Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  “There was some trash over by the guesthouse and I guess one of the crew stepped into some of Mrs. Bernard’s rose bushes. Those pink ones. She about had a cow; started hollering and swearing at the guy and when she realized he didn’t understand English, I guess she started cussing him in Spanish.”

  “You’re kidding?” Nikki pulled the tea bag from the mug with the spoon and wrapped the string around it to get the last drop.

  “That’s not usually like her, to go off on someone like that. Now, Ginny, you know how she is, she can cuss you.”

  Nikki laughed as if she understood completely, though, in truth, she’d never been the victim of one of Ginny’s attacks. But she’d heard, through Ina, who heard from the Bernards’ housekeeper. “Oh, I know what you mean.” She tossed the tea bag into the trash can and grabbed a packet of sugar, treating herself. She usually tried to use sugar substitutes, but she really liked sugar. “So what happened? To the poor clean-up guy?”

  “Mr. Bernard came out and smoothed things over. He walked Mrs. Bernard into the guesthouse and stayed awhile with her. I think Ginny was glad he handled things, but she was a little peeved that he was in there that long with her.”

  “Huh.” Nikki added a second packet to her tea. It could turn out to be a long day; she didn’t want her blood sugar to run low.

  “But you know Ginny. She’s always been a little jealous of Mrs. Bernard. Which I always thought was kind of weird, you know, because Ginny’s the one married to him now. Mrs. Bernard ought to be the one pissed at Ginny.”

  “Relationships are complicated.” Nikki picked up the mug, blew on her tea, and watched the surface ripple. Relationships . . . relationships . . . Everything was always about relationships. Maybe even murder. “Hey, Ashley,” she said suddenly. “This is going to sound like a weird question, but do you know who was at the party Friday night?”

  “No, not really. I wouldn’t have been caught dead at one of Eddie’s parties.” She paused. “Sorry, that was inappropriate. No pun intended.” She took a breath and went on. “Ginny had given me the whole day off, so I was in Monterey with friends.”

  “Right. And I don’t suppose it was the kind of party with a guest list.”

  “Definitely not,” Ashley agreed. “I imagine the usual losers were there, though, like with his other parties. The gym rats, the unemployed sons and daughters of other celebrities. Probably some hookers and drug dealers. You knew Eddie. You know what kind of people he hung out with.”

  “Right,” Nikki said, trying to wrack her brain to recall who she had seen there that night who she knew, other than the Bernards. Then suddenly—just like in the cartoons—it was as if a light bulb went on over her head. She hadn’t known anyone at the party, but someone had introduced himself. Right before he had Victoria Bordeaux autograph his pectoral muscle. Astro. Astro Wharton. You couldn’t forget a name like that. “Hey, Ashley, do you know what gym Eddie went to?”

  “Um . . . it was on North Bedford. That big one with the red sign. B. H. Fitness, I think.” She hesitated. “Why?”

  Nikki exhaled. Why did she want to know? Because she wanted to talk to Astro. Because she wanted to know who had been at the party. Because she wanted to know who might have wanted Eddie dead badly enough to kill him and toss him out with the garbage. Because if she could find other possible suspects, that might give Jorge a fighting chance . . . even if he wouldn’t fight for himself.

  “Ashley, I don’t think my mother’s gardener did it. I’ve known him since we were kids, and he’s not the kind of guy who would do something like this.”

  “Well, I don’t know him, obviously. I have no idea what did or didn’t happen. Just what Ginny told me about the fight and the gardener pulling a gun on Eddie—”

  “No, Ashley.” She set her mug down on the counter. “It wasn’t Jorge who had the gun, it was Eddie,” Nikki insisted. “I know. I was there.”

  “Well, anyway. Did you listen to the radio this morning? They were following the gardener’s transfer to the courthouse, where he was going to be officially charged, I guess. Then to prison. It’s just so unfair,” Ashley went on with the kind of righteousness—and innocence—only the young could possess. “Politicians want to talk about how far we’ve come with equality for all races and all, but it’s just not true.”

  “The radio? What’s been on the radio? You mean the news?”

  “Talk radio. My boyfriend is obsessed with those stations and I give him a lift to work in the morning, so I end up having to listen to that crap.”

  Nikki headed down the hall, taking her tea with her, leaving the cookie, still calling her name, behind. She wanted to slip into her cubicle-size office before the meeting let out and one of her coworkers cornered her and started asking questions about the body found by Victoria’s trash over the weekend.

  “People are talking about how this is the case,” Ashley continued, “that will finally force legislation controlling illegal aliens entering the country. Meaning Mexicans,” she intoned.

  “But Jorge was born here!” Nikki protested. “He’s an American citizen, the same as you or me.”

  “That’s what I mean. My boyfriend’s parents are from Mexico, too, but he was born here. He’s working on his MBA, he has a full-time job, he pays taxes out the ass, but he still gets attitude from people. But, like, that would matter to one of those idiots on those shows.” There was a woman’s voice in the background, then Ashley’s tone completely changed as she said into the phone, “That’s right. Two o’clock. Then you’re invited to the Bernards’ afterwards.”

  “Can’t talk anymore? Got ya.” Nikki walked into her office, which was only slightly larger than a federal prison cell. “I’ll let you go. You and your boyfriend enjoy the show, and thank you, Ashley.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” Nikki sat down at her desk, placing the mug of tea in front of her. She glanced at her ex-partner’s bare desk. “For being a nice person?”

  Nikki checked the time on the dashboard as she backed the Prius into a parking space on the street, only a block from the gym. She was going to be cutting it close if she wanted to make it to her appointment in Malibu on time, but this seemed too important to put off.

  “Yes!” Nikki slapped the steering wheel with delight as the car eased into the parking spot on the first try. Her mother had been giving her a hard time about not driving the Jaguar she’d given Nikki on her fortieth birthday, but who could park a Jaguar the way you could park a Prius?

  She hopped out and popped the hatch. She always kept her gym bag in her car, just in case the mood struck her to hit the gym. It didn’t strike her all that often . . .

  At the front desk, Nikki explained to a muscle-bound chick with spiky, orange hair and a sleeve of tattoos that she was shopping for a new gym. She slyly refused to give the name of her current gym, explaining that it belonged to a friend and she didn’t wanna hate. Five more minutes of nonsensical chitchat and she had learned that Eddie had been a member there, that Astro was a trainer there, and she ended up getting her one-day pass for free. After turning down a Jamba Juice date with Gwen at the desk (oh, gosh, sorry, I’m in a relationship), Nikki hurried into the locker room and was on the elliptical trainer five minutes later.

  Another half hour passed and her plan was going well. Except that she’d seen no sign of Astro. (Who named their kid Astro? It had to be a stage name.) And she hadn’t counted on having to actually exercise. While keeping an eye out for the pecs guy, she watched the TV as she pumped her arms and legs.

  After forty minutes on the elliptical, and a game show later, she thought she was going to die. But still no sign of Astro. In twenty minutes, she’d have to close down the stakeout, pecs or no pecs, and get her not so rock hard and aching butt to Malibu.

  Panting, Nikki hit the COOL DOWN button on the elliptical machine. She’d spoken to several acquaintances and two clients, one past, one present. Maybe she needed to make an effort to go to the gym more
often; it might be a good place to find new clients. The clock was ticking on her Malibu appointment and she couldn’t get the TV on her elliptical to change channels. She didn’t think she could watch a daytime talk show, not even for Jorge.

  Just as she grabbed her fluffy white towel to wipe what she was certain was a beet-red face, she spotted Astro at the front desk. He spoke to Gwen, who pointed in Nikki’s direction. Nikki waved the towel.

  Hunky Astro was wearing gym shorts and a tight sleeveless tank and carrying a gym bag. He walked toward her. “Ms. Harper, what a surprise! I didn’t know you were a member.”

  “Call me Nikki, please.” She jumped off the elliptical, thankfully making a smooth landing.

  “Nikki. Sure. And I guess you remembered my name.” He grinned. “So crazy what happened the other night, huh? I mean, can you believe it? Sure, lots of people threatened to kill Eddie, but I can’t believe someone really did it.”

  “Lots of people threatened to kill him?” Nikki repeated, wiping the back of her neck with the towel. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He dropped his gym bag between them. “Between the guys whose girls he slept with, the guys he picked fights with in bars, and the guys he owed money to . . .” He gave a wave. “It’s a wonder people weren’t standing in line to kill him.”

  Nikki knitted her brows. “So you don’t think my mother’s gardener did it?”

  “Does Ms. Bordeaux think he did? Oh my God.” His eyes grew big. “Wouldn’t that be something? Poor Ms. Bordeaux. She must be so upset.”

  “No.” Nikki frowned, preferring the previous direction of the conversation. “Mother doesn’t think he did it. As you said, there were plenty of people who wanted him dead.” She eyed the clock. “Far more than Jorge Delgado.” She looked back at him. “So who could have done it? Who all was at the party?” she went on quickly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lot of people. You were there. Things got pretty crazy, pretty fast.”

  “I didn’t really know anyone at Eddie’s party. And I was only there for a few minutes.” She took a step closer, hoping she didn’t stink too badly. “You by any chance an actor, Astro?”

  “Me? Nah.” He grinned. “I’m a personal trainer. I could get you a good deal on a few sessions,”—he glanced at her bare arms—“if you’re interested.”

  She resisted the temptation to check out her own perhaps less than optimum biceps. “I just thought maybe the name . . .”

  “Nope. My mother named me Astro.” Another guy, this one super pumped up, walked by and glanced at Nikki, then made eye contact with Astro. “Hey, Kaiser,” Astro greeted.

  “Hey, man.” The guy kept walking. It wasn’t until he passed her that she spotted a swastika tattoo on his neck.

  “You seem like a person who knows a lot of people,” Nikki commented.

  “Him? Nah. He’s not a friend.”

  Nikki watched Kaiser walk to an ab crunch machine. The woman on it had been there at least ten minutes. She was super fit, too. Nikki guessed she had to have done a thousand crunches by now.

  “Well,” Nikki said. “You do seem like a guy people like.” She was totally surprised that he wasn’t an actor; every nice-looking young guy in L.A. was an actor.

  “Well, I do know a lot of people in Beverly Hills,” he agreed, with obvious pride. “And I usually know what’s going on. No better place to hear gossip than a gym.”

  “So any gossip about what happened that night?” She was still eyeing the guy with the swastika tattoo. What kind of person had a swastika tattooed on them? She could only imagine.

  “No.” Astro frowned. “Not really. Not so far, at least. I mean, most of the people there weren’t really anybody; cocktail waitresses hoping to become models or actresses. People he knew from The Python Club. Guys from here. Kaiser was there.” He pointed in Kaiser’s direction.

  “Kaiser.” She glanced at the guy again, only to find him and the woman on the ab machine watching them. “Really?” She looked back at Astro. “That his first or his last name? Kaiser?”

  Astro shrugged. “I dunno. Not the kind of guy you ask, if you know what I mean. He was Eddie’s . . . you know . . . supplier.” He whispered the last word.

  “Supplier?” she repeated.

  Astro glanced at one of the big TVs on the far wall. “Steroids,” he whispered, not looking at her. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Ah. So . . . Eddie did steroids?”

  “A lot of people do. Not me.” Turning back to her, he flexed his biceps to demonstrate. “I might not be as buff as Kaiser, but I’m a hundred percent natural. Wanna feel?” He offered his arm. “Go ahead.”

  She chuckled, waving her towel. “No, no, that’s okay.” She looked at the clock again. “Listen, I have an appointment, so I better get going. But, could I give you my card? Just in case you think of the names of anyone you know who might have been at the party that night.” She lowered her voice. “Or hear any good gossip. My mother loves gossip,” she added, almost shamelessly.

  At the mention of Victoria, Astro perked up. “Sure. No problem. I’m just getting started on my workout, so I’ll be here for a couple of hours. Just come find me when you get out of the locker room.”

  “Great. Be right back.” Nikki hurried to the locker room, took the quickest shower she possibly could, taking care not to get her hair wet, then dressed. She threw on some lipstick and mascara and hurried out into the main gym, business card in hand.

  Only to find Astro missing . . .

  Nikki asked Gwen at the front desk if she’d seen him. She glanced around the room of probably two dozen people working out. Kaiser was spotting ab girl lifting on a bench.

  “He’s around here somewhere.”

  Nikki looked at the clock again. She had to get to Malibu. “I told him I would give him my card.” She slid it across the counter. “But I have to run. Would you mind giving it to him when you see him?”

  “No problem.” She looked at it, then up at Nikki. She raised one pierced eyebrow. “Real estate, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Nikki headed for the door. “Didn’t you hear? Astro’s looking for something in Beverly Hills.”

  Chapter 11

  Nikki was just turning off Pacific Coast Highway, onto Santa Monica, when Marshall rang her. It was almost seven o’clock; traffic was heavy, but she refused to let it get her down. “Wrap up shooting already?” Nikki asked.

  “Even saw the dailies. Awesome day. Fire and guns.” Marshall was shooting the latest James Cameron action film, which explained the fire and the firearms.

  “Glad you were able to exercise your pyromaniac tendencies. I sold the house in Malibu. And probably picked up a new client today, even though I had to cancel on her because the Malibu appointment took hours.”

  “That’s my girl! Headed home to Roxbury?”

  “Yeah.” Nikki groaned. “What I’d really like to do is go home to my own, quiet little house on Wetherly Drive. But, alas, it’s not to be.”

  “Still in painting hell?”

  “Dante’s third ring, at least.”

  Marshall chuckled. “Well, if it’s any consolation, sweetheart, that’s all I want and it’s not happening for me, either.”

  “Aw, what’s the matter?” Someone honked a horn at Nikki, for no reason whatsoever. She ignored the woman in the red Mercedes. Everyone knew Mercedes were not supposed to be red. “Big movie star can’t go to his little cottage tonight?”

  “No.” Marshall sounded as if he was pouting. “My publicist says there’ve been paparazzi in front of the Beverly Drive house for hours. Apparently, someone leaked information about my affair with my leading lady—”

  “You’re having an affair with Scarlett Johansson?” she asked with mock surprise.

  “Apparently,” he sighed. “Nice girl, but not my type,” he added drolly. “Anyway, the paparazzi are all on stakeout, hoping to catch me taking her home tonight. So, I’m Beverly Drive bound. God, I hate that tomb of a house. Why did I
let you talk me into buying it?”

  “Because you told me you needed a splashy house in a splashy neighborhood.” He owned a seven-bedroom neoclassic on three acres: pool, tennis courts, and guesthouse. It was all for show. He spent most of his time in the little Craftsman cottage next door to her, living a quiet life with his Rob. “You could always come out of the closet,” she suggested.

  “Right.” He laughed without humor. “My father would probably shoot an arrow through my heart from his front porch on the reservation in Onondaga.”

  She smiled. Marshall and his closet was a whole other subject, one far too complicated for a Monday evening commute. “If it’s any consolation, you’ll make money on the North Beverly Drive house when you sell it.”

  “I thought houses weren’t selling.”

  “Yours isn’t for sale right now, so it’s a moot point. Listen to your publicist. Go home to your big house in the right zip code. Play nice with the media. Callie knows what she’s talking about. You’ve been on the cover of People magazine twice in the last six months.” She changed lanes and subjects. “So, should I call Rob, see if he wants to stop by Mother’s for dinner?”

  “That’s sweet, but I think he’s going to work late.” He sighed dramatically. “No need to rush home to an empty house.”

  The woman in the red Mercedes changed lanes, trying to get around Nikki. Nikki zipped into the right lane, directly in front of her. “Can’t your driver just bring him over later tonight, after the paparazzi have gone home?”

  “Nah. Callie is getting all Nervous Nelly on me. She wants me to be super careful. We’ve only got another month till we wrap this film. Then the locusts will likely descend on someone else. Besides, I’ve got an early call tomorrow. So what else is going on with you? Hear anything from Jorge?”

  Traffic suddenly dropped to a crawl on Santa Monica; no zipping to be done, even in her little car. “Um, he went for his arraignment today. I talked to Rosalia, who had talked to Ina. Half a million.”

  Marshall whistled. Nikki could just imagine him sitting in the back of his stretch limo, surrounded by tabloid magazines (he was a huge fan), diet soda in his hand. He wasn’t a teetotaler, but he rarely drank while filming. “Wow,” he said. “His mom going to put that up?”