by Cheryl Crane
“Nice to meet you, dear.” Victoria smiled kindly and popped a French fry into her mouth. “Nice girl,” she told Nikki when Jessie walked away. She leaned on the table, licking her fingertips delicately. “Now tell me what Marshall’s leggy date had to say about Ryan Melton. She have any dirt on him and Alison?”
“No. What gives you that idea?”
Done with her meal, Victoria wiped her mouth with a clean napkin and then dug into her bag for her lipstick. “I think she did it, and I think you’re going to ruin your relationship with Jeremy over it.”
“Alison didn’t kill Ryan Melton,” Nikki insisted, speaking under her breath.
Victoria applied her lipstick. “I think she did, so let’s see if we can get this investigation going and you can prove it.”
Nikki dropped her mother off in plenty of time for her hookup with Clark Gable, then on impulse, headed back toward West Hollywood. Half an hour later, she was ringing the doorbell of a cute, two-story, yellow Cape Cod on a residential street. A young Asian girl with orange hair answered the door.
“Hey-ya.” She wore cutoff jean shorts and a yellow Cheerios graphic T-shirt. Sounds of automatic weapon fire blasted from behind her. TV, Nikki hoped.
“Hi.” Nikki absentmindedly jingled her keys in her hand. She’d left her bag in her car. She looked down at her feet, then back at the young woman. “Elvis in?”
“Elvis! Someone at the door for you!” She looked back at Nikki. “You wanna come in? Quentin Tarantino night on TBS.”
Nikki smiled. “No, thanks. I’ll just wait here.”
Nikki had just settled on the wooden bench swing and given herself a push when Elvis walked out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.
“Hey there, little lady,” he crooned with the lopsided grin that she always found eerily spot-on. He sauntered toward her.
Her half-brother was dressed casually this evening, rather than in a replica of one of Elvis Presley’s famous costumes. He wore black pants, a white shirt, and a blue tie that hung loose below his unbuttoned collar. The men’s leather ankle boots were a nice touch.
“That the same shirt you wore for your mug shot in Colorado in 1970?” she asked, even though her little brother Jimmy wasn’t alive in 1970.
He grinned, winked, and gave her the old “pistol fire” acknowledgment. “You know, it wasn’t really a mug shot. I was awarded an honorary police badge.”
She stopped the porch swing and he sat down and gave it a push.
“Nice place, E.” She’d never been here before, but he’d texted her the address when he moved here a few months ago. It was a residential treatment facility for folks with mental disorders.
E, like his deceased father, was schizophrenic. When he was on his meds, as he appeared to be now, he could seem totally sane . . . if you could look past the blue/black pompadour and upturned lip. He made his living, as it was, doing Elvis impersonations, often on street corners. He did private parties and karaoke bars when he was lucky. He was on a good run right now and had been working at a used car dealership on Sunset for the last six months or so.
“People are a little nutsy here, but it beats the alley off Hollywood and Vine,” he quipped.
“So, how’ve you been doing?” she asked, patting his knee. “Really. Because you look good.”
“She send you?” He sounded hopeful.
He always referred to their mother as she. He’d had a falling out with Victoria ten years earlier and they didn’t speak. She maintained it was because her son refused to seek help for his mental illness, help she was willing to pay for. Jimmy insisted it was because she was jealous of his talent. Nikki tried to remain neutral; it was hard for her to see him ill. After his years of drug abuse and arrests, after years of trying to help him, she’d realized she couldn’t help him if he wouldn’t help himself. She hoped he was doing as well as he appeared to be.
“She wanted me to get you a birthday present,” she said. “I thought I’d stop by the car lot one day. Maybe we could have lunch.”
He looked away. It was dark now and the only light on the porch was the glow that came through the curtains on the windows of the house. Agitated voices came from the TV inside. The light in the windows flashed, as the images on the TV screen probably changed. The air was cool and smelled faintly of freshly mowed lawn and hydrangeas.
Jimmy looked at her. “So, what’s up, big sister? Who’s dead now?”
She cut her eyes at him.
“Come on, little lady. The last two times we saw each other, you were knee-deep minding business that wasn’t yours to mind. In fact, if I seem to recollect correctly, you were in a spot of trouble and The King had to come rescue you.”
All true, or mostly so. She was glad his memory was clear; it wasn’t always. “I’m not in any trouble. I just . . .” She exhaled, dropping her keys in her lap. “Actually, I have no idea why I’m here.”
“So you’re not championing another innocent soul headed for the Jailhouse Rock?”
She turned to him. “You haven’t seen the papers?”
“Bad for my recovery.” He smiled and this time it was Jimmy’s smile, not Elvis Presley’s. “Real world already overwhelms me.”
She smiled back. “It’s Jeremy’s sister, Alison. She’s been accused of killing Ryan Melton.”
He shook his head. “Bad news for her. Who’s Ryan Melson?”
“Melton. You really don’t read the papers, do you?”
He pushed back the lush, dark hair that was his own and not a wig. He certainly looked like Elvis, the Elvis before the pills and overindulgence in peanut butter and smashed banana sandwiches.
“Ryan Melton was married to Diara Elliot.”
Jimmy raised his black eyebrows.
“One of the Disney Fab Four? Then played Ellie on Smart Avenue for two years,” she said, naming an Emmy-nominated TV drama.
He shook his head.
“Has her own perfume? She’s got a billboard on Santa Monica? Gorgeous blonde with big brown eyes?”
“I don’t get out on the freeway much in my caddie.”
“Guess you don’t watch much TV either?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, well, she’s a big star and he was a big star because he was amazingly handsome. Sexy—”
“And now he’s dead. And the police think Alison did it?”
She gave the swing another push and told him about meeting Ryan and Diara at Victoria’s party. About the phone call from Alison. About her dog-walking business. About meeting Alison at the Melton/Elliot house and her arrest. Even about Detective Dombrowski and Jeremy. Jimmy sat and listened. He had always been a good listener, even at his craziest. And when she was done, they just sat together, swinging in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Okay,” he finally said. “So, tell me again how all this is your problem? I mean . . . it sounds like Jeremy is pretty pissed at you for getting involved anyway.”
She nodded. “He’s that, all right.”
Jimmy waited.
“I . . . I guess I just don’t want Jeremy to believe Alison did this. She needs someone to believe her. She needs someone to prove to Jeremy that she didn’t kill Ryan, and it doesn’t seem like she’s willing to fight for herself right now.”
“And you don’t think this detective will get to the truth?”
“I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “Tom’s a good guy, but he’s got his arrest. Obviously he’s got evidence against Alison, all of which I don’t know yet. What if she gets to court and the evidence says she did it, even though she didn’t? Even if she gets off with her fancy lawyer, what if Jeremy believes for the rest of his life that his sister murdered someone?”
“So . . . just so I understand why you’re putting yourself at risk for her—”
“I’m not putting myself at risk.” She opened her arms. “I’m just asking some questions.”
“Like the last time? And the time before that?”
“Th
ere’s no danger, E.”
“Unless you get too close to the person who really did it . . . again.”
She was quiet.
“So is this about you, or about Alison?”
She scowled. It had been a mistake to come here. What was she thinking? She needed to get home and take Stan and Ollie for a walk. She needed some sleep. “How would this be about me, E?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
She looked at him through the darkness. It was weird, looking at Elvis Presley . . . but talking to her brother. “I think it’s important that someone believe in Alison. Believe that the person she was isn’t the person she is now. She could lose her daughter over this mess. It can’t go to trial.” She pressed her lips together. “And Jeremy can’t go through life believing his sister murdered someone.”
“Fair enough.”
She glanced at him. “You get it? Why I need to do this?”
“No, I think you’re crazier than I am, little lady.” He gave her the Elvis smile, upper lip curled perfectly.
Nikki got up. “Thanks, E.”
He followed her to the step. “Thanks for coming by. Good to see you.”
“You too. Glad you’re doing well.” She turned away and was halfway down the dark walk when Jimmy called out to her.
“For what it’s worth?”
She turned. He looked young and handsome and . . . healthy in the dim light.
“From what you told me, I’d check out the little woman. The gorgeous one on the billboard.”
“Diara? You think?”
“Trust me. Cases like this”—he winked—“it’s always the little woman.”
Nikki’s phone rang at seven the next morning. The number that showed on the screen was unfamiliar, but that wasn’t all that unusual in her line of business. One of the downsides of her job—everyone had her phone number. “Nikki Harper,” she said, throwing her legs over the side of her bed.
“Porn.”
“I’m sorry?” Her dogs began to bark and dance at her feet. “Who is this?”
“Just shoot me. I’m sorry, Miss Harper. Nikki. It’s Jessie, Jessie Bondecker. Sorry to call you so early, but I talked to my brother’s roommate last night.”
Nikki could barely hear Jessie for all the barking. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and padded barefoot out of her bedroom. The dogs followed. “Hush, guys.”
“I’m sorry?” Jessie said.
“Not you, Jessie. My dogs.” Nikki snapped her fingers and led them down the hall toward the stairs. She lived in an amazing little Craftsman bungalow on Wetherly Drive in West Hollywood, a bungalow with a backyard. “Sorry. Can you start again?”
“I woke you up. I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Really. Just hang on one sec.” Once downstairs, she walked through the living room, into the kitchen, and opened the back door. The dogs sailed out, cute ears flopping. “Can you start again, Jessie?”
“I talked to my brother’s roommate last night at the party. The one who works for that computer place. He was so wasted. I beat him playing beer pong like four times. He’s kind of cute, but I don’t think he knows I’m alive. You know what I mean? I mean, he knows I’m alive. He played beer pong with me, right? But you know, like he’s not interested in me.”
Nikki made her way to the kitchen counter and added water to her electric kettle. Coffee was definitely in order this morning. “Jessie, when you first called, did you say something about porn?”
“Yeah, that’s why I called. Like I said, I’d never take advantage of having your phone number and call all the time or anything.”
Nikki leaned against the counter. The refinished maple flooring under her bare feet was cool. She was just wearing boxer shorts and a ratty T-shirt. She wished she’d grabbed a sweater on her way down. “What were you talking about when you said ‘porn,’ Jessie?”
“That’s what was on the computer.”
Nikki switched her cell from one ear to the other. “Ryan Melton’s laptop had porn on it?”
“Yup,” the girl said triumphantly.
Nikki grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “So? What’s that got to do with Alison?”
“It was her.”
The teakettle whistled. Nikki was still fuzzy from sleep. Or maybe Jessie was just hard to follow. “Who was her?” She rubbed her forehead. “What are we talking about, Jessie?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The skin flick on Ryan’s laptop. Your friend who was arrested. She was in it.”
Chapter 14
Nikki was upstairs getting dressed when she heard someone knock at her door. Her back door. She pulled on a pair of jeans. Her backyard was enclosed by a nine-foot privacy fence to keep the boys safe.
Nikki hurried downstairs. “Coming!” she hollered. Sometimes Stan or Ollie, or both, squeezed under the fence and ran into Rob and Marshall’s backyard. They didn’t mind if the dogs dropped in once in a while, but they did mind the gifts the dogs left behind, usually on their pool patio. “Sorry. I was upstairs getting dressed,” she said as she opened the door.
It was Marshall, dressed in expensive Italian athletic pants, a tight black Under Armour T-shirt, and running shoes. He didn’t dare run in their neighborhood, for fear of being spotted by fans or paparazzi, but he liked to hit the treadmill first thing in the morning.
The dogs shot through the door ahead of him and disappeared into the front of the house. Probably because they knew they were in trouble.
“You’re not going to believe what I just read on this crazy blog I follow.” He came into the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure the blogger is somehow connected to the Beverly Hills police force, because she knows way too much to just be a casual observer. Maybe a wife or a girlfriend of a cop who talks too much?”
“Coffee?” she offered. “I’m on my way out the door. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“Where you headed so early?”
Nikki pulled another cup from the cupboard and reached for her French press on the gray soapstone counter. “I’ve got to talk to Alison.”
“I’d say. You’re not going to believe what I just read.”
She poured the coffee. The smartest thing was to go to Alison and just ask her outright what Jessie could possibly have been talking about. Pornography? No way. Obviously there was a mistake. Maybe miscommunication or exaggeration? Maybe Alison posed for some semi-nudie pictures or something once upon a time? Maybe that was what Jessie’s drunk beer-ponger was talking about. A topless photo of Alison when she was nineteen. Not good news for her child-custody case, but that certainly didn’t make her a murderess.
She added cream and artificial sweeter to both cups. “What’d you read, sweetie? I really have just a minute.”
“It can’t be true! It’s too shocking, in every sense of the word.”
Nikki took a sip of her much-needed liquid caffeine and pushed the other cup into Marshall’s hand. “What now?”
When Marshall ran out of gossip rags to read, he surfed the Net for Hollywood gossip blogs. He was featured in them all the time. Nothing delighted him more than to hear what beautiful female costar he was now dating.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Another Victoria’s Secret angel is having your baby?”
“No one’s having my baby. Rob and I aren’t ready.” He held the hand-thrown pottery mug between his big hands. “It’s Alison, honey.” He grimaced. “You may have been a little premature in jumping to her defense.”
Nikki looked up at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Let me guess. Nudie photos.”
He frowned, an exaggeratedly sad look on his face. “Victoria wasn’t even sure I should tell you. She—”
“My mother knows?” She laughed, amused more than annoyed. “You already talked to my mother?” She grabbed a banana off the counter, but seeing it had a big brown spot, dropped it. “Don’t you have your own mother?”
“You don’t get up until seven on Saturdays and my mother has water aerobic
s. I can always count on Victoria being up when I’m on the treadmill.”
She took another swallow of coffee. “I really have to go. Can you tell me on the fly? I need shoes.” She walked out of the kitchen, past a handmade mirror she’d bought in an antique shop in Mendocino. She glanced at her reflection and tugged on her saggy ponytail. “And maybe a comb.”
“And lipstick. If you’re headed to Jeremy’s, there may be paparazzi.” He followed her through the living room. “Go with a nice peach. And some mascara.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Nikki turned on her heels, coffee mug still in her hand. “Paparazzi? Why would there be paparazzi at Jeremy’s?” She got a sinking feeling in the bottom of her empty stomach. “Marshall, I’m not following you.”
“It’s bad, Nik,” he said gently.
She waited, nibbling on her lower lip. “Okay.”
“Porn.”
It was the same word Jessie had used. “You . . . you mean like photos, right?” She stubbornly clung to her assumption. Her prayer. “Topless on the beach. She was in France that summer—”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t photos they were talking about.”
Nikki held her coffee cup against her chest as if she could protect herself. “You’re kidding me. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Porn as in pornographic movie. Miss Tinseltown Tattletale says authorities believe Alison murdered Ryan Melton after he tried to blackmail her with the thought-tobe-long-lost footage.”
Nikki groaned. “Really, Marshall? Alison? Making pornography?” She turned and headed up the steps. It couldn’t be true. It was more nonsense, like the alien spacecraft and Emma Stone’s secret triplets he’d read about the previous week. “Sweet, innocent, boring Alison?”
Marshall remained at the bottom of the staircase and called up to her. “It’s always the boring ones who surprise you!”
Nikki used the code to open the security gate to Jeremy’s house in Brentwood and made sure it closed behind her before she proceeded up the driveway to his two-story Colonial.
She called him from her car. “Just coming up the driveway,” she said when he picked up. “What’cha doing?”