The Dead and the Beautiful (2 page)

“Nice to meet you.” Nikki shook Diara's hand.

Ryan introduced Nikki to the other three of the Disney Fab Four and their spouses. They all shook hands, exchanged greetings. Her first impression was that everyone in the group was pleasant and . . . very young. Two other things stood out. Julian Munro's wife, Hazel, had red hair that was almost exactly the same shade of red as Nikki's own. Victoria called it strawberry blonde. Nikki also noticed that Kameryn Lowe's husband, Gil, looked so much like star Angel Gomez that they could have been brothers.

“Oh, gosh, Nikki, your hair is gorgeous,” Hazel gushed. “Who's your colorist? Please don't tell me it's Eduardo at Christophe's! I'll kill him. I just went with this shade.” She stroked her shoulder-length bob. “He said it would look gorgeous on me. Don't tell me it was what he had left in the bottle after your appointment.”

Nikki laughed. She liked Hazel at once; she was polished and plucked, but she stood out in the group. Maybe because she was the only woman in the Fab Four faction who
wasn't
a blonde.

“No need to harm Eduardo. This is my natural color.” She ran her hand over her hair, pulled back in a simple, sleek ponytail. She'd glammed it up with a 1920s rhinestone Art Deco brooch to cover the elastic hair tie.

“Your
natural
color? You've got to be kidding me.” Hazel looped her arm through Betsy's. “Can you believe that's Nikki's natural color?”

Betsy was holding on to an emerald green fox fur Sang A handbag as if she was afraid Nikki was going to grab it and run. Which was not likely. It was one of the uglier designer bags Nikki had spotted that day. And there were some
seriously
ugly,
seriously
expensive bags wandering around. The thing in Betsy's hand looked like a little green Shih Tzu hanging from a gold ring.

“Natural?” Betsy said. She kept glancing at Gil and Angel, who had their heads together again. She sounded nervous. At meeting Nikki?

That was even less likely than the possibility of Nikki stealing her $1,500 fuzzy wristlet. Nikki was so unintimidating in a town of intimidation that complete strangers were always sharing intimate information with her.

“I can't believe that's your natural color,” Hazel went on, looking more closely.

Nikki smiled, feeling uncomfortable under the women's scrutiny. “I
do
highlight it once in a while,” she confessed. “Myself. With one of those boxes of highlighter from the drugstore.”

“You do it yourself!” Hazel gasped in awe.

“Nicolette!”

Only one person on earth called Nikki by her given name.

Nikki gave the two women a wry grin. “Will you excuse me?”

“Nicolette, darling. Do you have a moment?”

Though the words were spoken kindly, it wasn't really a question. It was a command. It meant,
come here now.

Nikki walked toward Victoria, who was standing only a few feet away. She looked stunning, as always. She was wearing a gorgeous, beaded, long Chanel couture gown, in white of course. It wasn't a new gown; Nikki had seen it on her many times before. Victoria might spend ten thousand on a gown, but she got plenty of wear out of it. Petite and a natural blonde, Victoria, who was somewhere in her early seventies (she'd always been vague about birthdays and her birth records had been
lost
in a fire), still had that sweater-girl curvaceous figure that had shot her from a soda fountain stool to stardom more than fifty years ago. Victoria wore the Chanel the way it was meant to be, with a natural grace that everyone in Hollywood wanted, but few possessed.

“Mother.” Nikki smiled, feeling a flutter of tenderness for her. She and her mother didn't always see eye-to-eye, but secretly, they adored each other. “I met Diara and her husband. She seems quite fond of you.”

Victoria looked up at Nikki. Her face sparkled with perfect makeup, a perfect smile, but Nikki could tell all was not perfect in Victoria-land.

“What's wrong?” Nikki said under her breath. She nodded to Tom Hanks, who was standing a couple of feet away, talking with a group of directors. She made a mental note to be sure to find his wife, Rita Wilson, later. She adored Rita; like Victoria, she was one classy lady. She'd always admired Tom and Rita because they were a Hollywood couple who had managed to stay together. It didn't happen often in Tinseltown.

Nikki returned her attention to Victoria.

“Beatrice Andrews,” Victoria said under her breath . . . through
the smile.

“I'm sorry?” Nikki leaned closer.

Victoria waved to someone Nikki couldn't see. She froze
the smile,
talking through her teeth. “Beatrice.”

“I haven't seen her.”

“That's because she
isn't here,
” Victoria said pointedly. “She stood me up.”

Nikki found it hard to believe anyone in this town would dare stand up Victoria Bordeaux. Although it had been ages since her last film, Victoria still had a lot of pull in Hollywood and, more importantly, everyone respected her. Just dropping her name could open doors, and everyone was looking for an open door in their business, even stars who had been around forever, like Beatrice Andrews.

But theirs was another complicated relationship. Victoria and Beatrice had a past. Nikki had never gotten the whole story. She'd gotten
none
of the story from her mother. What she knew, she'd picked up over the years. It had happened in the seventies. Victoria and Beatrice, who had been good friends, had done a movie together. Beatrice had been engaged to wealthy financier, Alexander Mason. The movie wrapped and Victoria and Alexander went to Mexico for the weekend . . . and married. Husband number four. The marriage wasn't long-lived. Beatrice's hatred for Victoria, however, was.

“Maybe she had another engagement,” Nikki told her mother. “Or maybe she's sick.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “I don't suppose we could hope for a case of the bubonic plague?”

Nikki laughed. “Mother, you said you didn't have a problem with Beatrice. You said you were fine working with her on this show.”
Casa Capri
was set in the Napa Valley against the backdrop of the wine industry. A modern-day
Falcon Crest.
Her mother's character was the new matriarch come to town to do battle against an established matriarch, Beatrice's character. Network television was buzzing with excitement in anticipation of Victoria's permanent role.

“That was before I started working with her. She's just awful, Nicolette. Let's call a spade a spade. The woman can't act. She never could. She'll drag down the ratings and we'll be cancelled, and that will be the legacy I leave.” Victoria pursed her perfectly lined and lipsticked lips. “Cancelled on a TV network.”

Nikki nibbled on her lower lip. “You sorry you took the job?” Nikki had advised against taking it. Her mother was too old for the rigors of network TV. She didn't need the work, and she certainly didn't need the fame. Nikki didn't know why she'd taken the role in the first place. “It's not too late to—”

“I'm certainly not sorry!” Victoria's stunning blue eyes, the Bordeaux blues they were called, flashed with annoyance. “Did you know
that woman
is threatening to walk off the set and halt production if I'm not replaced at once? The nerve!”

“Mother, she's not going to walk off the set.”

“Of course she won't.” Victoria glided away, smiling. “If I kill her first, it won't be necessary for her to walk off the set, will it?”

Chapter 2

“J
eremy, I'm not saying you shouldn't let Alison stay with you.” Nikki took a plate from the Louis XIV-STYLE china cabinet and turned to the matching dining table behind her. Trapping her iPhone between her ear and her shoulder, she laid the Aynsley china plate on a stack of paper and began to carefully wrap it. “I'm just suggesting you two need to talk about her plans for the future.”

“Her plans are to save enough money to put a down payment on a condo.”

She could tell he was annoyed and not just with her, but with his sister, too. Maybe himself. That didn't keep her from going on. She'd wanted to have this conversation with him for weeks. Alison seemed to be making herself too comfortable in Jeremy's house and it was worrying her.

“When?” Nikki asked into the phone. “When is she going to have enough money for this down payment?”

“I don't know. Soon.”

Nikki frowned as she folded one corner of the paper over the plate, then the next, making a neat bundle. “How soon?”

“I don't know.”

“My point exactly.” Satisfied with her wrapping job, she lowered the plate into a sturdy cardboard box on the table where it joined half a dozen identical friends. “I don't mean to be a witch about this, Jeremy, but riddle me this . . . do you want her to live permanently with you and the kids?”

“No, of course not. It's hard on them . . . and I know it's been hard on you. On us. Since she moved in, we haven't exactly had a lot of alone time.”

“I could say that I enjoy sharing a glass of wine with you and Alison after the kids go to bed, but that would be a lie. You know I don't have a problem with Alison. I like Alison.” She hesitated. “It's just that I'm afraid she's not going to do what she says she's going to do. She never does.”

Nikki hated to sound whiny, but between her job selling real estate, his dental practice, and his three children, they had very little time alone to begin with. Since they started dating for the second time since his wife's death (a long story), Nikki had made it a habit of stopping by his Brentwood house two or three times a week, after his three children went to bed. She would help Jeremy clean up after dinner and then they'd have a glass of wine together. It had become a good way to connect regularly without involving dinner reservations and babysitters. Their relationship had been going well. Until Alison moved in.

Jeremy was quiet on the other end of the line. He knew she was right. Nikki didn't want to see Alison take advantage of him; his sister had certainly done so before. And while Alison really did seem to have her act together, Nikki just wasn't as trusting as Jeremy was.

She took another plate from the china cabinet. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But I need to do what I can, not just for Alison, but for Jocelyn, too. This child custody case has them both scared. Jocelyn doesn't want to live with her father any more than Alison wants her to live with him.”

Alison's ex, Jocelyn's father, had taken everything in the divorce, and now he was trying to get custody of their daughter. He was a wealthy businessman in L.A., but a shady character. Nikki suspected he didn't really want custody of their fourteen-year-old daughter; he just wanted to hurt Alison. He was the kind of man who believed his wife and child were possessions, and he didn't give up ownership easily. There had been proof of that in the divorce settlement.

“I'm not saying you should kick her out. I'm just saying—” Nikki ‘s hand hit the edge of the plate and the plate took a nosedive off the end of the pile of papers. “Come back here!” She caught the edge of the plate before it sailed off the table, and exhaled with relief. The plates were a hundred bucks apiece, if they were a dollar.

“What are you
doing
?” Jeremy asked.

She held the white china plate with its elaborate painted design with both hands. “My two o'clock in Holmby Hills rescheduled; his psychic told him his moon or sun or something was in the wrong place today for making large purchases. So I stopped at your house to work on the dining room. I texted Alison and she's just going to bring the boys here.”

This was Nikki's contribution to the Alison cause. Alison took Nikki's Cavalier King Charles spaniels to the dog park twice a week. Which was nice, because Nikki had been so busy with work lately that Stanley and Oliver weren't getting enough exercise and it was beginning to show. Both dogs had been up a pound when they'd gone for their annual checkups with their veterinarian. Nikki had also passed out Alison's cards to clients and had acted as a reference several times. The rich and famous tended to be careful about who they allowed into their homes, which was completely understandable, considering the number of nut jobs out there. Alison was a lot of things, but she wasn't a nut job.

“I told you, you don't have to do that, Nik. I'll get someone in.”

Nikki shifted the phone from one ear to the other.

It had been almost three years since his wife had died, and he was finally ready to change things in the house. He wasn't erasing Marissa's memory, just making some modifications to reflect his own taste. And maybe a part of him was doing it so that the memory of her wouldn't be so present everywhere. He'd decided to start in the dining room because he had never liked the way she had decorated it with white and gold Louis XIV furniture, a massive chandelier, and heavy gold drapes and table linens. Jeremy's tastes were simpler; he liked cleaner lines and less . . . stuff.

“I don't mind doing this, Jeremy,” she answered quietly. “I know how you are about privacy . . . and keeping strangers out of the house and away from the kids. I can do this.”

“Well, I don't know if I could. I want the stuff stored, but the whole idea of getting rid of things she bought . . . the things she liked . . .”

“You're not getting rid of them. You're saving them for the girls, in case they want them.”

They were both quiet for a minute. She loved these moments between them. When they didn't have to speak. When they knew what the other was thinking.

“You're good to me.” She knew he was smiling.

“Just remember that the next time I'm late for dinner or Mother calls you,” she teased. She began to wrap the rescued plate.

He laughed. “Gotta go. I've got a patient waiting for me who needs a tooth reconstruction and he's got to be back on the set tomorrow at five a.m. I'll probably be running late tonight. Will you still be there when I get home?”

“You want me to be here?” She added the plate to the box.

“Always,” he said.

Now
she
was smiling. “Go be a dental hero.” She hung up the phone and set it down so she could concentrate on her wrapping skills.

A few minutes later, the house phone rang. Nikki let it ring. Jeremy still had one of those old-fashioned answering machines in his kitchen rather than using a phone service for messages. She had a feeling Marissa had bought it. It wasn't that Jeremy was having a hard time moving on; he was just having a hard time with Marissa's
stuff.

“Jeremy? Are you there? Jeremy?” Nikki heard come from the kitchen.

It was Alison. There was something in her tone that made Nikki leave the plate and walk toward the archway between the dining room and kitchen.

“Jeremy, pick up, please pick up if you're there.” Her voice was shrill, but quiet, almost as if she were trying to keep someone from hearing her.

Nikki walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Alison, it's Nikki.”

“Oh, God, Nikki. Thank God. Where's Jeremy? He's not answering his cell.”

“He's still at work.”

“Not today.” She was sounding slightly manic now. “He comes home at one on Tuesdays. He takes Jerry to karate after school.”

“Not today. Karate was cancelled and Jeremy took an emergency in the office.” Nikki leaned against the counter. “Alison, what's wrong?”

Alison hesitated, but only for a second. “Could you come here?”

“Where's
here
?” Nikki got a sudden, uncomfortable feeling. “Alison, are Stan and Ollie okay? Nothing—”

“They're fine. They . . . they're in kennels in my van. I . . . I need you to come here, Nik. It'll take Jeremy too long.”

“I'll come,” Nikki said. She made a beeline for the dining room to grab her cell and her bag.

“Now.”

“I'm coming now,” Nikki assured her. “Tell me where you are.”

“At Diara Elliot's. On Mulholland.”

“I know the house,” Nikki said. “Alison, what's going on?”

“He's dead.”

She picked up her Prada bag off the Louis XIV sideboard. “Who's dead?”

“Ryan . . . Ryan Melton.”

“I'll be right there.”

 

Spotting the emergency vehicles with their flashing lights a block east of the property, on Mulholland, Nikki whipped her Prius onto Sumatra Drive. She parked it illegally on the side of the road in front of a client's five-bedroom Colonial, grabbed her bag off the car seat, and hurried toward the Melton/Elliot house.

The street had been narrowed to a single lane in front of the Elliot/Melton house. A Beverly Hills police officer was directing traffic. She crossed behind an unmarked police sedan that she was pretty sure she recognized, and she walked between the line of police cars and the property's white wrought-iron fence.

Nikki hurried up the circular white driveway.

The Elliot/Melton house was a contemporary traditional worthy of the spread that had run in
Architectural Digest
the previous year. With 3,000 square feet, a limestone master bath, an incredible pool and outdoor living area, they would easily get 3.6 million for it, even in the present market.

“I'm sorry! You can't go in there,” someone called behind her.

She adjusted her vintage Persol sunglasses and kept walking.
Look important, people will view you as important.

She was halfway up the driveway, which was full of police vehicles, an ambulance, and a fire truck (a fire truck?) when she realized she was wearing sweatpants and a skintight Iams dog food T-shirt. And flip-flops. Not exactly a
someone important
ensemble. She hadn't left the house that morning looking like this. She'd been dressed in a cute short-sleeved sweater dress, equestrian blue—which complemented her own Bordeaux blue eyes—and knee-high, black, Italian leather boots. When she got to Jeremy's, she'd changed into the sweats and T-shirt because after she packed up the dishes, she planned to carry them to the attic. This was her “dish-wrapping, attic-crawling, weed the herb garden” outfit. It was not her “sneak into a murder scene outfit.” Too late to change now.

She walked past Alison's white van, with a Standard Poodle and a Lhasa Apso painted on the side, along with the words
90210 Dog Walking
and Alison's cell number. The Lhasa Apso was peeking out of a Louis Vuitton dog carrier; the poodle was wearing a diamond-encrusted collar. The side door was open and she heard a familiar bark. She spotted Stanley and Oliver in individual kennels, looking like inmates behind bars.

“Oh, you're okay, guys,” she crooned. “You're fine.” She patted the floor of the van as she hurried by, but didn't dare stop or they'd really start to bark.

She passed two EMTs wearing latex gloves. One was talking on her cell; it didn't sound like a work-related call. Nikki caught “just brown the burger and turn on the rice,” as she walked by quickly, with purpose.... In her Victoria's Secret sweatpant capris with the word
PINK
printed across her butt, she
knew
she shouldn't have bought these pants, even if they were five bucks, brand new with tags, at the consignment store on Sunset.

A cluster of uniformed cops stood at the double front doors, which were open. She was hoping she could just slip into the house, but there was no way around them. Nikki smiled
the smile.
“Excuse me,” she said to the cop immediately in front of her.

He actually started to step aside, then checked himself. He was a big guy, mid-thirties, Hispanic. “You can't go in there, ma'am.” He looked in the direction of the driveway and his first line of defense. There were at least half a dozen cops milling about; no one had stopped her.

“I got a call from my . . . friend.” Boyfriend's sister sounded too convoluted. “She's here. She told me what happened. She sounded scared. I told her I would come.”

“You're friends with the victim?”

“What happened?” She pushed her sunglasses up on her head. At least she was wearing makeup and her hair was brushed. “I can't believe—we just saw him Saturday night. He and Diara. At Victoria Bordeaux's.” She offered her hand. “I'm Nikki Harper.”

His eyes lit up with recognition. “Victoria Bordeaux's daughter.” He took her hand slowly. “Right. My sister loves old films. Back when we were kids, she used to have a poster of Victoria Bordeaux over her bed. That pose from
Sister, Sister.
” He frowned. “She lost it in the fire. Our whole apartment complex went up. Somebody trying to use a kerosene heater on a chilly night. Our family got out, and the dog, but I lost my hamsters.” He shook his head. “They were cute little guys. I had nightmares for weeks afterward.”

Nikki ran into this all the time. Was it something about her face that made people want to tell her personal things? She wanted to hold up her hand and say, “TMI, Officer Ramos” (his name was on his uniform), but she couldn't because she needed to get into the house. She craned her neck, hoping to catch sight of Alison. She looked back at Officer Ramos. “Can I speak with Alison? She's inside.”