With Rose.
I silently move around the staircase to the wall blocking my view into the study and do a quick peek. He’s right there. His back is to me while Rose is in front of the desk facing him.
If she spotted me over his shoulder, I have no idea.
"For the first time in years,” Rose tells George, “I have tremendous clarity. For that, I thank you. Here's how this will go. This story is getting written. With or without your cooperation. So you may as well tell me everything you know about Jackson Harlan and the Grande fire."
“Or what?”
“Or I call. The. Police.”
Crap. Was that a message? Her emphasis on the word police makes me think so. Did she see me when I peeked in and she wants me to call them?
Dang it. I don’t know what to do.
This was supposed to be a retrospective. A damned anniversary article! And somehow, I’ve managed to get myself into the middle of a murder.
“Call the police,” George says. “They can’t help you.”
His voice is low. Smug. As if he already knows something Rose doesn’t. And that pisses me off.
That’s it.
I’m calling. I need a landline, though. I know enough about cell towers to know if I call on my mobile I’ll have to actually tell the operator my address—and risk George hearing me—or they have to contact the phone company for my location. And even that could put them miles away.
I run back to the kitchen, grab the cordless, dial 911, and not wanting to be away from Rose too long, run back down the hall, leaving the phone on the staircase so George—unless he has bionic hearing—won’t hear the dispatcher. If I don’t respond, the dispatcher will send someone.
“This story,” Rose says, “is getting told. You may as well give us your side of it.”
"And risk losing everything? My marriage, my friends. Freedom? I’ll never let that happen."
“George! Stay where you are!”
Rose’s voice is sharp, the level rising way—way—above her Haughty Rose tone and I don’t like it. I don’t like that I can’t see and I really don’t like that this guy thinks he can threaten a woman. I’ve had it with men who think they can intimidate us because of our gender.
The Charlie Carter helplessness I’ve kept simmering unleashes itself and fury spews inside me. I’m done. I swing into the room.
George’s back is to me, but he’s crowding in on Rose. He’s tall, but so is Rose, so he’s not towering over her, but…his hands. They’re balled into fists at his sides and he’s definitely in violation of personal space codes.
That’s another thing I’m sick of. First the goon in my apartment, then the jerk on the beach, and now this?
Done.
“Hey!”
He spins around, his head snapping back. I surprised him. Good.
I stab my finger at him. “Back off, asshole.”
The a-word comes out a little too loud, but hey, this guy has pissed me off. Plus, he is an asshole. Keeping my gaze on George, I take a step closer. “Rose, move. Right now.”
Slowly, she slides around the edge of the desk. If nothing else, it’s two against one. He may be bigger and stronger, but the odds are in our favor.
Still, I give the room a quick scan for a possible weapon and spot a crystal vase on a side table near the window.
No good.
Not thick enough to bash a skull, but—the lamp. The iron floor lamp Rose gave Simon as a gift could do some damage.
I sidestep, moving slowly closer to it. Rose does the same, the two of us now just feet apart and facing George.
“Wait a second,” George says.
“No,” I tell him. “You wait a second. You don’t get to barge into someone’s house and make threats.”
“What threats? I didn’t make any threats! You’re insane.”
After what I’ve dealt with in the last few months, he’s right about that. “Mister, you have no idea. Now, the police are on the way.” I glance at Rose. “I hope that was a message, because I called.”
“Excellent! Good work, my dear.”
I bring my gaze back to George. “You’ve probably got, at best, three minutes.” I cock my head, hold my hand to my ear. “Are those sirens I hear?”
He bares his teeth at me and I flip him the bird. I may not have Rose’s wisdom, but I know how to push people. And making them mad tends to get them talking. Just ask Charlie Carter and his goon.
George grunts and shifts to Rose. “Call the police off. We can settle this.”
“That,” she says, “is debatable. Tell me the truth and, if I’m satisfied, when they get here, I’ll tell them we had a misunderstanding, but everything is fine. It’ll save us both a scandal.”
Wait. What? She’s letting this jerk off the hook? Seriously?
“Rose, what—”
Her hand flies up—a giant neon stop-sign—in my direction, but her eyes are on George. “RaeLynn, I’m speaking to George. Who is about to tell us what happened at the Grande. My guess is that Jackson Harlan may or may not be involved, but it's damned curious he was there that weekend. Throw in his attempts to end the relationship with Loretta and the Secret Service being on-site and this absolutely reeks of cover-up. So, George, unless you want the police asking why you came into my home uninvited, I'd start talking.” She offers a cheeky grin. “Start with Jackson and Loretta. You told me you were in love with her, but you failed to mention her affair with Harlan. If you were so in love with her, it had to have been maddening to see her fawning all over him."
“Yeah,” I say, hoping to heck Rose knows what she’s doing. “A guy like you? Mr. Big Shot movie star playing second fiddle? Priceless.”
Yes, I’m taunting him. Sue me.
He grits his teeth at me again and Rose sighs. “Ignore her,” she says. “Tell me about Loretta.”
George’s nostrils flare, but he follows Rose’s advice and focuses on her. "I had to give her up. It wasn’t as if I'd leave my family. There was nothing I could do."
Rose nods as if this is perfectly normal. And I’m the crazy one?
"Jeremy,” she says, “told me about what happened at the Grande that weekend. That he opened Loretta's door for Harlan's security. Were they Secret Service?”
George shakes his head. “No. Private security. He got off on that. That they had to do what he said because he could fire them.”
For some reason, that gives me a sense of relief. That Secret Service agents didn’t assist in an icon’s death.
"The woman was a mess,” George continues. “I tried to talk to her. For months she wouldn't hear it. She was so damn fixated."
"Months?"
"Months. Harlan tried to end it in May. As soon as it looked like he had a shot at winning the election, he wanted her gone. Too much baggage. Between the drinking and the sleeping pills, she was too volatile. From what I know, he went to her house late one night and told her it was over. Then he stopped taking her calls."
Men. "I was right,” I say. “You are an asshole. And so are your friends. The one thing she wanted was to be loved, to be accepted, and he ignored her. Idiot.” I hold out a hand. "So what happened?"
For a split second, George slides his hateful eyes to me, but then goes back to Rose. "He came to me. He knew I'd had a relationship with her and cared for her. He asked me to speak with her. Talk some sense."
"Did you?" Rose asks.
"I tried."
"That must've gone over well,” she says, “after you'd told her you wouldn't leave your family and now Harlan was throwing her over for a presidency."
"Something like that. When I couldn't get through to her, Harlan told someone at Treasury about our counterfeiting problem. They sent an investigator."
Holy cow. That’s why the Secret Service was there that weekend.
“How did Harlan know about the counterfeiting?”
“Well, Rose, that’s the problem with relationships. The night I found out about the counterfeiting I’d g
otten blind drunk. Myles, my so-called friend and partner, was putting everything I had at risk. If the tabloids got a hold of it, I’d be ruined.”
These Hollywood people were a trip. There’s a federal crime being committed and all this asshole can think about is his career.
“That same night,” George continues, “Loretta called me to let me know she intended on coming to the Grande and wanted me to book her a room. She sensed my foul mood.”
“You told her.”
“As I said, I was drunk. And down deep, I trusted her. To say the least, it was a moment of weakness.”
“So,” Rose says, “Loretta must have told Harlan. The story you gave me the other day about the shop in La Paradisio reporting the counterfeiting was a lie."
"That was crap. Loretta told Harlan. He’s a skilled politician. He threatened to out us if we didn’t get her in line. The Secret Service were there that week. Proof that he could make good on his threats if we didn’t shut Loretta up."
Poor Loretta Lonnie wound up smack in the middle of the storm.
In the distance, a siren blares. The police. Finally. I point to the window. “Hear that? That’s for you, George. The police will be here any minute.”
His head snaps to the window, his eyes wild and unfocused as they shoot from the window to Rose to me.
The wailing sirens are getting closer and he hasn’t told us what happened yet. My own panic starts brewing, my pulse speeding up. We’re so damned close and we’re running out of time before the cops show up.
“That’s it,” Rose says, her voice a sharpened ax as she turns and heads for the study door. “We’ll let the police hash this out.”
She crosses in front of me and—George. From the corner of my eye there’s movement, but it’s all in slow motion now. As if a button has been pressed, cutting the video speed in half. His hand. The flap of his sport coat. His hand comes free. Gun!
“Rose!” I leap sideways.
Right where he’s pointing that big black gun.
“George!” Rose shouts from behind me. “Are you insane?”
I’d vote yes on that one and lift my arms, both hands palm out. “George, wait. Please. This is…” Crazy. No. Can’t say that to the cray-cray guy who’s just pulled a weapon on us. “We can talk about this,” I say instead, having no idea what the hell I’m doing. “Whatever happened that weekend, nothing is worth killing us over. Please.”
He jerks the gun in our direction. “She was everything to me. And then she went nuts. Carrying on like some whore. Between Myles siphoning cash out of the hotel, the counterfeiting, Loretta and that scum Harlan, I wanted out. Out.” He thrusts the gun. “Out.” Another thrust. “Out.”
Seriously, he’d better stop poking that gun at me. And worse, after my sideways leap I’m too far from the lamp to even attempt using it. He’d get a shot off before I made it halfway.
Wailing sirens draw closer and then abruptly stop. Either the cops are here or were headed to another house.
The gate. Dammit. They’re probably at the gate. I need to get George’s attention focused on me so Rose can let the cops in.
“You don’t want to shoot us,” I tell him, my voice surprisingly firm. “All that gets you is years in jail.”
The gun begins to tremble. Just a slight movement, but enough that I bring my gaze to his wild eyes. Ah, crap.
Moisture drips down his cheeks. This guy is coming apart. Never a good thing when someone is holding a gun. He brings one hand up, covering his eyes for a split second. Now. Without looking behind me, I use one hand to shoo Rose from the room.
Her heels click against the floor. She’s behind me so I can’t see where exactly she is, but George swings the gun to my right. I leap in front of it again. “Whoa, George. Whoa! Just tell me what this is about. Nothing has happened yet. We can fix it.”
“Now you want to fix it? You started this whole mess! It was done. Dead and buried!”
My heart is slamming so hard the blood might burst my veins. Still, I have to stay calm. Talk this guy off whatever ledge he’s out on. “The police are here, George. You don’t want to do anything that will send you to prison. Let’s talk this out.”
The gun moves. No! Before I can react, he shoves the barrel of the gun under his chin.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Fear and panic freeze me in place, my limbs absolute lead and way too heavy to lift.
“I loved her,” he says, his face bunches up and floods with color. “But she had to go. For my sanity, she had to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dumb girl! I set that fire! And now you get everything stirred up, making the cops on that island look like a bunch of incompetent imbeciles. Do you think they want this back in the press? You couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let it stay quiet for all our sakes.”
Holy.
Crow.
“Everything was imploding. The counterfeiting, Loretta, Harlan. The only way out was to destroy it. Without the Grande, without Loretta, I had no problems.”
I don’t dare take my eyes off of him, but I want to. If nothing else, to avoid the crazed anguish on his pinched face.
George Hopper. Hollywood royalty. Murdered all those people.
“I thought,” he says, “everyone would get out. Everyone but Loretta. She had to go. The union made it easy by setting all those other fires. All these years, no one asked me if I’d done it. Not one person. Then you came along and started asking questions and I knew. Over. All of it.”
He squeezes his eyes closed, pressing the barrel of the gun further against his chin. "George! Stop. Please.”
His eyes burst open. “The flames. Oh my God! They were so fast. It wasn’t supposed to be that fast!”
Beep-beep. The alarm. Front door opening, I hope. I need those damned cops in here.
Gun still propped under his chin, he pushes his shoulders back and closes his eyes. His trigger finger moves and my insides curl.
No, no, no.
“George.” I take a step closer. “Look at me.”
He opens his eyes. Excellent. At least he’s listening.
“You are George Hopper, mega-star. You’re Hollywood royalty. An absolute legend. We all know it.”
Whether he is or not, I have no idea. But he’s clearly an egomaniac and if feeding that ego gets the gun from him, I’ll do whatever I need to.
In the hallway, I hear Rose’s hushed voice. Talking to the cops. Has to be the cops.
“Please, George. Put down the gun. Killing me, killing yourself. It’s not worth it. You’ve worked for years building your legacy. You’re revered in this town. Please, don’t make this the thing people remember about you. Let them remember the movie star. Please, George, put down the gun.”
“I’m a star,” he says, nodding.
“You’re a star, George. And you don’t need to do this.”
I take another step forward. He studies me, slowly moving toward him. When he doesn’t react, I step again and again. I’m right in front of him now. Hand out.
“Please, George. I know you don’t want to do this. Please. Give me the gun.”
His shoulders begin to shake. It turns into a full-on assault that wracks his body. Gun still in hand, but at least lowered, he folds in on himself as sobs roar from him. He crosses his arms in front of him. Slowly, I reach for his right hand.
“George, I’m going to take the gun from you. Please, don’t shoot me.”
His head dips and he lets out another loud sob. “I’m sorry,” he cries. “I loved her. I really did.”
“I know you did. She hurt you and I’m sorry. Now give me the gun.”
He looks up at me, eyes swollen and bloodshot. “She did hurt me.”
Then he lifts the gun again, propping it under his chin and—no way—he doesn’t get to leave me with this. If he wants to kill himself, that’s on him, but he doesn’t get to screw me up by making me watch.
I lunge, heaving my full body weight at him, crashing into him and knocking
him back against the desk.
The gun flies from his hand. Shoot. Can it accidentally go off? I stiffen, waiting for the shot, as I bounce off of George and stumble. The gun thumps to the rug.
No shot.
No shot no shot no shot.
“Hold it!”
A man’s voice. A cop, I hope. Please let it be a cop. I swing my head around, see a guy in uniform and—yes!—relief drops on me like a weighted blanket.
I suck in a huge breath, then another and another. My vision narrows. Too much air. Too much. I drop to one knee as the room begins to spin. Spin, spin, spin.
“Rae!”
Rose’s voice. I look up, see her charging straight for me. “I think,” I say, “I’m about to pass out.”
And then everything goes black.
51
Rose
* * *
The police are gone, George right along with them in handcuffs. Of all the things I’ve seen in Hollywood, all the scandals I’ve witnessed and accepted as the lunacy that comes with fame, I never ever imagined George Hopper being driven away in a police car after attempting to kill me or himself. Not to mention Rae, who certainly didn’t deserve any part of this mess.
The low hum of the refrigerator fills the silence in the kitchen. The sound, given the trouble that damned appliance has given me, is a melodic balm to my shattered nerves. Inside of a week, my world has been flipped.
Phillip’s voice carries from the other room where he and Rae are discussing something. If I tried hard enough, I could eavesdrop.
If I tried.
Instead, I remain seated at the table, my hand wrapped around the healthy snifter of brandy my son provided. I’m not much of a brandy drinker, but sometimes it takes something extra to knock the edge off. My son—smart man that he is—understands this.
I may need a few more of these before the day is over.
Despite the fact that we helped solve a cold case and identified why my closest friend died, my life, the one I thought I knew, anyway, has crashed around me.
How the mighty Trudeaus have fallen.
I hold the brandy up in a toast and slug half, my eyes tearing from the burn against my throat.
Into the Fire Page 23
