Victoria nodded. “
Harley
. He had a fender bender with some singer, Britney something. Not the fault of the gardener, I might add”—she raised a finger—“but the Mercedes. Anyway, Ina went to settle the matter with the police and all, and then to get one of Jorge’s
other
trucks up to that Jackson girl’s house.” She put her glass down and fluttered her hand. “The one from the singing family.”
“Janet Jackson?” Nikki questioned.
“I don’t know who his clients are, Nicolette. Anyway, apparently this young woman was having a dinner party and it was
imperative
that her yard be trimmed today. She seemed to have no empathy for Jorge’s situation.”
“So, Jorge is in jail for Eddie’s murder and Ina is taking up the slack with his lawn care business?” Nikki asked.
Victoria put down her magazine as if perturbed. “That would be an accurate assessment, Nicolette. Would you like to go upstairs and freshen up before dinner? Amondo and I thought we would eat on the terrace. We’re having grilled fish tacos.” She smiled. “It seems that Amondo has talents of which we were unaware.”
Nikki dropped down to sit on the end of the chaise longue. “Mother, what are we going to do about Jorge?” Oliver and Stanley, seeming to sense Nikki’s sudden feeling of inadequacy, both parked themselves beside her. Stanley leaned against her boot and gazed up at her with big, soulful eyes.
“I know you know that bail was set at half a million,” Nikki went on. “That means the DA’s office is serious about this case. He’s been charged with first degree murder.”
“I’ve offered an attorney. I offered to put up bail. Jorge has refused both.” Victoria folded her petite hands, looking Nikki directly in the eye.
There was something about Victoria’s gaze, even at her age, that could still capture and hold an audience. Even an audience of one. Even her firstborn child. Nikki was still in awe of her, just as she had been as a child permitted to visit on set with her mother.
“I don’t know what to do,” Nikki said quietly, unable to break the spell or look away.
“Did Jorge do it?” Victoria asked very softly, her pink lips barely moving.
Nikki’s eyes stung. “I don’t know.”
“Then find out, and respond accordingly.” Victoria held Nikki’s gaze a moment longer and then popped her legs over the side of the chaise and tossed her reading glasses on a table. “Shall I set the table, Amondo?”
Nikki stared at her mother, pretty certain Victoria had never set a table in her life.
“Certainly not.” He waved her back onto the chaise and she didn’t put up a fight.
“Guess I’ll go up and change.” Nikki rose.
“Excellent,” Victoria said, stretching out again and reaching for her glass. “Over dinner, we’ll discuss our plan for tomorrow.”
“Our plan?” Nikki turned back. The dogs, hot on her heels, hit their brakes. Oliver was so close, he bumped into her. “We’re going to Eddie’s funeral. Then back to the Bernards’ to pay our respects.”
Victoria glanced at her over the rim of her frosty glass. “Which is
exactly
why we need a plan.”
Chapter 12
T
he service at the synagogue and burial at Hillside Memorial Park were just as awful as Nikki had anticipated they would be. Abe and Melinda, dressed all in black, escorted by their daughter, who had made it home in time, looked the part of the grieving parents. Ginny, fashionably dressed in Oscar de la Renta, again was dry eyed and looked like a third wheel. Her daughter, Lissa, did not sit with her at either of the services.
Because they were private services, only family and close friends were invited, but there were still over a hundred people present. After the burial, Amondo drove Nikki and Victoria back to Roxbury in the Bentley, and left them at the Bernards’ front door. Both women were dressed in Coco Chanel black dresses, Victoria’s from the previous season, Nikki’s, 1950s vintage. Victoria wore her trademark white pearls. Nikki’s were a delicate gray, a gift from her father for her twenty-first birthday, which had been a bit of a joke between the two of them at the time, making a slight mockery of his then-twice-divorced ex-wife. After his death, the string of pearls became one of her most prized possessions, and was no longer a mockery of her mother, but a tribute.
“You look lovely today, Nicolette,” Victoria said as she led the way up to the Bernards’ front door. “Appropriate, elegant, and lovely.”
“Thank you.” Did a daughter ever outgrow beaming under her mother’s approval?
Victoria rang the doorbell and Mozart’s allegro chimed. “You’d do well to wear those spiky heels more often,” she said, glancing at Nikki’s red-soled Christian Louboutin pumps. “They make your long legs even longer.” She sighed, presenting herself to the security monitor so she’d be prepared when it came on. “I was always envious of those long legs of yours.”
Nikki, surprised by her mother’s confession, had no time to respond before the door opened. No video camera today; it was Ashley in the flesh, in a black dress and heels. “Ms. Bordeaux, Ms. Harper, please come in. The family is expecting you in the North Salon.”
Victoria tucked her Hermès clutch (ancient, but still quite fashionable) under her arm as she strolled through the front hall. “Thank you so much. I know the way.”
“Ms. Bordeaux?” Ashley called after her.
Victoria turned on her kitten heels. “Yes?”
“I just wanted to thank you for the Jay-Z tickets.” The assistant clutched her hands to her heart. “The concert was amazing.”
“I’m so pleased.” Victoria gave her
the smile
.
Nikki hung back as her mother walked into the parlor on the right side of the main hall, opposite the parlor they’d occupied the last time they were in the house. “I’m glad you had a good time, Ashley.” She glanced quickly at the young woman. “I hate to ask. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but . . . have you heard anything about the case against my mother’s gardener?”
“Just that he’d been charged and that he was in jail. Ginny said she couldn’t believe bail had been set at all, him being such a danger to society and all. But I don’t know,” she added quickly. “That detective, Dowbronski . . . Donbroski—”
“Dombrowski,” Nikki offered. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski.”
“Yeah, the hot cop. Looks just like Robert Redford in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
,” Ashley said. “I’m not so sure he thinks the gardener did it. He’s called a couple of times wanting to speak to Mr. Bernard or one of the Mrs. Bernards. And he was here again yesterday taking statements from all the staff. He talked to everyone, one at a time, in Mr. Bernard’s study, with the door closed. Of course, the staff was off the night of the party, so I don’t know what the point was. I had to answer questions, too.” Ashley moved closer to Nikki. “About Ginny’s house staff. And Ms. Bordeaux’s,” she added in a whisper.
“Detective Dombrowski asked you questions about my mother’s staff?” Nikki asked, not bothering to whisper. “How could you answer questions about her staff? You don’t know her staff.”
“But how would I know that unless I asked?” a male voice questioned.
Nikki looked up to see Detective Dombrowski walking toward them, a plate of canapés in his hand.
“Sorry,” Ashley mumbled. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you that he asked Mr. Bernard if he could come back to the house after the funeral.” She gave Nikki a sheepish look. “I need to check on things in the kitchen. Ginny didn’t like Ms. Mar’s salmon.”
Nikki turned to the detective, offering her hand. If she was caught, she was caught. She might as well make the best of it. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski. Nice to see you again.”
He smiled, shaking her hand, holding it just a second longer than necessary. “And you as well . . . though, obviously I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
She fingered her black clutch; it was a no-name found in a little vintage shop in Santa Monica, but it had character. Surprisingly enough, so did this cop. “This typical, Lieutenant Detective? Attending victims’ funerals, undercover?”
“Not exactly undercover. I asked Mr. Bernard’s permission to be here and I’m wearing my badge.” With his free hand, he opened his suit jacket to reveal the gold shield on his shirt pocket.
Again, he was wearing a nice suit; it didn’t scream cop salary. It suggested . . . family money? A wealthy wife? She glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring. No white band of skin suggesting he’d worn one recently. But a lot of men didn’t wear rings. Her guess, though, was that he was single. He wasn’t being overt about it, but, like Saturday morning, he seemed to be cautiously interested in her.
“You, on the other hand,” the detective went on, “you could possibly be undercover. The mourning attire, the innocent look on your face.”
She frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski.”
“I think you better call me Tom.” He popped a salmon canapé into his mouth. “I know some people at the Hollywood station. There was talk last fall about you being involved in the Rex March case.”
“Involved?” Nikki arched an eyebrow, imitating one of her mother’s best looks on film.
Finishing his plate, he balled the napkin up and placed it on top. “Sticking your nose in police business.”
She chuckled. “You’re friends with Detective Lutz from the Hollywood station?”
“I wouldn’t call us friends.”
Dombrowski’s tone suggested he didn’t care for Detective Lutz; Nikki hadn’t, either. She was intrigued now. “So what did your non-friend say about me?”
“That you were a pain in the ass . . . and pretty clever. He told me you solved the crime before he did.”
Her smile was genuine. “Did he really?”
“You’re not sticking your nose in
my
police business, are you, Ms. Harper?”
She studied his handsome face, not sure now if he was trying to flirt with her or intimidate her. “I think you better call me Nikki.”
He glanced away, chuckling, then looked back at her. “Look,
Nikki
, I’m not going to give you any information about this case, and I’d really prefer you stay away from my possible witnesses . . . and/or suspects, but I
will
tell you—”
“Yes?”
“Rest assured, I intend to give Mr. Delgado a fair shake.” He held her gaze with his Redford blue eyes. “No matter what the media is saying.”
“I appreciate that, Tom.” Nikki took his plate and walked past him.
He turned to watch her go. “Where are you going with my plate?” He was really good-looking, even when frowning.
“To the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Everyone knows,
Tom
, you have questions in Beverly Hills? You go to the kitchen.”
Nikki then turned on her Christian Louboutins and walked away.
The Bernards’ kitchen was busier than LAX the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Wait staff was coming and going with trays of food and drinks. Ashley was pacing, talking on her cell phone, another cell phone ringing in her hand. A young man, who Nikki guessed was Abe’s assistant, Jason, was also on the phone, pacing in the opposite direction.
Ellen Mar was at the massive, stone-hooded range, sautéing shrimp with one hand while opening a broiler to check on bacon-wrapped scallops with the other.
Nikki carried the detective’s plate to the sink, resisting her urge to rinse it off and place it in one of the two dishwashers. While she had been raised with staff in the kitchen and the house, nannies, and drivers, Victoria had insisted her daughter learn to be self-sufficient. As a teen, while Nikki’s friends were sending their jeans out to be laundered, she was home using the washing machine. She could also cook her own meals. Not that Victoria knew a thing about cooking, but she had made sure that Ina had taught her daughter the basics.
“Ellen, good to see you,” Nikki greeted.
Ellen smiled, then frowned when she saw Nikki placing the plate in the sink. “I’m sorry, someone should have gotten that for you. It wasn’t necessary for you to bring it to the kitchen. Antonio! Could you please get in there and pick up the guests’ glasses and plates? I’m paying you to serve, not flirt.”
A young man in a black dinner jacket and dreadlocks, who had been talking to a young Asian woman, grabbed a tray off the counter and took off.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Nikki insisted. “I just—I was on my way to the kitchen. I thought you might be here. I heard you were making some sort of amazing salmon hors d’oeuvre.” She hesitated. “And I was avoiding the salon,” she confessed.
“Funerals are hard.” Ellen grabbed a second pair of tongs and turned the shrimp in garlic and butter sauce with both hands.
“They are,” Nikki agreed, casting a glance in Ashley’s direction. The assistant walked into the hall, still on the phone.
Emily Bernard passed Ashley and entered the kitchen: long blond hair (extensions), black skirt and tunic, and now-obvious baby bump. Nikki must not have noticed it at the funeral because of the black swing jacket she’d been wearing.
Emily looked up from her cell phone. “Hey, Nik.” Her dark eyes were lined, top and bottom, in black eye pencil, making her look more like she’d just attended a rock concert than her brother’s funeral.
“Hey, Em.” Nikki gave her a hug. “Glad you made it back in time for the funeral. Your mom was afraid you weren’t going to be able to get home in time.”
Emily frowned. Flesh-colored lipstick. “More like she was afraid I wasn’t coming at all.” She punched a couple of keys on her phone and set it on the counter, next to a bottle of wine and a half-empty glass. “I made Tag pay for a private flight back from Tokyo. No way I was flying commercial carrying this basketball.” She ran her hand over her belly, which really wasn’t all that big.
So the tabloids were right. Marshall had told Nikki weeks ago that he’d read that Emily Bernard was knocked up by her rock-star on-again, off-again boyfriend, who was more off than on. Tag Thomas MacGee wasn’t exactly a rock star. His band, A Lead Balloon, was a Led Zeppelin cover band. They got few bookings in the United States, but they were big in Japan.
Nikki tried not to make it obvious that she was taking in the baby belly. No one in the Bernard household had said a word about Emily’s pregnancy either before or after Eddie’s murder; Nikki had assumed it was the usual tabloid nonsense. Maybe no one in the family had known. Emily had been gone for at least three months, traveling with the band. At thirty-two, she’d spent almost as many years globe-trotting with various lead singers as she’d lived with her parents. Emily had always been a bit of a free spirit.
Abe’s assistant, operating double BlackBerries, wandered out of the kitchen, leaving Nikki and Emily with a little more privacy.
“I know your mother is glad you’re here,” Nikki said. “I hope you can stay a few weeks. She’s going to need you when the shock of this wears off and she has to go back to day-to-day living.”
“I don’t know if I’m staying
here
. This place had bad vibes
before
Eddie got himself murdered.” She picked up a wineglass off the counter and took a sip. She didn’t seem all that upset that her brother was dead. “All I know is that I’m not going back to Tokyo. Tag and I broke up.”
“Did you?”
Emily rolled her eyes and took another sip. “Tag doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll figure it out.” She gave her belly another rub. “This little rug rat will be better off fatherless than with a loser like Tag MacGee.” She finished off the wine, and reached for the open bottle on the counter.
Nikki caught Ellen’s eye across the massive granite counter. Nikki had to look away to keep her thoughts to herself. She didn’t know a lot about pregnancy, but she didn’t think Emily should be drinking
multiple
glasses of wine.
“So it’s really something, huh? Jorge killing Eddie?” Emily said as if talking about the weather. “I always liked Jorge. He was nice to me when I was a kid.” She started on the fresh glass of wine. “Nicer than Eddie ever was.”
The guy with the dreadlocks returned with a tray full of dirty plates and began to stack them in the granite sink, making a racket. Nikki slid over a little closer to Emily, a little farther from the dish action. “Jorge was charged. That doesn’t mean he did it.”