Forty-Eight

I didn’t know how much longer I could put Lucille off. She called me at least twelve times within the next two-day period.

Finally, I answered the phone.

“Charlotte, where have you been? Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine. I’ve just been very busy,” I said, and told her about Justine’s suite in Club Circe.

“All very interesting, but what does it have to do with the book?”

“I’m not sure. But Justine may have found a new twist to the Harlow story,” I said, hunching over the desk with my head in my hand. Was Lucille going to buy any of this?

“The Harlow story has no twist,” she said. “This book is the definitive Harlow story. With a few new pictures, a few new remembrances, and that’s it. Harlow led a brief life and most of it was very much accounted for. What’s new under the sun?”

I paused before telling her more. I didn’t want her to think I was chasing clouds even though I might be. “When I was at home recovering, two packages arrived that Justine had sent before she died.”

Complete silence on the other end of the phone.

“One was her missing laptop. Unfortunately, it was wiped clean, though the police have been able to recover emails. They’ve already been looking at emails we accessed through her desktop computer. She was being threatened by several people.”

“Nothing new there, I’m afraid.”

“She wasn’t being warned about a lawsuit, but for her life. And she was murdered, so there is something to all this.”

Lucille sighed an impatient, get-to-it sigh. “Look, where are you going with this?”

“It’s possible Justine’s killer came after her because she was exposing a secret about Harlow, or because of the star sapphire ring.”

“What secrets are we talking about?” Lucille was interested. Her voice inflected upwards.

“I think it has something to do with Marino Bello.”

“Her mother’s husband? What? Did he make a pass or throw himself at Harlow? What?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. But that’s not what I’m saying.” I explained the postcards and letter Justine had sent to me.

“All very interesting,” Lucille said. “But it appears to be leading nowhere. I’ve got a production schedule to maintain. We’ve already let it slide a few times.”

There was bite in her tone, which sent my heart racing. This woman had worked with Justine for years. She was one of the best editors out there. I wanted her to think highly of me.

“But then again,” she continued, with another sigh. “Justine always said you were a kick-ass researcher. I can give you a few more days. If there’s not a story here, you’ll have to get me that manuscript ASAP. Do you understand?”

Justine had told her about me. “Yes. I won’t let you down,” I said. And I won’t let Justine down either.

“I hope not.”

“I contacted the French embassy. They were able to confirm that Bello was there. And it worked out with the Harlow timeline. But what we don’t know is what he was doing there.”

“It sounds like there may have been a secret baby. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Jean Harlow’s movements are well accounted for. She was on-screen or rehearsing so much, she couldn’t have been out for any length of time. Every time she gained weight her mother placed her on a strict diet. There are records about it.”

“Plus she had two abortions, didn’t she?” Lucille asked. Papers shuffled in the background. “Just a minute.” She covered the phone and came back.

“Yes, she had two we know of,” I said. “All of her medical records are available.”

“Hmmm,” Lucille said. “Stay in touch, Charlotte. We’re cutting it very close. I don’t want to have to track you down.”

“Understood,” I said.

“I heard from Severn Hartwell, you know, and he’s just waiting for us to drop the ball on this book.”

“What? I wish he’d mind his own business.”

“He has no business. The man is broke. And no editor or agent will work with him. He’s not earned out his latest advances and he’s deeply in debt.”

“That’s surprising,” I said. But it made sense now why Hartwell had been hanging around me. Perhaps he considered the Harlow book his last chance. He was desperate. But was he desperate enough to kill?

“Justine was one of the few writers I ever knew who could make more than a living at this profession. Hartwell is more typical of authors,” she said. “Are you certain you want to be a writer?”

“I’m afraid there’s no turning back now.”

There comes a time in everybody’s life where you have to be honest with yourself. Defining yourself is difficult. But I’d always wanted to write, and now I wasn’t qualified to do anything else but research and write. I might be broke the rest of my life pursing my dream, and I’d made my peace with it. I didn’t need much, anyway. I wasn’t into expensive clothes, makeup, or any frivolity. I needed a small apartment and my computer, and enough food to get by.

Funny. I’d never even thought about all of that before. Until that moment. Few authors ever reached Justine’s fame and fortune. But most writers, like me, didn’t care. You had to do it, because you loved it, and no other reason sufficed.