Authors: Michele Scott

Murder Uncorked (2 page)

BOOK: Murder Uncorked

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Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki
was
an aspiring actress, after all—a
profession
, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of
every
aspiring actress.

The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured.

Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her.

Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.

“It does.”

“Fatty?” The Bimbo asked.

“She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”

“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?”

“Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.”

The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.”

Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver
.

Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile.

“I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled.

“I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her.

“I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly.

“Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.”

“Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that?

Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink.

“Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table.

“What else is new?”

“You tell me. How’s the acting going?”

“Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.”

Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.”

Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?”

“Twelve,” he replied.

“Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t
just so
, then I’m the fall guy.”

“Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.”

Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.”

“Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table.

“It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.

“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.”

Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.

The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?”

That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.”
Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . .

“I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward.

The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.”

Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?”

The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.”

“I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on
that
,” Nikki muttered.
Oops
. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense.

“I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about
her
.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki.

“Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red.

Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo.

“Listen—”

Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.”

Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse.

Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.”

She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. “You have customers.”

“Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut.

He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.”

She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said.

The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too.

The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?”

“In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said.

“Be careful.”

Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk.

Now she’d have to figure out what her thing
really
was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position.

She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far.

She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino.

“I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?

“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?”

Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her.

BOOK: Murder Uncorked

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