The Dead and the Beautiful (7 page)

“You don't know that,” he said.

I know it,
she thought to herself.
And I bet I can prove it.

“So why
did
you come to her defense?” Marshall asked.

Nikki looked up from the fanzine she was flipping through while lying on her stomach across Marshall's enormous bed. She'd taken the magazine off a pile on the nightstand. She was scanning an article on the Ryan Melton murder.

Marshall was going through his closet, choosing clothing he no longer wanted that he could donate to a charity auction. His partner, Rob, an undercover cop, was working the nightshift. Usually, when Rob was working nights, Marshall stayed at his official residence on Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills. He was big box office and he had a public image to keep up. Nikki didn't necessarily agree with his decision to remain in the closet. She didn't know that it was healthy, after all these years. But it wasn't her call.

Tonight, against his manager's advice, he'd decided to stay at Rob's—which happened to be next door to Nikki's—which was how they met in the first place. He said he didn't feel at home in his enormous, opulent mansion in Beverly Hills. Here, he said, he felt safe. Here, he could sleep, even without Rob.

Marshall came out of the walk-in closet in a lavender sweater and white linen pants. He strutted, then posed as if modeling for a
GQ
magazine cover. “Stay or go?”

She looked up from a splashy page of Ryan and Diara's wedding photos. “I thought you were going for the rugged look these days.” She made a face. “Go.”

“But I
love
this sweater,” he protested.

“The pants are wrinkly.”

“Egads, Nicolette,” he said, his imitation of Victoria awfully damned good. “They're linen!” He leaned over the bed. “Oh my God! Isn't she gorgeous? I've never seen that photo before.” He pointed to a photo of Diara in her wedding gown, standing in an array of white rose petals.

“There're two pages.” She turned the page. “They married four years ago. You must have seen them on the first go-round. I remember they were splashed all over the magazines.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the magazine out of her hands. “My God, my God. No, I never saw these.” He flipped the page, then flipped it back again. “These are new releases. Look at that cake. Isn't it gorgeous?”

Nikki looked at Marshall. “Diara would have never released wedding pictures to the press the same week her husband was murdered. Would she?”

“Maybe.” He closed the magazine and held it up. “This kind of publicity is expensive: a glossy front cover with a two-mil circulation? With exposure like this, she'll be in meetings next week renegotiating her
Casa Capri
contract.”

Nikki stared at the front cover, a photograph of Ryan and Diara walking hand in hand down a red carpet. Two beautiful people. One now dead.

She thought about poor Alison, lying in her bed at Jeremy's . . . scared she's going to lose her daughter. She thought about Diara. Diara and Ryan had appeared to be the happy couple at the party last Saturday night, but were they?

Was the evidence at the crime scene so obvious as to be
too
obvious? Had someone set Alison up?

Who could have afforded to pay Alison's bail so quickly? Diara certainly could have. But if she had something to do with the murder, why would she bail Alison out? Nikki felt like she had more questions now than answers.

Chapter 7

“I
'm sorry,” the young man on the other end of the phone line said. “Ms. Lambert is in court today.”

Nikki gazed up at the yellow light in front of her, judged her speed and distance, and then reluctantly hit the brakes. Traffic was heavy on Beverly Boulevard. But then it was always heavy midday. “Would it be possible for me to make an appointment?”

“Regarding?”

Nikki couldn't say she wanted to talk to her about Alison and the Melton case. There was no way she'd agree to that. No attorney would. “It's . . . confidential,” she said.

“Of course.” He then named an astronomical fee for a fifteen-minute appointment and offered a day and time.

“That's three weeks from now,” Nikki protested. And there was no way she was paying that kind of money for fifteen minutes with Lillie Lambert. Nikki wasn't as frugal as Victoria, but she was still her mother's child.

“Yes,” the receptionist said, not even bothering to apologize.

“Well, that just won't be acceptable,” she said, quoting Victoria.

“Have a good day,” the young man responded.

“You too.” Nikki hung up using the button on her steering wheel. The traffic light had just turned green when her phone rang again. The screen on the dash identified the caller as Victoria. “Hello.”

“Are you coming, Nicolette?”

“I'll be there in five minutes.” Someone honked his horn behind her as she slipped around a panel truck. “Traffic.”

“I only have an hour.”

Nikki glanced at the dashboard. “You said one o'clock. It's twelve forty-five. I'll still be early.” She signaled and changed lanes. It wasn't cutting someone off if you signaled first, was it? “You sure you don't want me to stop for takeout somewhere?”

“Goodness, no. I told you. The amount of food they throw away here, it's a sin. I've left your name at the gate. Hurry, Nicolette, I'm starving.”

Ten minutes later, Nikki walked into the studio where
Casa Capri
filmed their indoor scenes. The director had declared a closed set after Ryan's death, to protect Diara, no doubt, but no one beyond the studio front gate stopped her. After only one wrong turn down a dark hallway, Nikki found the set where they were filming that day: the office of the family vineyard where Victoria's character and her sons and daughter schemed and double-crossed. She heard Victoria before she spotted her.

“Well, that looks like an eggroll to me. Can you explain the difference?”

Nikki ducked to avoid being hit by a microphone on the end of a pole being carried by a young man talking on a headset who didn't look old enough to be on a TV set without his mother. She sidestepped around a corner and saw Victoria, dressed in character in a pink Jackie O suit and kitten heels, standing in front of a food service table. The long table, covered with a white linen tablecloth, was laden with lunchmeats, salads, fruits, vegetables, and sweets.

A cute redhead in her late twenties, wearing a headset over pigtails, was talking with Victoria. “Good question. I don't know . . . except that spring rolls are smaller.”

Spotting Nikki, Victoria waved her over. “Try one of these little eggrolls, Nicolette. Megan says they're spring rolls. They're divine.”

The young woman smiled shyly at Nikki.

“Nikki Harper.” She offered her hand.

“Megan Larson.” She tucked a clipboard thick with paperwork under her arm and shook Nikki's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Megan is the assistant director's assistant, but everyone knows she's in charge here,” Victoria explained. “Megan knows everyone, knows everything, and, most importantly, knows where to get a cup of decaffeinated Earl Grey tea.” She motioned to Nikki. “What are you waiting for? Take a plate, dear. And try one of these spring rolls. They're vegetarian.” She handed Megan plasticware wrapped in a napkin. “Could you hold this?”

Megan met Nikki's gaze as she accepted the cutlery. “You better get a plate.”

Nikki liked her sassy tone. “Mother's mentioned you.” She picked up a plastic plate. “I appreciate the way you look after her.”

“Oh, Ms. Bordeaux doesn't need anyone to look after her. She does fine all on her own.”

Nikki put some Asian coleslaw on her plate and glanced around the enormous room with the office set, directly in front of them. Men and women moved around, adjusting cameras while munching on sandwich wraps and, apparently, spring rolls. “So, production is running on time, despite Ms. Elliot's loss?” she said, trying to put it as delicately as she could. It was Monday: Ryan hadn't been dead a week yet.

“What can I say? She's dedicated to her craft.” Megan gave a shrug. “Maybe it's easier to be here, working, rather than wandering around that big house of hers. All alone. Knowing he died there.” She shuddered. “I can't imagine.”

Nikki doubted Diara had even been allowed to enter her house yet. It was probably still taped off as a crime scene. She was most likely staying with friends, or maybe at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. It was where everybody who was anybody stayed.

“Have you heard when the funeral will be?” Nikki asked.

“He's being cremated.” Megan nodded to another young woman with a clipboard and headset walking by. “One of the stylists told me. Then a private memorial service, but no one knows when. I guess that's how you keep it private. Have you been by their house on Mulholland? People are leaving flowers and notes and teddy bears and stuff in front of their gate. I heard there were even people there with candles Saturday night, some kind of vigil.”

“The girl will be lucky if she can ever go home,” Victoria injected. “Is that turkey or chicken? I hope it's turkey.”

“Is Diara around?” Nikki glanced behind her. The studio was full of people coming and going: actors and actresses, the film, sound, and lights guys and gals. “I'd like to express my condolences.”

“Probably in her trailer.” Megan stood patiently at Victoria's side. “She's been totally professional, but she's not socializing with us much. Kameryn, Julian, and Angel were here all day Friday and again today. Mostly in Diara's trailer. You know, supporting her. Being there for her. They've been friends a long time. My little sister was into their show. She cut pictures from fan magazines and plastered them all over our bedroom wall. She was crazy-excited when she heard I got this job. She's in college now, but I bet she'd love autographs from the Disney Fab Four. I just haven't had the nerve to ask. It wouldn't really be appropriate right now, anyway. You know?”

Nikki's gaze settled on Kameryn Lowe, standing in the middle of the office set; she had joined the cast recently. She wasn't dressed for filming, though. She was wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and glasses. She faced Nikki, and was talking to her husband, Gil, whose back was to Nikki.

Nikki eyed Kameryn and Gil as she moved from dish to dish on the table, trying to only take a little of anything that looked too good to pass up. She couldn't hear what Kameryn and her husband were saying, but it seemed to be an intense conversation. Kameryn appeared upset; Gil was trying to calm her down. He reached out to put an arm around her shoulder, but she pulled away.

Victoria had mentioned that Diara had been instrumental in getting Kameryn the part of the lead male character's girlfriend. It really was about who you knew in Hollywood. It only made sense that Diara would have put in a good word for Kameryn. They'd been friends since middle-school age when they'd been cast on Disney's
School Dayz
, and had remained friends into adulthood.

“This okay, Ms. Bordeaux?” Seeing that Victoria had nearly finished making her selections, Megan had carried her cutlery and a bottle of water to a table with chairs set up in the food service area.

“Perfect,” Victoria called, now checking out the petite desserts.

Nikki skipped the desserts and walked to the table. “Mother said this was supposed to be a closed set since Ryan's death, but it doesn't look all that closed. Daughters, husbands . . .” She glanced at Kameryn and Gil.

Megan looked in the same direction and rolled her eyes. “Things would move faster around here if it was a closed set
all the time.
No offense meant,” she added quickly.

Nikki smiled, taking a seat. “None taken.”

“Kameryn's always got guests.” Megan returned her attention to Nikki. “And that's not even her husband.”

“It isn't?” Nikki did a double take. The two were still engaged in their intense conversation.

“Nope.” Megan leaned closer so no one walking past them would hear. “It's easy to mistake one for the other, but that's not Gil, that's Angel. Angel is a little taller,” she explained. “I think she and Angel dated at some point, but his wife is Betsy. She's super nice.”

“She is. I met her at Mother's.” Nikki stabbed a miniature-sized meatball with her plastic fork.

“See, Angel was in
School Dayz
with Diara, Kameryn, and Julian,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “They're like this.” She wrapped her middle finger around her index finger. “They're here all the time.”

“They are?” Nikki popped the mini meatball into her mouth.

Nikki was still looking at Kameryn and Angel when Kameryn looked right at them. Nikki dropped her gaze to her plate.

“Megan?” Kameryn waved her over. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Gotta run. Nice to meet you.” Megan gave Nikki a quick smile as she headed over. “Duty calls,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Nikki watched as Megan joined Kameryn and Angel. She couldn't really hear what Kameryn was saying, but it was something about the shooting schedule the following day. The three walked away.

“Nice girl,” Nikki observed as her mother joined her.

Victoria sat in a chair across the table from Nikki and spread her paper napkin across her lap. “Too nice sometimes. Did you try this?” She tapped something on her plate that looked like a miniature tamale. “Maybe I should take some home to Ina in a napkin. I imagine she could make them.”

“You said Megan is
too
nice.” Nikki nibbled on one of the spring rolls. Her mother was right; it was divine. “How so?”

“Kameryn and Diara.” Victoria pointed her plastic fork in the direction Kameryn, Angel, and Megan had gone. “She runs and fetches for them constantly.” Two men walked up to the food service table and Victoria lowered her voice. “These young women, they have Queen of the Nile Syndrome.”

“Queen of the Nile Syndrome?”

“They think they're deities. They're entirely too impressed with themselves and their fame. They have fancy trailers. They want a masseur and to have sushi delivered when there's perfectly good food here—” Victoria indicated her plate and then took another bite.

“Mother, you asked Megan to hold your plastic fork and knife for you. That's not acting like a star?”

Victoria looked at Nikki as if she had said something ridiculous. “I
am
a star,” she whispered.

Nikki couldn't resist a grin as she sampled a bit of smoked salmon.

“So, what have you found out?”

Nikki looked up at her mother. “About . . .”

“You know what about.” She glanced around as she patted her pink lips. They seemed to be able to retain lipstick even when she ate. “About Jeremy's sister. Did she do it?”

“Of course she didn't do it.”

Victoria did this thing with her mouth that always annoyed Nikki. It was her skeptical look.

“She
didn't
do it,” Nikki repeated.

“Maria told Ina that Jeremy's considering kicking his sister out of the house and getting custody of the child himself.”

Nikki exhaled in exasperation and leaned closer to her mother. The two men had filled their plates and taken seats at the other end of the table. “Jeremy is
not
kicking Alison out of his house, and he is
not
filing for custody of Jocelyn. Jeremy's housekeeper shouldn't be saying such things and yours shouldn't be repeating them.”

“So Jeremy doesn't think his sister had something to do with that young man's murder? Ina says Maria says there's a lot of tension in the house. That Jeremy and his sister went all weekend without saying a word to each other.”

Nikki pushed her plate aside. “Alison . . .” She groaned, debating how much to say. “Oh, it's going to come out in the papers anyway.” She looked up at her mother. “Alison had a run-in with the law. Years ago. Before she married and had Jocelyn.” She hesitated. “She may have participated in an armed robbery where a man was shot.”

Victoria pursed her lips. “May have?”

“She did,” Nikki conceded. “She was in the car, but, anyway, she got off on a technicality. But Jeremy was the one who bailed her out and then paid her legal fees. And she lied to him about the whole thing.”

“And now he doesn't trust her.”

Nikki nodded.

Victoria was quiet for a minute. “Why do the police think she did it?”

“Alison was there when a guy servicing the fish tank at Ryan and Diara's house found him dead. Alison had taken his dog to the park. With Stan and Ollie. Ryan Melton was killed with a dog leash. Strangled. Alison's fingerprints were on the leash.”

Victoria scowled. “Well, I would certainly hope so.”

“You would hope what?”

“That her fingerprints were on the leash. She wasn't doing her job if they weren't. Walking the dog.” She spread pâté on a cracker. “That's nonsense. What other evidence do they have?”