stepped back.
Victoria met Nikki’s gaze as she opened the doors. I’ll chat, you snoop, she mouthed.
Nikki rolled her eyes.
“Abe, oh dear heavens,” Victoria cried, sweeping into the French-paneled room with its patterned wood floors and twelve-foot ceilings.
The room was smartly decorated with French antique furniture, Turkish carpets, and modern artwork. A large gold-gilded mirror on the wall, which Nikki had always admired, was draped in black fabric, a sign of mourning.
Abe Bernard and his ex-wife, Melinda, rose from a settee where they had been sitting, heads together in a private conversation. Abe extended his hands as he crossed the room. “Victoria, how kind of you to come.” He was a short man, with a paunch, white hair, and heavy black-framed glasses. A Martin Scorsese look-alike. Unlike most in Hollywood, he looked his age: seventy. His eyes were a pale blue, almost gray . . . and red from tears.
Nikki’s chest felt tight at the thought of Abe crying for the son he had just lost. Even if Eddie was a jerk, he was still Abe’s child.
Victoria ignored the hand Abe offered and lifted up on her kitten heels and hugged him, her emotion genuine. “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking up at him. “Let’s face it, we all feared something like this might happen to Eddie, but—”
“Mother,” Nikki intoned.
“What?” Victoria glanced over her shoulder at Nikki, then back at Abe. “Abe and I have been friends too long and we’re too old for dancing around issues, any issue, no matter how touchy it might be.” She grasped both his hands in her tiny ones, looking up into his eyes. “I’m sorry about Eddie and I’m sorry that our gardener is a suspect. He didn’t do it, but that’s neither here nor there right now, is it?” She gave his hands a squeeze before releasing them.
Abe bowed his head. “This is my fault. It’s my fault. If only I’d dealt with Eddie differently. If only I’d—”
“Now, now,” Victoria interrupted. “You mustn’t do this to yourself.”
“Abe.” Nikki gave him a quick hug. He smelled of Old Spice cologne and cigars. She looked into his kind eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“So are we, for all of us,” he agreed. “Your mother’s right. Such a tragedy. And such a mess. I know Ina must be beside herself.” That was Abe. He probably knew the names of all the housekeepers on the street. The gardeners, too.
Victoria was hugging Melinda, the two speaking quietly. Victoria asked her if her daughter would be arriving soon. Emily, Eddie’s younger sister, was traveling out of the country, with her rock star boyfriend. Apparently, Emily was trying to make arrangements to return to the States.
Next, Nikki hugged Melinda, whose appearance reflected that her only son had just been murdered. Her clothes were uncharacteristically rumpled, her face red, and there was mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
Ginny stood, dry eyed, on the far side of the room, near the fireplace with the white marble mantel, nursing a drink. She seemed to be hanging back, which Nikki thought was appropriate, in this situation. After all, Eddie had been Abe and Melinda’s son, not hers. Nikki nodded in her direction. Ginny nodded back, lifted her glass, and took a sip.
Ginny’s twenty-year-old daughter, Lissa, dressed in a short, red knit skirt, body-skimming tank, and spike heels, stood behind her mother, texting on her cell phone.
Abe introduced Nikki and Victoria to several people in the room: two male friends from the studios and their wives, a producer Nikki knew, a female cousin of Ginny’s, and a few others. A writer immediately started talking to Victoria about a guest spot on a new series he was developing.
Nikki made her way across the room, feeling totally awkward. The mourners had broken up into groups, the largest one now gathering around Victoria. Lissa was still in her own little world, texting. Nikki walked over to near where Ginny stood; Ginny didn’t say
Victoria met Nikki’s gaze as she opened the doors. I’ll chat, you snoop, she mouthed.
Nikki rolled her eyes.
“Abe, oh dear heavens,” Victoria cried, sweeping into the French-paneled room with its patterned wood floors and twelve-foot ceilings.
The room was smartly decorated with French antique furniture, Turkish carpets, and modern artwork. A large gold-gilded mirror on the wall, which Nikki had always admired, was draped in black fabric, a sign of mourning.
Abe Bernard and his ex-wife, Melinda, rose from a settee where they had been sitting, heads together in a private conversation. Abe extended his hands as he crossed the room. “Victoria, how kind of you to come.” He was a short man, with a paunch, white hair, and heavy black-framed glasses. A Martin Scorsese look-alike. Unlike most in Hollywood, he looked his age: seventy. His eyes were a pale blue, almost gray . . . and red from tears.
Nikki’s chest felt tight at the thought of Abe crying for the son he had just lost. Even if Eddie was a jerk, he was still Abe’s child.
Victoria ignored the hand Abe offered and lifted up on her kitten heels and hugged him, her emotion genuine. “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking up at him. “Let’s face it, we all feared something like this might happen to Eddie, but—”
“Mother,” Nikki intoned.
“What?” Victoria glanced over her shoulder at Nikki, then back at Abe. “Abe and I have been friends too long and we’re too old for dancing around issues, any issue, no matter how touchy it might be.” She grasped both his hands in her tiny ones, looking up into his eyes. “I’m sorry about Eddie and I’m sorry that our gardener is a suspect. He didn’t do it, but that’s neither here nor there right now, is it?” She gave his hands a squeeze before releasing them.
Abe bowed his head. “This is my fault. It’s my fault. If only I’d dealt with Eddie differently. If only I’d—”
“Now, now,” Victoria interrupted. “You mustn’t do this to yourself.”
“Abe.” Nikki gave him a quick hug. He smelled of Old Spice cologne and cigars. She looked into his kind eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“So are we, for all of us,” he agreed. “Your mother’s right. Such a tragedy. And such a mess. I know Ina must be beside herself.” That was Abe. He probably knew the names of all the housekeepers on the street. The gardeners, too.
Victoria was hugging Melinda, the two speaking quietly. Victoria asked her if her daughter would be arriving soon. Emily, Eddie’s younger sister, was traveling out of the country, with her rock star boyfriend. Apparently, Emily was trying to make arrangements to return to the States.
Next, Nikki hugged Melinda, whose appearance reflected that her only son had just been murdered. Her clothes were uncharacteristically rumpled, her face red, and there was mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
Ginny stood, dry eyed, on the far side of the room, near the fireplace with the white marble mantel, nursing a drink. She seemed to be hanging back, which Nikki thought was appropriate, in this situation. After all, Eddie had been Abe and Melinda’s son, not hers. Nikki nodded in her direction. Ginny nodded back, lifted her glass, and took a sip.
Ginny’s twenty-year-old daughter, Lissa, dressed in a short, red knit skirt, body-skimming tank, and spike heels, stood behind her mother, texting on her cell phone.
Abe introduced Nikki and Victoria to several people in the room: two male friends from the studios and their wives, a producer Nikki knew, a female cousin of Ginny’s, and a few others. A writer immediately started talking to Victoria about a guest spot on a new series he was developing.
Nikki made her way across the room, feeling totally awkward. The mourners had broken up into groups, the largest one now gathering around Victoria. Lissa was still in her own little world, texting. Nikki walked over to near where Ginny stood; Ginny didn’t say
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