Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  Ginny stood, dry eyed, on the far side of the room, near the fireplace with the white marble mantel, nursing a drink. She seemed to be hanging back, which Nikki thought was appropriate, in this situation. After all, Eddie had been Abe and Melinda’s son, not hers. Nikki nodded in her direction. Ginny nodded back, lifted her glass, and took a sip.

  Ginny’s twenty-year-old daughter, Lissa, dressed in a short, red knit skirt, body-skimming tank, and spike heels, stood behind her mother, texting on her cell phone.

  Abe introduced Nikki and Victoria to several people in the room: two male friends from the studios and their wives, a producer Nikki knew, a female cousin of Ginny’s, and a few others. A writer immediately started talking to Victoria about a guest spot on a new series he was developing.

  Nikki made her way across the room, feeling totally awkward. The mourners had broken up into groups, the largest one now gathering around Victoria. Lissa was still in her own little world, texting. Nikki walked over to near where Ginny stood; Ginny didn’t say anything.

  Ginny seemed to be standing on the outside looking in, as if she was somewhat a part of the family, but not completely. Which was sort of true. She was married to Abe, the wife of the famous writer/producer and got invitations to all the movie premières and awards shows, but she was a second wife and, therefore, very possibly a temporary entity, and everyone knew it. She lived in the big, new house, had an assistant, housekeeper, and maid at her beck and call, but first wife, Melinda, who lived in the guesthouse, was still very much in charge. And, tonight, Abe was at Melinda’s side and there seemed to be no room in their place of grief for Ginny. Maybe Ginny didn’t want to be there.

  “You never think something like this will happen to you,” Nikki said, trying to make conversation with Ginny since she was the only one in the room not engaged in conversation. Nikki was actually thinking about her father’s death and how numb she had felt in the days following his murder. The Bernards had to be feeling the same way.

  “And then it does.” Ginny frowned. She was wearing slacks, high heels, and a silk blouse, all freshly pressed. Her makeup, hair, and nails were perfect. It didn’t appear as if she’d cried anytime lately.

  Of course, Eddie wasn’t Ginny’s son, Nikki reminded herself. And they had not been the best of friends. Eddie had not made Ginny’s life, or her marriage to his father, easy. He had been very vocal against Abe divorcing his mother to marry Ginny, and he hadn’t attended the Palm Springs wedding three years ago. Eddie had embarrassed the family, including Ginny, time and time again, being in and out of jail, in and out of rehab. He’d appeared on the cover of the gossip magazines regularly, never in a good light.

  “I’d offer you a drink,” Ginny said to Nikki, raising her empty glass.

  Nikki glanced at her. “Oh, no thank you. I don’t need a drink.”

  Ginny turned to look her over. “You in AA, too? I swear, half of L.A. is a member.”

  Nikki chuckled. “No. I just . . . I don’t need a drink. We don’t expect you to entertain us. Mother wanted to offer her condolences.” (It was only a tiny lie, barely more than a fib.)

  “Well, I can tell you, I could use another gin and tonic. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  Nikki couldn’t resist a little smile. She hadn’t wanted to like Ginny. She had always liked Melinda and Ginny had usurped Melinda’s position. Nikki had tried hard in the beginning to not like her, but she just couldn’t help herself. Nikki might not have liked her fashion choices, but Ginny was sharp and she said what was on her mind, even if it was unpopular. You definitely didn’t see much of that in Tinseltown.

  Ginny tipped her glass and one tiny ice cube clinked. “My assistant took the ice bucket to refill it, but she never came back.” She glanced over her shoulder at her daughter, who was still engrossed in her phone messaging.

  “Ice? I can get you some ice.” Nikki jumped at the opportunity to get out of the room. Seeing Abe and Melinda so broken was hard. So sad. Besides, the kitchen was always the pulse of a home, any home, whether it was a multimillion-dollar mansion in Beverly Hills or a rundown apartment in South L.A. If Nikki expected to hear anything about the circumstances of Eddie’s death, she had a better chance of hearing it in the kitchen.

  “You don’t mind?” Ginny asked. She glanced at her daughter again and frowned. “I’d ask Lissa, but she’s in a mood. She was supposed to go clubbing with her friends and Abe forbade it. With all the paparazzi crawling all over us, he was afraid it would be misconstrued as being insensitive to her stepbrother’s passing.”

  “The ice bucket?” Nikki asked, already headed for the kitchen.

  Ginny shrugged. “Ashley took it.”

  Back in the center hall, Nikki quietly pulled the doors closed behind her and went through the arches to a cross-hall. She passed the stunning great room, with its honey-glazed wood paneling and another marble-mantled fireplace lined with glazed herringbone brick. The mirror in that room was also draped in black. On the other side of the hall was a light-filled space that could have been used for a morning room or a music room. She walked past the wrought-iron black-and-gold staircase that was characteristic of the French Regency time period. Past the stairs was a handsome study with paneled walls and a floor of polished wood.

  Up the stairs, Nikki knew, was a master bedroom with a balcony and his and hers dressing rooms and bathrooms. There was a “lady’s office” on the same floor and two additional bedrooms. On the third floor were four more bedroom suites. Below the stairs, in the basement, was a media room, a wine cellar, an additional bedroom suite, and a large man-cave, where Abe enjoyed spending time alone. It was a gorgeous house, one that maybe only a person like Nikki, who had seen a million gorgeous houses, could truly appreciate.

  She followed the hall to the opposite wing, through a breakfast room with a double-barreled vaulted ceiling, to the cook’s kitchen, featuring a stone hood over a Lacanche range and a striking marble center island. Sure enough, there on the counter was a Tiffany & Co. sterling-and-crystal ice bucket. Ashley-the-assistant was MIA.

  A tall woman with rich ebony skin, silky black hair, and the most amazing blue eyes, stood at the counter. She was wearing a white chef’s coat and teasing Victoria’s Uruguayan caviar into a tiny silver server.

  The woman, who Nikki thought she recognized, looked up as Nikki entered the room. Nikki could tell that the woman recognized her. It was a familiar look. She got it a lot.

  “Hi. I’m Nikki Harper, from next door.”

  This was Ellen Mar, who had won a competition on a food wars show on the Food Network, making her an instant celebrity. Nikki had read an article a few days earlier, touting the Baltimore native as the latest, greatest TV chef in America. She had won the competition by creating desserts that appeared to be main dishes from around the world: Nutella crepes that looked like Pad Thai noodles with peanut sauce, a lemon tart that looked like Bath Street sushi, and cupcakes that looked like spaghetti and meatballs. Her prize had been a hundred thousand dollars and her own TV show on the Food Network, featuring this new, bizarre form of cuisine.

  “Ellen Mar. It’s nice to meet you.” The chef walked around the kitchen counter, which was the size of a small aircraft carrier, offering her hand. “I’m a friend of Abe’s.” Her handshake was firm. Confident.

  Nikki liked her at once. She didn’t seem intimidated by Nikki, nor overly impressed. “It’s so nice to meet you. My mother’s a big fan. We watched you compete on the What It Isn’t food challenge. I’m fascinated by the way you can take ground beef and make it look like a cupcake . . . or the other way around.” Nikki chuckled. “Though I have to admit it weirds me out a little. I sort of like my Jell-O pudding to look like Jell-O pudding.”

  Ellen laughed; she had a musical voice. “That’s okay. The whole idea weirds me out a little, too.” She walked back around to where she’d been working at the counter. “That was definitely not my forte, originally.” She shrugged. “But the opportunity presented itself.”
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  “And now you’ve got your own show,” Nikki said.

  “Thanks mostly to Abe. He’s got a small satellite company that’s going to tape the show right here in L.A.”

  “Have you started taping?”

  Ellen opened a drawer and produced a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon. “We start this week.”

  The sound of Ashley’s voice caught Nikki’s attention. She was in a room off the kitchen, talking on the phone. Nikki glanced in that direction, then back at Ellen. “Well, congratulations.” She indicated the ice bucket. “I came for more ice.”

  “I can do that, if you want to join the others,” Ellen offered.

  “It’s fine. Really.” Nikki picked up the bucket.

  Ashley’s voice was getting louder. Nikki could pick up a word here and there. She was talking about not being able to go somewhere tonight.

  “Honestly,” Nikki said to Ellen, trying to half listen in on Ashley’s conversation. Apparently, Ashley had intended to go to a Jay-Z concert, but had had to cancel because of the death of her boss’s stepson. “It gives me something to do.” She walked to an icemaker installed in a drawer beside the commercial refrigerator. Like most million dollar kitchens, if you didn’t know what you were looking for on what appeared to be a solid paneled wall, you might be searching for twenty minutes. Fortunately, she’d been in the house often enough to know where the Bernards hid the icemaker. “I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

  Ellen glanced over her shoulder in Ashley’s direction. She must have been catching part of the conversation, too. “I know. I feel that way, too. Which is why I’m in the kitchen, hiding in this chef’s coat,” she told Nikki. “But, honestly, who is good at a time like this?”

  Nikki lifted her eyebrows. “My mother.”

  Ellen’s face lit up. “Oh, my gosh. Mine, too.”

  As Nikki used a plastic scoop to dump ice into the ice bucket, Ashley walked into the kitchen cradling a cell phone, her attention obviously on the call.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten to talk to her privately,” Ashley said in a gossipy tone, “but I can tell you one thing, Ginny Bernard is not all that broken up that the prick is dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who did it.”

  Chapter 7

  Nikki met Ellen’s gaze.

  Realizing for the first time that she was not alone, Ashley stopped short. “I’ll have to call you back,” she whispered, sounding scared out of her pants.

  For a moment, all three of them were silent. Nikki and Ellen both looked at the assistant, who looked back at them. Nikki slid the icemaker drawer shut with her knee, which seemed to make an amazing racket.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ashley breathed. “I . . . I didn’t mean that. I was just . . . I obviously didn’t mean for anyone to hear that.”

  Ellen cut her eyes at Nikki as if to say, No duh . . .

  Nikki pressed her lips together, amused by Ellen . . . intrigued by what she’d just heard. “It . . . it’s okay, Ashley.”

  “Please don’t tell her. Please, please, please don’t tell Ginny I said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m angry. It’s just that I was supposed to go to this concert tonight with my boyfriend, and . . .” Ashley rushed toward Nikki, tucking her phone into her hip pocket. “I can’t get fired. I . . . I’ve got rent and a car payment, and—”

  “It’s okay,” Nikki repeated, setting the three-thousand-dollar ice bucket on the marble counter. “I’m not going to say anything.” She glanced at Ellen.

  “This is certainly none of my business,” Ellen muttered, turning around to grab a silver tray off the counter behind her. “I’m just the kitchen help.”

  Nikki would have laughed in other circumstances. She liked this Ellen Mar. She liked her sassiness. “It’s been a crazy, awful day, Ashley. A lot of emotion involved,” she soothed, her thoughts going a thousand miles a minute. What had Ashley meant? Was she really just running her mouth off because she was annoyed with her employer? Or was there more to the story? “We all say things we rethink later. Things we wish we hadn’t said. Things we wish we had said differently.”

  “I’m going to take this caviar in. I seem to have lost my help. He said he’d be right back. He was just going outside for a quick smoke. Anything I can get either of you?” Ellen asked.

  “No, I should get the ice to Ginny.” Nikki reached for the bucket.

  “I’ll do that.” Ashley practically snatched the ice bucket out of Nikki’s hands. “She asked me to get more ice forty-five minutes ago. It’s just that the phone has been ringing off the hook and I’m trying to answer Ginny’s phone and Mr. Bernard’s phone, and . . .” Her sentence trailed off as she tucked her head down and headed out of the kitchen behind Ellen.

  Ginny’s assistant was getting away. Nikki had to think fast. “Ashley?”

  Ellen kept going.

  Ashley stopped and turned back, a look of dread on her pretty face.

  “If you need anything.” Nikki spotted a notepad and pen on the counter. “If Ginny or . . . anyone needs something, you could give me a call. This is my personal cell number.” She jotted it down.

  Ashley gave a quick smile, looking obviously relieved that Nikki wasn’t going to squeal on her. “Thanks.”

  Nikki ripped off the corner of the paper. “And maybe I could get your number,” she asked as she offered hers. “Just so I can check on Ginny and the family, through you.”

  “Oh, sure. Of course. “ Ashley gave Nikki her number.

  Nikki tucked the slip of paper into the pocket of her slacks as she followed Ashley and the ice bucket out of the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, Nikki and her mother were on their way home, through the side gate, of course.

  “You know anyone at the Staples Center?” Nikki asked, her thoughts still racing. “Or someone who has a connection to Jay-Z?”

  “What’s a Jay-Z?”

  “Never mind, just a thought,” Nikki said, as much to herself as to her mother.

  “So,” Victoria asked. “You hear anything good? I thought maybe you’d run home for ice, you were gone so long.”

  “Um . . . I don’t know.” Nikki wasn’t sure if she was ready to share with her mother. They walked across Victoria’s yard, side by side. “But I met Ellen Mar, you know, from the Food Network.”

  “That nice girl who makes food look like other kinds of food? I met her, too. Pleasant young woman. You should have lunch. I think you two could be friends.”

  “I’m not calling her for lunch, Mother. We just met, in passing.”

  “Nonsense.” Victoria started talking about Nikki needing to make female friends.

  Nikki’s thoughts drifted back to Jorge. She wondered if he’d been released from the police station; she suspected he hadn’t. She’d give Ina a call when she got back to the house. “Oh, but I got Ginny’s assistant’s phone number.”

  “Excellent.” Victoria strolled beside her daughter; it was a cool evening, with a slight breeze. “And I got Melinda an appointment with my new hairdresser tomorrow.”

  “Mother, tomorrow is Sunday.”

  “Melinda’s son is dead. She wants to go to temple. She can’t very well go with bad hair,” Victoria reasoned. “So I called Fifi—I know, silly name, sounds like a poodle, but she’s French, or at least wants to think she is—and she agreed to come to the house, so Melinda wouldn’t have to drive to the salon.”

  “That was very nice of you.” Nikki walked into the kitchen.

  “Always willing to help a neighbor in need,” Victoria explained, going to the refrigerator. “I’m still hungry. Are you?” She opened the refrigerator door and peered in. “The good thing about Fifi is that she’s better than any psychiatrist. If Melinda knows anything about the case against Jorge, Fifi will find out.”

  “You asked your hairdresser to interrogate Melinda?” Nikki asked, incredulous.

  “Of course not.” Victoria frowned, still studying the contents of the refrigerator. “That would be inappropriate, N
icolette. I’m just saying, if Melinda feels like talking, she’ll talk to Fifi. Then, naturally, Fifi will talk to me. We could have Brie and French bread.”

  “No thanks.” Nikki sighed, suddenly feeling tired. “I’m going to call Ina and probably turn in.”

  “You’re worried about Jorge.”

  Nikki stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall. “Of course, I am.”

  “So am I. I think I should call my attorneys in the morning, if Jorge hasn’t been released.”

  “I told Jorge that.” Nikki lifted her hand and let it fall. “He doesn’t want a lawyer. He says he believes in the American justice system.”

  “Silly boy.” Victoria sighed. “I don’t suppose it will do any good for me to suggest you stay out of this?”

  It was Nikki’s turn to sigh as she rubbed her temples. “If Jorge’s arrested, and he refuses to get a lawyer, do I have any choice?”

  Victoria let the refrigerator door close. She met Nikki’s gaze. Her tone was kind when she spoke again, bordering on motherly. “Just be sure, Nicolette, that this is about Jorge and not your father.”

  “It won’t be about my father,” she answered softly. “It’ll be about making sure the justice system doesn’t fail our family again.”

  Nikki was dressing the next morning to take the dogs for a walk when there was a knock on the bedroom door. More like a bang. Nikki knew that bang.

  “Phone, Nicolette.” Victoria knocked again, not giving Nikki time to answer. “Phone for you. Nicolette!” Her mother’s pitch reached a high note on her name.

  Nikki pulled a t-shirt over her head and opened the door. The dogs bounced up and down at her feet, excited to see Victoria. Of course, they greeted everyone that way. Oliver barked, but Nikki held up her finger to him and, for once, he obeyed and fell silent.

  “It’s Ina,” Victoria said in a stage whisper. She was already dressed in her signature outfit: a jogging suit, this one pink, by Christian Dior. She wore a white silk turban that exposed only the front of her platinum hair, and a short string of pearls. “She wants to talk to you. Jorge’s been arrested, but he doesn’t want his mother to come to the jailhouse. He doesn’t want her to see him like that. Ina wants you to go. Can you go?”