“I am,” I replied. “I’m still cleaning and sorting her apartment. And then there’s my work. I’m finishing the Harlow biography.”
“You need not live here to write,” Judith said.
I shifted my weight. How could she appreciate anything about what I needed to do to finish the book? I shrugged. “I’m sorry?”
“Why don’t you move out? And leave the place and all of its belongings to someone who was actually related to Justine.”
“According to Justine’s will—”
“Pshaw! I’m certain you coerced her.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “If you think I could talk Justine into anything, it shows how little you knew your cousin.”
The security guard eyed us.
“I know she loved me,” Judith said.
The bags were getting heavy in my arms. “She only mentioned you once to me.”
“You are the help. Why would you know anything at all about the real Justine?”
I wanted to say that no, I don’t know much, but I’m learning more every day. Justine has a hidden room full of stolen Hollywood memorabilia and art. She hid out at Club Circe for weeks before her death.
I wondered how much Judith Turner actually understood about her cousin.
“When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of Justine Turner,” she said.
A sharp, chilling prickle traveled up my spine. I wanted to smack Judith, but my arms were full. And God only knew what she’d do if I hit her. I needed to escape to the elevator and get back to the apartment.
I started to walk by her, but I stopped. “You know what? I already wish I’d never heard of Justine. Do you think I like any of this? Do you think I like cleaning up her mess? Finishing the book she didn’t finish? Trying to figure out who killed her? Have people chasing after me because of it? No, lady. Being Justine’s assistant was never a picnic. Especially not now.”
Judith’s mouth flung open, as if in shock. I headed toward the elevator in tears. I pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.
It was all true, wasn’t it? Justine could anger me like no other person, except perhaps my mother. I was pissed. The messes she’d left me with were difficult to clean up. In fact, she hadn’t made it easy for me at any turn. We’d now solved one mystery: she’d stayed at Club Circe in the weeks before her murder. But the members wouldn’t let Den and me inside to explore. It could take days if not weeks to get the search warrant.
And she’d left me with a pile of illegal Hollywood crap to deal with.
What was I going to do with all of it, let alone the ring in my purse I had yet to tell Den about?
Yeah, Justine had educated me about publishing, and she gave me a chance when nobody else would, but damn, I was angry with her. Why hadn’t she trusted me enough to take me in to her confidence?
The elevator stopped and opened to Justine’s floor. I sat the bags of groceries down while I rummaged for the key and opened the door. I’d been anticipating my little feast. But now my stomach had soured. I stashed all the groceries in their rightful places and opened a bottle of wine.
My Saturday night would be wine and work. I poured myself a glass and headed into the library, flipped open my computer, and wrote. Damn, I needed to finish the book and get people like Judith Turner, Severn Hartwell, and Chad Walters out of my life—for good. Let alone scar face.
My phone beeped. It was my Tinder account. One of my favorite cops asking if I could get together tonight. Such late notice. I glanced at the clock. I considered it. After all, my month was up and I could use a zesty diversion.
But Den Brophy plucked at my mind. I didn’t see why. He’d sent signals of his disinterest. Perhaps I was even more attracted to him because of his lack of interest. When I was attacked in the park, he’d been there for me, but from the moment he’d placed me on that boat, his sour expression and sick stance had said it all.
I wrote back to Zach. “Not tonight. I’m sorry. I’m on deadline.”
That was true. I needed to stay focused. Words were flowing.
And it wasn’t because I was hung up on Den. No. I don’t get hung up on anybody.
Forty-Eight
I didn’t know how much longer I could put Lucille off. She called me at least twelve times within the next two-day period.
Finally, I answered the phone.
“Charlotte, where have you been? Are you feeling better?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just been very busy,” I said, and told her about Justine’s suite in Club Circe.
“All very interesting, but what does it have to do with the book?”
“I’m not sure. But Justine may have found a new twist to the Harlow story,” I said, hunching over the desk with my head in my hand. Was Lucille going to buy any of this?
“The Harlow story has no twist,” she said. “This book is the definitive Harlow story. With a few new pictures, a few new remembrances, and that’s it. Harlow led a brief life and most of it was very much accounted for. What’s new under the sun?”
I paused before telling her more. I didn’t want her to think I was chasing clouds even though I might be. “When I was at home recovering, two packages arrived that Justine had sent before she died.”
Complete silence on the other end of the phone.
“One was her missing laptop. Unfortunately, it was wiped clean, though the police have been able to recover emails. They’ve already been looking at emails we accessed through her desktop computer. She was being threatened by several people.”
“Nothing new there, I’m afraid.”
“She wasn’t being warned about a lawsuit, but for her life. And she was murdered, so there is something to all this.”
Lucille sighed an impatient, get-to-it sigh. “Look, where are you going with this?”
“It’s possible Justine’s killer came after her because she was exposing a secret about Harlow, or because of the star sapphire ring.”
“What secrets are we talking about?” Lucille was interested. Her voice inflected upwards.
“I think it has something to do with Marino Bello.”
“Her mother’s husband? What? Did he make a pass or throw himself at Harlow? What?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. But that’s not what I’m saying.” I explained the postcards and letter Justine had sent to me.
“All very interesting,” Lucille said. “But it appears to be leading nowhere. I’ve got a production schedule to maintain. We’ve already let it slide a few times.”
There was bite in her tone, which sent my heart racing. This woman had worked with Justine for years. She was one of the best editors out there. I wanted her to think highly of me.
“But then again,” she continued, with another sigh. “Justine always said you were a kick-ass researcher. I can give you a few more days. If there’s not a story here, you’ll have to get me that manuscript ASAP. Do you understand?”
Justine had told her about me. “Yes. I won’t let you down,” I said. And I won’t let Justine down either.
“I hope not.”
“I contacted the French embassy. They were able to confirm that Bello was there. And it worked out with the Harlow timeline. But what we don’t know is what he was doing there.”
“It sounds like there may have been a secret baby. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Jean Harlow’s movements are well accounted for. She was on-screen or rehearsing so much, she couldn’t have been out for any length of time. Every time she gained weight her mother placed her on a strict diet. There are records about it.”
“Plus she had two abortions, didn’t she?” Lucille asked. Papers shuffled in the background. “Just a minute.” She covered the phone and came back.
“Yes, she had two we know of,” I said. “All of her medical records are avai
lable.”
“Hmmm,” Lucille said. “Stay in touch, Charlotte. We’re cutting it very close. I don’t want to have to track you down.”
“Understood,” I said.
“I heard from Severn Hartwell, you know, and he’s just waiting for us to drop the ball on this book.”
“What? I wish he’d mind his own business.”
“He has no business. The man is broke. And no editor or agent will work with him. He’s not earned out his latest advances and he’s deeply in debt.”
“That’s surprising,” I said. But it made sense now why Hartwell had been hanging around me. Perhaps he considered the Harlow book his last chance. He was desperate. But was he desperate enough to kill?
“Justine was one of the few writers I ever knew who could make more than a living at this profession. Hartwell is more typical of authors,” she said. “Are you certain you want to be a writer?”
“I’m afraid there’s no turning back now.”
There comes a time in everybody’s life where you have to be honest with yourself. Defining yourself is difficult. But I’d always wanted to write, and now I wasn’t qualified to do anything else but research and write. I might be broke the rest of my life pursing my dream, and I’d made my peace with it. I didn’t need much, anyway. I wasn’t into expensive clothes, makeup, or any frivolity. I needed a small apartment and my computer, and enough food to get by.
Funny. I’d never even thought about all of that before. Until that moment. Few authors ever reached Justine’s fame and fortune. But most writers, like me, didn’t care. You had to do it, because you loved it, and no other reason sufficed.
Forty-Nine
Now that I’d told Lucille about it, I had to discover what was going on with Marino Bello in France. Maybe it would lead nowhere. But I had to find out.
I called the embassy again and left a message.
I walked into the kitchen and sliced bread and cheeses, poured myself a glass of wine, and took a plate into the library with me.
I mulled over what had transpired over the past few days. We’d found out Justine was staying at the Club Circe and that it wouldn’t be easy to get a search warrant. I drank from my glass. The wine was fruity and sweet. I bit into a slice of cheese, a good, hard blue cheese. The flavors mingled in my mouth.
So Justine must have been hiding at the club, suspecting she was in danger. She was getting ready to tell me something.
Lucille was more agreeable to my ideas than I’d imagined, which was a good thing. She was also a font of information concerning Severn Hartwell. I could visualize him killing Justine, but why would he have killed the Jean Harlow look-alike? The cops seemed pretty certain the two murders were linked.
And I also confirmed that Judith Turner was a piece of work. Grabbing me in the lobby? Why was she so concerned about Justine’s money? Was it greed or some other sinister compulsion?
With each sip of wine, I sank further into my chair. The cheese, the bread, the wine lulled me. My reflections were dripping through me, giving me plenty of time to consider each thought. Which was better than having racing thoughts.
My cell interrupted my meditation. I glanced at the screen. It was my grandmother.
“Hello,” I said.
“Charlotte, it’s about your mom,” Gram said, her voice wavering. She was upset, which rarely happened. “I found her passed out in a pool of blood. I don’t know if she was drinking or not. But we’re at the hospital.”
“Which hospital?” My reverie spun into prickling alertness. My mom!
“Mercy.”
Mom was probably airlifted, then.
“I’ll be right there.” I set my glass down and reached for my purse.
I cabbed it to the hospital. I couldn’t deal with the subway. Not tonight. My heart was racing and the food in my belly soured. I walked into the main reception area. A few people gathered around the front desk. I shuffled in behind them.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said to the man standing there. “She’s in ICU and can’t have visitors.”
“That’s my mother,” he said.
“Please have a seat or I’ll have to call security.” The receptionist was a plump, brown-skinned woman, made up to the hilt, with a strong manner and tough voice.
The man wandered off, hanging his head.
I stepped up, knowing that the woman was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Hi, I’m here to see my mom. Mary Katherine Donovan. She was just brought in.”
“One moment please,” she said, her fingers moved across her keyboard. She glanced up at me. “She’s in room 410. The elevators are just around the corner.” She pointed me in the correct direction.
“Thanks so much.” I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have her job. I could imagine the crap she had to put up with.
I found the elevator and pressed the up arrow. What had my mother done? Was she drinking again? She’d promised she wouldn’t drink another drop of alcohol. Disappointment jabbed at me. She had vowed that before, hadn’t she?
I exited the elevator and found my way to her room. I opened the door to a mostly dark space. One small light shone. Gram sat next to her.
“Charlotte!” Mom said with a raspy voice. Although she was in her fifties, remorse had taken away the years. Ashamed, she looked like a child. “I’m sorry. I tried.”
I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “It’ll be okay.”
Gram’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at my reaction. We’d been here before. I’d railed and lectured at my mother. Why couldn’t she stay sober? But I didn’t have it in me that night. Not with the way my mom looked. Not knowing she’d been bleeding.
A tear escaped from Mom’s eyes. “Oh, Charlotte. I thought I could just have a glass of wine with my spaghetti. Just one glass. The next thing I knew … I finished the bottle and threw up.”
“And passed out,” Gram said. “Could’ve choked on her own vomit. Good thing I checked on her.”
Just then a doctor came in the room. “Mrs. Donovan. And you are?”
“I’m her daughter, Charlotte. This is her mother, Brigid.”
The doctor walked over to my mom and reached for her wrist, took her pulse. Then he listened to her heart.
“You’ve got a good ticker, Mrs. Donovan. But your liver is another matter.”
Mom’s chin lifted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean psoriasis of the liver. It’s in terrible shape. As is your stomach. What are we going to do about that?”
Mom shrugged. “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“Stop drinking alcohol. It might take one drink or it might take twenty, but it will kill you.”
Gram reached over and took Mom’s hand. Her mouth was moving slightly, whispering a prayer.
“To that end, I’m having a social worker check into some rehab options for you. Get some help, okay?”
Mom nodded, looking shell-shocked. But I remembered the times we’d done this before. Twice. She’d been in rehab twice over the years.
“There are some new approaches, new therapies that might work for you,” he said as if reading my mind.
“Mom? What do you think?”
She nodded, tears streaming. I handed her a tissue. How had she gotten to this point? How did anybody get to this point? Was the pain of my father’s disappearance still too much for her? Had she never gotten over it?
I’d tried to help her as best as I could, but I admitted to losing patience with her and probably making it worse. The whole situation made me angry. Why couldn’t I have a strong mother? A mother who said, “Forget him. I’ll do fine without him.” Mom had tried to wear that mask for years, but it had worn down with each passing day.
Her pluck had vanished. My mom, her head on the white hospital pillow and covered in a pilled tan blanket, was so small, so delicate, it br
oke my heart.
Fifty
G ram and I both stayed the night. Mom’s stomach still bled, and they gave her something to stop it. Gram lay on a lounger and I lay on a cot next to Mom. Tossing and turning. With each nurse’s check-in, I sprang awake.
The next morning, we ate breakfast together. Mom’s coloring was coming back into her face. Whereas before it was grayish, now it was more pink. A priest visited, which thrilled my gram, but not so much me and my mother.
My cell phone beeped. It was Den.
“Hey, Charlotte,” he said when I answered. “We’ve got our search warrant. Usually we don’t allow civilians to come along on these things. But you might be able to help us make sense of what we confiscate.”
My heart fluttered. But my stomach sank in regret. “I’m sorry, Den. I can’t do it.”
My grandmother sat up, her attention on me and what I was saying.
“What? What do ya mean?”
“I’m at the hospital with my mom. There’s been an incident.”
“Incident?”
“Yeah, she’s in bad shape. I can’t get away.”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I hope she pulls through.”
“Oh, she will for now,” I said. “It’s complicated.” Mom was sleeping, so I tried to speak quietly.
“Hmph. I imagine we’ll be at Club Circe all day, and even tomorrow. So just come by when you can. Or not.”
“What will happen? I mean, what will happen to whatever you find in those rooms?”
Gram stood and stretched. She pretended to not pay attention, but she was straining to hear every word. Call it a granddaughter’s intuition.
“We’ll bag up and label everything. Nothing will get thrown out. Not yet,” he said. “So don’t worry, Charlotte. You do what you gotta do, y’know? It’s your mom.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get there when I can.”
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 21