by Jessica King
“He might have helped identify her,” Ivy said, “but I-I don’t know if he would actually take the shot.” Vince shook his head. He didn’t know, either. “It just seems very convenient that we were worried our killer might have FBI-level contacts, and then an FBI agent shows up the day Aline’s been threatened to be attacked.”
“And you’re sure the girl won’t just stay home?” Chief Marks asked.
Ivy scraped the front of her boot across the ground. She was entirely sure. She’d been in close communication with Emily the past few days, who had tried everything—even asking Aline if they should blow it all off and escape to the Bahamas, Aline’s favorite means of escape. She’d refused immediately.
“Joyce and Kenshin will be patrolling in uniform tomorrow,” Chief Marks said, rubbing his temples. “I’ll have them keep eyes on Agent Shea.” He laughed. “Can’t believe I have to say that, but okay. And if we can get Miss Aline to stay home—”
“We’ll try again, but I doubt it,” Ivy said.
The ride from the Dolby to Aline’s was quiet for a long while as Vince scrolled through his phone. Ivy nearly slammed the breaks when Vince finally broke his silence.
“Ivy!” he whipped out a hand to hit her arm.
Ivy pumped the breaks, looking in every direction for a pedestrian about to slam into the car.
“What?” she yelled, knowing that the only reason the entire street wasn’t honking at them was that “LAPD” was tattooed across the car in every direction. A car or two back still had the audacity to honk, and Ivy assumed they hadn’t realized who had caused the holdup.
“Sorry,” Vince said, as Ivy brought the car back up to speed. He stayed quiet, even though Ivy could feel him about to burst with energy.
“Tell me,” Ivy said, “in a calm manner.”
When she pulled up to a red light, Vince shoved his phone in front of Ivy’s face. A younger version of Agent Shea had his hand low on the back of a younger Reaghan Knox. “He was her bodyguard a few years ago.”
The headline above them read “Romance for Reaghan?” followed by several pictures of the two of them in a lip lock followed by an article about his resignation after rumors of a breakup.
“Send it to Chief Marks,” Ivy said, and Vince started typing. “I think we need more than just an eye on Agent Shea tomorrow.”
When they arrived at Aline’s, they were greeted by a yapping puppy and cucumber sandwiches. Reviewing security protocol was an old hat for Ivy and Vince, but Emily looked terrified. Aline looked at the very least jostled beneath her calm exterior, and Nathan looked like he might need smelling salts at any moment.
“So, we have security guards, police, agents, and ushers all along the top three mezzanines. The two of us will be sitting with Aline and Oliver, and then two of my team members will be on the orchestra floor watching behind us, along with a few other agents and security personnel.” Nathan stopped mid-bite, and the puppy stopped yapping as if she, too, were shocked by the amount of firepower that would be attending the Oscars.
“That sounds like so much,” Aline said.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” Ivy said, “and some of them will just be there to facilitate movement, seating, stuff like that. But we’re going overkill on the security because of the threat.” She took a bite of her own sandwich. “And it’s not just you, really,” she said. “The Oscars get lots of threats every year. Enough stars have revealed their political alliances that some fanatics have sent in threats.”
When Emily’s eyebrows moved toward each other, Vince chimed in. “They have all been proven not credible, yours is the only one with any backing, but we’re still taking those other threats into account.”
The puppy bit Vince’s pant leg in an attempt at a game of tug-of-war.
“Perhaps Jeanine should come along as a guard dog,” Aline said, scooping up the wriggling dog. “So vicious,” she said, happily tapping a finger to the meatball nose.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunday, February 26, 2017, 5:19 p.m.
Aline’s dress was perfect. It wasn’t over-the-top or ridiculous. She didn’t like it when celebrity fashion looked so entirely unrealistic that it left gossip magazines bringing the outfit up for years to come. The extra padding around her chest, her shoulder blades, and the front of her abdomen made her look a bit heavier, a bit more curvaceous, but she liked it. She looked glamorous.
The piece had been carefully planned: a nearly sheer, flesh-toned, sheath dress covered with black lace depicting her favorite flowers—irises—dipping down into black fringe that swayed around her ankles. The shoes weren’t accurate to the 1920s—neon-yellow Spika Queen stilettos by Louboutin—though they were a subtle nod to The Great Gatsby, which she figured made them close enough to 1920s authenticity for the Academy Awards.
“I look like a flapper,” she said, smiling into the mirror. Electric pink lipstick on her lips and blond curls pinned up into a bob, she did a quick Charleston step to watch the fringe swing.
“You look lovely, darling,” Oliver Corbyn nearly waltzed into her room. He was a stunning contrast to her pastel décor in a black pair of pants and a shirt. He slid his thumbs beneath the white suspenders and did a spin, his tie, also white, flying away from his body.
“You look just like a gangster!” Aline said, beaming. “A lovely, British gangster.” She contemplated her handsome date and co-star for her next film. The beautiful planes of his face surely didn’t belong to a mobster. “Does Britain have gangsters?”
“Peaky Blinders,” Oliver said, his British accent cascading over her.
She had always been a sucker for the British accent, the words that came out like crisp, round apples.
“You seem more like a prince to me,” she said, pressing a pink kiss to the column of his throat. She patted the top of his hat once.
“You really do want to start the rumors about us before filming!” Oliver said, laughing as he scrubbed at his neck.
“They’re already out,” Aline said, dancing around the room in her heels. “They’re also out about Dane Ramirez and me, Brad Pitt and me—can you believe that?” She laughed. “Rumors are just rumors.”
“I hope we aren’t just a rumor,” Oliver said, dancing into the space where Aline had been holding an imaginary partner.
The edges of Aline’s lips tilted upward as she rested her hands on his shoulders. “We aren’t just a rumor, no.”
“Good,” Oliver said, spinning her.
“Ah,” Aline said, her eyes landing on the clock over Oliver’s shoulder. “I have to do a few things before we leave,” she said.
“You look stunning,” Oliver said, running gentle fingers across her hair. “What more do you have to do?”
Aline pressed her lips together. She wasn’t ashamed of her practices, necessarily. But they weren’t always…expected, or accepted, for that matter.
“Tell me,” Oliver said, lifting her chin.
“I need to perform a luck ritual. I would absolutely love ‘Best Actress,’ and a little extra luck could never hurt, right?” At his tentative smile, she wrapped her fingers around Oliver’s and led him to the windowless room down the hall from her personal rooms.
Her heels clicked a hundred times over, echoing against the hard surfaces of her home, and she snaked her arm around Oliver. He probably didn’t know about her witchcraft, and she didn’t want to put an odd damper on such a public secret first date. The media was strangely astute at pointing out even the tiniest emotions on the faces of herself and the other stars that would be attending. If there were an odd feeling between her and Oliver, they were sure to pick it up. But the luck ritual was important to her, and even if Oliver thought it was strange, he’d be able to pull it together for the awards; she was certain of it.
She wondered if he’d picked up on the real reason she wanted to perform the ritual. She cared about the awards, of course. But not nearly as much as she cared about her own life, and if this could help save it... And if w
hat Detectives Ivy and Vince said were right, she might just need a little extra luck tonight. She took another deep breath, felt it shake through her lungs.
“Are you okay?” Oliver asked.
Aline nodded, luxuriating in the feeling of the soft, loose curls the hairdresser had left out of the hairdo that had been pinned back on her cheek. “Just a bit nervous. Tonight’s a big night for my career, you know?”
Oliver smiled. “My first Academy Awards, too,” he said, and she tried to force a smile. Of course, it was a big night for him as well, going to the Oscars alone was huge. But he’d been in the public spotlight longer than she had, and he wasn’t up for an award. Arguably, she was more successful, though she’d never say anything like that aloud. She was ridiculously successful for having been a “nobody actor” only eighteen months ago. Her career was hardly older than her baby niece. It was this thought of youth that had her again questioning her choice to attend the Awards again. But she knew the cost. An unannounced absence from the Academy Awards could lead to her being blackballed by the entirety of Hollywood, and her career would be over.
Or she might be dead. Which would also be an end to her career.
Aline hurried her last few steps to the sanctuary. “I perform some rituals in here sometimes,” she said.
Oliver’s footsteps stuttered, and her face fell, despite her best efforts to make it seem as though his hesitation didn’t upset her.
“Nothing bad happens. I’m not crazy or anything like that, it’s just—”
“It’s sweet, Aline,” he said, a small, timid smile on his face. He swallowed.
Aline kissed his cheek. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said, pulling him forward. She grabbed the lighter on the table and lit the candles all around the room; the process felt so much longer when someone was waiting on her. With the room lit, she closed the doors, and all the natural light sat in the hall, a bright child sitting in timeout.
“Normally, I’d sit, but we are a little spiffy for something like that,” she said. “So, you can stand here.” She moved Oliver to the center of the room beneath an unlit chandelier. Aline knew she was a vision, especially in the dramatic lighting of her sanctuary, and she leaned into the feeling, imagining herself as a starlet in the silent movie era. Betty Compson or Clara Bow. She held out her hands to her future co-star, and he smiled, despite the confusion on his face. “Don’t be scared, okay?” she said. “You just have to sit here and look pretty.”
“My greatest talent,” Oliver said, his shoulders relaxing at his sides.
She started the kettle and took a piece of charcoal from the side table and drew the design for amplifying a protection spell across the floor. The sound and feel of charcoal had always bothered her, but no resources she’d managed to find had suggested anything else that worked quite as well. So, as the gooseflesh worked itself up her arms and around her body like a snake, she tried to focus on the design, letting the discomfort ground her.
She looked back over her shoulder at Oliver, who was watching without his signature smile, though at her glance, he shook himself.
“Keep going, I’m just watching,” he said.
Aline turned back to the amplification rune on the ground, placing the points of her heels at either end of the design. She started to whisper the ancient words of protection, preservation, luck in battle, and healing…just in case. She finished the series of hand signs, her fingers weaving around themselves as she pressed each sign between her heart and lower abdomen, her heart and her brain, pausing at each spot so they could absorb as much of the magic as possible.
She then moved to the kettle, which had clicked quietly when it finished boiling and was now pouring steam from the top. She tore up a series of leaves and flowers that she’d left out the night before for this purpose. Pink Japanese anemone flower petals, the thick leaves of a Hoya wax plant, which smelled like childhood summers making fairy houses when she cut them into small pieces. She placed the chopped flora into a tea bag, dropping in a piece of smoky quartz stone.
She chanted one last spell now that the drinkers of the potion would be protected from vulnerability. That their paths would go unhindered. She moved the bag over the nearest flame, tracing the rune she’d drawn on the floor in the air with the bag three times before placing it in the waiting teacup and pouring hot water over it. Her dark fingernails glittered in the flickering candlelight.
She picked up the fluted teacup and blew on it as she walked over to Oliver. “You only need one sip,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes.
He looked rather ill, and she reached out a hand to his face, which was slightly slick from sweat.
“Oliver?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” he said, a quick laugh. “Just a bit warm for some reason.” He shook his shoulders, loosening his jacket. Her nerves jangled, and she kissed his cheek.
“I’m nervous, too,” she said. “This will help.”
He nodded, the wrinkle between his brows loosening. She decided she didn’t want to get into his thoughts on the whole ordeal before they needed to appear as a happy couple of co-stars at the awards in a mere couple of hours. But she wondered if his earnest look was because he might actually believe in this type of thing as well, or if he just saw her as too sweet to call it ridiculous. It was likely the latter, but she could hope for a little longer.
“Why don’t you try some of this?” Aline said, holding up the cup.
“You first, dear,” he said, gesturing to her.
“Always chivalrous.” Alive rolled her eyes and took a sip. “Pretty good,” she said, passing the cup to him now. “I usually put honey in a lot of the potions, but I—” She swallowed, hating to admit it. “I’m a little nervous, and I didn’t want to change the recipe.”
He sniffed the cup and looked up, an apology already in his eyes before he spoke. “This smells like something I was allergic to when I was filming in Asia last year,” he said. “I’d rather not.” He fanned himself with a hand. “Maybe that’s why I’m so warm.”
Aline’s smile didn’t falter. She supposed these were the types of things people ran into when they started dating. Allergies and favorite television shows and possible life or death experiences at Hollywood awards shows. She almost laughed. “Could I make you something else?”
“No, that’s all right, darling,” Oliver said. “Thank you, though. I think I just need some air, honestly.”
“Of course,” Aline said, ushering him back into the brightness of the hallway. The return of natural light and space greeted them with a rush of air conditioning, and Aline could see an immediate return of color to his face. She rushed back into the sanctuary, floating around the room and blowing out the candles.
“I feel much better now,” Aline said, smiling, and she called for Emily.
“What?” Oliver asked, startled.
“I called Emily’s name,” she said, narrowing her eyes and motioning to the breathless woman who was sprinting up the many stairs of one of the spiraling staircases.
Emily looked spectacular, even in her harried state, clutching a coffee and a leather-bound planner.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “I think it’s just becoming a bit real to me that there might be an actual threat.” He ran his hands through his hair twice.
“Ah!” Emily said, holding up a pointer finger. “We don’t speak of it.”
Despite the morbidity of the subject, Aline had to press her lips together to avoid laughter. “Emily is already stressed enough about the Oscars without any added…mishaps,” Aline said.
After she’d informed Emily—again—that she wouldn’t be staying home from her first Academy Awards, Emily had squared her shoulders and said then they wouldn’t be talking about possible killers and that the extra security was just going to become a part of the agenda for the day—an agenda that Emily was already plenty stressed about.
Emily pursed her lips, and Oliver
ducked his head.
“So sorry, Miss Person.” He looked up at her through his lashes, a signature Aline move.
“I think we’re ready to go, Emily,” Aline said, her dress rustling against her touch, whispering that she looked absolutely beautiful. “Could you get Oliver a bottle of water?”
“Whiskey,” Oliver said. “Whiskey, please.” A devilish grin spread across Aline’s face.
“Tequila for me then, Emily.” She held out her hand to Oliver. “Shall we?”
+++
Saturday, March 18, 1922, 9:32 p.m.
Ethel Miller wrapped herself in her ankle-length coat as she clambered down the stairs. She nearly tripped and caught herself on the railing. She’d been playing in her mother’s heels since she could walk, and yet she still never got through a day without a shoe-induced, near-death experience.
“Have a good evening, Ethel,” Miss Fischer said, but her voice suggested it’d be best if Ethel had no fun at all. She was sitting by the fire, her hands empty and folded in her lap. She did that every weekend night, watching her girls leave…and return. She’d stay up late to make sure they came back. To make sure they came back without men.
“A good evening to you too, Miss Fischer,” Ethel said, staying in the shadow to hide the new makeup she’d put on. Perhaps she’d put on a bit too much rouge, but she felt like a true lady. Perhaps someone would see her tonight and put her on the cover of Vogue. Then she could afford an apartment where her movements weren’t constantly monitored by a staunch Catholic woman who thought that having too much fun knitting was a sin.
Ethel slipped out into the night and hurried down the street. It was dark, but the streets were cluttered with young people. She smiled at each passerby, feeling like they were all sharing secrets with one another, simply being out so late. John had told her what to tell the bouncer at the door, but that didn’t do anything to calm her easily excited nerves. She’d skimped a bit on supper because of them. No matter how many times she snuck out—or no matter how many times she risked eviction by sneaking men in—Ethel always got butterflies in her stomach.
