Forty-Seven

After Den dropped me off, I headed to a nearby deli for food. I ended up with two bags filled with meat, cheese, olives, two kinds of bread, and wine. A feast for a queen.

When I entered L’Ombragé, I stopped cold. There stood Judith Turner, glaring at me with evil spewing forth from her beady, made- up eyes. I started to walk by her and she grabbed me, almost causing me to drop my groceries.

“Let go of me.” I jerked my arm away from her.

“Don’t tell me you’re still staying here,” she said, with a sweep of her eyes up and down my person. With one glance, she communicated exactly what she thought of me. I regretted that. After all, she was Justine’s cousin, her only living relative.

“I am,” I replied. “I’m still cleaning and sorting her apartment. And then there’s my work. I’m finishing the Harlow biography.”

“You need not live here to write,” Judith said.

I shifted my weight. How could she appreciate anything about what I needed to do to finish the book? I shrugged. “I’m sorry?”

“Why don’t you move out? And leave the place and all of its belongings to someone who was actually related to Justine.”

“According to Justine’s will—”

“Pshaw! I’m certain you coerced her.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “If you think I could talk Justine into anything, it shows how little you knew your cousin.”

The security guard eyed us.

“I know she loved me,” Judith said.

The bags were getting heavy in my arms. “She only mentioned you once to me.”

“You are the help. Why would you know anything at all about the real Justine?”

I wanted to say that no, I don’t know much, but I’m learning more every day. Justine has a hidden room full of stolen Hollywood memorabilia and art. She hid out at Club Circe for weeks before her death.

I wondered how much Judith Turner actually understood about her cousin.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of Justine Turner,” she said.

A sharp, chilling prickle traveled up my spine. I wanted to smack Judith, but my arms were full. And God only knew what she’d do if I hit her. I needed to escape to the elevator and get back to the apartment.

I started to walk by her, but I stopped. “You know what? I already wish I’d never heard of Justine. Do you think I like any of this? Do you think I like cleaning up her mess? Finishing the book she didn’t finish? Trying to figure out who killed her? Have people chasing after me because of it? No, lady. Being Justine’s assistant was never a picnic. Especially not now.”

Judith’s mouth flung open, as if in shock. I headed toward the elevator in tears. I pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.

It was all true, wasn’t it? Justine could anger me like no other person, except perhaps my mother. I was pissed. The messes she’d left me with were difficult to clean up. In fact, she hadn’t made it easy for me at any turn. We’d now solved one mystery: she’d stayed at Club Circe in the weeks before her murder. But the members wouldn’t let Den and me inside to explore. It could take days if not weeks to get the search warrant.

And she’d left me with a pile of illegal Hollywood crap to deal with.

What was I going to do with all of it, let alone the ring in my purse I had yet to tell Den about?

Yeah, Justine had educated me about publishing, and she gave me a chance when nobody else would, but damn, I was angry with her. Why hadn’t she trusted me enough to take me in to her confidence?

The elevator stopped and opened to Justine’s floor. I sat the bags of groceries down while I rummaged for the key and opened the door. I’d been anticipating my little feast. But now my stomach had soured. I stashed all the groceries in their rightful places and opened a bottle of wine.

My Saturday night would be wine and work. I poured myself a glass and headed into the library, flipped open my computer, and wrote. Damn, I needed to finish the book and get people like Judith Turner, Severn Hartwell, and Chad Walters out of my life—for good. Let alone scar face.

My phone beeped. It was my Tinder account. One of my favorite cops asking if I could get together tonight. Such late notice. I glanced at the clock. I considered it. After all, my month was up and I could use a zesty diversion.

But Den Brophy plucked at my mind. I didn’t see why. He’d sent signals of his disinterest. Perhaps I was even more attracted to him because of his lack of interest. When I was attacked in the park, he’d been there for me, but from the moment he’d placed me on that boat, his sour expression and sick stance had said it all.

I wrote back to Zach. “Not tonight. I’m sorry. I’m on deadline.”

That was true. I needed to stay focused. Words were flowing.

And it wasn’t because I was hung up on Den. No. I don’t get hung up on anybody.