Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  A car approached on Roxbury and Nikki glanced up. She didn’t know what kind of car she was looking for, but this was a white Porsche. Probably safe to assume it was not Ashley; assistants weren’t paid particularly well. Three BMWs, two Land Rovers, and a maintenance truck later, a small blue Toyota slowed and signaled, either turning in Victoria’s driveway or the Bernards’.

  Nikki spotted blond, flat-ironed hair. It was Ashley. Nikki waved. Ashley waved and drove past Nikki, turning into the Bernards’ drive and stopping at the closed gates.

  “Come on, guys,” Nikki whispered, tugging on their leashes. She dropped her cell into her bag and hurried across to the Bernard drive, behind Ashley’s car. Fortunately, Nikki was wearing a short-sleeve vintage Calvin Klein skirt suit and black boots, which made it easier to hurry. A good argument against the four-inch stilettos so many women in Beverly Hills wore. When might a girl have to run down someone’s assistant, dragging two Cavies along?

  “Ashley.”

  The young woman put her window down, which took a moment because it kept sticking and she had to put it up, then try to put it down again. And again. It gave Nikki a second to collect herself.

  “Ms. Harper.” Ashley smiled as the window slowly chugged downward.

  “Please. Call me Nikki.” She leaned in toward the window. “I’m so glad I saw you, Ashley, because I was going to give you a call.”

  “You were?” She didn’t seem to quite believe Nikki.

  “Yeah. Crazy story, but I was telling my mom about how you’d had to miss the Jay-Z concert the other night.” She softened her tone. “Because of Eddie’s death. And, turns out, Mother had access to some tickets.” Nikki pulled the envelope out of her bag as if pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Which was exactly what Victoria had done. “For tonight.”

  Ashley stared at the envelope Nikki offered through the window of the car, which she had still not quite managed to get all the way down.

  “Tickets?” Ashley said.

  “To the Jay-Z concert. Oh, and there are backstage passes, too.”

  Ashley slowly took the envelope. “For me?” The look on her face suggested she had been offered tickets to heaven.

  Stanley plopped down on the toe of Nikki’s right boot. Nikki looked down at the dog, then up at the assistant again. “Yup. They’re for you. I thought you and your boyfriend might need a night out. After the weekend you’ve had.”

  “Oh my God!” Ashley’s hands were practically shaking as she opened the envelope and pulled out the tickets and passes. She looked up at Nikki. “Victoria Bordeaux got these tickets . . . for me?”

  Nikki nodded with a smile. “Honestly, she gets free tickets to things all the time.” Nikki chuckled. “And honestly, between you and me, Mother’s not a big Jay-Z fan. But if you meet him”—she wrinkled her nose—“don’t tell him I said that.”

  Ashley laughed. “Right. Oh my God.” She slid the tickets carefully back into the envelope. “I can’t believe this. Victoria Bordeaux . . . Victoria Bordeaux got me tickets to see Jay-Z in concert! And backstage passes.” She practically squealed with delight.

  “So . . . Ginny still wanted you to come in today, huh?” Nikki glanced at the gate, which remained closed. Fortunately, she had caught Ashley before someone at the house buzzed her in.

  “Yeah.” Ashley looked up, then back at Nikki. “She’s got some things for me to do this morning. Personal errands, I imagine. We don’t even know when the funeral’s going to be, yet. Mr. Bernard would have liked for Eddie to be buried today, you know, him being Jewish and all. Mr. Bernard, not Eddie. Something about their rules.” She shook her blond head. “I didn’t really understand.”

  “So . . . ” Nikki tried to, nonchalantly, slide her foot out from under Stanley, but he wasn’t budging. Oliver cooperated by walking around Nikki, wrapping his leash around her ankles. “Why isn’t the funeral today?”

  “Autopsy.” Ashley said the word with an audible shiver.

  “An autopsy’s necessary?” Nikki asked, thinking back to what she had seen in the alley Saturday morning. The pruning shears in his heart had seemed like a pretty cut-and-dried case. “Don’t they know . . . what killed him?”

  “I guess any murder requires an autopsy. But Ginny said the same thing. That they were idiots if they couldn’t tell what he’d died from. She was on the phone Saturday giving someone hell about respecting religious beliefs. It was really her more than Mr. Bernard who was angry, which is interesting, because she’s not Jewish. Mrs. Bernard is . . . the other Mrs. Bernard,” she corrected herself. “Melinda, she is.”

  “Did she want the funeral today? Melinda?” Nikki didn’t know what she was going to do with that information right now, but she had learned from Rex’s murder that you never knew what would later prove to be a vital detail in an investigation. Rex March had been one of Nikki’s famous clients. He’d been killed in a plane crash, only to be found dead in Nikki’s business partner’s bed six months later. In trying to prove Jessica’s innocence, Nikki had learned a few sleuthing techniques and one had been to pay attention to details, even when the details didn’t seem, at the time, to be important.

  “I don’t know. I just heard Ginny on the phone with someone from the county, then she was talking to Melinda and Mr. Bernard in Mr. Bernard’s study. Then I had to go over to the Wilshire to get her bags.” The moment the last words came out of her mouth, Ashley had a look on her face that told it all. She’d slipped up.

  Nikki wrinkled her forehead. She knew she wasn’t supposed to. She knew she was probably Botox-bound, but she couldn’t help herself. “You had to go to the Beverly Wilshire to pick up Melinda’s bags?” she asked. “What bags?” Nikki leaned closer, taking the dog, still perched on her boot, with her.

  After Abe had filed for divorce, Melinda had moved into the guesthouse, refusing to get her own place. According to what their housekeeper, Pete—weird name for a fifty-year-old Jewish woman—told Ina, Melinda insisted it was important that she be near Eddie during his outpatient rehab, following an inpatient stint. That had been two or three stints back. Once Abe and Ginny were married, everyone assumed Melinda would be on her merry way. Melinda hadn’t left, and Abe had refused to make her go, even when Ginny demanded it. According to Pete, according to Ina. Had Ginny finally gotten her way? Had Melinda moved out? But Melinda had been there at the party that night. And so had Ginny . . .

  “You had to get her luggage?” Nikki prodded when the young woman didn’t respond right away. “So, Melinda had been staying at the Beverly Wilshire?”

  “Yes.” Ashley shook her head. “I mean, no. I did go for luggage, but it was Ginny’s, not Mrs. Bernard’s—Melinda’s,” she said, cringing. “I’m probably not supposed to be telling you this.” She glanced at the gate. “I should go in.” She looked back at Nikki. “Thanks a lot for the tickets. I can still keep them, right? If . . . I don’t tell you about Ginny being at the Wilshire?”

  “Of course!” Now Nikki felt guilty. Had she crossed the line? But she wasn’t doing anyone any harm, gleaning information about the Bernard household. She had no intention of telling anyone anything she heard . . . as long as she didn’t have to. This was about saving Jorge, not spreading gossip. “Enjoy the concert.” Nikki tapped on the car door.

  The assistant gripped the steering wheel, but she didn’t pull forward. “I guess it wasn’t a big secret. I mean, people saw her at the Wilshire, I’m sure.”

  Nikki waited: one dog on her foot, a leash tied around her ankles. She couldn’t go anywhere easily, anyway.

  “So Ginny was moving out?” Nikki asked. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Not . . . really . . . moving out.” Ashley made a face. “Staying at the Beverly Wilshire doesn’t really count as moving out, does it?” There was a hint of disdain in her voice when she said Beverly Wilshire.

  Nikki gave a little silent sigh of relief. She knew that tone. Ashley was annoyed with her boss about something and she had information, information
she was pretty much dying to share.

  “I mean, she has money to stay at the Beverly Wilshire, but I can’t have a raise? I’d make better money selling shoes on Rodeo, and the hours would be better.”

  Nikki waited.

  Ashley went on without further invitation. “Ginny and Mr. Bernard had a bad fight last week. Last Monday . . . no, it was Tuesday. She’d just had it with Eddie. You know, Melinda had made a big fuss over him getting out of rehab. Again. They had a big family dinner the Saturday night before Eddie died. Ellen Mar made this gourmet meal. They had family and friends over. There was no alcohol allowed, not even any wine.”

  “Mr. Bernard and Ginny fought about the dinner?” Nikki asked.

  Ashley shook her head. “Over the fact that Melinda had made a big fuss and Eddie was already using again. I guess Ginny caught him and told Mr. Bernard, but Mr. Bernard didn’t do anything. Ginny told me she knew it wasn’t for real the day Eddie got out of rehab. She was just hoping it was, you know, for Mr. Bernard’s sake.”

  “So the argument was about . . .”

  “Eddie. Same thing it’s always about. Ginny said she was tired of Eddie making a mess of their lives. She hated all the bad publicity. She and Melinda both did. She said Melinda just didn’t have the guts to say so to Mr. Bernard. Mrs. Bernard always got really upset seeing Eddie on the covers of the tabloids. And I guess it was all Ginny ever heard about at her charity meetings and stuff. Mrs. Bernard said it was bad for Mr. Bernard’s business, and Ginny agreed and thought it was time Mr. Bernard kicked him out.”

  Nikki’s foot was beginning to fall asleep; she was getting pins and needles in her ankle, but she didn’t want to distract Ashley by trying to move the dog or unwind the leash. “So Ginny left Mr. Bernard over this?”

  Ashley shrugged her skinny shoulders. “I don’t think she really left him. She was just trying to make a point. I heard her tell Mr. Bernard the night of the fight that either Eddie had to go, or she was going. I guess Mr. Bernard called her on it because he was the one who asked his assistant, Jason, to make the hotel reservation for Ginny.”

  “And she actually moved out?”

  “Not really. I mean, she slept there a couple of nights, but she kept coming back to the house to get stuff, to put stuff back in her closet. That’s how she ended up here Friday night and found out Eddie was having that party. She was really pissed. But . . . what you heard me say on the phone the other night. About Ginny not caring that Eddie was dead and her killing him. It wasn’t true. She was really upset. She felt bad for Mr. Bernard. I know what people say about her being a trophy wife and all, but I really think she loves him.”

  A white van pulled in behind Ashley and Nikki glanced at the side of the panel van. “Carrie’s Cleaning?” she read to Ashley.

  “Oh, shoot. I need to get inside. We called them to clean up the mess in the backyard. Melinda said she’d do it, but Mr. Bernard said that was ridiculous, for her to be cleaning up, considering the circumstances. He’s been really nice to Mrs. Bernard since it happened. Ginny’s been going out of her way to be nice to her, too. She’s the one who had me call this cleaning company and leave a message yesterday. Guess they got it.”

  Nikki grabbed Oliver’s leash in her left hand and drew it over her head, unwinding herself. She unceremoniously dumped Stanley off her foot and took a step back. “You’ll let us know as soon as you know about the funeral, right? I know Mother will want to attend.” Victoria liked to attend all the important funerals in Hollywood.

  “Sure.” Ashley pulled her car up a little to reach the security camera and intercom. “I’ve got your number.” She grinned, looking back. “Please thank Ms. Bordeaux for the tickets. I still can’t believe she got them for me.”

  “Enjoy!” Nikki waved and took another step back, watching as Ashley pushed a button, waited, then spoke into the intercom. Nikki waited until the gate opened and Ashley and the cleaning van went in to the motor court. Only after the gate had closed again did she hurry across the drive toward the open gate to her mother’s driveway.

  She was going to have to hurry or she was going to be late to her Monday Morning Meeting with the other agents at Windsor Real Estate. And the sooner she got out of that meeting, the sooner she could start finding out what happened the night Eddie Bernard was murdered.

  Chapter 10

  The fifth time Nikki’s cell phone vibrated and she checked it, Mr. Downy, her boss and one of the senior partners at Windsor Real Estate, turned to her mid-presentation. “Dear, do you desperately desire to take that?”

  Did he realize how ridiculous he sounded with the whole alliteration thing? He reminded her of a caricature of Roger Sterling on the TV show Mad Men: tall, slender, white haired. Always with a hint of male chauvinism in his tone. A Marlboro dangling from his lip would have made the look complete. Nikki wasn’t a fan.

  Nikki had let each of the previous calls go to voicemail and already left the room once to check them: Jeremy, just leaving a message between appointments, telling her how much he’d enjoyed the previous night, even without a sleepover. Her mother, who called twice and left no message, except to say she didn’t want to leave a message. And Rosalia. Nikki had tried to call Ree twice since Saturday, getting no answer, just a full mailbox. Rosalia left a message saying she hadn’t been able to get ahold of Ree, either, and she would have Hector stop by Ree’s place after work to check on her. Apparently no one in their family had heard from Ree since the fight with Eddie Friday night.

  Nikki looked down discreetly at the phone in her lap; this call was worth taking. It was Ginny’s assistant. “I apologize, Paul. A new client. Possibly a big one,” she said, using her mother’s technique, the stage whisper.

  Downy responded appropriately with a wolfish grin. “Always cleverly clambering for clients. That’s our Nikki.”

  Afraid she’d lose the call, she hit the CALL button as she slid out of her chair at the conference table. She smiled, nodding to several of her coworkers as she made her escape. She could see the jealousy on their faces. Right now they’d have chatted with Ginny’s assistant to get away from Paul Downy.

  “Nikki Harper,” she said into the phone.

  “Hey . . . um. It’s Ashley. Ginny Bernard’s assistant.”

  Nikki made a beeline for the door. “You didn’t catch me at a bad time. Not at all. How can I help you?”

  “Um . . . I can call back if this is a bad time.”

  Nikki walked out of the conference room, closing the door behind her so that Downy and the other agents couldn’t hear. “No, no, Ashley, you’re fine. You got me out of a boring meeting.”

  She walked down the hall to a small breakroom, which was a misnomer. This wasn’t a place where a girl could take a break; it was the place she could feed, which was why Nikki generally avoided it. Basically a galley kitchen with a table, the breakroom’s counters were covered with boxes of snack crackers, bags of chips and pretzels, and plates of cookies and cake. Nikki wondered what happened to clients sending over a good old-fashioned fruit basket once in a while. The only fruit available today was an elaborate fruit bouquet with a note that read Thanks a Million! with a smiley face drawn inside the letter O; the fruit was covered in chocolate.

  “So what’s up?” Nikki asked Ashley. She grabbed a clean, white Windsor Real Estate/90210! coffee cup off an open shelf, ignoring the enormous chocolate chunk cookie at three o’clock calling her name.

  “Um, sorry, I was expecting an assistant or an answering service. This is really your phone number?” she asked, sounding excited and incredulous at the same time.

  “I don’t have an assistant,” Nikki said. “This is really my number.”

  “Wow . . . okay.” Ashley seemed to be trying to wrap her head around that. “I was calling about Eddie’s funeral. It’s tomorrow. At Mr. Bernard’s temple. On Burton Way. You know it? It’s at two o’clock.”

  Nikki rifled through a couple of boxes searching for a respectable tea bag. She just wanted plain
tea, not pomegranate, not chamomile, not green leaf tutti-frutti. Just tea. It didn’t have to be organic. It didn’t have to be gourmet. Lipton would be just fine. She nabbed one with the familiar yellow tag. “I know just where it is. Mother and I will be there.” She hit a red button on the faucet and filled her mug with boiling water. “So . . . that means the autopsy was completed?”

  “I guess so,” Ashley said. “I have to take clothes to the funeral home later.” She sounded less than enthusiastic.

  “Ginny and the Bernards are lucky to have you, Ashley.” Nikki meant that sincerely. She remembered how hard it had been to take a suit to the funeral home where her father’s body had been. And because his apartment in New York City had still been considered a crime scene, even days after his murder, she couldn’t even get in to get his own clothing. She’d bought a suit for him at Saks and taken it to the funeral home. Armani. Her dad had always liked Armani. It still had the tags on it. A suit that would only ever be seen on a dead man.

  “Someone has to do it, Ashley.” Nikki dipped the tea bag in and out of the water. “The Bernards are fortunate to have you to do it. Otherwise, who would? One of his parents? Ginny? They shouldn’t have to do that today.” No one should ever have to take their child’s clothing to a funeral home, she thought.

  “I guess you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I was thinking more like—you know—that I had to take clothes somewhere for a dead guy.”

  “I understand.” She kept dunking the tea bag, her thoughts moving from dead Eddie to locked-up Jorge. “So the cleaning crew get the backyard in order? I know it was a mess.”

  “All cleaned up, but we had a little incident.”

  “Did you?” Nikki grabbed a spoon from a drawer, eyed it, dropped it in the sink, and tried for another, hoping this one would be cleaner. Windsor Realtors were known for their fashion sense and high-priced properties, not their ability to wash cutlery. “What happened?”