“I’m coming up too. Surprise!” Kate’s unmistakable voice came over the intercom.
Oh boy.
Thirty-Six
Any more clues?” Kate asked, wide-eyed, then bit into her slice of pizza. It wasn’t bad. The wine made it even better.
I glared at her. Kate didn’t trust me to be alone with Den. Hell, I didn’t trust myself—but no matter.
“Just the numbers on her implants, which we’re still working on. Nothing new,” Den said. “But I wondered if maybe we’re overlooking something.” He drank from his wine glass, his eyes never leaving mine. Smoldering. Wanting. I was starting not to care about the five hundred dollar bet.
Kate cleared her throat. “Like what?”
“I should tell you that Kate and I went to the Dream Girl show a few times,” I said quickly. “I talked with the Madonna impersonator before you-know-who caught me.”
“You did what?” Den laid his pizza down on the plate.
“I figured that call I got had to be from one of the impersonators I’d met, right? So I wanted to ask them about it. But I got nowhere with that.”
“Too much interference on your part. This is an ongoing police investigation.” Serious tone. Blank expression.
“Yes, but—“
“Besides, these people are dangerous. The look-alike was killed, and Justine was killed. Do you want to be next?”
A chill came over me. He’d verbalized how I felt. As if I might be next on the kill-list of people connected by Harlow. But how and why?
“Leave this kind of in-person questioning up to us. Research on the computer, that’s one thing.”
Kate spoke up. “But you’re a cop. These people won’t tell you anything. They might trust Charlotte more.”
Her words hung in the air, and we all went back to our pizza and wine. Touchy subject these days, cops and trust.
“We did learn that the Jean Harlow impersonator was at the Dream Girl agency using their computer,” I said.
“We knew that, right? The computer guys told us that. We knew Sal was lying.”
“The Madonna impersonator said Harlow’s dad probably killed her,” Kate said. “But she had no names at all.”
Den’s mouth puckered to the side. “So here’s what we have. We’re sure of the method for Justine’s murder and we’ve got DNA of the person who killed her. We still don’t know who the Harlow character is, how she was murdered, or if the two murders have anything to do with one another.”
“But the Harlow look-alike was following me, which leads me to believe she was after me for a reason. Why me? Because I’m now working on the book?”
“That’s when most of the stuff happened to you. After the announcement at Justine’s service,” Kate said.
“Which all begs the question, why?” Den said. “I mean, Christ, is there a secret baby or something in Harlow’s past?”
“Nah. Even if there was, what would be the big deal about that at this point in time?” I asked. “I mean, yes, it would be big news if there was a living blood relative of hers. But at this point, who would have a stake in it? Who would care enough to try to keep it a secret?”
Den shrugged.
“There must be some kind of secret,” Kate said. “A secret someone will kill for.”
Once again, chills came over me and I shivered.
“Are you cold?” Den asked.
“No, just felt a chill.”
My phone beeped. It was the New York Public Library. “Oh! Excuse me, I have to take this.” I answered it and walked back into the library. “Charlotte Donovan.”
“Hi Charlotte, it’s me, Lizzie. You won’t believe what I’ve found.”
Lizzie Hill was a digital archivist at the New York Public Library of the Performing Arts. I adored her. She was one of the sources for my biography research who never failed me—and she was lovely to boot.
“What?”
“Do you remember the famous reel of film of Jean Harlow that we all thought was lost?”
“I’m not following.” Maybe I’d already had too much wine. Or perhaps I was just too tired and scared with all this talk of murder.
“The outtake of her in the bath scene!”
“Oh!”
“I’ve already sent you a copy. Check your email.”
“Thank you so much, Lizzie, for contacting me about this.”
“Any time,” she said. “This is a major find, but I’m keeping it to myself for a little while longer. Call it the librarian’s quiet revenge.”
I laughed. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”
“But check it out. It’s amazing. She was so comfortable in her skin. I’ve seen nothing like it.”
My stomach fluttered. How lovely it would be to be that way.
“I’ll watch it tonight.”
“Great, get back to me soon,” she said, signing off.
I called Den and Kate into the library and turned on my computer. “I’ve got something to show you. This is a rare clip.”
“Cool,” Kate said.
“Let’s turn off the lights. We’ll be able to see it better.”
Kate complied, and I pressed play on my laptop.
Red Dust. I recognized the scene. Jean in an old-fashioned wash tub, giving herself a bubble bath. A famous scene.
Jean’s voice was not crisp and clear. Muffled, as if through a tunnel from a distance.
“This is for the boys in the editing room!” she said and stood, revealing her naked self.
A valuable outtake. Not public. Only collectors had ever seen it—and the lucky folks who’d been there.
The black-white-gray lights stopped flicking and the film came to a standstill. There was Harlean Carpenter, Jean Harlow, standing naked, arms lifted, reveling in a joyous, fun moment. “Lighthearted” was the word that came to mind. Who could stand there naked like that, in front of all those people, and be so comfortable and have fun? There was something innocent and natural about it—childlike, even though she certainly wasn’t a child.
My heart exploded with some unnameable longing, twisted with another emotion. Admiration? Envy?
“Stunning,” Kate whispered.
Den breathed out. “Yeah. Wow.”
Thirty-Seven
That night, I dreamed of the nude Harlow, secret rooms, and running for my life from some strange person on the streets. Maybe it was the combination of the wine and pizza. Maybe it was just the weird twist my life had taken since Justine’s death. I sucked as a murder investigator. But the researcher in me refused to let this go.
After emerging from my cocoon of blankets, I drank coffee, ate a bagel, and dialed my grandmother.
“Charlotte? You okay?”
“Yes, Gram. I’m just calling to check on you.” I rinsed off my plate and opened the dishwasher.
“I’m fine.”
I placed the plate in the dishwasher and shut the door. “How’s Mom?”
“She hasn’t taken a drink since you left.”
A brief pang of something like hope sprang up in me. But I’d hoped before, hadn’t I?
“Fantastic.”
“How’s the book going?”
“I’ve made progress.” I walked over to the balcony door and opened it to the view of Central Park and its soft sloping hills, green tree tops, and curving paths. It called to me—but not like the beach on the island where I grew up. “Have you seen that man again?”
“No, and I’ve been looking for him. Me and Bessie,” she said and chuckled.
“I’m glad you haven’t seen him.” But it didn’t ease my fear. “So, Gram, about this Harlow ring.”
“Yes?”
“How much would it be worth?” I leaned on the kitchen counter.
“As much as someone will pay for it,” she said and cackled. �
��But seriously, somewhere in the neighborhood of millions, with provenance.”
“What would you do if someone brought the ring to you?”
“First I’d lock it away and make inquiries.”
“To whom?”
“Charlotte, why are you asking me these questions? You never cared about this stuff before.”
I paused. “The ring may have surfaced, and perhaps Justine learned about it, and maybe someone else did too.” I hated lying to my grandmother, but the exact truth was dangerous.
“Why did you come to that conclusion?”
“I can’t think of another reason for any of it—Justine’s death, the death of the Harlow look-alike.” I sat down and turned on my computer.
“It makes little sense, Charlotte. Killing Justine would not give someone the ring—even if she had it.”
“Unless they thought that by getting her out of the way, they’d get their hands on it.” That had to be it.
“You may have something there. But she didn’t mention finding the ring to you, did she?”
I walked back into the library. “No.”
“Humph.”
“Maybe she was protecting me.”
“I doubt it. She was self-serving. “
“Of course she was,” I said. “She was alone, with no family. Other than that cousin in Florida.” Where was Judith Turner, anyway? Why hadn’t I heard from the lawyer about rescheduling the will meeting?
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” I pictured our rundown beach house, with its creaky floors and chipped paint, my quilt-covered bed in the room I’d had almost my whole life. A winsome pang centered in my chest. “I haven’t heard from the lawyer about the will. Kate and I have almost everything boxed up in Justine’s apartment, but there’s still more left to do. Between taking care of Justine’s things and trying to write the book …” I didn’t say and “investigating murders.”
“Okay. Well, we miss you,” Gram said with a crack in her voice.
“I’ll get home as soon as I can.”
I wrote most of the day, even though I may have been missing a part of Harlow’s story. I didn’t know if I’d ever find it.
Later, I stopped writing and checked my Tinder account. A habit. A nervous habit. When I was jittery, my first inclination to soothe myself was sex. And I’d made a stupid bet with my best friend.
A message from Zach. He was one of my favorites. If I had to, I couldn’t choose between Zach and Juan. Thank goodness I didn’t have to.
“Hey, sexy, where’ve you been?”
Should I answer? Or leave him hanging? It wasn’t as if we were having a relationship. I didn’t owe him any explanation. But still, just the thought of him, and his gorgeous thighs, sparked something deep inside of me. He was tempting. How would Kate find out if I slept with him once?
I hovered there for a moment, imagining his thigh muscles moving beneath his skin.
Nah, I couldn’t lie to her. I never had and I never would. But what to do about Zach and his thighs?
I should at least be polite.
“Sorry, my boss passed away and I’ve been very busy. Touch base soon.”
Although, would I? When I thought about Den, my Tinder friends didn’t hold my attention. But Den wanted to date me, which meant a relationship. Was I ready for that?
After John, I’d promised myself never again. We’d planned to marry, then I’d gotten very sick and was hospitalized. And although he professed his love for me every day when he visited, at the same time he was screwing his best friend’s wife. Yeah. It used to make me furious to think about it. It still did, but it was tempered by a few years and thoughts of gratitude. Thank God I hadn’t married him.
If John couldn’t handle my illness, I had no business with him. It wasn’t as if I was sick all the time. But I hadn’t learned to manage it at the point. To pay attention to its tiny warning signs, like exhaustion over nothing at all, confusion, and lack of clarity in my mind. Those were the days Justine said to walk away from my work. She understood. Many bosses would not have.
It was that trait of hers that held me to her. I loved her for it.
But now she was gone, and I wondered what I’d do with myself after I finished this book. Who would hire me now? It wasn’t as if there were rich writers around the city searching for an assistant, especially one with chronic Lyme disease. I’d dedicated eleven years of my life to Justine. And while she’d taken care of me by giving me this job and I would always feel grateful for it, I now wasn’t qualified to do anything but assist her. Sure, I’d ghostwritten many chapters in her biographies. But who would believe that? How could I prove that? I owed thousands in medical bills. My mom and gram still needed my paycheck to help at home.
I stacked papers on the desk, turned away from the words on the computer screen, and tabled ideas about getting another job. I had too much to do right now. I needed to write this book—and I needed to find Justine’s killer.
Thirty-Eight
D ivorce in the 1930s decreased due to the Depression. In the preceding years, it had been continuing upward,” an online article declared. So while Jean Harlow and other Hollywood stars were getting divorces, the rest of America was not. Apparently because of the Depression. Divorce was unaffordable for regular folks.
Even though Jean Harlow’s mother divorced her father, and Jean became a child of divorce, I wondered what she believed about herself. Did she consider herself a failure because of her unsuccessful marriages? Was it the one thing her heart desired, and it eluded her?
Maude had told me that it was a real possibility that Jean’s work ethic came from her parents’ divorce and her feelings of unworthiness. She wanted to prove herself. But didn’t everybody? Even today? Was it so different in the 1930s?
I’d read about divorce and single mothers. It was the number one predictor for poverty. Yet Jean Harlow’s mother had flourished. Couldn’t it be construed that her mother, by choosing to divorce Mont Clair Carpenter, was a good role model—an example of why to not stay in a bad marriage? If so, where did that leave Maude’s theory?
My head hurt. I turned away from the computer, stood, and stretched.
I needed to get out of the apartment. A beautiful spring afternoon beckoned. I slipped on my running shoes, shorts, a sports bra, and T-shirt and headed for Central Park. I hoped to take a run but maybe it would end up being a walk. Who knew? My body was in charge.
Before leaving, I checked my cell phone out of habit. Most of my cop lovers seemed to have given up on me—and it had only been, what? Three weeks?
I pushed the button for the elevator, hoping the run would give me what I needed. A physical distraction. Fresh air.
My mind latched on to the five hundred dollars I would collect from Kate. I had a million different places for it. My past-due credit card. Helping my mom with the mortgage. Or paying on my hefty medical bill. None of it was fun. How I longed for a chance to splurge, just once, on myself. Simply buying a few secondhand outfits while I was staying at Justine’s had made me suffer pangs of guilt.
As I crossed the street, I contemplated Harlow and wondered again about her feelings. Did she feel guilty or empowered by her divorces? American culture was far from supportive of divorced women, even now.
I entered the park and welcomed the shift of awareness and atmosphere. The shade, the green, the blossoming flowers. The fountains and water. It was easier to breathe in the park—at least so it seemed. I stretched, warmed up, the warm breeze caressing my skin. Making me enjoy the promise of spring and feeling I could do almost anything. A trick of the mind, I’m aware. I started off with a slow jog, tuning in to my thighs, hips, and legs.
I ran toward the middle of the park, which was always more crowded, but I loved its dips and sways and bends. Gratitude welled up inside of me. Thrilled that I could r
un. Sometimes I found it hard to even walk. But today was a good day.
Running was like a meditation for me. It worked wonders when I needed ideas or needed to calm my mind. I kept trying to understand Harlow’s mindset about her divorces. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe it was best to be honest and write that nobody knew her inner experience. Jean never opened up about her marriages or divorces, which was unlike today’s celebrities, who latch on to the media and reveal way too much about themselves. The difference between the stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood and today were immense.
Maybe someone should write a book about that. Maybe someone had?
The park was crowded. Children playing. Couples on benches, having picnics, posing for the camera in front of fountains. I rounded the corner into the underpass of the Bethesda Terrace. I’d read about its restoration. Created in the 1860s, the original panels had been removed in the 1980s and it reopened in 2004. It was like running through a jewel box. I marveled at its electric blue and gold painted tiles and anticipated the street music in the echoing chamber. Stepping through it was like moving through a colorful, dreamy tunnel of sound.
The scent of falafel teased my nose, along with the horse shit I spotted and leaped over.
As I ran, the beauty of the park lulled me even further. The budding trees and flowers were a perfect distraction for a near-perfect day. Not a cloud in sight.
A man with a dog passed by me. A German Shepherd who didn’t even look my way. A group of tourists clamored by in a horse-drawn carriage. The black horse wore dazzling red headgear, including a huge red feather. I ran by the fountain everybody claimed was in the opening of the popular TV show Friends. It wasn’t, though it bore a striking resemblance to it.
I had reached the runner’s high, and confidence sprouted from my center. I might be able to finish my run this time.
But an abrupt awareness of eerie doom came over me.
A shock of intuition flared. Even among this happy park crowd, a sudden sense of foreboding crept through me, a darkness encroaching. Someone was following me, running closely behind me. Too closely. Right on my heels. What the hell? I left my pepper spray at the apartment.
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 16