The Jean Harlow Bombshell

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  Family. How did it get so twisted in some families?

  I ambled back into the apartment just as my cell phone buzzed and the still-cracked screen said it was Susan Strohmeyer.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “It’s Susan Strohmeyer,” she said. “Justine Turner’s lawyer. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  I braced myself.

  “Judith has conceded the apartment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the apartment and everything in it is yours. You can stay there or sell it. It’s entirely up to you.”

  Heat traveled up my spin. I stopped myself from squealing. The apartment!

  “That’s incredible,” I said. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Congratulations!”

  There was an awkward pause. “Wait. You said there was bad news?”

  “Judith is still contesting the rest of the will. The money. The stocks.”

  “How much longer until we know?”

  “It could be a long time. Sometimes these cases go on for years. I don’t think that will be the case. But brace yourself, it could get ugly.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I hear you. What comes next?”

  “Come to the office and we’ll transfer the deed to the apartment into your name. That’s the first thing you need to do,” she said. “We’ll discuss Judith when you get here.”

  I could do that. I could go to her office, sign papers, chat about Judith. Right now, I sensed my own strength, as if I was ready for anything.

  Sixty-Two

  Tonight was the night. Den was coming over for dinner. I was surprised he accepted my invitation, given that I’d shot Stone. I kept hearing the tenseness in his voice as he said my name those few moments before I fired. I hadn’t listened to him. But I couldn’t. The other voices were stronger. They’d compelled me toward revenge.

  So I hoped our evening would not turn into one long discussion of the incident. I wanted it to be a celebration. And whether or not Den and I moved forward with a relationship, I craved time with him.

  Earlier in the day, I’d received the results from the lab in Holly-wood, which were sitting on my desk. I didn’t want to look at them without Den. It seemed appropriate.

  When I opened the door to Den, the sweet rush of temptation almost overcame me. He was dressed in nicely fitted jeans and a blue shirt, which made his blue eyes pop. And what was in his eyes was a smoldering passion. Or at least that’s what I gleaned.

  “Come into my new apartment,” I said, definitely in my come hither voice.

  “What? You’re kidding me, right? This place is yours?” he said.

  “Yes!” I squealed and flung myself into his arms. One hand was holding a wine bottle, so it was an awkward one-armed hug. But still, it quenched my hunger for comfort. For now.

  “That’s amazing,” he said as he pulled away. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks for the wine,” I said when he handed it over. “I have champagne on ice. I hope that’s okay?”

  He grinned that cute sideways grin of his. “Yeah, sounds good. We can drink the wine some other time.”

  Some other time.

  “I’ve gotten good news myself,” he said, following me into the dining room. It was the first time I’d used it. The chandelier was turned down low and several candles were lit. “Wow, what a room.”

  “What’s your news?”

  “I got that promotion. You’re now looking at a detective.” He grinned.

  “Congratulations!”

  Den sat down at the table. “I guess this is where you want me.”

  It’s one of the places I want you. I nodded. “I’ll just get the salad.”

  We laughed and chatted through dinner as if we’d known each other for years. We’d been through an intense time, gotten to know one another in our worst moments, um, er, my worst moment. His best, I suppose. Justine and the look-alike’s murder case had finally gotten him his promotion.

  “Such a good dinner. Thank you,” he said, reaching out and caressing my face. “You are just so beautiful.”

  My face heated. “I’m glad you think so.”

  Why did him saying I was beautiful embarrass me? I’d heard it before, but it had never had affected me like this.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said. “I thought it was clear I like you.” He sat back, removing his hand from my face.

  My heart became a ticking clock, with soft, brief beats against my rib cage. “It’s okay,” I said. “I like you too.” And I need more champagne.

  I stood and started to clear the dishes. He reached for me and pulled me to his lap. “You remember that kiss?”

  “What kiss?” I played stupid and coy.

  He pulled my face to his with gentle determination and showed me.

  I lost all sense of time in that kiss. Or should I say those kisses? I was a puddle of sweat and molten heat when we finally stopped kissing. I gazed at his face, eyes lit with passion, and I pulled away, standing up. I cleared the dishes again. Den helped me.

  “I have news for you,” I said.

  His head tilted in interest.

  “Let’s drink the rest of the champagne in the library.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, and grabbed the glasses while I carried the bottle.

  When we entered the library, I picked up the envelope with the results of the genetic testing results and moved to the chaise. Den followed my lead with excitement and curiosity.

  “What’s that?” He put his arm around me. So warm. I wanted to stay there. Suddenly my plans to ravage him gave way to something else. I didn’t know what. But somehow, it didn’t matter if we made love tonight, the next night, or next week. The comfort I found with Den was deep.

  “The genetic results,” I said.

  “The answer?”

  I nodded. I leaned into him. His eyebrows lifted in interest.

  “Shall I open it?”

  “Right now, I’m not sure I care.” He ran his fingers along the inside of my arm, tickling me. “I mean, what does it matter? It doesn’t matter to the case.” His voice was soft and deep.

  “It matters to the book.” I willed away the delicious sinking feeling overcoming me, drawing me to him like a magnet.

  “Okay then, open it,” he said, pulling away.

  I did. As I read the results, disappointment and sadness pinged through me. The Jean Harlow look-alike had been a perfect match to her famous ancestor and had died trying to prove it. She’d almost made it. But almost doesn’t count.

  “You seem disappointed?” Den said.

  I nodded, swallowed tears. “It’s silly. I know. But two lives were lost. Countless others were affected. Who knows how many? Our Jean Harlow almost achieved her dream. But she was killed.”

  We sat in the quiet for several minutes. Den poured champagne. “I’d like to make a toast.”

  “Really?” I said with a small grin. “How formal of you.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” He raised his glass. “To the best damn researcher, and maybe best person, I’ve ever known.”

  I batted my eyes. “Who’s that?”

  “You,” he said, and we clinked glasses. “And oh, one more thing.”

  I held my glass up.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” I said.

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  “But please don’t shoot anybody else, Charlotte.”

  “I can’t make any promises, Den,” I said. The champagne was going to my head. But I felt good, warm, and safe, and all of my senses were on fire. Burning.

  “Well, I can,” he whispered and drew me into him.

  Turns out, Den was a man of his word.

  Afterword

  I n 1943, my mothe
r, Saranna “Sandie” Lee Carpenter, was fortunate to be adopted by Paul and Irene Carpenter. Sandie’s father was a cousin of the famous, long-gone Harlean Carpenter, otherwise known as Jean Harlow. Growing up, I heard bits and pieces about the Hollywood star, but it was never made a big deal over. My grandmother Irene often said the best thing about Jean Harlow was that she was a friend of Clark Gable. Also, my grandmother didn’t think much of Jean and the fact that she wore no underwear. Irene was a woman who believed in layers of proper undergarments.

  Fast forward to 2015. I’d written a blog post about being related to Harlow, and a German game show contacted me to be on their show. Contestants ask questions about your famous relative and try to guess who it is. It was a free trip to Germany, so of course I took it. My personality being what it is, I researched Harlow. I wanted to be well-prepared, and I knew nothing about my famous relative except the rumor of her death, which claims her mother didn’t seek medical help for Jean as she lay dying. Absolutely false.

  This incident was what prompted me to think about Jean Harlow, and, of course, she crept into my writing. And because I’m mainly a mystery writer, I wanted to write a mystery. I toyed with the idea of a historical mystery, but I wanted a contemporary take on her life, from the eyes of a character who on the face of things is the opposite of Jean Harlow. Enter Charlotte Donovan, dogged researcher and wannabe writer, struggling with Lyme disease, money, and men issues, whose life is turned inside out when her boss dies. She’s not one of those superhero kickass sleuths or PIs. Her superhero power is her mind. She’s a modern woman with modern struggles and, when pressed, finds she’s stronger than she imagined. I like to think most of us are.

  The book is set in New York City, but all of the establishments, apartment buildings, clubs, and even Cloister Island are fictional. Of course, all of the biographical information about Harlow is accurate. But the narrative about her ring is fiction, along with her sending it to a secret baby in France. Jean did own a huge star sapphire ring, which was given to her by William Powell, but it has never been found. From my research, I learned that Harlow is one of the most mysterious and misunderstood Golden Age actresses. A great deal of misinformation has been passed off as biographical. I hope I’ve set some of those rumors to rest, even though this book is a work of fiction.

  If you’re interested in reading more about Jean Harlow, a couple of the best well-researched books are Bombshell: The Life and Death of Jean Harlow by David Stenn and Harlow in Hollywood: the Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capitol, 1928–1937 by Darrell Rooney and Mark Vieira. There are countless Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram feeds about her, some actually using her name as if Jean Harlow herself is Tweeting. I also found a podcast chock-full of fascinating information called “You Must Remember This.” It’s a must-listen to if you’re into old Hollywood.

  Other historical notes about the story include the film clip where Jean stood up nude during a break in shooting a movie. That is true. Whatever happened to the clip is anybody’s guess. Also, as strange as the incident with her second husband is, it is also true. If you’d like to read a good book about it, check out Deadly Illusions: Jean Harlow and the Murder of Paul Bern by Samuel Marx.

  Getting to know my great aunt once removed has been an honor and a pleasure for me, and I hope you feel the same way.

  Acknowledgments

  A deep, heartfelt appreciation to Terri Bischoff for loving this book enough to publish it, and to my agent Jill Marsal for all of her steadfast belief in this book and my writing. Special thanks to beta readers Mary Sproles Martin, Rosemary Stevens, and Matthew Kelland. A big hug both to Jess Lourey for reading the book and blurbing it and to Hank Phillippi Ryan, who spoke with me a few years ago about the book when it was just a nugget of an idea—and very nicely refused to let me give up on it. Thank you to Emma Bryan, my oldest daughter, now living in New York City, who helped me with my questions about directions and the logistics of getting around the city, and to Tess Bryan, my youngest daughter, who came up with the title The Jean Harlow Bombshell.

  And thank you, dear reader, for choosing to spend your time reading my book.

  About the Author

  Mollie Cox Bryan is the author of the Cora Crafts Mysteries and the Cumberland Creek Mysteries. Her books have been selected as finalists for an Agatha Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award and as a Top 10 Beach Reads by Woman’s World. She has also been short-listed for the Virginia Library People’s Choice Award. Mollie is distantly related to Jean Harlow.