The Bad Always Die Twice (13 page)

Jessica exhaled. “No. Not really. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

“So back to the problem at hand,” Jessica nudged. “My car? Compensation?”

Nikki kept her tone neutral, despite the fact that she was screaming inside,
No, you don’t get $#@! compensation. You’re lucky your pretty little derriere isn’t in jail!
She took a cleansing breath, wishing she had more free time for that yoga class she’d been meaning to take. “I don’t think the city owes you any money for impounding your car. After all, Rex
was
found dead in your apartment. I think you should count yourself lucky the car’s being released so soon.”

“You’re such a Negative Nancy.”

“Well then, while I’m being a Negative Nancy, can I ask you a question about you and Rex?”

Jessica hesitated. “I suppose. As long as it’s not
too
personal
.
”

“Not to worry. I want no
personal
details,” she said dryly. “That phone number, the one I found in the Marches’ file, it was the number to the Sunset Tower Hotel. Did . . . did you see Rex there before he died?”

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

“Nothing, probably. I’m just asking.” Nikki waited a second. “So is that a yes?”

“It’s a no, Nikki,” Jessica said firmly. “I never met Rex at the Sunset. Okay? . . . that I can remember,” she quickly added.

“That you
can remember?
”

“Nik, do you have to make me say it?” She looked at her. “I’ve been with a lot of men.”

“At the Sunset?”

“A few,” she said in a small voice. “You’d have to give me specific dates.”

“Okay, okay.” Jessica looked so pitiful, so contrite, that Nikki decided to let the matter slide, at least for now. What difference did it make if Jessica and Rex had met there, anyway? “So, what did the cops say about your apartment?” she asked, changing the subject completely.

“I just got a message on my cell about the car. I’m going to see what I can find out when I get inside the police station. I swear, I’m going to call my city councilman or someone if they don’t let me back in my place. How do I know the cops aren’t stealing my clothes?”

Nikki pulled up in front of the police station, imagining the hairy gorilla cop in Jessica’s Blahnik stilettos. “They’re not stealing your clothes. You want me to come in with you?”

“Nah. I’ve got this.” She opened the door, grabbing her Alexander McQueen studded-leather bowler.

It was a nice bag, but certainly not worth a month’s rent.

“Where you headed?” Jess asked.

“Beverly Hills Country Club.”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “Tennis?” She glanced at Nikki’s outfit with obvious disapproval. “Not dressed like that, you aren’t. They’ll never let you on the courts. Are those chinos, for God’s sake?”

“I’m not playing tennis! I’m going under the premise of leaving some listings for Mrs. Donovan to look through. She said I should drop them off there. I’m hoping I might
bump into
Edith. I talked to the secretary in Thompson’s agent’s office and something isn’t quite right with his alibi for Monday.”

“Oh God!” Jessica groaned. “Do you think Thompson could have killed Rex and put him in my apartment? He’s certainly got the muscle to do it. Maybe he’s framing me.”

“Why would Thompson Christopher want to frame you? Is there something between the two of you I should know about?”

“Strictly platonic. I swear.” She crossed her heart as if she were in middle school. Nikki waited for the pinkie swear. “But you’re going to find out where he was that day? Thompson?”

“I’m going to try,” Nikki said testily, wondering what the heck was wrong with chinos on a Saturday morning.

Jess climbed out of the car, but then leaned back inside. “Sorry about the remark about your slacks. They look kind of good on you. I’m serious. You could totally do the J. Crew thing.” She hesitated. “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re doing, Nik. These bozos,” she indicated the police station, “they don’t know what they’re doing. It’s good to know I’ve got you on my side. That you believe in me.”

Nikki smiled. “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you? Have my back?”

“You bet. See you back at your place late this afternoon?” Jess slapped the top of the car.

“You’re not going back when you’re done here?”

“Retail therapy.” She flashed a smile and then she was gone, all flashy long legs and three thousand dollars of leather dangling off her elbow.

Nikki wasn’t a big tennis buff, nor a country club girl, for that matter, but she knew her way around the Beverly Hills CC in Cheviot Hills . . . the Beverly Hills part of the name being a bit of a misnomer. As was the country club part, if you got technical. There was no golf course, only banquet and meeting rooms, a health club and tennis courts. Over the years, Nikki had attended various meetings and charity events, and occasionally met a client at the club. It was a known trophy-wife hangout. She’d once had a crazy client shopping for a property in the fifteen million range who would only meet with Nikki while on the treadmill—and expected Nikki to be on the treadmill beside her. The sale had been nice but had given Nikki awful shin splints.

Nikki left her car with the valet and tracked down her client, who was leaving her yoga class. Then she wandered out to the tennis courts, where she spotted Edith finishing up a lesson with some hunky tennis pro with a fake-and-bake tan. Edith’s swing was atrocious, but she looked nice in her tennis whites, for a middle-age woman. Trying to play it cool, Nikki walked into the women’s locker room just behind Edith.

“Edith, good to see you,” Nikki said, trying to look surprised she had bumped into her.

“Yes, I took my lesson!” Edith wiped the back of her neck with a small hand towel. “And if one more person says they’re surprised to see me here with my husband cold on the slab in the coroner’s office, I’m going to lose my religion.”

Nikki smiled kindly; she, for one, felt sorry for Edith. She couldn’t imagine what she had to be going through—to learn her husband had deceived her in such an awful way, and then for him to turn up truly dead in the bed of a young woman with whom he’d had an affair.
That
was enough to make a woman
lose her religion
.

“Actually,” Nikki said quietly, “I was thinking how nice it was to see you here. Not all women would be so brave.” All the crap people had to be saying, she knew it couldn’t be easy for Edith to show her face in such a public place. “You have a right to live your life. You didn’t ask for any of this. With Rex.”

Edith gave a snort and then opened a locker door. “I’m not brave,” she said, suddenly sounding tired. “Just worn out with Rex’s crap. The bastard is still piling it on, even from the grave.”

“I can understand that, too. All the more reason why you need to be out here in the sunshine hitting tennis balls.” She paused. “Well, I should be going.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “I just had to drop something off for a client and thought I’d say hi.” She turned as if to walk away, then turned back. “By the way, I ran into a friend yesterday, a casting director,” she lied smoothly. “He was telling me how disappointed he was. He was supposed to see Thompson for an audition Monday, and Thompson missed his appointment. He wondered if he was sick,” she pressed, certain she was going to burn in hell for this whopper. “He wasn’t sick, was he? Monday?”

Edith shrugged as she pulled a toiletries bag from her locker. “No, I don’t think so. Heavens, it’s been such a long week, Monday seems like a year ago.” She sighed. “Honestly, he’s got more offers than he knows what to do with. He must have just decided to skip that audition.”

“Right. Sure. Makes sense,” Nikki said, thinking to herself that if Thompson didn’t have an alibi for Monday, maybe
he
was the one who did Rex in. Could the solution be that simple? Her gut told her Thompson wasn’t the kind of person who could murder a man, but what if her gut was wrong? “Well, you have a good day.”

“You, too. And thank you for not asking if there’s going to be a memorial service. There isn’t. They can bury Rex in a pauper’s grave, for all I care.” Edith slammed the locker door.

Nikki was still smiling at Edith’s spunk when she entered the women’s bathroom to make a quick pit stop. She was just having a seat when a voice came from the stall next to her.

“She’s blasé for a woman twice scorned, isn’t she?”

“Excuse me?” Nikki murmured, unable to keep herself from lifting her eyebrows and then wrinkling her forehead. Jessica had been saying for years that she needed Botox, and Nikki knew she was making the wrinkle situation worse, but she just couldn’t help herself. Sometimes bizarre situations called for some good wrinkles.

“Edith March,” the voice said from the other stall. “I saw you talking to her in the locker room. She’s awfully blasé, considering.”

Nikki was unsure of the etiquette called for in this scenario, but she really had to go. She tried to tinkle quietly. “
Considering?
”

Her confidante on the other side of the partial wall reeled off TP like it was Christmas ribbon. “Considering the fact that Rex banged every vacant vagina in Hollywood, and now Thompson is cheating on her.”

Nikki hated to sound like an echo, but she couldn’t help herself. “Thompson is cheating on her?”

“That’s probably why he missed his casting call. I didn’t mean to listen in, I just couldn’t help overhearing.” The mystery woman flushed.

Nikki hurried to finish her business. She didn’t want the woman to get away before she got to speak with her further. She flushed and bolted out of the stall. Then, trying to play it cool, she sidled up to the row of marble sinks, glancing at the woman next to her.

She was about Edith’s age, but thin, wearing a tennis skirt that was painfully short for a woman her age. Nikki turned on the water, checking over her shoulder to be sure the other stalls were empty before she spoke. “Did you mean that Thompson was cheating on Edith on Monday when he was supposed to be at casting calls?” she whispered.

“Well . . . it’s entirely possible.” She began to rub her soapy hands together.

Nikki scrutinized her informant. Whoever her plastic surgeon was, he had done a nice job on her eyes. They were the eyes of a thirty-five-year-old, not droopy, but not cat-eye slanty, either. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

The woman started to offer her hand, then realizing it was soapy, gave a little laugh and abandoned the gesture. “Carly Vonton.”

“Nikki—”

“I know who you are. Nice to meet you, Nikki. Your mother and I are old friends.”

“Are you?” She tried to sound like she believed her. She was always meeting people who claimed to be
old friends
with Victoria. It had been her experience that anyone who used the term
old friends
wasn’t. “What makes you think Thompson Christopher was
with another woman
Monday?” Nikki asked, choosing to use a euphemism for Edith’s sake. Not that it made a big difference; either he was screwing other women or he wasn’t. But what a tragedy it would be if he was; Edith had put up with that crap through nearly thirty years of marriage to Rex. She didn’t deserve a cheating man. As if any woman did.... But at least that would mean Thompson hadn’t killed Rex and
that
was a plus. Wasn’t it?

“Well, I’m not one to carry tales.” Carly dried her hands with one of those napkin things that sort of looked like cloth but wasn’t.

Nikki grabbed one of the fake towels, turning the water off with the back of her hand. She’d been a bit of a germ-a-phobe at one point in her life and still considered herself in recovery. “Of course,” she murmured conspiratorially. “But, come on . . .”

“Come on.” It was Carly’s turn to echo. “A good-looking man like Thompson Christopher? And him being with a woman like Edith . . .” She let her voice trail off as if Nikki intuitively understood that such shenanigans were a given.

Nikki made a point of using her best gossip voice, concealing her own emotions. She’d had her own experience with cheating men in her younger years. Personally, she saw it as a crime punishable by castration . . . but that was her own little hang-up. She glanced at her newfound confidante. “So who is it? They must be pretty discreet; I haven’t heard a word.”

Carly squirted lotion from a dispenser into her palm. “More discreet than most, I suppose, but it’s got to be true.” She rubbed her hands together. “I heard it from an excellent source, a reliable friend who heard it from
her
friend.”

“Ah. Reliable, for sure,” Nikki said, trying not to snigger.

“Her name is Tiffany,” Carly whispered. “The one he’s having an affair with. She works at that diner on Sunset, the one Thompson
used
to work at, before he was discovered. Supposedly, they were
old friends
.” Carly dropped her voice to a whisper as two women entered the ladies’ room. As they came in, Carly headed out, pressing a finger to her lips. “Our little secret.”

Nikki didn’t know which diner Thompson Christopher had worked at before he became famous, but she knew who would . . .

“Oh, God, yes. Thompson Christopher flipped tuna melts for a living at Kitty’s on Santa Monica near Hancock.”

“Carly said he worked on Sunset.”

“Well,
Carly
needs to hire a better fact-checker. I’m telling you, he worked at Kitty’s on Santa Monica. Didn’t you know that? I thought everyone knew that.” Marshall fed Stanley a tidbit of avocado from his salad.

Nikki had found him out near the pool, his favorite spot to unwind and be himself, away from the limelight. The housekeeper had made a big salad before leaving for the weekend and he had insisted Nikki have lunch with him.

“I didn’t know. How
would
I know?” she asked. “And stop feeding the dogs. You know they’re not supposed to have people food.”

“But they like people food. Don’t they? Yes they do,” he crooned to Oliver as he fed him a nibble from his salad.

“Knock it off,” Nikki warned, raising her fork threateningly. “You two, both of you. Off,” she ordered. “Go play.” She pointed with the fork and the dogs took off, ears flopping. “So, what do you think?” she asked, returning her attention to Marshall. “Have you heard any gossip on Thompson Christopher?”