Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  He reached around her and closed the door, pressing up against her and pinning her against her car. She looked up at him. Up close, the swastika tattoo wasn’t any more attractive.

  “You need to stop asking questions about me.”

  “Do I?” She sounded braver than she felt.

  “Yeah, you do, because, otherwise, you’re going to end up in the same place as Eddie. In the cemetery.”

  Nikki was pretty sure she was shaking. “Are you saying you killed him and you’ll kill me if I don’t drop it?”

  He frowned. “I didn’t kill Eddie. Eddie killed himself with drugs.”

  She glanced in the direction of the elevator. The light was blinking. It was headed down again. Please, oh, please, let someone be going to their car. She looked at Kaiser. He smelled good, like Calvin Klein cologne, which didn’t seem to fit with the tattoo and the intimidation. “Eddie didn’t die from a drug overdose. He died because someone stuck a pair of gardening shears in his heart.”

  “But it wasn’t me. And that detective cleared me.” He pointed at her angrily. “Which means you need to stop asking people about me, and stop bringing my name up around town.”

  “What detective? Dombrowski?” She dared to look him in the eye. “He talked to you?”

  “I got an alibi. He checked it out.”

  What Kaiser was saying didn’t make any sense. He was a known drug dealer. He’d killed a man. Allegedly. He’d threatened Astro.

  “But you.” He pointed again. “You’re stirring up trouble and I don’t like it.”

  “But . . . you’re a drug dealer. People like you—”

  “I said, let it go!”

  He slammed the heel of his hand against her car and she jumped . . . but she didn’t burst into tears. She was scared, but she was more angry than scared. Jorge’s very life could be at risk and she wasn’t going to let this tattooed, anti-Semitic jerk get in the way of her finding the truth.

  She looked him in the eye, trying to look as tough as she could. “You say Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski cleared you. You mind if I call him and confirm that? With my cell phone . . . in the car.” She pointed behind her.

  He cursed under his breath and turned slightly away from her as if in indecision. Then he reached inside his leather jacket.

  Nikki trembled. He was reaching for a gun. She saw the handle inside his coat.

  Was this it? Was she going to die in a parking garage?

  It’s funny how the mind works when you think you might die. Time really did slow down . . . almost stop. But the darnedest things go through your mind.

  She thought of her mother.

  As Kaiser slid his hand slowly out of his jacket, Nikki debated whether or not to close her eyes. Was it better to not know it was coming, or did she want the satisfaction of making him see the light die in her eyes?

  “You need to stop asking questions about me,” Kaiser repeated, almost in a whisper. “You could cost me my life and the lives of others.” Then he opened his hand and flashed a badge.

  She only saw it for a second. The first thing she saw was the U.S. in the center of the shiny gold shield. Then, the words Special Agent, then Drug Enforcement Administration.

  Holy crappoli! By the time Nikki realized what he had shown her, he was walking away.

  “But the tattoo,” she called after her.

  He touched his neck. “Airbrushed. Hollywood make-believe.”

  She took a deep, shaky breath, got into her car, and locked the doors. Why, she had no idea. Only then did she exhale.

  So . . . she guessed she could cross Special Agent Kaiser off the suspect list. As soon as her heart slowed down.

  Marshall’s party, the following night, was every bit the dog and pony show he’d said it would be. His mansion on Beverly Drive was lit up like a Christmas tree, complete with gushing fountains, moving searchlights . . . and a red carpet to greet the limos. Had there been trumpeters in tights announcing the arrival of the guests, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  As Nikki waited in a line of cars for valet parking, she considered doing a donut in Marshall’s yard and going back the way she came. It had been a rough day. A rough week. And as much as she hated to admit it, as unfeminist as it seemed, all she wanted right now was to curl up in Jeremy’s arms, in his bed, and let him whisper sweet nonsense in her ear.

  The trip to prison to see Jorge had been worse than she’d imagined. When she’d arrived at the visitors’ center, she’d learned that while Jorge could have visitors, she would not be one of them today. Apparently, the only way to visit a prisoner in the state system was to receive a questionnaire, signed by said prisoner, and submit it to prison staff for consideration. The female guard (who looked like one of Tolkein’s hobbits) denied her access to Jorge and had made a point of telling her she would be required to list all convictions and arrests, even arrests not leading to a conviction. Nikki had wondered if there was a statute of limitations on the arrests. She didn’t bother to ask; she had a feeling Jorge himself was going to be more of a hindrance to her visiting than her juvenile run-ins with the law.

  Nikki had left the prison frustrated and annoyed. With Jorge. With herself. A week had passed since Jorge’s arrest, and she still didn’t know who had killed Eddie. She only knew who hadn’t: Rocko was off the list, as was DEA Agent Kaiser.

  And then there was the matter of the threatening note left on her car seat. She didn’t know what to do about it. Her solution, for now, was to pretend it didn’t exist. She had more slippery fish to fry.

  She had left a couple of messages on Hector’s cell phone, but had gotten no callback. She’d also called his house and talked to Rosalia. Rosalia had promised that her husband would return Nikki’s call, but she still hadn’t heard from Hector. If Hector didn’t get back to her in the next day, she’d track him down at work on Monday. She really didn’t think Hector was responsible for the note. It just wasn’t his style and, honestly, he wasn’t that clever. But she was trying to follow all her leads and, as her mother had suggested, not allow personal feelings to get in the way.

  Next in line, Nikki pulled up and a valet in a tuxedo opened her door. “Ms. Harper. Good to see you this evening.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t recognize him, but that often happened to her. She grabbed her silk handbag off the seat and struggled to get out of the car. Why in heaven’s name Marshall had to make these things black-tie affairs, she didn’t know. Her dress was a navy blue satin sleeveless number with a splash of Swarovski crystals on the left hip: a Chanel copy of a 1930s original and one of her favorite gowns. She was quite sure that tomorrow the media would be commenting on the need for Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter to expand her wardrobe, but she didn’t care what the press thought. She liked the dress and she intended to continue wearing it.

  The young man offered his hand to help her out of the car. Nikki’s heels had barely reached the red carpet when she heard the familiar whirr and snap of dozens of cameras. In this age of digital cameras, the press no longer flashed and popped. Instead, they sounded like a swarm of clicking insects.

  Nikki flashed the smile.

  “Ms. Harper, would you like to comment on the arrest of your mother’s gardener for the murder of Eddie Bernard?” someone shouted. A big microphone loomed in front of her.

  Nikki strolled down the red carpet, smiling left, then right.

  “Ms. Harper! You were seen going into the Los Angeles County State Prison today. Did you visit with your mother’s gardener?”

  “Will Jorge Delgado confess?”

  The questions came faster and Nikki tried to walk faster . . . with grace. And not fall in her heels.

  “Do you think Mr. Delgado’s case will result in changes in immigration laws?” someone shouted.

  “Does your mother feel responsible for Eddie Bernard’s death?” another demanded.

  Nikki kept the smile plastered on her face and hurried through the front door, escaping the press as she crossed the
threshold. As she entered Marshall’s enormous foyer, she realized her heart was pounding and she was breathing in short, shallow gasps.

  “Ms. Harper!”

  “Nikki!”

  They were still calling after her.

  “Nik, you okay?”

  There were people everywhere. The room was loud and voices echoed off the Carrara marble floor.

  “Nikki.”

  She felt someone touch her bare arm and she spun around.

  It was Marshall . . . with blond, bodacious twins at his sides. “You okay, hon?”

  She looked up at him and had to laugh. At herself. What was wrong with her? She’d spent her whole life in the public eye. Why would she let a couple of cameras and microphones spook her? The media fed on controversy and the discomfort of others. They couldn’t sell papers, magazines, and advertising spots on TV without sensationalizing events. “I’m fine.” Her smile was genuine. “I’m good.”

  “It’s about time you got here. I was afraid you were going to stand me up. Champagne?” He waved to one of the hunky guys in tuxes carrying silver serving trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

  His dates were tall and skinny and blond . . . just the way his publicist liked them. They each took a glass of champagne.

  “I better not,” she said, pressing her silk clutch to her.

  “Long day?” Marshall leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  He smelled delicious. And safe.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his handsome face suddenly serious. He was wearing an Armani tux; diamond cuff links sparkled at his wrists.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She laughed again and stroked his freshly shaved cheek. “Mother?”

  “Already here. Holding court in the salon.” He pronounced it, black eyebrows arched, the French way Victoria did: sa-lon.

  “Ah, well, I suppose I should go pay homage.” She nodded to both young women. “Nice to meet you, ladies.”

  “Ella and Bella,” Marshall introduced.

  Nikki nodded again and walked away. She stopped to speak to several people on her way to the sa-lon . . . people she knew and some she didn’t. She had her hand shaken, both cheeks kissed, and, as she slipped past a group of men, she was pretty certain someone tried to caress her back-end curves. She was crossing the hall and trying to protect her derriere when she heard a familiar voice call her name above the buzz of the room. A tipsy voice.

  “Nikki! Oh, Nikki!”

  It was Ginny Bernard. She wore a beautiful black-and-white Yves Saint Laurent gown and a long string of pearls. She held a full glass of champagne. Apparently, not her first.

  “Nikki.”

  “Ginny.” They air-kissed. “It’s good to see you. I’m surprised to see you.” She looked around. “Is Abe here?”

  “No. He just wasn’t up to it, but he insisted I attend. We can’t stop living, you know.” She took a sip of champagne.

  “No, of course not. I agree.” She looked into Ginny’s face. “How are you? I mean, really.”

  Ginny closed her eyes for a moment. “Hanging in there.” She opened her eyes. “The press has been brutal. And everything on the news about Jorge and immigration . . .” She shook her head. “It’s just stupid.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Nikki agreed. “Everyone seems to keep talking about him as if he’s an illegal. He was born here.”

  “You know,” Ginny lowered her voice as she took another sip—gulp—of champagne, “that detective has been at our house several times this week.” Her gaze darted around them, then back to Nikki. “I don’t think he thinks the gardener did it.”

  “No?” Nikki whispered. She had considered that the threatening note could have come from Ginny, but would Ginny have brought up the investigation if she were the one who killed Eddie? It seemed highly unlikely. “Who does he think did it?” she asked.

  “God only knows.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “God, my girdle is tight.” She took another drink. “Look, I need to tell you something. I don’t know how to say it, Nikki, so I’m just going to come out with it.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Ellen.” She punctuated the name with a hiccup. “I think you need to be careful with her.”

  Ginny looked up. Spotting someone she apparently knew, she grabbed Nikki’s arm and pulled her into the library; the room was floor-to-ceiling books, books Nikki doubted had been touched since they’d been unpacked when Marshall “moved in” two years ago.

  “Careful with Ellen? How so?” Nikki asked.

  Ginny took another sip. “She’s not the little innocent she appears to be. I know the two of you have become friendly, but I think you need to watch her.”

  “Watch her?” Nikki frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Ginny guzzled the last quarter of her glass and waved to a passing waiter to bring her another.

  “She may have befriended you for ulterior motives.”

  Nikki waited for Ginny to take a fresh glass and hand the empty one to the server. He offered Nikki a glass, but she declined. Ginny waited until he stepped out of the library before she spoke again.

  “Ellen was at the house that night.” She tipped her glass. “I bet she didn’t tell you that, did she?”

  Nikki was beginning to wonder if she should have taken the waiter up on the offer of alcohol. “Okay, she was at the party?”

  “Not really.” Ginny frowned. “She was at our house while the party was going on. She was with Abe, down in his man-cave in the basement. He thought I was at the Beverly Wilshire, so I guess she waltzed right into my home.”

  Nikki didn’t know what to say. It didn’t matter; Ginny needed no encouragement.

  “That’s right,” Ginny went on. “Sweet, gorgeous Ellen, who my Abe got that job for at the Food Network, was alone with my husband the night Eddie was killed.”

  “Are . . . are you suggesting that Ellen might be a suspect in Eddie’s death?” Nikki asked incredulously.

  “No, of course not. Aren’t you listening? What I’m suggesting is that your friend Ellen is having an affair with my husband!”

  Chapter 24

  “I’m sorry.” Nikki leaned closer. The voices coming from the hall were so loud, she could barely hear Ginny. “What did you say?”

  “I think Abe is having an affair with Ellen,” she said louder. “I’m afraid . . .” Tears filled Ginny’s eyes and she took a sip of champagne, but tentatively this time. “I’m afraid Abe’s going to divorce me for Ellen.”

  “Oh, I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” Nikki rubbed Ginny’s shoulder.

  “No, I’m sure of it. A woman knows these things.”

  Nikki considered the information for a moment. Had she again misjudged a friend? Could Ellen be the kind of person who had an affair with a married man, right under his wife’s—and ex-wife’s—noses?

  “I think you’ve got it wrong. I think you should talk to Abe. Abe loves you. I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding.” Nikki went on faster than before, trying to convince herself as she tried to convince Ginny. “They were getting ready to shoot Ellen’s show. I’m sure this is about work. Ellen isn’t having an affair with Abe. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Ginny looked away. “He did it to Melinda,” she said softly.

  “Nicolette, there you are! It’s about time you arrived.” Victoria glided into the room in a floor-length, dove gray, beaded gown that was simply stunning with her blond hair. For a woman her age, she still had amazing feminine curves. She wore no jewelry, other than a pair of gray pearls in her ears. An entourage of men and women in gorgeous gowns and handsome tuxedos followed her.

  “Mother.” Nikki walked to Victoria to give her a quick but real kiss on the cheek.

  Victoria looked surprised, then pleased, by the small token of true affection. “Ginny,” she said, tearing her gaze from her daughter, offering her hand to her neighbor, as only a queen would.

  “Good to see you, Victoria.” Ginny smiled, but co
uldn’t hide her sadness. She squeezed Victoria’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I see Rob Reiner. I should say hello.”

  Seeing Victoria having a moment with her daughter, Victoria’s admirers drifted away.

  “You all right, dear? You look pale.” Victoria peered into Nikki’s face and touched the corner of her mouth. “You should touch up your lipstick.”

  Instead of taking her mother’s words as criticism, as she often did, Nikki took them for what they were: Victoria’s way of expressing concern. “Are you having a nice evening, Mother?”

  “I am.” She tapped Nikki lightly on the arm, turning as if to go, then turning back. “By the way, I called M.” (She always called him M. rather than Mr. M. His last name was very long, very Swedish or Norwegian and very difficult to pronounce.) “I told him we needed to speak. We’ve been invited to brunch tomorrow.”

  “Mr. M. invited us to his home? I thought he didn’t receive visitors.” Nikki considered the young woman who had answered the door there, and the services she might be providing, but she didn’t really count as a visitor, did she?

  “He receives me, dear. I told you, he fancies himself in love with me. Has since . . . well, since ages ago. We’ll have a nice brunch, we’ll catch up, and you can conduct your inquiry.” She looked at Nikki more closely. “Are you certain you’re not ill?”

  “I’m fine.” Nikki sighed, tucking her bag under her arm. “I’m upset. Ginny just told me something, something awful. About Ellen. But I don’t think it can be true.”

  Elsewhere in the house, an orchestra struck up a waltz. Later in the evening, Marshall had said, James Taylor would be singing in the garden.

  “Whatever did Ginny say?”

  Nikki looked at the floor, then back at her mother. “That Ellen was at the Bernards’ that night. The night Eddie was murdered. Not working. Visiting.”

  “Good heavens, don’t tell me Ellen wanted him dead, too?”

  Nikki pressed her lips together, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “Ginny wasn’t insinuating that Ellen had killed Eddie.” She met her mother’s Bordeaux blues with her own. “Ellen didn’t tell me she was there. We’ve talked several times. About Jorge. About the party. About the circumstances of the murder. We had lunch together. Why would she not mention she was there?”