My sister’s face suddenly surfaced in my mind. And then an eerie howl echoed up from the basement, startling me into action. “Mac!” I ran down the back stairs with Cass in tow, to find one freaked out feline wedged behind the washing machine.
Getting an overweight cat from behind a stackable washer and dryer is no easy feat. How he got behind there in the first place, I have no clue, but after shoving, pushing, and inching the machinery forward for several minutes—and nearly slipping a disc in the process—Mac shimmied out and shot off through the laundry room and up the stairs. Cass and I ran after him, but he’d hidden himself in the depths of the house and at that point, I was too exhausted to send out a search party for my overweight friend. He couldn’t get out as far as I knew. I set out food, water, and a litter box and prayed he’d find them in case he had to do his thing. Then I headed to my room and to bed.
I thought sleep would come quickly, at least I’d hoped it would. But it didn’t. Between thoughts of my sister, Simone, Mac, and that continual faint scent of marijuana floating through the halls, it was hard to fall asleep. But eventually I drifted off…or at least I assumed I had because ever so slowly, the marijuana smell grew stronger, combining itself with the soft, familiar melody of Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier. It was almost as if Bob was right there in the room with me, next to my bed. As far as dreams went, this one was pretty nice. I mean, I never much cared for the smell of pot and getting high was definitely not my thing. But I did like Bob Marley, and it was all so…peaceful.
Then the dream changed—in a big way. How do I put this? I am not one for sex dreams. I don’t have much sex, so dreaming about it isn’t a constant occurrence in my life. But on those rare occasions when I do, I only have a vague sense that I’ve done it with someone. Usually it’s someone famous like, well, Matt Damon. Sometimes it’s someone ridiculous like the fellow in line at the DMV (scary). Then I wake up and think, “Huh. That was interesting.” But this…this was like insanely crazy, wild sex. It wasn’t just wild sex though. It was kinky and dark and I felt violated. In it, I could see the man with me. He was blonde, golden with an eerie bluish black type aura glowing around him, encased in a type of silver or metal. I don’t know—really. He had hazel eyes that held a deep darkness to them, penetrating me with this kind of evil look in them. And I felt panicky and afraid as my heart raced, pounding hard in my chest wanting it over with—trying to wake myself. It was all a haze and one I really wanted out of, but couldn’t seem to wake myself, and then Cass did it for me. She woke me with loud, sharp barking. I flipped on the light to see her fur sticking straight up, her back hunched, and her eyes wild.
“Cass! Stop, girl. What is it?!” I focused, trying to see if maybe Mac had come in the room and startled her awake. But there was no cat in sight. I calmly spoke to her until she settled down, and then I pulled the sheets and covers up, which were askew and rumpled. I must have been really struggling in my sleep. I tucked the covers up around me. As I lay in the darkened room, waiting for sleep to arrive, I began to suspect Cass, Mac, and I were not the only beings at this house in the Hollywood hills.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ten after seven the next morning found me insisting to a Starbucks’ barista that she does indeed have everything she needs to make me a pumpkin spice latte in June, and her telling me she does not. I tried pulling the, “I’m Simone’s assistant, you know, the Simone” line. Her response?
“Right. I don’t want to be rude or anything but I assure you we don’t have pumpkin spice at this time of year. How about hazelnut? That should make anyone happy.”
“Sure.” I looked at my watch, knowing there was going to be hell to pay. I’d overslept, probably the result of that disturbing sex dream and the fact that Mac eventually found his way to my room and I woke with him sacked out on my pillow. It hadn’t been the most restful of nights. I’d darted out of bed and then out of the house, leaving Cass and my new feline friend inside to sort out the pecking order.
And here I was, running behind schedule and without a pumpkin spice latte to sweeten the deal. I grabbed the hazelnut mocha or latte or whatever it was and kicked the van into high gear—which is not all that high—making it to Simone’s about twenty minutes late.
She greeted me at the door with a bright red nose, red-rimmed eyes, hair in a rat’s nest, and hands on her hips. She wore a short, hot pink colored silk robe with some kind of lace teddy underneath. Simone stared at me like I’d slapped her. She grabbed the hazelnut drink and took a sip. She spit it out. “What the fuck is this?!”
“I’m sorry, Simone. Look the girl at the counter insisted they did not have pumpkin spice. I pleaded with her. I told her I was your assistant. I don’t think she believed me.”
She grabbed my arm. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Come on.”
I followed her outside.
“Your keys in this piece of shit?” She smacked her hand on the van.
“Yes.”
“Get in.”
Oh no. This was it. I had lost the only real paying job I had ever had. She was sending me on my way. I had been fired. “I am really sorry. I am.”
“Get in the piece of shit.”
“Hey. You can fire me, but that means I don’t need to take your abuse any more.”
“I’m not firing you, loser. We’re going to Starbucks.”
“I told you, the gal sai—“
“I don’t care what you told me,” Simone said. “Now drive me to Starbucks.”
We turned right off of Mullholland. “God, Edie, I can’t believe you drive this tin can.” She wiped her hands down her face.
“It’s all I can really afford for now and it gets me where I need to go. I’m saving my money.”
“Saving your money? Why?”
“Uh, well, actually it’s what most people do. They budget and save so one day they have nice things and can go travel. I mean, it’s good to save for a family and for retirement.”
Simone smacked her forehead with her palm and shook her head. “I don’t even know what to make of you.”
I started to ask her about the audition with Sony as we pulled into the Starbucks parking lot. But Simone had other plans. She grabbed the door handle. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I am going to get my fucking pumpkin spice latte.” With that, she was out the door and marching into Starbucks wearing nothing but her pajamas. I just knew it wouldn’t be long before the paparazzi showed up or someone whipped out a camera phone. Could this be the lingering effects of the Sudafed high? All I knew was somehow this was going to end up my fault…she’d ask how I could allow her to do this, but she was uncontrollable.
Less than five minutes later, she strolled out with two coffees in hand. She got into the van just as a crowd started gathering, handed me one of the cups, and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I turned off of Sunset and floored it, as ordered. Once we’d reached cruising speed, I glanced over at Simone and asked, “What did you say to them?”
“Oh nothing much. Just let them know the next time my assistant comes in and asks for a pumpkin spice latte, they better fucking well give it to you. They gave me two. What do you think?” She motioned to the coffee.
“I think you should stop using the ‘F’ word.”
“No. What do you think about the latte?” She rolled her eyes.
I took a sip. I wasn’t really partial to super sweet coffee, and I really don’t like pumpkin but I figured now was not the time for honesty. “It’s great.”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
“No, I’m not.” I couldn’t help but start to laugh. As obnoxious as Simone can be, there are times when she cracks me up. Usually I try to be discrete but this time, I couldn’t keep it in. And you know what? She laughed too.
“So you think I should stop using ‘the F word’, huh?”
“Yes. It’s just, well, it’s not, um…” How to put this withou
t ticking her off? “It just doesn’t fit your image. You know, you’re a song bird. You’re glamorous. And I don’t think vulgarity is really your style.”
She nodded. “Hmmm. Okay.”
“Really?”
She took a sip of her latte and swallowed, then looked over at me. “Fuck, no, Edie. The ‘F’ word, as you so sweetly call it, is the only word I know that suits me to a T. It is my image. Now take me home and put my make-up on.”
I sighed. An hour and a half later, she looked gorgeous as usual and she managed to increase the number of F-bombs, if that were even possible. My ears were numb but the photographer and his crew didn’t seem to notice. They told her how beautiful she was, what a great voice she had, and on and on. It made me nauseous.
As the photographer clicked away, my cell phone rang. It was Nick’s cell number. Oh God. Nick had to be pretty irritated with me. Here I’d run out on him last night and hadn’t even had the courtesy to call. What if that producer had stopped by? I was such a jerk. I picked up on the second ring.
“Hello? Hello? Nick? I am so sorry about last night.” No response. Boy, he must be more upset than I thought. “Hello? Nick? Look, I am really sorry.”
I paused, and that’s when I heard a faint gurgling sound. What the heck? A shiver snaked down my spine. Something was not right. “Nick? Is that you?”
“Help me.” It was barely a whisper but I heard it loud and clear. I was certain it was Nick. And then the line disconnected.
I didn’t tell Simone I was leaving. I just left. All I kept thinking was Nick was having a heart attack or a stroke. On my way to the bar, I decided to call 9-1-1 just in case. I relayed what had happened and the operator asked me if it was some kind of joke.
“Of course not! Why would I joke with you?”
“You wouldn’t believe the pranks we get, lady. I will send a unit to that address, but if this is a prank, you will be finding yourself in jail.”
“Look, I know what I heard. Just send help.”
I screeched to a stop in front of the bar. There were no police cars, no ambulances. Nothing. Not yet anyway. The bar wouldn’t open for another hour. I unlocked the back door and ran inside through the kitchen, calling Nick’s name. No response. I scanned the booths. Nothing. I was just beginning to wonder if maybe he had called from home, when I stepped behind the bar. That’s where I finally found Nick.
Dead, in a pool of blood.
I backed away, nearly stumbling as a scream caught in my throat. I hit something behind me. The scream let loose when I realized it wasn’t something, but someone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Hey, easy, easy,” a man’s voice said. He turned me around and I could just make out his LAPD uniform in the dim light.
I said something to him, but I don’t know what, exactly. I was hysterical and frantic. I caught a quick flash of the officer as a kid with his mother who was passed out on a couch—a bottle of booze next to her. I shut the vision out quickly. My friend was dead and it seemed pretty clear from all the blood on the floor he’d been murdered. Shattered glass was everywhere behind the bar. It looked like a fight had taken place.
“I’m Officer Harris. Wait here.” He sat me down in one of the booths.
My hands would not stop shaking. I wished I had Cass with me so I could bury my face in her fur.
I watched the officer walk around the bar and then disappear from sight as he knelt down behind it. Then I heard him on his radio, “I have a signal five on La Brea and La Cienega. 527 La Cienega. Nick’s Bar. Repeat, I have a signal five.”
It wasn’t until later I found out a signal five is the code for homicide.
After Officer Harris called in the incident, he came back and sat with me. “Can you answer some questions, miss?”
“Is he…?” I couldn’t make myself say the word.
“Yes, ma’am, he is.”
“Oh, my God! No. I can’t…I can’t understand. How?” I dropped my face into my hands as a fresh wave of tears threatened to overtake me.
Officer Harris nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry. It appears to be a gun-shot wound to his chest. I take it he was a friend?”
I nodded. “Yes. My boss, too. I sang here in the evenings.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“Nick Gordin. He owns…owned…the bar. He, he...” I swallowed thickly, trying hard to keep from sobbing. “He was a really good guy. He believed in me.”
“I am sorry. Uh, did you say Nick Gordin?”
I nodded.
“As in the actor?”
I nodded again.
He looked slightly pained. Another fan, I guessed. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” My eyes shot up to his face. “I found him like this…I must have arrived only seconds before you.” My hands still hadn’t stopped shaking and I could hear the quiver in my voice.
“I understand. But can you tell me how you found him? You said you play music here in the evenings, but it’s not quite ten o’ clock in the morning. What were you doing here?”
I told him about the phone call from Nick.
“You were at work when you got the call?”
“Yes. I’m also a makeup artist.”
“As a matter of procedure, I will need to verify your story. Where do you work?”
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Simone was not going to like this kind of publicity at all. “I work for Simone.”
“Simone who?” he asked.
“Simone, the pop star,” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Simone. The singer.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Okay. I’ll need you to give me her contact info so I verify where you were when all of this went down.”
“Yes, of course.”
An hour later, a Detective Franklin sat me down and asked the same series of questions I’d heard from Officer Harris. I told him everything I knew. He asked me about acquaintances, friends, enemies, regulars at the bar.
“There’s Candace and Mumbles, and uh, Becky. But they would never hurt Nick.”
Detective Franklin looked at me. “Do any of these people have a last name?”
“I’m sure they do but I don’t know what they are. Except Becky. Her full name is Rebecca Styles. She was a really good friend of Nick’s.”
“Enemies?”
For some reason, Jackson’s face popped into my mind. But I had bigger fish to fry. “This guy came here last night. His name was Pietro. I think his last name was like Santiago or San something.” I snapped my fingers. “SanGiacomo. That’s it. He looked like some sort of mafia guy, you know, like Tony Soprano. He yelled at Nick. Then Nick and Becky went into the kitchen with him. Becky said sometimes Nick gambled and owed money to the wrong people.”
The detective jotted all of this down. “Pietro, huh? Damn.”
“What?”
“It could be a mob hit and if so, those are tough cases to close.”
“Really? The mob?! I was kidding about the Tony Soprano thing.”
Detective Franklin stood. “I’ve got your number and we will be in touch again. Thank you for your help. You’re free to go now.”
“But what about the bar?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea what the terms are on this place. Do you have a manager?”
I quickly said, “Yes. Me. I manage and sing.” What in the hell was I doing? I was as much a manager of this place as Mumbles.
“And do makeup for Simone the pop singer?”
I nodded.
“ Busy lady. I suppose in a few days after our investigation is finished, you can reopen. If Mr. Gordin owned this place, he must have had a will of some sort. If you’re the manager, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from an attorney soon. Again, I am sorry and thank you for being so cooperative.”
I managed a weak smile and left. I don’t remember the drive home at all. It felt like the day I realized my
sister was gone. I felt the same guilt, too. When Hannah vanished, I was convinced it was all my fault. And now I wondered, maybe if I had stayed at the bar the night before instead of rushing to Simone’s aid, Nick would still be alive, too.
CHAPTER NINE
I sat in one of the lounge chairs by the pool and stared down at Hollywood and Los Angeles spread out below. I had my second beer in hand and a half-empty box of tissues on the table next to me . I hadn’t stopped crying since I left the bar. The police had likely located Becky by now, but Mumbles and Candace…probably not. They would be devastated.
Nick’s murder had brought my sister’s disappearance sixteen years ago to the forefront of my mind. I recalled it clearly as if it had happened yesterday. I remember Hannah had been begging my parents for days to go to The Boyz to Men concert up in Jacksonville, which is nearly two hours away. Of course my daddy said, “No way.” And, my mama had to back him up. Hannah was so upset.
She was almost sixteen and her best friend Karen could drive. There was a group of them going and I didn’t see the harm in it. I encouraged her to go. Told her that I’d cover for her. And that is what I did. After dinner, which in our house was promptly every night at 5:30 p.m., my sister headed upstairs. I did the dishes and then told my folks that Hannah and I were going to play a game of chess, which we often did. I was banking on it that they would leave us alone. My parents tend to spend the evenings reading scripture unless it is a designated family night. That night it was not, and we really have not had one since Hannah left. I went to bed, padded down the stairs to find my daddy asleep in his chair and my mother knitting a new sweater for him. I kissed her good night and told her that Hannah had gone to bed already. She believed me.
A Perfectly Purloined Pinot (Nikki Sands' Mysteries) Page 9
