by Cheryl Crane
“If Ginny wasn’t suggesting that Ellen killed her stepson, what was she suggesting?”
Nikki hated to even say it out loud, but Ginny was right. It was suspicious that Ellen hadn’t told Nikki about being there that night. Why would she keep it a secret . . . unless she had another secret? “That Ellen and Abe are having an affair.”
Victoria burst into laughter. “That old geezer? Ellen is gorgeous. Why would she want Abe? He’s got to be thirty-five years her senior and six inches shorter.”
“He’s done a lot for her since she came to L.A.,” Nikki argued. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Victoria patted her already perfect coiffure. “Ask her.”
A different young, beautiful, top-heavy woman greeted Nikki and Victoria at Mr. M.’s door the following morning. Again, dressed like a naughty maid.
Victoria looked her up and down. “Good morning, darling,” she said with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning! Mr. M. is waiting for you in the sunroom. I’m so tickled he’s having friends over.” She giggled.
Victoria looked at Nikki, arched her brows, and smiled again at the blonde as she walked in the door. “Champagne.” She handed over the bottle she carried in her arms. “I told M. I’d bring it for mimosas. Can you make a mimosa, dear?”
“I can.” Another giggle. She closed the door behind Nikki. “Right this way.”
Nikki had never been in Mr. M.’s house. Her jaw dropped as they walked down a well-lit white hall that looked more like it belonged in an art gallery than in a home. The walls were lined with amazing photographs that had to have spanned forty years, most of which appeared to have been taken from his perch atop his house. Nikki stopped at a nearly life-size picture of Victoria, twenty years ago, getting out of her white Bentley in her driveway. Victoria was wearing a little Jackie O. suit and her pearls, and was smiling at someone in the distance.
Nikki stopped to stare at the photo. “Mother,” she said softly.
Victoria stopped and looked back at the photo. “Isn’t that nice?” she said. Then, under her breath, “I told you he was in love with me.”
Nikki continued down the hall. There were photos of Rosemary Clooney, Lucille Ball, Gary Morton, Maureen O’Sullivan, and Mia Farrow, all of whom had lived on Roxbury at one time or another. And more photographs of Victoria. Photographs of her when she was young . . . and photographs that appeared to be quite recent. In a small rectangular frame, there was a series of shots of Victoria beside the Bernards’ pool. In one, she was lying on a lounge chair; in the next, rising and taking off a white robe; in a third, she was diving into the pool in a pretty sapphire one-piece bathing suit, a swim cap on her head. Nikki recognized the bathing suit; Victoria had bought it a year ago.
There was a photo of Nikki, too. From many years ago. She was in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot, reading on a bench that had once been in the front yard. She studied it for a moment, and decided she liked it.
“Mother, I had no idea,” Nikki said, stunned by the amazing photographs . . . and the Victoria Bordeaux shrine.
“A little unnerving, isn’t it?” Victoria continued to walk down the hallway, her loafers tapping on the polished chestnut flooring. “I just don’t look at them.”
“You . . . you come here? I thought you said you and Mr. M. weren’t speaking . . . because of that photograph that was published last year.” Nikki followed her mother and the blonde, but was still gazing at the beautiful photographs that lined the walls.
“Perhaps I was exaggerating a little.” She pursed her lips. “For heaven’s sake, he’s a recluse. Someone needs to visit him other than—” She cut her eyes meaningfully at the young woman leading the charge.
All Nikki could do was smile.
They were led to a double-eaved, curved sunroom filled with tropical plants and white wicker furniture. A beautiful table had been set with white china, flowers at each place setting.
“Mr. M.,” the blonde cooed.
Nikki was so busy taking in the amazing room that she didn’t see, at first, the elderly gentleman standing beside a large potted banana palm. He was on the short side and thin, with a head of silver hair . . . and was wearing a silk robe and silk pajama pants, à la Hugh Hefner.
“M., darling.” Victoria walked to him and presented her hand.
He bowed and kissed it as if she were royalty, then kissed her cheeks, one and then the other. “Victoria, I’m honored. And your daughter, Nicolette.” He walked to Nikki and offered his hand. “I’d recognize those Bordeaux blues anywhere.”
Nikki shook his hand.
“I’ll make up a pitcher of mimosas,” the blonde called from the doorway, then disappeared with the bottle of champagne.
“I’m so honored you could join me.” Mr. M. led them to the table and pulled out a chair for Victoria, then one for Nikki. He took a chair next to Victoria.
“Your photographs are incredible, Mr. M. I’ve never seen those pictures of Mother.”
“All part of my private collection.”
“You took them all? Even the one with her in the little blue hat with the veil?”
He flashed a handsome smile at her mother. “I took that on the set. I was interested in amateur photography, even as a young man.”
Another blonde arrived with a plate of eggs Benedict, salad, and fresh fruit, followed by the first blonde with a big pitcher of mimosas made with freshly squeezed orange juice and Victoria’s excellent, but not ridiculously expensive, champagne.
As they shared the meal, Nikki mostly listened to her mother and Mr. M. talk as they recalled past events on Roxbury Drive, and in Hollywood and Beverly Hills. Mr. M. was gracious, well spoken, and amazingly entertaining. Nikki could have sat there and listened to the two of them all day. It wasn’t until after the dishes were cleared from the table that Victoria worked her way to the true reason for their visit.
“M., I know you’re aware of the unfortunate incident that occurred last weekend on our street.”
“I was shocked, Victoria. And for you to find him in your trash.” He shook his head. “I would have given anything to have spared you that sight.”
Victoria waved her hand as if to say whatever. “I’m sure you’re also aware that my gardener was implicated in the crime.”
“He was charged.” Nikki looked to Mr. M. “Jorge is a longtime friend, and the son of Mother’s housekeeper. But you probably already know that,” she added. “Anyway, he didn’t kill Eddie, Mr. M., but he’s in jail and refuses representation.”
“Why is he refusing representation?” he asked.
“Because he’s young and foolish, that’s why,” Victoria put in.
Nikki looked from her mother to Mr. M. “I’m trying to figure out who did kill Eddie.”
The elderly man looked at Nikki. “Are you certain he didn’t do it? I saw the fight that night. I feared for the Mexican’s life.”
Nikki knew not to be offended by Mr. M.’s reference. He was eighty years old, if he was a day. The world he had lived in was not the world of today. “You saw the fight?”
“I did, although there was so much to observe that night, it’s a miracle I didn’t miss it. The gunshot drew my attention.” He frowned. “Eddie Bernard was a foolish young man. I always felt badly for Abe and Melinda.”
“That night,” Nikki said, trying to steer the conversation back to the party again, “how much did you see?”
“Oh, I got an eyeful.” He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.
Victoria smiled at Nikki slyly, then looked back to Mr. M. “Do tell.”
“Drugs, alcohol, nakedness,” he muttered, seeming embarrassed.
“We were there, at one point.” Nikki pushed away slightly from the table.
“I saw you. Very brave of you to go to the Mexican’s rescue.” He glanced at Victoria and winked. “Nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Nikki was beginning to feel a little weird
about Mr. M.’s compliments to her mother, but Victoria didn’t seem to be in the least bit disturbed. “It’s really what happened after the party that I’m interested in. Did you . . . see the party end?”
“Heard it. I was watching a movie in my bedroom. Eddie Bernard’s parties bore me after a while. Always the same.”
Nikki sighed. “So . . . you didn’t see anything after midnight?”
“I . . . think I wandered upstairs once after midnight. I have insomnia.”
“Did you see anything, M.,” Victoria questioned kindly, “that might help Nikki with her investigation?”
He hesitated.
“M.?”
“It was late . . . actually, early morning. I was only up there a moment.” He stopped, and started again. “There was a man in the pool and then he got out. It was . . . three-thirty . . . four, maybe.”
Victoria arched her brows. “Do you know who it was?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t have the right glasses on. I do that sometimes.” He chuckled. “He was bald, I think.” He touched his head.
Victoria looked at Nikki.
Nikki thought for a minute. Some of the photos on the wall . . . they had been in a series, as if one had been taken right after the other. “Mr. M.” She looked him in the eye. “I know you have a telescope.”
He cleared his throat.
“I don’t care. I don’t judge you, “ Nikki said quickly. “But do you also have cameras set up? Do they take pictures of your neighbors when you’re not watching?”
He cleared his throat again. “I . . . I don’t—”
“Mr. M.,” Nikki said as gently as she could, “the pictures of my mother in the hall, the series of photos of her in the blue swimsuit. They were taken at the Bernards’, last Labor Day.”
“A very attractive swimsuit, I might say,” he told Victoria.
She smiled flirtatiously. “Why, thank you, M.”
“The camera that you used to take those pictures of my mother, is it on a tripod, or were you holding a camera?”
Again, he looked nervous. “I took those pictures with my Nikon D7000, and a telephoto zoom. It was a beautiful day. I was in my perch for hours.”
“Okay.” Nikki thought for a moment, then looked at him. “But you also have cameras on tripods, too, don’t you? For when you’re not on your perch. You take pictures of your neighbors. Of all of us. A lot of pictures.”
Victoria touched his arm. “It’s all right, M. I’m rather flattered.”
“I do have cameras set on tripods,” he answered sheepishly. “So . . . so I don’t miss anything.”
“Do you have a camera set on the Bernards’ yard?”
“I . . . have one that shows the Bernards’ pool area. Part of it.”
“Do you have pictures from the night Eddie died? After the party was over?”
“Possibly,” he answered.
Nikki smiled kindly. She supposed she should have been upset; after all, Mr. M. was sort of a stalker. But he was harmless, that was obvious. And his voyeurism could possibly be helpful in figuring out who killed Eddie. “Have you looked at the photos from that night?”
He shook his head.
“Could you?”
He hesitated.
“Maybe you could print them for us, M. Just off your printer here, however it is you do that.” Victoria gave his hand a squeeze as she rose. “Could you do that? For me, M.?”
He looked at Nikki, then back at Victoria. “For you. Maybe I could print them. But, they’re probably not very good.”
Nikki got up. “That’s okay. There’s probably nothing to see. I just . . .” She looked at him as he, too, stood. “It’s worth having a look. Did . . . did a detective happen to come speak with you? Detective Dombrowski?”
“Tall chap? Nice suit?”
“That would be him.”
“He’s come by. We don’t answer the door to strangers,” Mr. M. said.
Victoria kissed his leathery cheek. “Thank you so much for brunch, M. It was wonderful seeing you.” She looked into his eyes. “And thank you for helping my daughter. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. We’ll let ourselves out.”
Victoria walked away. “Nicolette.”
Nikki took a couple of quick steps to catch up, praying Mr. M. would have the lead she needed.
Chapter 25
It took Nikki the remainder of the day to get up the nerve to call Ellen, even though she spent the afternoon on the phone. She listened to Marshall talk about who had come to his party, who hadn’t, and what the latest gossip in town was. She chatted with Jeremy. She, again, tried to get a hold of Hector; there was no answer on his cell or at his house. She even called her painter and chewed him out about the delays on her house, just to postpone her conversation with Ellen.
Finally, sitting alone in her room in her mother’s house, the dogs lounging on the bed (where they were not allowed to be), she hit Ellen’s name on speed dial. By the third ring, she was ready to chicken out and hang up. What kind of message could she possibly leave? Just as she was about to hit the END button on her phone, Ellen picked up.
“Nikki! How are you?”
“I’m . . . I’m well.”
“I’m really looking forward to having you come to the set tomorrow. Friday was crazy. I was making these cream puffs that were supposed to look like individual servings of mashed potatoes, but they were a total fail. I bet I’ve made them a dozen times, but once I was in front of the camera, I was all thumbs.”
Nikki stroked Oliver, the Blenheim.
“I was mortified,” Ellen went on. “But, oh my gosh, you should have seen the pizza that looked like cherry cobbler. It was divine.”
Oliver made little grunting sounds of contentment as Nikki rolled him over and rubbed his belly. Jealous, Stanley inched across the duvet, wanting his share of the attention.
“I was thinking, if you came at noon and we’re running on time, you could watch me tape one episode and then we could have lunch together. The house Abe rented has this cute little patio with a table and lounge chairs . . .”
The mention of Abe made Nikki feel sick to her stomach. “Ellen,” she said. “I need to . . . talk to you about something.”
“Sure,” she said, cheerfully. “Sorry, I’m running on. Too much coffee. I’ve been trying to make this chocolate dessert in a martini glass and it—oh, gosh, here I go again.” She inhaled, then exhaled. “What’s up?”
Nikki laid back, resting her head on the upholstered headboard. “I have to ask you . . .” She stopped, then started again. “Last Friday night, were you at the Bernards’ house?”
Ellen was quiet on the other end of the line.
Not a good sign.
Nikki waited, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The worst thing was, she really liked Ellen.
“I’m sorry,” Ellen said finally. “I should have told you.” She paused. “But . . . it was personal.”
“Personal?” Nikki echoed.
“Yes. I didn’t want to share because . . . I wasn’t comfortable sharing. Someone else was involved.”
“You were with Abe.”
“I . . . How do you know that?” Ellen asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” Nikki sighed. “But I need the truth.”
“Oh, God, Nikki, please don’t tell me you think I killed Eddie.”
Nikki looked into Ollie’s big, dark eyes. “No. I don’t think you killed Eddie. But I have to ask, what were you doing with Abe?”
“What was I doing?” Ellen’s voice took on a prickly tone.
“Yes, what were you doing with Abe?”
“Nikki, I don’t really think that’s any—” Ellen stopped mid-sentence. “We were discussing business.”
“Alone. In Abe’s basement, with him? In his . . . private room?”
Ellen was quiet again for a second. “Nikki, it’s not what you think.”
“No?”
“No. I can’t tell you what we were discus
sing. It was confidential. Between Abe and me.”
Nikki groaned. “Ellen, I’m just going to come out and say it. Are you having an affair with Abe Bernard?”
“No,” she said quickly. “God, no, Nikki. Do I seem to you to be that kind of person?” Now she sounded angry.
“I don’t know, Ellen.” Nikki ran her hand over her face. “I don’t know what to think.” She exhaled. “I’m beginning to think I’m not as good a judge of character as I once thought.”
“Listen to me, Nikki,” Ellen said, enunciating each word. “I am not having an affair with Abe Bernard. He’s married.”
“But something is going on,” Nikki intoned. “You were seen at The Palm, having lunch.”
“He’s my producer. We had lunch. In a public place. If I was banging my boss, do you think I would have gone to lunch with him at The Palm?”
Nikki was quiet.
“Look,” Ellen said after a minute. “I’m not going to tell you what’s been going on between Abe and me. You’re just going to have to take my word on it that it’s not . . . inappropriate. Between the two of us.” She was quiet again for a moment. “You’re not coming to my set tomorrow, are you?”
Nikki bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I understand. No, no, I really don’t.” Again, Ellen paused. “Have a good evening.”
She hung up.
Nikki tossed the cell phone onto her bed and scooped Ollie up into her arms and cuddled him. “So now what do we do?” she asked, feeling just awful. She’d probably just lost a friend with that phone call.
Stan nosed his way into her lap.
“Track down Hector? Find out where the heck Ree is? Is that what you say?” She rubbed one soft head and then the other, feeling worse with each passing moment. “Okay,” she said firmly. “Okay, I can do that.”
And if Hector couldn’t give her any helpful information? If Mr. M.’s photos didn’t offer any answers? Then what? she wondered.
