“Thank you,” I said.
Den brought a miniature water bottle in, his thick fingers making it appear even smaller. “We’re doing these little bottles now. More environmentally friendly.” He handed me the bottle.
I sipped from it. Never had water tasted so good.
He reached for a remote and flipped on the monitor.
My heart lurched into my mouth. For there was Justine, sitting at her table, facing the camera, checking her cell phone, smiling up at Alfredo, drinking tea. So alive. Less than twenty-four hours ago. I drank my water. It did little to quench my thirst.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said. My voice a hoarse whisper.
Then a man walked up on camera. He faced Justine, so his back was to the lens. His arm reached across and patted her on the shoulder—a quick gesture. But as he took his seat across from her, Justine’s face showed, and her distress was obvious. Her face was red with anger as she clutched at her chest. Her eyes darted back and forth—she never wanted to cause a scene. I read her lips as she said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
He didn’t move. Alfredo came up to the table and offered him tea, took his order, and Justine gained her composure. The man sat for a few more minutes, blocking Justine’s face, but at one point his face turned to Alfredo and the other half caught on the camera. Just a slice of it.
“There,” Den said, pressing the pause button. “Does he look familiar?”
The man’s upper face hid in a shadow, but not his distinct pointy chin and a jagged scar along his lower left jaw. I shivered and studied the grainy image for something, anything, familiar about that chin, that scar. “No, not at all.”
“We have a composite one of our artists came up with. It’s conjecture, but based on what we can see here, he may look like this,” Den said, sliding a paper toward me. “We’ve faxed a copy to the tea house as well.”
Lizard-like, the man in the drawing stared back at me as if mocking me. I’d never seen him before in my life and was sure I’d have remembered if I did. If the drawing was a good rendering.
I shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry. Not in the least bit familiar.”
“You’ve worked as her assistant for how many years?”
“Eleven.”
“You’ve never seen him?”
“I’ve never seen half the people she works with or knows. I work from home.” Images of my makeshift office in my family’s rundown cottage poked at me. “Cloister Island.”
“I want you to be certain you’ve never seen him,” Den said after a few minutes. His mouth narrowed, his dimples pronounced.
“I don’t have a very good memory sometimes. I suffer from Lyme disease. But I do have a pretty good recall for faces, and that face? I’d remember.”
He studied me and grinned slow and sideways. If he looked at me like that in a bar, I’d be all over him. Maybe I was misreading, but the spark of attraction was mutual. Even in this rather unappealing environment. Still, his blue eyes sent shocks of electricity-like waves through me. Kate’s face and poking finger flashed in my mind’s eye.
I wanted to tell him about the death threats on Justine’s computer. But I wasn’t sure I should be staying at Justine’s place; in other words, if it was legal or not. The more I mulled it over, the more I thought Kate was right. So I kept the nugget of information to myself. For now.
“Did Justine have any enemies?”
“How much time do you have?” I said and laughed nervously.
He grinned. “Okay. Then let’s pick the top three. We’ll move down the list as methodically as we can.”
“It’s hard to imagine any of them would kill her. I mean, the people I can think of are writers, Hollywood types, and collectors. Not exactly your murdering kind.”
Den frowned. “I wish there were a kind. We see everything. Everyday people going off and killing their neighbor, their lovers …”
The word “lover” hung in the air and vibrated between us. I dropped my gaze.
“Severn Hartwell would be at the top of the list,” I said, lifting my eyes, attempting not to watch his lips as he spoke. Intellectually, I had this. But my hormones had dirty little minds of their own.
“Who’s that?”
“He’s another pop biographer. Justine’s biggest competitor. He wanted to write a Jean Harlow biography but she snagged a contract and made a big announcement, thwarted him.” I couldn’t help but smile. Justine. I dug through my purse for my phone. “I have his number right here.”
Den slid a white sheet of paper across the table, along with a pen. I copied down the relevant details. “Okay, who would be the second on your list?” he asked.
I mentally sifted through the possibilities. “There was a Holly wood collector … what was his name?” I scanned the contacts on my phone, searching for the email I’d saved because I’d found it deliciously funny. He was a man who collected the underwear of starlets, especially those from the Golden Era of Hollywood. “Ah, yes. Here he is, Kevin Jonquil.”
I wrote down the contact information. “I don’t have his number, but I’m sure you can find it. But there’s his email.”
“A collector?” Den smirked. Oh. That sideways smirk.
“Yes, it’s a thing,” I said. “This guy wouldn’t give up. He insisted that he knew about Justine’s secret collection of Greta Garbo underwear. He wanted it and was prepared to pay top dollar.”
“Underwear?” Den whistled, lifting his left eyebrow. “Damn.”
“But she didn’t have it, and he threatened her. Didn’t believe her.”
“Sounds, I don’t know, creepy.”
I thought a moment. “It is. And it’s sad. So many of these people have more money than they know what to do with and they become obsessed and will do anything to acquire an item with the right provenance. I’ll never understand it.”
My own grandmother could get a bit obsessed, but not over Hollywood items. She owned an antique store on Cloister Island that did a brisk business, especially during tourist season.
“And the other person?”
“Kyle Anderson,” I said.
“The Hollywood producer?” Den’s voice rose a decibel.
I nodded. “Yes indeed.” I wrote his numbers and email address on the paper. I’d memorized it years ago. “He became such a nuisance that we had to get a restraining order.” I paused and handed him a card. “Here’s one more. Gregory Horvath, a member of Hollywood Cartel Collections.”
“I gotta hand it to you, Ms. Donovan—”
“Please call me Charlotte.”
“Okay, Charlotte. All this is very helpful. You must have been one kickass assistant.”
Damned straight. “I’m glad to help. If Justine was murdered, I want to see justice done,” I said.
“Keep in touch, Charlotte,” he said as I stood to leave. He handed me his card. “If you need anything, or think of anything of relevance, anything at all, please call.”
My eyes met his, and a gleam sparked between us as his left eyebrow hitched. Kate’s five hundred dollars beckoned, so I reserved my “come hither” expression for another day.
Six
As much as I hated to, I needed to check in with home. Not sure my mom was in any shape to hold a conversation, I called my grandmother while I sat at a café near Justine’s apartment building and waited for the police to leave. I was certain they were searching her place, as they should be. Scents of some sweet concoction baking in the café’s kitchen poked at me, but I had no appetite. Highly unusual for me.
“Charlotte Donovan, where have you been?” my grandmother said.
“Justine died and I’ve been stuck in town,” I said, running my finger along the edge of the saucer holding my tea cup.
“We know that. I’m sorry to hear about her death,” she said, and paused. I pict
ured her crossing herself. “Are you okay?”
Scuffling noise came over the phone. She was probably cleaning as she spoke to me. Perhaps sweeping the floor.
“I’m holding up,” I said. “But I’m going to need to stay in town a while longer.” I lifted the cup to my lip and drank my tea.
“Oh sweetie, how will you manage? Everything’s so expensive.”
“I’m staying at Justine’s place.”
She didn’t respond.
“At least until we know what’s going on with the funeral and so on. I need to be here.” I didn’t want to tell her that Justine was murdered. No point in upsetting her. “How’s Mom?” I asked, and then exhaled.
“She’s sober for now,” she replied. “She’s been asking for you. She said she called.”
“I’m sorry, Gram, it’s been crazy here. Please tell her I’m okay and I’ll be home as soon as I can be,” I said. “I’ll call her soon. I don’t want to talk with her if she’s drinking.” A young woman sat down at the table next to me with a huge blueberry tart. The scent of it was giving me a sugar high.
“I don’t understand why you need to be there,” Gram said in an accusing tone.
I swallowed the last of my peppermint tea, which was quality, some of the best peppermint tea I’d ever had. You’d think all of it was the same. But it’s not. “I’m Justine’s assistant. I need to take care of things.” My voice cracked.
“Oh Charlotte,” Gram said in a sympathetic tone. “I’ll never understand your devotion to that woman.”
Gram didn’t care for Justine or her treatment of me. Sometimes, I agreed with her. But now that Justine was murdered, and I’d been there when she died, none of it mattered. Everything else about our relationship fell away. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody did.
I remembered Sergeant Den Brophy and my list of possible murderers. Add my sweet little Gram to the list. Oddly enough, the thought made me smile.
“Like the best caviar or champagne, I’m an acquired taste.”
One of Justine’s favorite expressions, which spoke to the way she lived her life, was “never ask for permission.” “If I waited for permission, I’d never get anywhere.” As a younger woman she’d waltzed right into places she shouldn’t have in order to get the interview or the research she wanted. “The trick is to blend in and act like you’re supposed to be there. If you get caught, be polite and act stupid. Works every time.”
I certainly was testing her motto by staying in her place. But just to be on the safe side, I’d wait until dark before I entered through the back door of the building again. And I’d wait for the cop car to leave. I rose to my feet and slid my bag onto my shoulder, then walked out of the cafe and stood for a moment, with the noise and bustle all around me. A line of cabs trailed on the street. A sausage vendor yelled at a pedicab driver as he whizzed by. I caught the whiff of something sour and rank. It vanished as quickly as it came.
I turned toward Central Park, walking along the clean, wide sidewalks and catching glimpses of the setting sun between buildings. The Upper East Side, with its chic high-rise apartment buildings, classic brownstone neighborhoods, and elegant architecture reminded me of my youth and my dream to be a famous writer like Justine. I imagined I’d live here after writing my first bestselling book. But after my Lyme diagnosis, the city was too much for me. While at one point it had inspired and energized me, after I became sick it did nothing but drain me.
A woman dressed in a short, stunning, peacock blue silk dress walked by me with long leggy strides, the silk fluttering around her. I moved to the corner to cross the street. The light changed, and I marched. Suddenly a bright silverish smear of hair flicked in the sunlight and caught my eye. I followed the gleam. There she was. I was certain of it! The same blonde from the day before, moving at a brisk pace up Fifth Avenue. Spotting this woman twice in two days? More than a coincidence.
I picked up my pace and headed in her direction. Who was she? Did she know anything about Justine’s murder? A surge of energy and adrenaline zipped through me and I moved like a linebacker, dodging swiftly through the sidewalk crowds. “Hey!” I yelled at her. She didn’t turn her head, but her stride hastened to almost a run.
“Watch it, lady!” a man said as I ran by him. Even at that speed, with my short legs I might not have reached her. But I wasn’t ready to give up. I inhaled deeply. My surge of energy was diminishing. I estimated I might make it another block. But wait—where was she? She’d vanished. Probably ducked in to an alley or restaurant. But where?
Sweat poured from me as I found a wall and leaned against it.
After all that, she’d disappeared. Once again.
Seven
After my unplanned sprint down Fifth Ave, I headed to Justine’s apartment, spent. Good thing the cops were gone.
Once again, I had no problem getting into her place. And once again, I took up residence on the chaise longue, not having the ambition or heart to explore.
I examined the apartment and noted the police hadn’t seemed to touch anything—or if they had, they had already replaced things.
I tossed and turned, slipping in and out of sleep, the face of the platinum blonde haunting me in my dreams and my waking. Finally, after exhausting myself, I suppose, I fell into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by my cell phone’s ring.
When I was alert enough to find it, it had stopped ringing. I started to fall back asleep after glancing at it to see the time, through the cracks on the screen. I truly needed to get my screen fixed. Who would be calling me at the ungodly hour of eight a.m.? I didn’t recognize the phone number. Just as I drifted off, it rang again.
“Hello,” I managed to say.
“Ms. Charlotte Donovan?” the official-sounding female voice on the other end of the line said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Susan Strohmeyer, Justine Turner’s attorney.”
Already?
“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. I’m so glad to get through to you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been crazy, as you can imagine,” I said, lying back into my pillow. No need to uncurl myself from the blanket. “How can I help you?”
“First, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
I paused, choking back a sob. It was too early in the morning for such a harsh reality. But it was true. Justine had died sitting at her favorite table at Layla’s. She was murdered. I’d harbored a tiny sliver of hope that it was all a bad dream. “Yes, yes. Thank you.” My voice trailed off. I swallowed the burn creeping up my throat.
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Susan said. “Justine left a lot of instructions on the funeral. All the planning has been taken care of. This is so typical of her, isn’t it? In any case, the few decisions left to be made are yours to make. She had careful instructions about it.”
“Me?” I blinked, trying to wake myself up if I were dreaming. Where was I? Clothes were scattered haphazardly across a chair. I was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling dusty books. The desk was full of papers, folders, and red pens. Always red. Okay, I concluded, this isn’t a dream. I was in Justine’s library-office.
“You’re aware, of course, that she had no family. Only this cousin in Florida, but they weren’t close.”
My chest filled with a hollow pang. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Waves of darkness pressed on me. I pulled my blanket in tighter. I might stay on this chaise all day.
“So you’ve got some decisions to make. Once Judith arrives in town later today, we’ll be reading the will. Even after it’s read, it will take some time to settle matters. But Justine asked that we get this taken care of within a few days after her death.”
I inhaled and found it hard to exhale. Wills. Death.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes.” I let out a slow breath. My heart kicked in, rapping hard agains
t my rib cage. I stared up the paneled ceiling.
“It’s going to take some time to sort through all of it, you understand. There are stocks, savings, other investments. Sometimes the paperwork in probate is astounding. Let’s schedule an appointment soon. I appreciate that this must all seem like it’s happening very quickly, but maybe it will help to know this is what Justine wanted. As I say, it’s going to take time to sort through. My assistant will call to set up an appointment with you, very soon.”
“Yes, okay,” I said.
I sat up, flung the covers off, and stood on the parquet floor, glimpsing my bare feet on the tile. Those are the very ugly feet of a competent woman, a woman who must attend a will reading, take care of matters. For Justine. I can do this.
“Do you mind if I bring a friend with me?” I asked. I paced between the desk and one of the bookcases.
“Not at all.”
After we hung up, I made a pot of coffee, sat down at the desk, and flipped open my laptop, half expecting emails from Justine. Of course there were none for today. But there were several from a few days ago. I wasn’t sure I could read them. Not yet.
Just like that, there would never be any more emails from Justine.
My chest squeezed with loss as I sat there, surrounded by her things. Eventually, I’d have to go home and leave this luxurious little hideaway of mine. But still, I was at loose ends. What was going to happen with the Jean Harlow book? I wasn’t even certain it would be published without Justine. But we were about halfway there and I found myself itching to dig in. Once I found the work in progress, that is. But I stopped myself. I wasn’t being paid anymore, was I? Who knew what was going to happen?
I should be searching the help-wanted ads. But I had no idea where to even begin. I drew in a breath as I scrolled through my email. Of course, there were return emails from Justine’s agent and editor.
From her agent, Natalie Vega:
“Dear Charlotte,
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 4