I had a hunch whatever was going on in France had everything to do with Justine’s death. Why else had she sent me those packages? Those items were so important she wanted nobody else to get their hands on them.
I sent off an email to the French embassy in DC, asking how I could find out information on a visitor to their country. How long they stayed and what they were doing there. The press people at embassies were easy to work with. In fact, some of them lived for this kind of stuff.
Next I sent off an email to the Hollywood Museum, who boasted the largest collection of Jean Harlow memorabilia. I already had a contact there. I asked him if there were any notes or letters of Jean’s from France.
I wasn’t sure any of this had anything to do with the case. If there was something to unearth, I’d do it. And if it helped solved the murder of Justine and the Jean Harlow look-alike, all the better. But I also had to explore this because it absolutely had to do with the manuscript I was working on.
The day Justine met with me at Layla’s Tea Room, she was unlike herself—nervous, scared, and secretive. She was getting ready to explain it, and before she could, she died.
I would find out what it was. I owed her.
I opened the manuscript on my laptop and scrolled to the Paul Bern chapter, adding notes and queries. Then I scrolled to the “After Her Death” chapter and added more notes and queries. This was leading me somewhere. I had no idea where. I would need to be careful. I’d been clumsy. And I never should have let Natalie and Lucille make that public announcement that I was taking over the book. But I hadn’t been myself then. I was still in the shock of my grief.
But also, I’d had no idea what a quagmire I was stepping into. People coming out of the Harlow woodwork. The ring. The secret room. Being stalked by the look-alike. And finally, attacked.
Who would have figured on any of that?
A wash of weariness over came me then, just before sunrise. When the sky and ocean held the color of near dawn. A glow. I pulled the curtains shut and made my way to bed.
I was awakened at nine a.m. by Ed opening my door. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said. “Rise and shine!”
The ache in my head was slowly dissipating, but it was still there, low-grade and more than a little annoying. My face and nose still burned from the cuts.
Ed set a tray of breakfast food in front of me and for the first time since the attack, my stomach didn’t wave. Coffee first.
“I’ll check your BP and pulse,” he said.
“I’m feeling better today,” I said as he wrapped the cuff around my arm.
“Good,” he said. “It’s okay for you to move around the house today and see how it works out. Don’t leave the house yet, though.”
But I wanted to. I needed to. This would not do. I needed to get back to Manhattan, to Justine’s apartment, where most of my other notes were—and where there must be further clues. I needed to get back into the secret room, even if it freaked me out.
“When can I leave?”
“What’s your hurry?” he asked. “Just relax. You need to take care of yourself. You have me for one more day.”
Maybe that’s when I would make my case to leave. It would be tough—my mom and gram wanted me to stay. I was feeling stronger, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I needed to be in Manhattan until we found Justine and Jean’s killer.
“I’m serious,” Ed said. “Don’t push it. That’s one of the tricky things about concussions. You start to feel better and then think you’re okay. You took a nasty blow to the head. Not to mention the emotional trauma of the attack.” He took me in with his keen eye. “You may feel better, but your coloring is still off. “ He reached for my wrist and motioned for me to be quiet, right as my mouth opened to say thanks for his concern. But I understood my body enough to know when it was okay to push it and when not. Call it a gift of Lyme disease.
Then again, one more day away from Justine’s place wouldn’t hurt. It would give me a chance to contact Kate and plan. Digging through the secret room was something she’d wanted to do since we’d discovered it. Kate loved secret places and stories of finding a lost treasure.
Ed caressed the scratch on my face. “Let’s put ointment on it. It doesn’t look like it will scar.”
My mind rushed to the image of scar face, the person who’d killed Justine and, it seemed, the Jean Harlow twin. His wound must have been deep for his face to have scarred in such a way. How did he get that scar? What had he hoped to accomplish by killing those two women? What in his sick mind could ever justify such a thing?
Two days later I got up, found my old suitcase, flung it on to the bed, and packed. I would have to tell my mom and grandmother that I’d made the decision to leave.
A knock came at my bedroom door, and I opened it to find my mom and grandmother, each holding dishes and bags.
“Mom, Gram, what’s up?”
“People sent food,” Mom said, motioning for me to follow her to the kitchen, my tiny white-haired grandmother following with her arms full. “Come look.”
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“More food,” Gram said. “Even though you say you’re better, you’ll need to keep your strength up. Oyster stew.” She pointed to a Tupperware container. Oysters had enticed loads of Irish immigrants to this island. “Linda sent you brownies.”
“Sweet potato casserole, and there’s other stuff here from the ladies at the quilt shop, and some goodies from the bakery guys,” Mom said.
The women of this island kept full freezers for just such a time. Tears stung at my eyes.
“But I—”
Mom cut me off by wrapping her arms around me. “Oh my sweet Charlotte,” she said. “How awful for you! This whole thing. Come and sit down.”
“I’ll bring you coffee and a brownie,” Gram said. “Do you need anything else?”
I shook my head as my mom lead me to the couch.
“Grief is exhausting. Plus this attack and concussion. You need to keep your strength up.” Mom spotted my suitcase sitting on the bed. The door was open and the couch was about four good paces from my bedroom door. “Where are you going, exactly?”
“Uh, well,” I said. Normally I’m articulate, but I struggled to find the words to tell them I was leaving again for a few weeks, maybe longer. “I received news, and I have to go into the city and stay a while.”
Their heads tilted in interest in almost the exact same way, off to the right, eyebrows hitching.
“Pshaw! What do you need to go back for?” Mom said. Her disdain of the city was clear in her tone. “You need your family right now. You’re not strong enough to leave yet.”
I leaned back against the couch. “I’ve gotten the okay from Ed. I’ll see my doctor in the city.” I paused. “There’s more I need to do for Justine. There’s news about her case. It’s the least I can do.” My chest burned.
“Can’t you do it from here?” My grandmother asked, handing me a cup of coffee and a brownie on a napkin. “Where will you stay?”
“At Justine’s again,” I said. Mom gasped and Gram crossed herself. Even though she’d left the church years ago, it was her way of letting us know she was praying for us.
“Are you certain?” Mom asked after a few minutes.
I nodded.
“Well, let’s put some of this food in the freezer, then,” Gram said, waltzing into the kitchen and opening the cupboards, fridge, and freezer. My grandmother was like most of the women on Cloister Island, moving through the kitchen as if she were a well-oiled robot.
“Leave the brownies out,” I said. “I’ll take those with me.”
My mom sighed. “What are you going to do? Is the Harlow book finished?”
“No, the book’s not finished. I’ve no idea what comes next. I got an extension. Those postcards and letter Justine sent me may add some
thing to the book. I need to follow up with more research,” I said and sipped from my coffee.
We three women sat in silence—or, almost silence. Gram was clicking her teeth, a nervous tick. We’d been here before. We knew grief and sickness too well. Three generations of it.
Mom ran her fingers over the quilt that was thrown over the back of our worn couch. “I know you well enough to know your mind’s made up. Please be careful and promise me that if you start to feel unwell, you’ll come home. Please.”
“Okay,” I said.
Later, on my way across the sound, I watched my island, with its shops, galleries, and restaurants, fade into the distance. I always hated leaving. And Cloister Island, even with its small-town mentality and people, was home.
The ferry slowed, and I took in the view of the city. As usual, it took me a few minutes to adjust to the pace. As soon as the ferry approached the dock, I rang Den.
“Hey, I was just going to call you,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Passing Long Island, heading to Manhattan. I’m staying at Justine’s place again.”
“The guys have been able to recover some of Justine’s files from her laptop. But nothing about Harlow or the case yet.” He breathed into the phone.
“Maybe the postcards and letters will help. I don’t know what they mean. I’m waiting on a phone call back from the French embassy. The Hollywood Museum has nothing for me so far.”
“I gotta go, Charlotte. Stay in touch.”
“Sure thing.”
I tried not the think about Den too much. My month wasn’t quite up yet. But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter.
I disembarked from the ferry and called an Uber to the train to Justine’s place, grateful for the ride. I hated to admit it to myself, but I needed to ride instead of walk. Just the journey across the sound had worn me out. The first thing I’d need to do was take a nap. Or I’d be sorry later on.
How I hated that. I felt like an old woman sometimes. The stab of the unfairness of my health situation zoomed through me. But it did no good to feel sorry for myself. Not at all.
Riding in the Uber, I took in the people along the streets—the funky Chelsea vibe, then moving uptown through the travesty of Times Square and picking out the tourists, then onward to the Upper East Side, where the crowds were thinner and less frantic. An interesting mix of people populated the Upper East Side—nouveau riche and old wealth. Vastly different on the social spectrum, in everything from what they wore to how they moved through the streets.
The Uber edged along Central Park and made its way to L’Ombragé, wedged between the shadows of two bigger apartment buildings. But its old-world elegance outshone the others surrounding it.
I anticipated digging into my research further, hoping it was leading me somewhere and not down a rabbit hole. Why had Bello been in France? Both before and after Jean’s death? None of the Harlow biographies mentioned any of that. And the biggest question of all was what could have been secret enough about these two trips to reach into the future and, perhaps, play a role in the murder of two women?
Forty-Four
Riding through Manhattan, I had turned off my cell phone because the barrage of the calls that had backed up while I was on Cloister Island would come through and it would beep and beep and beep. Hated it. So when I walked into Justine’s apartment and switched my phone on, countless beeps erupted, and within minutes I received a call.
“Hello.” I set my laptop down on the desk.
“Ms. Charlotte Donovan?” the official-sounding female voice on the other end of the line said. Vaguely familiar.
“Yes.”
“Susan Strohmeyer, Justine Turner’s attorney.”
I’d forgotten about the missing updates to the will.
“I’ve been trying to call you. I’m so glad to get through to you.”
“I went back to Cloister Island. Sometimes my cell doesn’t work there.” I sat down on the desk chair, the muscles in my legs overjoyed for the relief. “Did you find the updates to the will?”
“Yes, we did. But we couldn’t locate you, so we read the will without you. Justine’s cousin insisted. She was threatening a lawsuit. I apologize for that.”
“No worries,” I said.
“Justine left most of her estate to you.”
“Come again?” I must not have heard her right.
“She left most of her estate to you.”
“Me?” I blinked and scanned the library. The books. The chaise. The delicate rose window. It was all real, not a dream.
“You’re aware, of course, she had no family except Judith.”
I inhaled and found it difficult to exhale.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, but there must be some mistake. Everything? To me?” I let out a slow breath. My heart kicked in, rapping heavily against my rib cage. I stared up at the beautiful ceiling.
“Yes, that’s the good news. The bad news is that Judith Turner is contesting it.”
“Of course,” I said. She was a piece of work. Justine had barely acknowledged her. And Judith was a wealthy woman in her own right. What was she about?
“How much is it?” I stammered, somewhat embarrassed by my question.
“I’ve no way of knowing at this point. As I say, it will take time to sort through. I don’t think Judith has a case.”
“Okay. What do we do now?”
“We wait for Judith’s attorney to officially file the complaint and we go from there.”
As we hung up, I told myself not to get my hopes up. I had never imagined Justine would leave anything to me, let alone everything. Did that really mean the apartment? I should have asked. It seemed too much to hope for—the prospect of finally having money, being able to pay of my hospital bills, perhaps helping my mom and gram after all those years of pinching pennies.
No. I wouldn’t hope for it. Judith Turner would end up with it all.
I twirled around in Justine’s chair to face the wall of books. It didn’t matter if I ended up owning any of it—or inheriting all of her money. Tears stung my eyes. Justine wanted to leave it all to me. Something in my chest lifted.
I turned back to my laptop with a new sense of determination.
I moved forward on the manuscript, writing into the wee hours of the morning. I was almost there. Almost. Except for the gaping holes in earlier chapters. Why was Bello in France? Not once, but twice?
Still no word from the embassy. I’d gotten a brief email from my contact at the museum. So far he’d found nothing, but he was interested enough to keep pursuing it. He said there was one more place he had yet to check, but didn’t have much hope.
I awoke the next morning with the Jean Harlow look-alike on my mind. As far as I knew, her life and death were still a mystery. She’d apparently changed her name to Jean Harlow, but there were no records of the change. Den still had no idea where she lived. When she was found, she’d had nothing on her with an address.
Was nobody missing her? Had nobody called the police to report a missing person? Sadness tugged at me. She must have gone through a lot to reclaim herself as a woman, and not just any woman, but Jean Harlow. Like Kate, she probably had her own story of family struggle, grief, and perhaps violence.
To be a person who’d gone through hell to become who she believed she was meant to be, and then to have been killed so young … it struck me as extraordinarily cruel. But then again, the world was unforgiving and ambivalent. There was little justice.
My phone interrupted my deliberation. It was Kate. “I’m running about an hour late. The Japanese buyers are giving me a hard time. I need to meet with them very quickly, and then I’ll be over to help you clean.”
“See you then,” I said.
I took a deep breath and listened to my messages.
Several from Natalie
, Justine’s agent.
Several from the Lucille, who was livid. “What is the problem? Why can’t you get this manuscript done?” Her voice was sharp and clear and quivering from anger.
The next call from Lucille was full of apologies. “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to you.”
A call from Lizzie the librarian, checking in for my opinion about the clip of Harlow, asking if there was anything else she could do for me.
A phone call from a woman named Crystal, who has a message for me from Jean Harlow’s ghost. Oh no, not again. “She said she knows about the trinket in your purse. Whatever that means. She’s insistent you deliver it to the right person.”
My breath stopped. Who was this person? This Crystal? Her use of the word “trinket” led me to believe she was making it up. But then again, the ring was the only possible “trinket” in my purse.
Shivering, I slid my phone away.
What utter nonsense. Nonsense that freaked my ass out.
Forty-Five
After performing my morning rituals, I slipped out onto the balcony for some air. The sky was moonstone gray with the threat of rain. Nobody else in the building minded the rain. Most of them were independently wealthy and ordered everything from groceries to books. They weren’t like the rest of us working slogs, hoofing around struggling to carry packages and manage an umbrella.
Kate would arrive any minute so I went back inside, reluctantly. The apartment still needed a good airing out. I was trying my best. But years of stale air were difficult to vanquish.
The scent of Cotillion hit me hard as I walked into the library. The desk lamp flickered off, then back on. I’d noted how the electricity wasn’t right. I reached for a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. Damn, it was cold in here. I made a mental note to speak with the management about the fluctuating temperatures. Even though I was uncertain of how much longer I’d be living here. Still, this needed to be tended to.
The intercom’s buzz interrupted my thoughts. I pressed the button.
“Ms. Kate, here to see you,” a voice said.
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 19