Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  “Whoever sent those e-mails, whoever threatened you, is someone close to you,” she went on. “Someone who knows you suffer from blackouts and wanted to take advantage of that.”

  A horn blasted behind her, but she didn’t look up in the rearview mirror.

  Wezley was listening now.

  “I can show you,” she said again. “I have photos of the party at Eddie’s that night, taken from across the street.”

  The horn sounded again, practically on her bumper. She was approaching the next intersection. The light was yellow. She couldn’t speed up. She couldn’t change lanes.

  “These photos, they show who killed Eddie?” Wezley asked.

  “N . . . not exactly. But they prove you didn’t kill him.” She debated whether or not to tell him the photos were in her bag. Should she risk him finding her phone, discovering that she’d dialed someone?

  She decided she’d have to take that risk. “In my bag,” she said, pointing to the floor.

  The horn honked again and she looked up in her rearview mirror. Couldn’t this jerk see she was trying to save her own life?

  The car was a vintage metallic-gold Cadillac convertible. The driver hit the horn again.

  And then she saw who was driving the Cadillac, just before his front bumper slammed into her rear bumper.

  It was Elvis.

  Chapter 28

  The Prius lurched forward. Nikki’s seat belt caught her as she fell forward and then pulled her back to hit the back of the seat.

  Wezley, however, did not have his seat belt on and hit the dash. “What the hell!”

  Jimmy hit her car again. Harder. Wezley flew forward, hit the dash again, and the gun fell from his hand, onto the floor.

  Nikki tried to steer the car out of the lane, into a loading zone.

  The third time Jimmy hit her, he picked up a little speed first. Brakes squealed. Horns honked. Under the impact, she jumped the curb, hit the LOADING ZONE sign, and bounced back off the curb.

  Wezley’s head hit the windshield and his body cast weird, bouncing shadows across the car, in the dying light of the day, as he fell against the seat, stunned.

  And then, everything in her mind fell into place. Just like that.

  Nikki knew who killed Eddie. The answer was in the photographs, just as she’d suspected. Only it was what was not in the photographs that gave her the answer.

  She threw the car into PARK and tumbled out of the driver’s seat onto the pavement.

  Jimmy jumped out of the Cadillac—over the door. “Nikki!”

  “I’m all right. He’s got a gun!”

  Cars were still honking. Jimmy had partially blocked a lane with the Caddy. None of the motorists seemed to realize that a kidnapping had just been foiled. They were trying to get home from work.

  As Nikki picked herself up off the street, Jimmy ran around to the passenger side of the car. Wezley was getting out of the car, his forehead bleeding. The gun was in his hand again.

  Over the hood of the car, Nikki saw Jimmy spin in midair and kick the gun from Wezley’s hand in some kind of crazy judo/ karate move. Jimmy then punched Wezley right in the Adam’s apple.

  Wezley slammed against the car. The gun fell and went skittering across the sidewalk. Jimmy scooped it up.

  Wezley stumbled to his feet, gasping, and took off running down Sunset.

  “You want me to go after him?” Jimmy called to her, in his Elvis voice.

  “No,” she panted. She came around the car and threw her arms around her brother. “You got my call! You heard me.”

  “I was at work when your call came in. You were headed right for me. I just borrowed the Caddy and here I am.”

  She glanced at the car he’d used to ram hers, realizing, for the first time, that it had a big lime-green price tag in the window.

  He held her awkwardly in one arm, the gun in the other. He flipped the safety on.

  Nikki’s heart was still jackhammering in her chest when she took a step back. She was okay. She was going to be okay. And so was Jorge. “E, I didn’t know you knew karate.”

  “You didn’t know the King knew karate?”

  She laughed. Cars were now diverting around the Caddy’s back end. No one stopped to see if they were all right. She heard no police sirens.

  “I have to get to Roxbury,” she said suddenly. “I know who did it. I know who killed Eddie.”

  Jimmy glanced at her car and frowned. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere in this.” He pointed.

  Nikki turned to look at the front end of the Prius. When she jumped the curb, the wheel well had shattered and her tire had popped. The wheel was bent. She put her head in her hands, on the verge of tears for the first time in the ordeal. “I need to get to Mother’s,” she said.

  “Ah, don’t cry, little lady.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I can take you.”

  “You can do that?” She glanced at the huge, shiny gold Cadillac convertible. “In a stolen car?”

  “It’s not stolen. It’s borrowed,” he assured her.

  Nikki leaned in the open passenger-side door of her Prius and grabbed her bag. The photos were still safe inside. “I’ll call to have the car towed.”

  “What about him?” He pointed in the direction Wezley had run. “You want me to run him down? Give him another one of my karate moves?” He chopped the air with his hands.

  She headed for the Cadillac. “I just want to get to Roxbury. The police can deal with him later.”

  Jimmy hurried to open the door for her. “Hey little girl, I’d like to take you home,” he sang. Door open, he strummed an air guitar. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  Nikki laughed in spite of herself as she got into the car. “ ‘Harum Scarum,’ 1965. Come on, E. Get in the car. We have a killer to catch.”

  Nikki made three phone calls on her way to Beverly Hills and then Jimmy popped an 8 track into the dash and they sang all the way home, sweet home, to Roxbury Drive.

  It was dark when Jimmy pulled up in front of Victoria’s gate, which stood open. Nikki looked at the gate, then at him. “You’re not going to come in? Just say hi?”

  “I don’t think so,” he crooned. “I should get this little lady back to the car lot.” He patted the dash.

  Nikki smiled sadly. “I think she’d like to see you.”

  He put both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. “Some day. But not today.”

  She was quiet for a second. She understood. She just wished things were different. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, E,” she whispered. “You may have saved my life.”

  “Any time, little lady.” He gave her that classic Elvis lip-turned-up half-smile.

  Nikki grabbed her Prada and got out of the Caddy. She didn’t look back as she walked up the driveway. Victoria was waiting for her at the front door. She’d dressed for the occasion: gray velour jogging suit, pearls, and tennis shoes. Her hair was done, makeup subtle but perfect.

  “He didn’t care to come in?” Victoria asked, watching the Cadillac and her son pull away.

  “Not today,” Nikki said quietly.

  Victoria stared at the end of the drive for a moment, then turned to Nikki, putting her hands together. “Do we wait?”

  Nikki recalled the trouble she’d gotten herself into with the Rex March case, confronting the killer on her own. But she wasn’t alone this time. She had Victoria Bordeaux to back her up.

  “I can’t wait. Let’s go.” Nikki strode around the house toward the side gate.

  “Should I ask why James brought you home?” Victoria said.

  “Not now.”

  And, for once, Victoria let something go. “You have the photographs?”

  “In my good old Prada.” She patted the bag on her shoulder.

  “Prada is always an excellent choice in handbags. They’re sturdy and they hold their value.”

  Nikki and her mother walked through the soft grass in the side yard a
nd went through the gate. “Does she know we’re coming?” Nikki asked quietly.

  “I told her I’d be over in a few minutes.”

  “What excuse did you give her?” The Bernards’ pool cast soft light over their yard. Now, everywhere Nikki looked, she saw, in her mind’s eye, the scene that had unfolded the night Eddie was murdered. The chaise longue where Eddie had breathed his final breath. The pool where she had washed off the evidence. The incriminating banana tree. Even the little garden wagon was parked near the roses, as if staged for the reveal.

  “I told her I had a gift card for her hair salon. I said I received it in a swag bag and I thought she might like to have it.” Victoria cut her eyes at Nikki. “She knows very well I’d never set foot in Timothee’s.”

  Nikki walked over to one of the five tables on the terrace and set her bag down. She noticed that there was a small vase with a single rose on each table. They had not been there Friday when Nikki came into the yard in Jorge’s defense. They had been here each day since; each day, fresh roses. A memorial of sorts.

  Nikki opened her bag and pulled out the photos. She was spreading them out on the table when the guesthouse door opened. When Melinda stepped onto the brick walk in front of her house, the exterior spotlights came on, shining light on the table and the lounge chairs nearby.

  “Oh, Victoria, you didn’t have to bring that over.” Melinda was wearing a jogging suit, too; pink. It didn’t suit her as well as Victoria’s did. “And, Nikki, what a nice surprise.”

  Melinda stopped a few feet short of the table and stared at the photos for a moment, then at Nikki’s face. Then Victoria’s. “What . . . whatever is this about?” Her voice trembled.

  She knew they knew.

  “These are photographs of Eddie’s party,” Nikki said quietly. She had thought she would feel triumphant at this moment. She’d found Eddie’s real killer. Jorge would be released. But her heart felt heavy. How could a mother kill her own child?

  “Would you care to have a look?” Nikki asked, gesturing to them. “The mistake I made in the beginning was looking for a crime-of-passion killer, like Jorge or Kaiser, or Rocko. Or Wezley, who conveniently had no recollection at all of that night.”

  “Clever, leaving options open to frame any number of people,” Victoria remarked.

  Nikki leaned on the table and glanced at Melinda. “What I should have been looking for was a premeditating murderer. Putting him in the trash; it was the first clue, but I didn’t get it.” She laid the photos out in chronological order: seventeen photographs, the first taken at twelve-fifteen a.m., the last at four-thirty a.m.

  “Where did you get these?” Melinda took a step closer to the table. She’d taken the time to put on mascara and lipstick . . . to greet Victoria. At least she’d have makeup on when the police took her away.

  “From Mr. M., our friendly neighborhood voyeur.” Nikki looked up at the house across the street and waved. He was watching them now, too, thanks to a quick call from Victoria. Nikki’s mother had her back, but Mr. M. had both their backs.

  “Twelve-fifteen,” Nikki began. “You chased everyone off the property, which is interesting because you invited them, didn’t you? The party wasn’t Eddie’s idea; it was yours. You invited anyone and everyone who was toxic for Eddie. His old druggy friends. People from the gym. Wezley, his rehab buddy. The e-mail invitations were sent by you, not Eddie,” she guessed out loud. The look on Melinda’s face told her she was right. “You even called Rocko, who he’d been arrested for punching.”

  “I called the pool service because there was a problem with the filter,” Melinda said snobbishly.

  Victoria rested her hand on her hip. “Melinda, to tell bald-faced lies is not becoming of a lady.”

  Nikki pointed to the first photo. “Twelve-fifteen, the guests have almost departed. Just a few strays. And notice Wezley Butterfield here on the very edge of the photo. Lying on his back, passed out.”

  “How do you know that’s Wezley Butterfield?” Melinda asked. “It’s an arm.”

  “It’s a man’s arm, a man wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Notice the signet ring, which Wezley Butterfield wears on his right hand.”

  “Goodness, look there.” Victoria leaned over the table on the other side of Nikki. “I can see the ring, even without my readers.”

  “Twelve-thirty.” Nikki pointed to the next photo. “That’s you, Melinda, in the same clothing we saw you wearing that evening. You’re giving your son a cocktail of drugs that will make him comatose . . . if not kill him.”

  “I was giving him water,” Melinda argued, without looking at the photo this time. “He wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Not as poorly as he would be feeling later,” Victoria said under her breath.

  “Twelve forty-five, Eddie is still in the chaise,” Nikki continued, “and you’re gone. Wezley hasn’t moved . . . and no one has come or gone from the main house. Note the lack of shadows—from the motion detector lights—seen in the first two photos.” She looked up at Melinda. “You probably got the drugs from Eddie’s room. See this shadow coming from that potted banana tree?” She pointed to the photo, then indicated the tree on the terrace between the guesthouse and the chaise where Eddie died. “That shadow indicates that you’ve entered the guesthouse.”

  “This . . . this is ridiculous,” Melinda protested. “Disrespectful. Victoria, are you really going to let her speak to me this way?”

  Victoria continued to look at the photos. “I’m curious about all this, even if it isn’t true.” She looked across the table at Melinda. “Aren’t you?”

  “One o’clock, no lights, no shadows. All the yard lights—detecting no motion, because Wezley and Eddie are both unconscious—are out. There’s just the glow from the underwater pool lamps and the moonlight. No change until two forty-five when the guesthouse motion detector light is on, again.” She glanced at Melinda. “You must have been going to the gardening shed to get your little wagon.” She pointed to the flat-topped wagon now parked near her roses, a wagon one could sit on to garden, or, with a little effort, use to transport a dead body.

  “Three o’clock. Eddie’s gone. But not under his own power.” Nikki swallowed the lump in her throat. She still couldn’t believe that Melinda had murdered her only son. “Notice that Wezley has not moved and that there is no indication of light coming from the main house.” She pointed to Wezley’s arm in the photo.

  “Nothing changes until three forty-five.” Nikki touched one photo after another. “Now note the bald man in the pool.”

  “What M. saw,” Victoria said, obviously captivated.

  “Also, the gardening wagon near the edge of the pool and a dark splotch around it where it had been rinsed off with pool water . . . containing chlorine. Probably destroying DNA evidence. Eddie was dead by then, in the trash.”

  Nikki took a breath. “What Mr. M. saw was you, Melinda, in the pool in your bathing cap, not a bald man. After you gave Eddie the drugs, you went into your house and put on your bathing suit and swim cap. So your hair wouldn’t be discolored for the funeral.” Saying the words actually made Nikki feel sick to her stomach. “You were wearing the swimsuit and cap when you killed him.”

  Melinda just stood there, staring at the photos. Nikki was amazed that she still remained dry eyed.

  “Four o’clock, the pool is empty and the wagon is gone,” Nikki said. “But the light is on in front of the guesthouse. Note there is still no light from the main house. No one has gone in or out of the main house in hours. In the last photo Mr. M. provided, the guesthouse light has gone out, and Wezley is still unconscious in the grass, but his dress shirt is gone.” She looked up. “You had Wezley change his clothes. He just didn’t remember it. You probably told him he had blood on him. Then, when I started snooping around, you sent him the threatening e-mails. The police will find them on your hard drive. Your e-mails made him think he did it and he was going to kill me to protect his father’s church.�
�

  Victoria’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “How dare you! How dare you put my daughter’s life in jeopardy!”

  Melinda took a stumbling step backward. “I didn’t—”

  “You did,” Nikki said from between clenched teeth, trying to keep her emotions in check. “You planned your son’s murder shortly after he returned from rehab, un-rehabilitated. Probably the night you caught him snorting coke. You brought an entire cast of people together to take the fall. It’s the cleverest kind of murder, premeditated, yet adapted to the situation. Because of the fight between Eddie and Jorge, you were able to easily frame Jorge. And you were framing Wezley as a backup.”

  Melinda took another step back. “No, I didn’t kill him.”

  “You did. After the fight between Eddie and Jorge, you slipped into Mother’s yard and took Jorge’s pruning shears, while Jorge and Hector were in the shed.” Nikki frowned. “But you didn’t kill him with the shears, did you?”

  Melinda’s eyes had become glassy. She knew it was over. “No,” she whispered. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “The coroner found unexplained blood in his chest cavity. You used something else first, before you sank the shears into his heart, causing so much damage that the original evidence was destroyed. Again, covering your tracks.”

  In the distance, Nikki heard a police siren, then two.

  “What did you use?”

  “I intended to use the shears,” Melinda murmured, folding her hands neatly together. “The drugs . . . he was so out of it, I don’t know that he would have felt anything. But the idea seemed so gruesome.”

  Melinda was silent for a moment. Nikki waited.

  “I used my diamond nail file, first.”

  Victoria gasped.

  “It’s very hard . . . and pointy at the end. But then he still had the faintest pulse.”

  “So you finished him off with the gardening shears that have Jorge’s name on them.”

  Melinda lowered her gaze.

  “The threatening note. You left it on my car seat Wednesday morning when you came to speak with me.”