Fifty-Three

After Kate left, I took to the floor, spreading out the timeline.

Jean married Paul Bern in 1932. Her mom and Bello were at the intimate wedding. But three months earlier, where was her mother? I glanced over at her timeline. Her mother and Bello were traveling and came back in time for the wedding.

A few weeks after that, Bello was in France, according to the postcard and to my sources at the embassy. He was “delivering a package.” Was it a baby?

It made sense. But whose baby was it?

Certainly not Jean Harlow’s.

My head hurt. This was the same spot I’d gotten to each time. How to unearth this answer?

“When you’re stuck, move on to something else. Works every time. Or take a shower. I get all my answers and ideas in the shower.”

I set aside the Harlow timeline and her mother’s timeline and examined Sam’s. I read over my questions scribbled on it. Now we had a few of those answers.

Had the look-alike connected with Justine while she was in New York? Yes.

When did she come here from Hollywood? Six months ago.

Where was she before she lived in Hollywood? London.

What did she do to make a living? Entertainer.

Family? Father: Luther Stone. Mother: Grace Harcourt.

Boyfriends? Nothing here.

Girlfriends? Nothing here.

I dialed my contact at the French embassy and left another message. Would he ever return my call? Or was I going to get on a train and visit DC? I hated the place and avoided it as much as possible.

Just when I set my phone down, it buzzed. It was Den.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Not good,” I said. “I’m getting nowhere.”

“Nothing here either, except we’ve been able to rule out that the killer was sitting in the center of Layla’s. He was nowhere in that section.”

“How did he even get in there anyway? It’s a members-only teahouse, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not significant because they were having some kinda membership drive that day. We’ve gone over the list of visitors and I’ve had guys calling and interviewing those folks. So far, nada.” He took in a breath. “Something’s gotta give soon, y’know?”

“Where did you say she got her implants?” I asked.

“London. That’s where she mostly lived. Where we’ve found out most about her. But she didn’t live there consistently. Like, we have addresses for six months, then nothing.”

“Like she was going off the grid?”

“Yeah, kinda like that.”

Unfortunately, transgender people were often forced to live off the grid as much as they could. But I imagined if she was estranged from a violent father, she’d have taken great care not to leave a trace.

“Why did she come to the US? To Hollywood?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.”

Then I remembered something I’d seen scribbled in the corner of the sheets in the folders. The word “Hollywood” poked me. Memory was an odd thing, the way it held things, and only let them out when it was damn good and ready to.

“Hold on, Den,” I said, reaching for the folder. I opened it and, yes, there it was: “Hollywood Genetic Labs.”

My heart nearly exploded in my chest.

“Den,” I said, my voice quivering, “I think she was here to get genetic testing. There’s scribbles on one of the sheets in the folder. Hollywood Genetic Labs.”

“Genetic testing?”

Then, like a curtain being lifted from my eyes: “Maybe she was sick? Or maybe trying to prove her relationship to someone.”

“Maybe Harlow?” Den said after a few moments. “Think about it. She looked like Harlow and was trying to make a career out of it. Money in the bank if she could prove a genetic link.”

“But Harlow had no children.” My brain raced. He was right. He had to be.

“Who else in her family could have? Her biological dad? Her mom?”

My brain circled around the facts and attempted to make connections. Her father had remarried, but he didn’t have any kids. Was Jean Harlow’s mother too old to have had a baby in 1932? I added the figures. She’d have been around fifty. People were having babies these days at that age. But then? I didn’t know. Was it possible?

“Den, you’re brilliant.”

He laughed. “I am?”

“It think it was her mother. Her mother and Bello must have had a baby they sent to live in France. That has to be it.”

“Then that baby would be Jean Harlow’s half sibling,” Den said.

“It makes sense she’d send her ring to a half sister,” I said. My heart was fluttering in excitement and awe. Good old Jean Harlow, so genuinely nice, thinking of her half sister even as she lay on her death bed.

“Okay,” Den said. “Interesting theory.”

I remembered the pleading emails. “Please don’t go public with this story. He will kill me.”

Those emails must have been from Sam/Jean. “He” must have referred to her father, Luther Stone.

Somehow, Justine had found the look-alike and protected her from her father by bringing her to stay at Club Circe.

Was this the big secret?

“Charlotte? You still there?”

“Yes, yes I am,” I said. “Things are making sense.”

“Okay, okay. Get more sources on this before you go half-cocked,” he said.

“I’m a researcher, Den. I never go off half-cocked. In fact, I believe nothing until I have three solid primary sources.”

“Oh? Good. Me too,” he said. “I’ll give the lab a call and get back with you.”

After we hung up, I reached for my laptop and keyed in “Hollywood Genetics.” Its specialty was the genetics of the stars. Of course. I clicked on the “News” tab and scrolled through. I saw nothing about Harlow. I kept scrolling—and there, eight months ago, was a news item stating they’d been able to get a sample from Jean Harlow. She’d left her DNA on clothes, brushes, cosmetics. It there were any relatives of hers around, it could now be proven.

There you had it.