“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I don’t plan on being here long. I need to send a few emails.” Both Justine’s agent and editor were waiting on me. Informing Natalie and Lucille of my attack and concussion was the first thing on my task list.
While the computer warmed up, I tried to clear my head. It was like cotton. Was it all the drugs they’d given me? Or was it the concussion? I wasn’t thinking straight and didn’t know how I would finish the book. Maybe I could get another extension. I’d ask Lucille if it was possible.
Ed walked over and sat the coffee down next to me. I sipped it, strong and good, its heat traveling through me. I glanced over at the bed where the tray sat. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said. “Now, if I can help you get back to bed? I need your blood pressure and to check your pulse.”
On the way back to bed I glimpsed my face in the mirror. It stopped me cold. The lump on my head had gone down. But it was a sick shade of green, tinged in deep blue, with yellow around the edges. Stitches sat in the center of it. My swollen and bruised nose matched my black eyes. I resembled a fifty-year-old version of my thirty-two-year-old self.
Ed caught me gawking. “You’ve had better days, I’m sure. But give yourself some time.”
“I guess I have no choice.” I tried to make light of it. But both the way I looked and the way I felt were in sync. Stupid and ugly.
Regret plucked at my chest. I should have told Den about the ring and turned it over. Why was I holding on to it, really? Some strange connection that I felt had something to do with the book I was writing? Or was it just the last piece of Justine I could hold in my hand?
The ring was more than a ring, and more than a missing puzzle piece in the case. If I gave it to Den, he’d act on it. And I wasn’t sure that was the thing to do.
Ed placed the blood pressure cuff on my arm and pumped.
Did I not trust Den enough to tell him about the ring? Or did I not want to turn over my last piece of Justine to him?
Ed smiled. “BP is good.” He tore off the cuff, set it aside, and reached for my wrist.
Den. If I handed over the ring, what excuse could I give for not telling him before? I was withholding evidence, and I appreciated that it wouldn’t sit right with him.
My thoughts were slow and hurting my brain. It wasn’t good to think so hard when you had a concussion. But I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t bear the shame of giving up, after getting so close.
After picking at my breakfast, I fell into a deep sleep beneath my quilt. When I awoke, I understood I had to do two things: tell Den about the ring, no matter the consequences, and somehow avenge Justine and the Jean Harlow look-alike’s deaths—the higher calling. I took heart in still believing that maybe all of it was linked.
I’d hold that resolve in my mind and heart, knowing I was doing the right thing even if it would sacrifice what I imagined could be a meaningful relationship with Den, the first I’d even been interested in for years. But then again, the sick look on his face as the boat pulled away from the harbor? That said it all.
Kate called the next day.
“I miss you.”
“Yeah, I miss you too.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, a little better each day.”
“Have you heard from Den?”
“Nah, I don’t expect to.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. He knows about my Lyme, and after this attack he’s seen me at my worst. You know what men are like.”
“People used to consider me one of them, you know.”
I laughed. “I remember.”
“I think he’s different than other men. Call it a hunch.”
The window across the room gave me a good view of the sea. Not for the first time, I’d considered it the one constant in my life. How I’d longed for it when I was in Manhattan.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve decided to tell him about the ring, and when I do, it will piss him off.”
“You don’t have to tell him how long you’ve had it, do you?”
“I don’t know. It feels wrong to lie to him again. Even a little white lie. He’s working so hard on this case. And he was so good to me when I was in the hospital.” A flicker of a heartbeat trembled in my chest.
“Suit yourself.”
It had been two days on the island and no call from Den. Was he avoiding me? Or too busy to call?
I caught myself. I’d told myself I would never be one of those women. The ones who wait for the phone calls. This was why I took solace in controlling my relationships through dating apps. Why I hadn’t gotten involved with anyone for a few years. Yet somehow, Den had wormed his way in beneath my well-tended shell. I was glad it would stop now—I had to focus my attention elsewhere.
Forty-Two
Lucille got another extension on your deadline, but I’m afraid it’s the final one, Charlotte. They’re threatening to find another writer to finish the book,” Natalie said.
“I understand,” I said. I couldn’t blame them.
“They took pity on you because of the extraordinary circumstances.” She paused. “How are you, Charlotte?”
“A little better, but the brain fog is the problem.”
“Understood.”
Meanwhile, even my battered self was going mad staying in my bedroom. After hanging up with Natalie, I untangled myself from my blankets and opened my bedroom door to the happy mess of our living room. I walked to the couch and sat down.
My mom entered. “What are you doing, Charlotte? Are you supposed to be out of bed?”
“I couldn’t stand it a minute more,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
She sat down beside me. “You must be feeling better.”
“I’m sore, and, I don’t know, groggy, but things are clearing.”
“Good,” she said. Sheepish, her eyes met mine. “I’m sorry for the relapse, Charlotte. I’ve been sober since then. I just wanted you to know.”
I’d heard that before and still refused to get my hopes up. Yet hope flickered.
“I’m glad,” I said, looking around the room. My eyes landed on some packages in the corner. “What’s over there?”
“Oh, dear! I’d forgotten about those packages for you.”
“For me? Packages?” I stood too quickly and dizziness overcame me. Bam, I was back on the couch.
“Now, stay there and I’ll bring them to you.” Mom raced off to the corner.
Had I ordered something and forgotten? It took longer for us to get mail on the island, let alone packages. Sometimes I ordered books way before when I’d need them. I also ordered manuscripts and other research materials from libraries and other institutions. What had I forgotten?
“Here,” Mom said, handing me the smaller of the packages. No return address. Odd.
I tore the brown paper and found a floral box, which reminded me of my dream of the floral hat box. I paused. Was I dreaming now?
“What are you waiting for?” Mom asked, poking me. Okay, I wasn’t dreaming.
I lifted the lid. Inside were manila envelopes labeled “Postcards,” “Letters,” and “Documents.” The handwriting was familiar with its loops and sways.
I dumped the postcards out. There were two of them.
A bouquet of wildflowers graced the front of the card. I flipped it over. “Package delivered with love.” The card was stamped in France and signed “M. Bello.”
Marino Bello. Jean Harlow’s stepfather.
Justine! She must have sent these packages to me weeks ago.
And Marino Bello had been in France in July 1932.
I wasn’t aware of that. But I hadn’t been tracking him in my research. I’d been tracking Jean and her mother. What did it mean? Why had Bello been in France? Two weeks aft
er Jean’s marriage to Paul Bern?
“What is it?” Mom asked, her eyes wide and lit with curiosity.
“A postcard from France. From Jean Harlow’s stepfather. I don’t know who it was sent to or why he was there.”
“Did Justine send this to you?”
“She must have.” My attention turned to the other postcard.
My head ached more as my pulse rushed. What was going on here?
The other postcard was dated July 14, 1937, a month after Jean’s death. Another floral postcard, lavender blooms splayed on the front.
“Success!” Signed by M. Bello, once again.
“What does it mean?” Mom sat wide-eyed.
“It means Jean’s stepfather took two trips to France. One a few years before she died and one after she died. I’m uncertain what meaning that has.” I didn’t even need to study the timeline to place those two events in my mind’s eye. Why did Justine send these to me?
It hit me with a bolt. Justine must have been hiding, at that point, which is why her apartment hadn’t been lived in. She sent the box of papers to me for safekeeping. But why? What was so important about it?
I opened the envelope labeled “Documents,” slid my hand in, and found a space. Odd. Why would she send me an empty envelope? In frustration, I turned it over and shook it.
“Looks like she wanted you to fill it,” Mom said.
“But with what? What kind of documents?”
“Justine was an odd bird,” Mom said. As if I didn’t know.
I reached for the third envelope.
One letter was inside.
A letter from Jean’s mother to Bello.
“Dearest husband,
I can’t tell you what grief I feel. But I’m comforted by the love of you and knowing we’ve done right by Baby.
Thank you for being the best husband I could ever hope for.
With all my love,
Jean”
I grunted. Bello was a prick. What was making him seem like a good husband? He’d ripped off his wife’s daughter countless times. Invested her money in his schemes and lost it all. Cheated on her.
The letter was dated after Jean’s death. The same period as the one postcard.
“It’s like a puzzle,” Mom said.
“Indeed. But it’s a puzzle that makes little sense.”
“Not yet, but you’ll figure it out.” She had more faith in me than I did.
“What’s in the other package?” I said, reaching for it.
“It’s heavy. Let me open it for you,” she said.
Mom opened the side of the box, reached her hand in, and pulled out something cased in bubble wrap. We untangled it. My heart nearly stopped. Justine’s laptop.
I opened and plugged it in. “Where’s my phone?”
“Probably in your room. I’ll get it for you.” Mom scurried off to my room and brought me my phone.
I dialed Den.
“Brophy,” he said.
That voice. It sent shivers through me, and at the same time warmth and comfort. How? How could one man’s voice affect me like this?
“Hi there, it’s Charlotte Donovan.”
“Hey! How are ya? I was just going to call you.”
“Why?” Did he expect me to believe that? Sorriest line in the book.
“We’ve had a big break in the case.” He paused.
“Well?” I stared at the blank laptop screen.
“The same poison killed both Justine and Jean.”
My skin pricked and hummed. Every pore was alert with anticipation. “So what’s next?”
“It gives us more time,” he said. “Now we know they’re linked, it’s a whole new case.” Shuffling noises sounded in the background. Hushed voices, phones ringing.
Relief poured through me as my body exhaled. More time. We had more time. I’d been given more time on the book. Den was given more time on the case. I drew in air.
“Why did you call?” Den asked.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” I said. “There were a few packages here from Justine.”
“At your home?” His voice carried an excited note I’d not heard from him before. “What’s inside?”
“The first package contained two postcards and a letter,” I said and explained them in further detail. “I’m uncertain what any of this means. It fits on Jean Harlow’s biographical timeline, though.”
“That’s interesting. But I’m not sure it has anything to do with the murder cases. Are you?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve no idea what these items mean. It’s like what you said. Different pieces of a puzzle that may or may not make sense as part of a whole.”
“I said that?” He laughed a little.
“Well, you said something like that,” I said, with a smile cracking my face. Ouch. Maybe I shouldn’t smile again.
“What’s in the other package?”
“Justine’s laptop. Now before you get too excited about that …nothing is on it.” I clicked around on the pad.
“Nothing?”
“Yeah, it looks like everything was wiped. I don’t know if it happened when it was mailed or some other way. But she mailed it here for safekeeping, so obviously it had something on it at one point.”
“I don’t know if our cyber unit can figure out what happened, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Do you think they could recover the files?”
“I know nothing about that stuff, but I’m sure they’ll try like hell.”
I pictured Den with his blue eyes and sideways grin. His wide shoulders and solid arms. I was feeling too down to tingle, but not too down for my heart to skip a few beats.
“I’ll send someone for the computer,” he said.
“I was hoping you’d come,” I said before thinking.
“I can’t do it.” He paused. “It takes too long to get out to Cloister and back. I need to be here working this case. Bad timing.”
“Okay,” I said as lightheartedly as I could muster. Message received. The journey took a good hour each way, sometimes longer depending on the tides. Sometimes I wished Cloister Island was closer to the city; other times I was grateful for the distance.
Jabs of sharp pain moved through my head. Time for another pill.
“Okay, we’ll watch for an officer.”
After we signed off, I took another pain pill and weariness overcame me. Mom was tidying up, and I wanted her to settle down. It was all the nervous energy she tried to use when she wasn’t drinking. Couldn’t she sit down like a normal person? Sit and read? Sit and, I don’t know, knit?
I made my way to my room and plopped down on the bed. If I had to watch Mom and all of her nervous tidying any longer, I’d lose my mind. Peace. I wanted peace.
But even as I lay there, staring up at my sea-green ceiling, my mind raced with the news Den had given me, along with the postcards and letter Justine sent. And just the fact that she’d sent them to me said volumes. She understood she was in trouble. But why? What exactly was going on?
For the life of me, I couldn’t believe a sapphire ring could get someone killed. “People have been killed for less.”
Mom entered my room, breathless. “I received a call from your grandmother.”
“And?”
“She says she has him. The collector you warned her about.”
I sat up too fast and dizzied. “Has she called the police?”
Mom nodded. Her eyes were lit with excitement. “They’re probably there by now.”
“I should get dressed,” I said, this time moving slower.
“You’ll do no such thing. If the cops need to talk with you, they can come here.”
“But Mom—”
“No buts about it.”
“But how will she explain th
is?”
“You know your gram. She’ll handle it.” Mom’s mouth spread into a wavy Cheshire-cat-like grin. “She held him at gunpoint while she called the police.”
Imagining my sweet little gram holding Chad Walters at gun point made me giggle. Just a little.
What a day. So many things were breaking. The poison connection. The postcards and letter. Now Walters in custody. The pieces weren’t connecting, but at least now we had pieces to chew on.
Later, Gram came into my room and filled me in. “I told Walters he had no business in my shop. Then he kind of scowled at me. I told him to leave. He said something like ‘it’s a free country.’ So I pulled out my gun and told him I was glad it was a free country, not to move, and I called the cops. They couldn’t hold him. But I don’t think he’ll be back.”
The Donovans were an old family on the island, and even though we were always down on our luck, especially with fathers and husbands, we were a part of this community. Chad Walters didn’t stand a chance. Everyone from the ferry operators to the restaurant owners would be watching for him now.
I grinned. “That’s my gram.”
Forty-Three
I woke up in the middle of the night with a clear head and one racing thought: I’m not giving up.
I fired up my laptop, which sat on my desk facing the sea. The same view I’d studied for years in the dark, in the light, and everything in between. From here I’d assisted Justine. I’d written, I’d scheduled, I’d proofread, I’d researched until I needed to go into the city for primary sources, or meetings with Justine, or interviews.
My spot. My seat of power.
I clicked on my timeline document and added the new information. Usually when information surfaced like this, there was a secret baby. Hollywood was full of them. But I’d ruled it out because Jean Harlow was always working and medical records indicated that she’d had at least two abortions, which hadn’t taken her out of work for long. There was never a long-enough period of time, where she wasn’t accounted for, during which she could have had a baby.
But something was going on around the time of her marriage to Paul Bern, and then right after she died. And it had to do with France. France? Why France?
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 18