Read Online Imitation of Death by Cheryl Crane - Free Book Online Page B

great room, with its honey-glazed wood paneling and another marble-mantled fireplace lined with glazed herringbone brick. The mirror in that room was also draped in black. On the other side of the hall was a light-filled space that could have been used for a morning room or a music room. She walked past the wrought-iron black-and-gold staircase that was characteristic of the French Regency time period. Past the stairs was a handsome study with paneled walls and a floor of polished wood.
    Up the stairs, Nikki knew, was a master bedroom with a balcony and his and hers dressing rooms and bathrooms. There was a “lady’s office” on the same floor and two additional bedrooms. On the third floor were four more bedroom suites. Below the stairs, in the basement, was a media room, a wine cellar, an additional bedroom suite, and a large man-cave, where Abe enjoyed spending time alone. It was a gorgeous house, one that maybe only a person like Nikki, who had seen a million gorgeous houses, could truly appreciate.
    She followed the hall to the opposite wing, through a breakfast room with a double-barreled vaulted ceiling, to the cook’s kitchen, featuring a stone hood over a Lacanche range and a striking marble center island. Sure enough, there on the counter was a Tiffany & Co. sterling-and-crystal ice bucket. Ashley-the-assistant was MIA.
    A tall woman with rich ebony skin, silky black hair, and the most amazing blue eyes, stood at the counter. She was wearing a white chef’s coat and teasing Victoria’s Uruguayan caviar into a tiny silver server.
    The woman, who Nikki thought she recognized, looked up as Nikki entered the room. Nikki could tell that the woman recognized her . It was a familiar look. She got it a lot.
    “Hi. I’m Nikki Harper, from next door.”
    This was Ellen Mar, who had won a competition on a food wars show on the Food Network, making her an instant celebrity. Nikki had read an article a few days earlier, touting the Baltimore native as the latest, greatest TV chef in America. She had won the competition by creating desserts that appeared to be main dishes from around the world: Nutella crepes that looked like Pad Thai noodles with peanut sauce, a lemon tart that looked like Bath Street sushi, and cupcakes that looked like spaghetti and meatballs. Her prize had been a hundred thousand dollars and her own TV show on the Food Network, featuring this new, bizarre form of cuisine.
    “Ellen Mar. It’s nice to meet you.” The chef walked around the kitchen counter, which was the size of a small aircraft carrier, offering her hand. “I’m a friend of Abe’s.” Her handshake was firm. Confident.
    Nikki liked her at once. She didn’t seem intimidated by Nikki, nor overly impressed. “It’s so nice to meet you. My mother’s a big fan. We watched you compete on the What It Isn’t food challenge. I’m fascinated by the way you can take ground beef and make it look like a cupcake . . . or the other way around.” Nikki chuckled. “Though I have to admit it weirds me out a little. I sort of like my Jell-O pudding to look like Jell-O pudding.”
    Ellen laughed; she had a musical voice. “That’s okay. The whole idea weirds me out a little, too.” She walked back around to where she’d been working at the counter. “That was definitely not my forte, originally.” She shrugged. “But the opportunity presented itself.”
    “And now you’ve got your own show,” Nikki said.
    “Thanks mostly to Abe. He’s got a small satellite company that’s going to tape the show right here in L.A.”
    “Have you started taping?”
    Ellen opened a drawer and produced a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon. “We start this week.”
    The sound of Ashley’s voice caught Nikki’s attention. She was in a room off the kitchen, talking on the phone. Nikki glanced in that direction, then back at Ellen. “Well, congratulations.” She indicated the ice bucket. “I came for more ice.”
    “I can do that, if you want to join