The Jean Harlow Bombshell

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  I was stunned. She appeared to be there, right beside me. She reached down and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Poor girl,” she said. Comfort filled me.

  “You’ve taken a long rest,” she said. “You’ve used your smarts to figure everything out. I’m proud of you.”

  Her soft features morphed into something almost animal-like. “Now, get up and do something!”

  A cold whoosh of air pressed on me and I woke up shivering. I picked up the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around me. It was just a dream. Justine wasn’t there. It was just my subconscious talking to me in the form of Justine. But that’s not the impression that lingered in the air, a tiny shift filled with mist and memory. Gram was right when she’d said grief does strange things to people. I could have sworn Justine was there and we were talking. Gram swore she’d seen my grandfather frequently.

  “Is it a trick of the mind? Or just something we don’t understand?” she’d say, shrugging.

  I lay on the chaise, thinking about everything Justine had said in my dream. Perhaps it was time to move into the guest room. But then again, if Judith had her way, who knew how much longer I’d be allowed to live in the apartment? I guessed it didn’t matter. I should venture out and explore the apartment in any case. I hadn’t been in half of the rooms, I was sure.

  I wrestled myself out of the blanket. My skin had cooled, which meant my fever broke. I made my way to the kitchen and brewed coffee. As the scent filled the room, I continued down the hall and opened the door across from Justine’s room.

  In the center sat a king-size bed covered in a deep blue silky spread. The room bore all the hallmarks of the rest of the place. Art deco lamps, lighting fixtures, and dresser and chairs. I opened the door to the closet and slipped in. It was bigger than my room on Cloister Island.

  The room needed a good dusting and vacuuming, and stale Cotillion wafted here and there. Justine had been in this room countless times. It was her home.

  I flitted across the floor feeling lighter, as if my fever had shed a part of me that had been weighing me down.

  I moved into the kitchen and made myself some coffee and checked my phone. Three calls from Den, eight calls from Kate, one from Gram, and one from Natalie.

  I called Kate first.

  “Why haven’t you answered your phone? Den told me what happened. I was sick with worry,” she said.

  I drank my coffee. “Calm down. I was sick, had a fever. I’ve just been sleeping.”

  “Sleeping? All this time?” Her voice rose a decibel or two.

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you okay? Are you getting sick? I’ll be right over.” She hung up, not giving me a chance to explain.

  Next I called my gram and explained to her what was happening. I should have explained everything from the beginning, but I hadn’t wanted to worry her.

  “So you have the ring?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It may not be hers, you know? That’s going to be difficult to prove. Documents can be faked. So can jewelry.”

  As usual, Gram hit the nail on the head. All the documents in my possession were copies. I wasn’t sure I could rely on them to tell the Harlow story. What the book called for was an addendum or an afterword, along the lines of “This is what may have happened to the ring, and this is what may have happened with Marino Bell and Jean Harlow’s mother.”

  Next, I phoned Den.

  “Hey,” he said. “How ya doing?”

  “I’ve been sick. Have you caught our guy yet?”

  “No,” he said after a few beats. “It might be ready to go cold soon. We’re using way too many resources, ya know?”

  A roaring sensation filled my chest and spread through my body and into my skin and throat. “Do what you want, Den. I’m planning to call Lucille and tell her it’s a go.”

  “What’s a go?”

  “We’ll announce it, have a press conference, with or without the help of the NYPD.”

  “Now, hold on—”

  “I’ve played by your rules most of the time. But it’s not working. We need to turn the tables. Lure him out of hiding. It’s the only way to do it.”

  I surprised myself by the decision, formed there and then. It was as if I’d made it sooner and my mouth was now ready to say so.

  “It’s too dangerous. I can’t let you do this.”

  “I’ll ignore what you just said about letting me do this. For now. We’ll talk about that later. My publisher will hire a good security outfit. It will be fine. I will be fine. I promise.” With those words, confidence and calm spread through me, even though fear dwelled deep down in my bones. This was something I would never have dreamed of doing before Justine’s death. But then again, I’d imagined none of this at all.

  Sixty

  W e planned the press conference down to the most minute details. We publicized it, announcing that the public would be allowed as room permitted, figuring most people couldn’t care less about Jean Harlow or her ring.

  Only the press and the Jean Harlow “kooks,” as Justine had hailed them, would care. Lucille wrote a speech and planned to do most of the speaking. She assured me this was her kind of thing. “I’m ready for my close-up,” she joked as we sat in what they called a green room. Dressed in a classic blue suit, evidently leaving the argyle behind for official functions, Lucille seemed ready for anything.

  “Jean Harlow didn’t say that, you know. Some people think she did, but it was Gloria Swanson.”

  “I thought it was Mae West.” She glanced at herself in the mirror.

  “No.” I’d eaten a large breakfast, which was unlike me, and now I regretted it. “Ladies’ room.”

  “Again?” Lucille said as I left the room.

  When I returned to the green room, Jonathan, the head of the security detail, stood there, along with Den, who was not officially there but working with the security because of his knowledge of the case. Police officers, however, were scattered around the block on alert.

  Den handed Jonathan photos. “This is our guy, though he’s known to disguise himself.”

  “Got it,” he said, then took photos with his phone and I presumed sent them to his crew.

  I took the ring out of my purse and slipped it onto my finger.

  “That’s it, huh?” Lucille said. “It’s really quite gaudy.”

  I agreed. There was nothing pretty about it. It resembled smoky blue marble, and it was difficult to wear. I’d seen photos of Harlow wearing it and the ring didn’t even suit her.

  “Changing times and styles, I guess,” I said.

  She stood and motioned for me to stand. This was it. Pulses of something like a fluttery electricity shot through my center. Nervous one minute, the next, impatient to get this over with. This was our last shot. If it didn’t work, the case would slow down, making it even more difficult to nab the slippery Luther Stone.

  Den grabbed me by the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said. I nodded back at him.

  “It’s imperative you follow our instructions,” Jonathan said. “We need to keep you safe.”

  Sweat beads pricked my forehead. Was I going to do this?

  The three of us—Jonathan, Lucille, and myself—walked out onto the platform. Jonathan said something into his shoulder mic as Lucille stood behind the podium.

  Flashes from cameras went off, and then it settled down as Lucille spoke about the Harlow book and the ring.

  I studied the audience and spotted Natalie. A sea of faces focused in our direction, some in the light and some in the shadow. They were bobbing between one another, trying to get the best view or camera shot.

  Nobody there even remotely resembled Luther Stone, but more people appeared to be entering, as was always the case with press conferences. People came and went.

  I intently scanned the audience and w
asn’t listening to Lucille. One face popped out at me. It wasn’t Stone, but it was Severn Hartwell. What the hell was he doing here? Had Den told Jonathan about Hartwell? I didn’t think so. They’d focused on Stone. I tried to hail Jonathan, but it was no use. He was fixated on the room. I finally tugged at his sleeve and he looked at me with a question on his face. “What?”

  “There’s someone here you should know about,” I whispered into his ear. “He’s dangerous.”

  He leaned forward, confused.

  I didn’t want to point, which would alert Hartwell.

  “And so I give you Charlotte Donovan, who is wearing Jean Harlow’s blue star sapphire ring,” Lucille said with excitement.

  All eyes turned toward me.

  Jonathan gestured for me to move forward behind the podium.

  The bullet-proof podium.

  As I took my spot, more people came into view.

  “Getting to know Jean Harlow and her family has been a remarkable experience,” I said into the microphone, as rehearsed. My heart thudded against my rib cage, unrehearsed.

  Severn Hartwell moved ahead, breaking from the crowd. There was more movement in another part of the flock and a familiar face came forward. Chad Walters. Shit. Did the security people know about Chad Walters? Two of the men I’d had run-ins with were here, but not the killer.

  I didn’t even know where to gaze next. There were two of them, both edging their way forward. Had security noticed? Had Den? He’d recognize both of them.

  “So many facets of her life remain a mystery. But we are all entitled to some mystery and privacy in our lives. Even if you are the original blonde bombshell.” I attempted to smile. A few people in the throng laughed.

  Hartwell was closer than Walters, who was stuck in the pack. I watched Hartwell and then watched Walters. I willed Den to pay attention, to recognize these two men. They might be every bit as dangerous as Stone. Please, Den.

  “One of the many mysteries about Jean Harlow has been solved. The blue star sapphire ring that the great love of her life gave to her now sits on my finger.” I held up my hand, and the flock hushed as photographers snapped away.

  Den appeared next to Hartwell. Thank God. Thank God he’d spotted him.

  Security had closed the door and weren’t allowing anybody else into the room. That was part of the plan if Stone was identified. But where was he? Was he in the crowd? He must be here. I tamped down a jolt of panic.

  Just then, Hartwell lunged forward, making a dash for the podium. Gasps came from the crowd as the press snapped pictures. Den apprehended him and dragged him off.

  “You bitch!” Hartwell yelled. “The ring should be mine! The story should be mine!” His words became garbled as he was led away.

  The crowd simmered down, and I cleared my throat. But something was wrong. Where was Walters? I’d lost track of him.

  Just as I thought I’d spotted him again, a man jumped out of the crowd onto the platform and grabbed me. He poked something hard into my ribs and yanked me backward, just as Jonathan lifted his hands as if to say he wasn’t armed.

  Luther Stone!

  As Stone wrapped his arm around my neck, my gaze fell to the object sticking into me—a gun.

  This is not happening. This is a nightmare. This is not happening. I’ll close my eyes, and when I open them, this will all be gone. Close. Open.

  Still he was there, his arm wrapped around my neck making it hard to breathe. I gagged.

  “Just give me the ring,” he said.

  I didn’t care about the damn ring. “Take it.”

  “Hold on just one minute,” a voice said from the side. It was Chad Walters, who also had a gun. “If anybody gets that ring, it’s me.” He was unnervingly calm.

  Walters moved forward. Luther reacted by pulling me in harder. “I’ll shoot her.”

  Walters smiled a vicious smile. “Do you think I care?”

  I glanced up at Jonathan. What the fuck good was he? What was he doing, standing there with his hands up?

  What were members of the press doing, milling around watching this? Was nobody going to help me? “You can only help yourself, honey. Nobody else gives a shit. Not really.”

  Walters’s face grimaced in pain and he fell forward. Blood spread across his back. What the—?

  “He’s been shot,” Luther Stone said, realizing there was a shooter out there. He dragged me backward and stumbled enough to let go of me for just a few seconds, but it was sufficient for me to shake loose of him, twist, and grab for his gun.

  The weapon was now in my hands. I held it and found it heavier than I imagined. It was moving. Why?

  Luther’s hands rose. “Now, now Charlotte. You don’t want to shoot me.”

  Within a nano-second, Den was by my side. “Give me the gun, Charlotte.”

  Why would I do that? I pointed the gun at the man who’d killed Justine and the Jean Harlow look-alike. I had him. A welling of power surged in me. The voices of the crowd behind me hushed. Security took control of the swarm, escorting them out. I stood with the shaking gun aimed at Luther Stone. His evil hooded eyes filled with fear.

  “Charlotte,” Den said with firmness.

  I heard him. But I also heard other voices. Justine. Jean Harlow. The look-alike. Other women. Other men. How many others?

  “You don’t want to do this,” he said.

  Yes I do.

  I lowered the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

  Sixty-One

  I still don’t regret shooting the man. But remembering that day, I admit, there were a few things I could have done better. Like aim. I wanted to shoot his groin. Instead, the bullet grazed his inner thigh and, from his yelps, I gathered his pain was considerable. In that regard, I was a success.

  The incident held the ambiance of a weird dream, almost as if I were a different person at the time. People often say that, right? But in reality, it’s beyond description.

  “You don’t feel bad at all for shooting him?” Kate asked over lunch.

  “No. I probably should. Maybe I’m a sociopath,” I said and popped a fry in my mouth.

  She grunted as her fork twirled her spaghetti. “I know you. I know that’s not right. You’re probably still in shock. But thank God you didn’t kill him. Then you’d be going off to prison.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I don’t think Den could stretch that bogus self-defense plea if you killed the guy,” Kate said.

  Was it bogus? The man had a gun pressed up against my side. I’d just taken advantage of his clumsiness. Of course, I’d had time to make a decision.

  “So, after all this, was your look-alike related to Jean Harlow?” Kate said.

  “We have no idea yet. We’ve contacted the genetics lab in Hollywood and the results are on the way. So we’ll see,” I said. “I just want to get this book finished, and I can’t quite do that until we know.”

  “Your publisher should kiss your ass,” Kate said. “You shouldn’t feel any pressure at all to finish the book.”

  It was true. The pre-sales numbers had skyrocketed. It was so good, I was thinking maybe I could make a living at writing these types of books, ones with my own added twist, a little more depth into my subjects. Eventually I might work my way into writing exactly what I wanted. But I was still in Justine’s shadow on this book, which was fine with me.

  “Do you hear anything from home?” Kate asked with a note of sorrow in her voice. She was homesick even though she’d never admit it.

  “Gram is fine. Mom is still in rehab. Neither one of them have heard anything else out of my dad,” I said. “Why don’t you and I go back for a weekend. Stay with us. Just like when we were kids.”

  Kate brightened, then frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, gazing off into her own distance.

  “Think about it,” I sai
d.

  She nodded and frowned. “When I think about the look-alike it makes me sad. She had no real family. Her mother died and her father despised her. Maybe by becoming Jean Harlow, she’d hoped he’d approve. Or maybe she was searching for a family of others like her, which is why she worked as an impersonator, why she needed to prove her relationship.”

  After lunch I made my way back to Justine’s apartment, still barely believing I could reside in such elegance. I laughed out loud, and the sound echoed. I’d gone from my bedroom in my family’s dilapidated beach home to this. I was still uncertain about what Judith would do, but I felt more comfortable. Which was probably not a good thing. I braced myself for the inevitable letdown. Still, how many people could say they’d even been in a place like this, let alone lived in one?

  I opened the French doors onto the balcony and soaked in the sun and fresh air as I took in the view of Central Park and the West Side of the city beyond, with the grand buildings sprouting from the trees. I felt good, better than I had for a long time. Lighter. Freer. I missed Justine still, and always would.

  I wished I’d gotten to know the Jean Harlow look-alike. Maybe Justine was planning to tell me about her that day at Layla’s tea room. I would never know. In a way, it didn’t even matter if the look-alike was blood-related to the real Harlow. She believed she was. She became obsessed with the star, so much so she’d had plastic surgery to make herself look more like her famous relative.

  Was she so haunted because of her father’s obsession with Harlow? That held a kind of logic. But there was more to it.

  Luther “Lucky” Stone had taken his son’s identification as a woman personally. As if it was an assault on his own manhood, like Maude had suggested. He felt it was his failure as a father. The fact that his son had the ring once belonging to his mother only added insult to injury.

  Harlow’s reputation also preoccupied Stone. He wanted to keep the story hushed. In some twisted way, he imagined he was protecting her honor by keeping the story secret. It was almost as if he was in love with her. In love with a woman long gone. In love with his mother’s half sister. Way out of reach. And more than a little creepy.