Thirty-Six

Any more clues?” Kate asked, wide-eyed, then bit into her slice of pizza. It wasn’t bad. The wine made it even better.

I glared at her. Kate didn’t trust me to be alone with Den. Hell, I didn’t trust myself—but no matter.

“Just the numbers on her implants, which we’re still working on. Nothing new,” Den said. “But I wondered if maybe we’re overlooking something.” He drank from his wine glass, his eyes never leaving mine. Smoldering. Wanting. I was starting not to care about the five hundred dollar bet.

Kate cleared her throat. “Like what?”

“I should tell you that Kate and I went to the Dream Girl show a few times,” I said quickly. “I talked with the Madonna impersonator before you-know-who caught me.”

“You did what?” Den laid his pizza down on the plate.

“I figured that call I got had to be from one of the impersonators I’d met, right? So I wanted to ask them about it. But I got nowhere with that.”

“Too much interference on your part. This is an ongoing police investigation.” Serious tone. Blank expression.

“Yes, but—“

“Besides, these people are dangerous. The look-alike was killed, and Justine was killed. Do you want to be next?”

A chill came over me. He’d verbalized how I felt. As if I might be next on the kill-list of people connected by Harlow. But how and why?

“Leave this kind of in-person questioning up to us. Research on the computer, that’s one thing.”

Kate spoke up. “But you’re a cop. These people won’t tell you anything. They might trust Charlotte more.”

Her words hung in the air, and we all went back to our pizza and wine. Touchy subject these days, cops and trust.

“We did learn that the Jean Harlow impersonator was at the Dream Girl agency using their computer,” I said.

“We knew that, right? The computer guys told us that. We knew Sal was lying.”

“The Madonna impersonator said Harlow’s dad probably killed her,” Kate said. “But she had no names at all.”

Den’s mouth puckered to the side. “So here’s what we have. We’re sure of the method for Justine’s murder and we’ve got DNA of the person who killed her. We still don’t know who the Harlow character is, how she was murdered, or if the two murders have anything to do with one another.”

“But the Harlow look-alike was following me, which leads me to believe she was after me for a reason. Why me? Because I’m now working on the book?”

“That’s when most of the stuff happened to you. After the announcement at Justine’s service,” Kate said.

“Which all begs the question, why?” Den said. “I mean, Christ, is there a secret baby or something in Harlow’s past?”

“Nah. Even if there was, what would be the big deal about that at this point in time?” I asked. “I mean, yes, it would be big news if there was a living blood relative of hers. But at this point, who would have a stake in it? Who would care enough to try to keep it a secret?”

Den shrugged.

“There must be some kind of secret,” Kate said. “A secret someone will kill for.”

Once again, chills came over me and I shivered.

“Are you cold?” Den asked.

“No, just felt a chill.”

My phone beeped. It was the New York Public Library. “Oh! Excuse me, I have to take this.” I answered it and walked back into the library. “Charlotte Donovan.”

“Hi Charlotte, it’s me, Lizzie. You won’t believe what I’ve found.”

Lizzie Hill was a digital archivist at the New York Public Library of the Performing Arts. I adored her. She was one of the sources for my biography research who never failed me—and she was lovely to boot.

“What?”

“Do you remember the famous reel of film of Jean Harlow that we all thought was lost?”

“I’m not following.” Maybe I’d already had too much wine. Or perhaps I was just too tired and scared with all this talk of murder.

“The outtake of her in the bath scene!”

“Oh!”

“I’ve already sent you a copy. Check your email.”

“Thank you so much, Lizzie, for contacting me about this.”

“Any time,” she said. “This is a major find, but I’m keeping it to myself for a little while longer. Call it the librarian’s quiet revenge.”

I laughed. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”

“But check it out. It’s amazing. She was so comfortable in her skin. I’ve seen nothing like it.”

My stomach fluttered. How lovely it would be to be that way.

“I’ll watch it tonight.”

“Great, get back to me soon,” she said, signing off.

I called Den and Kate into the library and turned on my computer. “I’ve got something to show you. This is a rare clip.”

“Cool,” Kate said.

“Let’s turn off the lights. We’ll be able to see it better.”

Kate complied, and I pressed play on my laptop.

Red Dust. I recognized the scene. Jean in an old-fashioned wash tub, giving herself a bubble bath. A famous scene.

Jean’s voice was not crisp and clear. Muffled, as if through a tunnel from a distance.

“This is for the boys in the editing room!” she said and stood, revealing her naked self.

A valuable outtake. Not public. Only collectors had ever seen it—and the lucky folks who’d been there.

The black-white-gray lights stopped flicking and the film came to a standstill. There was Harlean Carpenter, Jean Harlow, standing naked, arms lifted, reveling in a joyous, fun moment. “Lighthearted” was the word that came to mind. Who could stand there naked like that, in front of all those people, and be so comfortable and have fun? There was something innocent and natural about it—childlike, even though she certainly wasn’t a child.

My heart exploded with some unnameable longing, twisted with another emotion. Admiration? Envy?

“Stunning,” Kate whispered.

Den breathed out. “Yeah. Wow.”