She laughed. “You’re a fucking liar!”
“No, I’m not.” Then I started laughing, too. As obnoxious as Simone can be, there are times when she cracks me up.
“So you think I should stop using ‘the F word,’ huh?”
“Yes. It’s just, well, it’s not, um . . .” How to put this without 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, pondering. “Hmmm. Okay.”
“Really?”
She took a sip of her latte and swallowed, then looked over at me. “Fuck, no, Edie. The ‘F’ word is the only word I know that suits me to a T. 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. He 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? The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. 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 find 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, but the back door was unlocked . . . not a good sign. I 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 him.
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 Nine
“HEY, EASY, EASY,” a man’s voice said. He turned me around, touching the bare skin of my arm, 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 at Fairfax and La Cienega. 527 La Cienega. Nick’s Bar. Repeat, I have a signal five.”
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! I can’t . . . I don’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 bullet 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 or throwing up. “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 can 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, bar regulars.
“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 you’ll likely be able to reopen. If Mr. Gordin owned this place, h
e 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 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 Ten
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 remembered Hannah had been begging my parents for days to go to a concert up in Jacksonville, nearly two hours away. Of course 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 I’d cover for her. And that is what I did. After dinner, which in our house was promptly at 5:30 p.m. every night, my sister headed upstairs. I did the dishes and then told my folks Hannah and I were going to play a game of chess. 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, which it wasn’t. 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 Hannah had gone to bed already. She believed me.
When I woke at three in the morning to go to the bathroom, I went to the side of Hannah’s bed to ask her how the concert was. She wasn’t there. I panicked and woke my mother, who woke my father. The police were called. They found her bike only half a mile away up the road from the house. Her friends said she never made it to Riley’s Diner where they’d agreed to meet. I never have copped to the fact I knew she had snuck out. The guilt eats at me daily.
I stood and poured the rest of the beer on the lawn next to the pool. Cass and Mac remained indoors, curled up tightly next to each other. Against all odds, they had become fast friends. I was kind of jealous, because it meant I only had a beer to provide comfort while they had each other.
As the sun slowly dipped towards the ocean and the sky turned a myriad of oranges, pinks, and reds, I decided to make myself a BLT. Suddenly, I had two loyal fans next to me in the kitchen. Behold, the magic of bacon! Mac walked a figure eight between my legs, and Cass twirled in circles as if she were dancing.
“Fine! I give in.” I pointed the knife down towards Mac. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgotten about your diet, mister.” I then shifted my gaze to Cass, “I see you’re teaching Mac all your bad habits.”
“Trust me. I don’t think he needs her help,” a male voice responded.
I jumped, nearly slicing off my thumb. I immediately changed my grip on the knife, holding it more like a weapon and less like something I’d just been using to slice tomatoes.
“Who’s there?” My voice quivered, not nearly as threatening as I would have liked.
No one answered, but Cass started to growl and Mac stopped brushing against my legs.
“Hello?” I could hear the tremor in my voice. I did a quick search around the kitchen and nearby family room. Nothing. I went back to prepping my sandwich.
“I’m losing my mind. Maybe I should go home, back to Texas.”
I turned on the stove and buttered the bread. And then I thought I heard sounds in the family room. I cautiously walked out of the kitchen, my animal entourage following closely behind. Again, nothing. The hair on my arms stood straight up but I reluctantly turned my back on the empty room and returned to the kitchen. A small billow of smoke curled up from the frying pan . . . the bread! I shut off the stove, leaned my back against the counter with my head down, and started crying again.
And that’s when it happened.
“No woman, no cry. Nooooo woman, nooo cry.”
What in the hell?
“Little sister, don’t shed no tears. . . .”
Either I was dreaming, or Nick’s murder had finally pushed me over the edge. Because when I looked up, Bob Marley stood in the middle of my kitchen, guitar in hand, singing.
Cass stared and Mac, the fat little traitor, moved between Bob’s legs and started doing the figure eight thing there. Bob-frigging-Marley! In my kitchen!! Bob was smiling, the smell of pot drifting in the air, and I was, quite frankly, shocked speechless.
And then (I know, right? As if Bob Marley in my kitchen weren’t enough) . . .
. . . a gorgeous specimen of a man wandered in and leaned back on the counter next to the dishwasher, just a few feet from where I stood with my mouth hanging open. The knife, which I’d been clasping for dear life, clattered to the floor with a sharp bang.
The guy was in soft, muted colors . . . like he’d been digitally altered. Between dead-Bob Marley and Sexy Kitchen Guy, my brain was spinning, and all I could think was how much better Bob sounded live (no pun intended). As for Cass, well, she was completely mesmerized by the scene. We all stood there for a moment . . . all of us, that is, except Mac, who continued to wind his way through Bob’s legs. Suddenly, the sexy guy sort of floated over to my side. His edges sharpened and he got a lot brighter (think Technicolor). He reached out and gently wiped the damp tear trail off my cheek. I could feel the brush of his fingers on my skin . . . but his touch was not like anything I’d ever felt before. Imagine soft, combed silk—feathery and sweet. It was both cold and warm at the same time and left a lingering imprint even after he removed his fingers from my face. He spoke in a hushed tone. “Bob is right, no more crying.”
This man, ghost, being . . . whatever he was, shimmered. He was steeped in a golden glow surrounded by the deepest indigo, and his eyes were the deep, purple color of a mountain at sunset. Yeah, I know. Hokey as hell, right? But seriously, his eyes were incredible looking. He had dark hair that framed his face in thick waves. All I could think was—beautiful.
I tentatively reached out to touch him and then retracted my hand quickly. I could feel . . . something. But it was simply a sensation—cool and then, slowly, growing warmer. I felt tingly—literally—all over my body. And I received no visuals at all.
Meanwhile, Bob was crooning “Positive Vibration” in the background, but his singing grew softer and started to fade out. I didn’t want him to go. I mean, yes . . . this was all incredibly insane, but it sure was beating the heck out of the pity party I’d been throwing myself only moments ago.
And then someone pounded on the French doors just off the kitchen and my two mystery guests vanished into thin air.
“Edie! Evie! Open the fucking door!”
Simone! I ran to the door, throwing it open. Cass started barking and Simone sidled in, scowling at Cass who growled and slunk away.
“Simone, what are you doing here?”
She ignored me and made a beeline for the fridge. “Are these the only beers you have?
No Champagne? Wine? What the fuck?”
“Uh, yes.”
She sighed, popped the top off a cold Heineken, took a deep swig, and turned to face me. “Okay Edie. What the fuck is going on?”
And that is when I saw him again. He was behind her, making a face, holding up two fingers over her head. I started to giggle nervously. She turned to see what I was looking at. He was gone.
Simone smoothed her hair down. “Seriously, are you okay?!”
I shook my head and muttered, “I wish I knew.”
Chapter Eleven
“SO THIS IS REALLY what normal people do?”
Simone asked.
We were sitting inside a Denny’s on Sunset. She was in disguise wearing a short black wig, torn jeans, and a yellow T-shirt with pink writing that read, Fuck You . . . and the horse you rode in on. On the back was a cartoon woman on a horse flipping the bird. Classy.
After showing up at my place and drinking four beers, Simone insisted on doing something normal.
“Come on, Evie, let’s go where the real people go. Let’s do something real people do. Something normal. Where do you eat when you go out?”
I was still feeling off-balance (go figure) with lingering tingling sensations running through my body.
“Uh, Denny’s, I guess.” Yeah, okay . . . I realize Denny’s isn’t exactly gourmet cuisine, but where I come from, there aren’t a lot of upscale family dining options. And it was the first thing that came to mind.
“Okay. Denny’s it is.” Then, right there in my kitchen, she stripped and yanked her disguise out of a big Michael Kors bag. She dropped the black, bobbed wig onto her head. “Call me Jill tonight. We can hang out . . . you know, just like BFFs!”
“Right.”
Now, at Denny’s, Simone was stuffing her face with some fine diner cuisine, and I was still in shock from the day.
“This shit is good, Edie.” She paused for a moment and then winked at me. “I just do that for fun, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Call you Edie. I know your name. I just like messing with you.”
I nodded. “Oh.” At this point, nothing she said surprised me.
“Hey.” She reached over and touched my shoulder; thankfully, I had on a light sweater, so no need to worry about uninvited visuals. “I know I threw a mini-tantrum earlier and I shouldn’t have. I was a little surprised you took off this morning and then when the cops showed up and started asking questions about you, I was like, what?!” She took another bite out of her meal, peering at me closely. “You know the paparazzi will likely have a field day with this.”
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