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Authors: Cheryl Crane

BOOK: Imitation of Death
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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-l
on
. . . 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 couldn’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?”
“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.”

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