Sixty

W e planned the press conference down to the most minute details. We publicized it, announcing that the public would be allowed as room permitted, figuring most people couldn’t care less about Jean Harlow or her ring.

Only the press and the Jean Harlow “kooks,” as Justine had hailed them, would care. Lucille wrote a speech and planned to do most of the speaking. She assured me this was her kind of thing. “I’m ready for my close-up,” she joked as we sat in what they called a green room. Dressed in a classic blue suit, evidently leaving the argyle behind for official functions, Lucille seemed ready for anything.

“Jean Harlow didn’t say that, you know. Some people think she did, but it was Gloria Swanson.”

“I thought it was Mae West.” She glanced at herself in the mirror.

“No.” I’d eaten a large breakfast, which was unlike me, and now I regretted it. “Ladies’ room.”

“Again?” Lucille said as I left the room.

When I returned to the green room, Jonathan, the head of the security detail, stood there, along with Den, who was not officially there but working with the security because of his knowledge of the case. Police officers, however, were scattered around the block on alert.

Den handed Jonathan photos. “This is our guy, though he’s known to disguise himself.”

“Got it,” he said, then took photos with his phone and I presumed sent them to his crew.

I took the ring out of my purse and slipped it onto my finger.

“That’s it, huh?” Lucille said. “It’s really quite gaudy.”

I agreed. There was nothing pretty about it. It resembled smoky blue marble, and it was difficult to wear. I’d seen photos of Harlow wearing it and the ring didn’t even suit her.

“Changing times and styles, I guess,” I said.

She stood and motioned for me to stand. This was it. Pulses of something like a fluttery electricity shot through my center. Nervous one minute, the next, impatient to get this over with. This was our last shot. If it didn’t work, the case would slow down, making it even more difficult to nab the slippery Luther Stone.

Den grabbed me by the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said. I nodded back at him.

“It’s imperative you follow our instructions,” Jonathan said. “We need to keep you safe.”

Sweat beads pricked my forehead. Was I going to do this?

The three of us—Jonathan, Lucille, and myself—walked out onto the platform. Jonathan said something into his shoulder mic as Lucille stood behind the podium.

Flashes from cameras went off, and then it settled down as Lucille spoke about the Harlow book and the ring.

I studied the audience and spotted Natalie. A sea of faces focused in our direction, some in the light and some in the shadow. They were bobbing between one another, trying to get the best view or camera shot.

Nobody there even remotely resembled Luther Stone, but more people appeared to be entering, as was always the case with press conferences. People came and went.

I intently scanned the audience and wasn’t listening to Lucille. One face popped out at me. It wasn’t Stone, but it was Severn Hartwell. What the hell was he doing here? Had Den told Jonathan about Hartwell? I didn’t think so. They’d focused on Stone. I tried to hail Jonathan, but it was no use. He was fixated on the room. I finally tugged at his sleeve and he looked at me with a question on his face. “What?”

“There’s someone here you should know about,” I whispered into his ear. “He’s dangerous.”

He leaned forward, confused.

I didn’t want to point, which would alert Hartwell.

“And so I give you Charlotte Donovan, who is wearing Jean Harlow’s blue star sapphire ring,” Lucille said with excitement.

All eyes turned toward me.

Jonathan gestured for me to move forward behind the podium.

The bullet-proof podium.

As I took my spot, more people came into view.

“Getting to know Jean Harlow and her family has been a remarkable experience,” I said into the microphone, as rehearsed. My heart thudded against my rib cage, unrehearsed.

Severn Hartwell moved ahead, breaking from the crowd. There was more movement in another part of the flock and a familiar face came forward. Chad Walters. Shit. Did the security people know about Chad Walters? Two of the men I’d had run-ins with were here, but not the killer.

I didn’t even know where to gaze next. There were two of them, both edging their way forward. Had security noticed? Had Den? He’d recognize both of them.

“So many facets of her life remain a mystery. But we are all entitled to some mystery and privacy in our lives. Even if you are the original blonde bombshell.” I attempted to smile. A few people in the throng laughed.

Hartwell was closer than Walters, who was stuck in the pack. I watched Hartwell and then watched Walters. I willed Den to pay attention, to recognize these two men. They might be every bit as dangerous as Stone. Please, Den.

“One of the many mysteries about Jean Harlow has been solved. The blue star sapphire ring that the great love of her life gave to her now sits on my finger.” I held up my hand, and the flock hushed as photographers snapped away.

Den appeared next to Hartwell. Thank God. Thank God he’d spotted him.

Security had closed the door and weren’t allowing anybody else into the room. That was part of the plan if Stone was identified. But where was he? Was he in the crowd? He must be here. I tamped down a jolt of panic.

Just then, Hartwell lunged forward, making a dash for the podium. Gasps came from the crowd as the press snapped pictures. Den apprehended him and dragged him off.

“You bitch!” Hartwell yelled. “The ring should be mine! The story should be mine!” His words became garbled as he was led away.

The crowd simmered down, and I cleared my throat. But something was wrong. Where was Walters? I’d lost track of him.

Just as I thought I’d spotted him again, a man jumped out of the crowd onto the platform and grabbed me. He poked something hard into my ribs and yanked me backward, just as Jonathan lifted his hands as if to say he wasn’t armed.

Luther Stone!

As Stone wrapped his arm around my neck, my gaze fell to the object sticking into me—a gun.

This is not happening. This is a nightmare. This is not happening. I’ll close my eyes, and when I open them, this will all be gone. Close. Open.

Still he was there, his arm wrapped around my neck making it hard to breathe. I gagged.

“Just give me the ring,” he said.

I didn’t care about the damn ring. “Take it.”

“Hold on just one minute,” a voice said from the side. It was Chad Walters, who also had a gun. “If anybody gets that ring, it’s me.” He was unnervingly calm.

Walters moved forward. Luther reacted by pulling me in harder. “I’ll shoot her.”

Walters smiled a vicious smile. “Do you think I care?”

I glanced up at Jonathan. What the fuck good was he? What was he doing, standing there with his hands up?

What were members of the press doing, milling around watching this? Was nobody going to help me? “You can only help yourself, honey. Nobody else gives a shit. Not really.”

Walters’s face grimaced in pain and he fell forward. Blood spread across his back. What the—?

“He’s been shot,” Luther Stone said, realizing there was a shooter out there. He dragged me backward and stumbled enough to let go of me for just a few seconds, but it was sufficient for me to shake loose of him, twist, and grab for his gun.

The weapon was now in my hands. I held it and found it heavier than I imagined. It was moving. Why?

Luther’s hands rose. “Now, now Charlotte. You don’t want to shoot me.”

Within a nano-second, Den was by my side. “Give me the gun, Charlotte.”

Why would I do that? I pointed the gun at the man who’d killed Justine and the Jean Harlow look-alike. I had him. A welling of power surged in me. The voices of the crowd behind me hushed. Security took control of the swarm, escorting them out. I stood with the shaking gun aimed at Luther Stone. His evil hooded eyes filled with fear.

“Charlotte,” Den said with firmness.

I heard him. But I also heard other voices. Justine. Jean Harlow. The look-alike. Other women. Other men. How many others?

“You don’t want to do this,” he said.

Yes I do.

I lowered the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.