyond.”

  “Planning on becoming a friend of the fruit trees?” he asked . . . in his Elvis voice.

  She lifted her brows. He grinned.

  “I . . . I need to speak to someone there.”

  “This have anything to do with Jorge being locked up?” His gaze fell to the pile of paperwork on the car seat. The crazy, scary death threat note had somehow slid out and her name in cutout letters was visible.

  Nikki smiled and reached for the envelope to tuck it out of sight. “What if it did?”

  “If it did . . .” He reached into the car and grabbed the envelope before she had a chance to get it. “I’d say you ought to mind your own business. You’re in real estate, right?” He held the envelope just out of her reach. “Not an officer of the law?”

  “Give that to me, E.” She held out her hand.

  Elvis opened the envelope, pulled out the note, and read it. “This a joke or for real?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  He glanced up at the church across the street. “You think this letter came from one of those whack jobs?”

  A pecan calling a filbert a nut? “No . . . no,” she said.

  “Would it do any good for me to say you shouldn’t go in there?”

  “Probably not.”

  He looked at her through his amber-colored aviator glasses.

  “I’ll be fine, E. I’m just going to have a look around.” She put her hand out for the note again.

  He slowly tucked the note back into the envelope and handed it to her. Then he stood up and picked up his sign.

  “It was good to see you,” Nikki said out the window, assuming their visit was over.

  Until he opened the back door and stuck the big yellow sign in her back seat.

  It took a second for her to realize what he was doing. “No, E,” she said. “No way. Absolutely not.”

  He closed the back door and opened the front.

  “E!”

  “You almost got yourself killed last time you couldn’t let the police do their job,” he said. He scooped up the paperwork and files on the seat and tossed them in the back.

  “E, that stuff’s important.” She looked at him. “And how the heck do you know anything about that?”

  “She told Celeste. Celeste told me. Celeste and I talk sometimes. I have a cell phone now.”

  Celeste was their half-sister, the daughter of Victoria and her fourth husband.

  “You have a phone? E, that’s great! You haven’t had a phone in years.”

  “Never had a cell phone,” he said proudly. He pointed across the street. “Let’s go. I’m only supposed to take a fifteen-minute break.”

  “You really don’t have to go with me.” What she meant, of course, was that she didn’t want him to go with her.

  “You’re wasting time. Now I only have fourteen minutes.” He put on his seat belt, taking care not to disturb the rhinestones on his jumpsuit. “Who are we questioning?”

  “We’re not questioning anyone.” She groaned, signaled, and pulled away from the curb. “Wezley Butterfield was at Eddie’s party that night.” She inched her way from the right lane to the left. “He’s been questioned several times about the murder, by the police.”

  “Wezley Butterfield? His father runs the church. Wezley’s an alcoholic and probably a druggy. Got arrested last year.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked with surprise.

  “I read,” he said, and looked at her as if she were stupid. “Recycling bins are full of newspapers and tabloids. He a suspect in Eddie’s murder?”

  She went through the intersection and darted across the lanes to pull into the parking lot. “I don’t know. But the police must know something.” Surprised that there were so many cars there in the middle of the afternoon, she pulled into a parking space.

  “You have a plan?” E asked, looking up at the glass-and-cement weird pseudo-art-deco-style building.

  She looked at him.

  “No problem.” He got out of the car and swaggered away.

  “E!” Nikki grabbed her bag and jumped out of the car. She hurried after him, darting in front of a young woman carrying a stack of books, headed for her car. “Sorry! Excuse me!” She caught up to Jimmy. “You really, really don’t have to do this with me,” she said in a loud whisper.

  Jimmy halted at the double glass doors. “Come on, little lady,” he said in a voice that was pure Elvis. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by your brother.” He opened the door for two middle-aged women and they passed between him and Nikki.

  She looked at him; she knew she should hold her tongue. Jimmy was sick. This wasn’t his fault. “Of course I’m embarrassed!” she heard herself say. “You think you’re Elvis Presley!”

  He looked away, then back at her, with pain evident in his eyes. “I don’t think I’m Elvis,” he said quietly. Then came the famous upper lip sneer. “I just wish I was.”

  The emotion in his voice made her feel small. She wanted to hug him, but Jimmy didn’t really like to be touched. Instead, she met his gaze through the amber glasses. “So, Elvis, you have a plan?”

  He winked at her and held open the door. “Oh, I got a plan, little lady.”

  Chapter 19

  Jimmy walked into the Church of Earth and Beyond as if it were the International Hotel in Vegas. He owned it. He swaggered into the large, two-story lobby and greeted several other visitors who glanced at him curiously.

  This didn’t look like any church, synagogue, or mosque Nikki had ever seen. The room was filled with display boards providing written and video information on the church and its beliefs. The open, airy lobby hummed with activity as visitors chatted, watched videos, and drank coffee from a coffee shop in the building.

  Elvis swaggered his way to a large curved reception counter that looked like a hotel check-in. Nikki hung back.

  “May I help you, sir?” a girl in her late twenties with a sharp, asymmetrical haircut asked. Either she didn’t notice it was Elvis Presley approaching the desk, she’d been trained not to notice the oddballs, or she didn’t care.

  “I certainly hope you can,” he said, resting one elbow on the counter and posing. “I’m on a . . . spiritual journey.” He drew out his last words, sounding like a boy from Tupelo, Mississippi.

  “You’ve come to the right place, then,” she answered.

  “I’m interested in speaking with someone about what the church has to offer. I was wondering if I could make an appointment. One of those personal counseling sessions I read about on your webs
ite.”

  Nikki was impressed that Jimmy even knew people surfed the Web. He’d lived on the streets a long time. Maybe he really was getting better. Maybe he really was taking his medication.

  “Generally, we encourage newcomers to take a class, to study with us and get a feel for our beliefs before entering auditing sessions. That’s what we call the one-on-one sessions.”

  “Well, is that right, sweetheart?” He adjusted his sunglasses.

  Nikki slipped away. She didn’t know what Jimmy was up to, but while he chatted, she thought she’d take a look around. She passed the reception desk and followed a wide hall. There was a directory listing the “Purity Center,” the “Audit Center,” the chapel, and various classrooms. She stopped at a water cooler beneath the directory and plucked a paper cup from a stack. She poured herself some water and looked at the sign again.

  According to the directory, everything was on floors one, two, three, or four. But she remembered seeing five floors from the parking lot. The directory didn’t list the private offices of the founder, Colin Butterfield . . . or his son, the financial administrator.

  Nikki finished her water and tossed the cup in a trash can. Then she walked to the nearby elevator and stepped in. She looked at the panel inside the door. Only four floors. She stepped back off the elevator and followed the hall, turning down a smaller hall near the chapel lobby. Beside a janitorial closet, there was a smaller elevator. She stepped on. Sure enough, this elevator listed five floors. She hit the button and the doors closed.

  Nikki walked out of the elevator on the fifth floor to a nicely carpeted reception area with artwork hanging on the walls. Expensive artwork. A woman in her forties seated at a curved maple wood desk looked up from her computer screen. “Sorry, this is the fifth floor. No public classrooms.” She was attractive, with honey-colored hair knotted at her neck and fashionable blue-green glasses. “What room were you looking for? I can give you the floor.”

  Nikki glanced down the hallway. Nice offices. Private secretary. Bingo. “Actually”—she stepped off the elevator—“I was looking for Mr. Butterfield . . . Wezley.” As the words came out of her mouth, she wondered . . . where the heck was she going with this? If she did find him, what was her plan? What was she going to say? Even her crazy brother knew she needed a plan.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Butterfield doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

  “I . . . I spoke to Mr. Butterfield.” Nikki approached the desk and lowered her voice. “This is about Eddie Bernard’s death.”

  The woman looked at Nikki, seeming startled . . . or upset, or something. “Are . . . you the police?”

  Nikki shook her head.

  “A reporter?”

  “No. I was there, too,” she confessed. “With Wezley.” Not exactly a lie. More like a half-truth. “The night Eddie died.”

  “Wezley was there, too?” The woman sat there for a moment, then threw her hands up as if she’d crossed some threshold. “Never mind.” She rose and adjusted her navy skirt, then gestured with her hands again. “I don’t want to know. I told Mr. Butterfield, senior,” she clarified, “that I wanted nothing to do with any of this.”

  “With any of . . .” Nikki let her sentence trail into silence.

  “His son’s nonsense,” she whispered harshly. “Whatever Wezley’s involved with. He needs help.” She strolled down the hallway, knocked on a door, and entered at the sound of a male voice.

  Nikki crept a little closer; she couldn’t make out what was being said. The office door opened and the receptionist hurried out, head down. The man Nikki had seen in the alley Saturday morning appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in black pants and a black shirt and tie. He looked a heck of a lot better than he had the last time she saw him. His dark hair was neatly combed, his clothes pressed; he looked like a hipster exec now, not a hungover party boy.

  “Mr. Butterfield . . . Wezley . . . ,” Nikki said, walking toward him, offering her hand. “Nikki Harper. It’s good to see you again.”

  He stared at her with a strange look on his face for a moment, then took a step back. He looked almost paranoid. “I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” He looked at the receptionist. “Monique! You know our rule. I don’t see anyone without an appointment.” He stepped into his office and closed the door.

  Did he really not remember speaking to her? Or was there some ulterior motive for the performance he’d just given?

  Nikki just stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Not sure what Wezley or the receptionist were going to do. Were they going to call the police?

  Call the police? She chastised herself mentally. And say what? Say people were trying to make false appointments?

  Nikki took a deep breath, turned, and strode back toward the receptionist, who was taking her chair again. “Okay . . . ,” she said to the woman. “That was really odd. He didn’t remember meeting me . . . or speaking to me.” She left it at that, hoping Monique would get the impression that Nikki and Wezley had had an appointment.

  “Not all that odd.” Monique’s tone was cynical.

  Nikki glanced down the hall again, her mind racing. “This . . . this has happened before?”

  Monique moved a mouse across a mouse pad, glancing at her computer screen. “Happens all the time.” She looked up at Nikki. “He’s an alcoholic. He blacks out.”

  “But he was talking to me. I thought people passed out when they black out,” Nikki said.

  Monique looked up. “Oh, he does that sometimes, too. At first, I just thought he was a liar. After awhile, I realized he really can’t remember things he says and does when he drinks. Which is a lot of the time.” She returned her attention to her computer monitor. “There was this one time, I asked weeks in advance for a Friday off. I was taking my son to a Justin Bieber concert. The tickets cost a fortune and we had to drive up to San Fran. Come Thursday, he says I can’t have the next day off. Swears he never gave me the day off and insists I come in or he’ll fire me. I’m a single mom. I can’t get fired. “ She shook her head. “But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.”

  “But . . . he’s been in rehab, right?”

  Monique looked in the direction of the offices. “I don’t know that that always works.”

  Nikki walked toward the elevator. “Did you know Wezley was at Eddie Bernard’s party the night he died?”

  “I heard rumors, in the breakroom.” She looked up. “But how do you know what’s true and what isn’t, you know?”

  Nikki smiled. “It was nice talking to you, Monique.”

  The woman smiled back. “You, too. I hope this won’t give you a bad impression of our church. There are some really good people here. And good ideas.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Nikki hit the CALL button and the elevator doors opened. “Have a good day.”

  “You, too,” Monique called as the elevator doors closed.

  Nikki found Jimmy in the lobby, watching a video on the church’s belief in a Supreme Being. He was listening intently and didn’t see her. “E,” she called.

  He turned to her. “I was afraid you went out the back door to get away from me. Where’d you get to?”

  She headed for the door, glancing around at all the people in the lobby as she went. “I tried to talk to Wezley Butterfield.”

  “What were you going to say to him?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It didn’t matter because he took one look at me and said he’d never seen me before. It was really weird. He practically slammed his office door in my face.”

  Jimmy held a glass door open for her. He was always the perfect gentleman.

  “He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t remember speaking to me in the alley. His secretary says he suffers from blackouts.”

  Jimmy made a motion as if drinking from a bottle.

  She nodded. “At the very least.” She looked at him. “How about you. Find out anything?”

  “No . . . but I got an appointme
nt with his sister. She’s going to talk to me about what the church has to offer a man like me.”

  “His sister.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m impressed. I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

  “Gets better.” He went to the driver’s side of Nikki’s Prius, waited for her to unlock it, then opened the door. “Apparently Jennifer and Wezley Butterfield don’t get along all that well. Sounds like she has Daddy issues, from what Erica said. And she blames it all on her brother.”

  Nikki slid into the car. “Erica?”

  “At the front desk. She had an Elvis poster on her bedroom wall till she was eighteen,” he said as if that was all the explanation Nikki needed.

  “And you’re really going to do this? Have this appointment with the sister?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? Maybe the Church of Earth and Beyond really does have something to offer me.”

  “You think she’ll talk to you?” She looked up at Jimmy, for once seeing past the Elvis persona. “You think you could get her to tell you something about her brother—better yet, her brother and Eddie?”

  “With my charm?” He opened the back door and grabbed his BILLY’S BARGAINS sign.

  “You don’t want a ride back?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll walk. It’s just across the street.” He closed her car door. “Give me your cell phone.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m not going to steal it, Nik. I just want to put my number in.”

  She handed him her BlackBerry.

  “My appointment’s Friday afternoon. I’ll have to talk to Billy and see if I can take an hour.”

  She looked up at him as he punched his number into her phone. “This is really nice of you, Jimmy. You don’t have to do this.”

  He handed it back to her and adjusted his amber glasses. “It’s the least I can do for my big sister,” he crooned. He made eye contact, which he rarely did. “That note.” He pointed to the envelope tucked between her seat and the center console. “Should I be worried for your safety?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “No worries, Jimmy.” She watched him walk across the parking lot, toting the bright yellow sign, and wondered if she was being overly optimistic.