Twenty-Seven

W hen I sat down at Justine’s computer, I had every intention of writing an email. But as I read over the threatening words of that first email again, uncertainty crept in.

“I’ll kill you. I swear if you go public with this I’ll kill you,” it said.

What could be so important and secretive about Jean Harlow’s life that someone had threatened to kill Justine to keep it private? I’d convinced myself the murder had something to do with the sapphire ring, but as I read the email this time, my theory made no sense. Going public with the fact that the ring had resurfaced wasn’t enough to kill someone, was it?

I could just ask, couldn’t I? After all, that was why I’d sat down here. I would email back, explaining that I had taken over writing the book and requesting that he or she fill me in.

Why not?

The person could be a nut job. But their beef was with Justine, not me. Although perhaps their problem would be with anyone writing the Harlow book.

Another notion caught my mind. One of those nagging ethical dilemmas placed into my brain years ago by a journalism professor. What would you do for a story? For the truth? Do you owe it to your readers to deliver it without hesitation? Why write biographies if they are just going to perpetuate the same stories repeatedly?

There was nothing new in this book. It was Jean Harlow’s biography, written in a fresher style, repackaged, with the famous Justine Turner’s byline. But connecting this tale with the importance of the ring, along with the existence of my beautiful stalker and the fact of Justine’s murder, would give me a real story. Meaty.

I had no proof of connections anywhere, though. Not yet. And I had to wonder if telling Harlow’s story was worth dealing with a potential threat because of the ring—or because of some rumor of a deep, dark family secret?

I typed the words: “To whom it may concern.”

Okay, that was a good start. What to say now? Excuse me, why did you threaten Justine?

I paused. How to handle this? I heard Justine’s words: “I always say sleep on it.”

Okay, I was going to table this until the morning.

But the next day my mind was even more murky. I would just focus on getting words on the page.

A few more days of writing, secluded in Justine’s place, and I’d not heard a word from either Madonna or Marilyn Monroe. Nor did I see the Jean Harlow look-alike during any of my Central Park jaunts. Perhaps my strategy had failed.

I read over the last chapter I’d completed, adding a few commas and fixing spelling errors.

I was feeling very familiar with Jean Harlow. Or, Harlean Carpenter. This happened with every subject during the writing of the book. I’d refer to them in present tense as they became a part of my thought process—it was as if they were still alive. For example, I’d run across a certain style of a dress and think, “Oh, Clara would adore this.” Seriously. It was like living in a strange time warp. Just me and my imaginary friends.

After we finished the books—or at least, up until that point—I would go into my ritualistic hibernation mode for a few days. A cleansing. Sometimes I started pre-researching the next biography during that phase. I didn’t know if this would be the case for the Harlow book, since it differed from the get go. And now, with Justine gone, I wasn’t certain where any of this left my career.

For all of my talk of selling out to be her lackey, Justine had been a good mentor, guiding me through the difficult, almost impene­trable publishing world. All I wanted to do was write—but writers no longer had that luxury. We needed to market, do social media, and blog.

Justine’s agent and publisher tended to most of those details. She was a force in the publishing business. But I was not. I didn’t expect the publisher to work as hard for me.

But I was carrying on Justine’s legacy with this book. Wasn’t I?

My cell phone buzzed.

I recognized the number. It was Lucille, the editor. Calling to check on the manuscript. I’d gotten a lot of work done. But what to say about the revelations nagging at me? Again, I let the phone go to voicemail.

I stood and stretched and walked out onto the apartment balcony. The day had warmed, shifting to more summer than spring. The sky was as blue as I’d ever seen, with big puffy white clouds floating by. Maybe I should finish the book, hang onto the ring until I could hand it over to the proper person, and then put all this behind me. After all, I needed to find a job.

My cell beckoned me back inside the apartment.

Den’s number blinked onto my screen.

“Hello, Den,” I said. “Any news?”

A long pause. Then, “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve got bad news for you.”

A rushing, sinking feeling came over me. What could be that bad? Here I was with a ring in my purse that people were killing for, a woman resembling Jean Harlow had been stalking me, and death threats were appearing on the computer screen. Not to mention my boss had been murdered.

How could it possibly get worse?