While Justine’s specialty was the movie stars of the ’30s and ’40s, she released a contemporary biography every few years. Her biography of Meryl must have netted her somewhere in the millions. Rare among writers of any breed.
So I understood she was wealthy, but I had no idea how she lived her life. I’d only been as far as the grand marbled lobby, where I would drop research off for her. Contrary to what many people think, not all research is online, so I sometimes found myself in the stacks of some mildewed library, making copies of old books or checking out films and journals.
Now I wandered through Justine’s apartment, surprised by more than the fine layer of dust over the heavy drapes, bookcases, and furniture. Obviously, nobody had been here for a while. Where had Justine been the last few weeks of her life? Why didn’t she mention that to me? Or had she and I’d just forgotten? I struggled with memory at times—a fact of my Lyme disease.
The expansive apartment, which took up the entire fourteenth floor, made me feel like Alice in Wonderland, roaming halls and rooms, not quite knowing where to go next. The long, shiny tiled hallway seemed too vast to explore now as weariness overtook me. A floor-to-ceiling painting of Greta Garbo greeted me as I turned back. Satin glass sconces, with fine crystals dangling, set off the face of the woman who’d begun life as a pauper in Stockholm. Justine would not write about Garbo. She claimed she could not objectively write about her. “Or at least that’s what the press would say. She was a huge lesbian icon. Sort of like I am now.” Then uproarious, stomach-jiggling laughter.
I walked into a library and imagined Justine sitting behind the desk, gazing up at me from beneath her heavy, round, red-rimmed glasses. I moved toward the chaise longue in front of a floor-to-ceiling window with top panes of stained-glass pink roses—so delicate it almost made me cry. I’d barely explored the place, but this spot drew me in.
Could I get away with staying here? My heart thudded in my chest. I was too tired to worry about it. Tonight this overstuffed chaise was mine. Though I could muster the bravery to stay here, I didn’t think I could sleep in Justine’s bed and had no energy to find the guest room.
I undressed and lay on the chaise, pulled a soft throw over me, curled into a ball, and fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed of Justine and, of all people, Jean Harlow.
Jean Harlow’s life read like a shallow, tragic Cinderella story. She became a star, but not by hungering for it and clawing her way to the top. She was someone’s idea of beautiful and happened to be in the right place at the right time. But here’s where one of the few interesting personality traits of Jean came into play. She didn’t rest on her sexy laurels. She was aware of her lack of acting skill, and once she was a star, she worked hard at becoming a better one. Now, that interested me. The fact that her mother managed her career, and life up to a certain point, was commonplace. It was a cliché. Many young starlets’ mothers managed their careers. But what was it about Jean that prompted her to work so hard? Midwestern values? Overcompensation for guilt at being lucky? What?
When I awakened, thinking of my dream, Jean, and the blonde on the street, it reminded me that I hadn’t heard back from Maude Verez, the psychologist we sometimes worked with to help piece together personalities of our subjects. I was waiting on an email from her about some questions I had about Jean Harlow.
I stretched and reached for my phone, now charged and working. Unfortunately. Another missed call from my mom. I ignored it. I wasn’t up to her drunken tirades. Not today.
After I found the bathroom and the coffee and figured out how to work the fancy coffee maker, I took my daily elixir into her office.
My fingers pecked at Justine’s keyboard, and I felt thankful that we’d updated her passwords when we talked on the phone a week ago. I had more than every right and reason to be here. But my nerves were jumbled, sitting in my ex-boss’s home, in what was her private office on her private desktop computer. Where was her laptop? I shook off the chill moving along my spine, and the image of my grandmother crossing herself.
I drank my strong, black, soothing coffee.
As I jiggled the computer mouse, Justine’s screen filled with unanswered email. Most of which were typical junk messages, except the notes from her publisher. Sorting through her email would take hours. My lungs squeezed with a sudden lack of air. How would I handle everything?
First, I needed to inform her publisher and agent of her death. I hesitated. It seemed so final.
“The big D: nothing more final.”
Opening my laptop, I wrote and sent off the two emails, then continued scanning Justine’s inbox on her computer. Something odd caught my eye. A word—“kill.” Right in the subject line.
“I’ll kill you,” it said.
What was this? Who would write such a thing to Justine? My attention zoomed in on the email and my pulse quickened. I clicked on it. The date? Two days ago.
“I swear if you go public with this I’ll kill you,” it said.
I scanned further.
Justine had responded once. “You don’t scare me.” Typical of her.
I shuddered. Who was this? What was going on here? The rest of it had been encrypted. There was nothing left to read.
Why hadn’t Justine told me about this? Sure, she had gotten threats from people over the years, but not like this. This person was threatening to kill her, not sue her. And it was two days before she died.
Which subject was she being threatened about? Jean Harlow? What mattered so much in the Jean Harlow story that someone would threaten Justine’s life?
I mentally sorted through the past twenty-four hours. Justine had insisted I drop everything, meet her at Layla’s, and not tell anybody. When I arrived at the tea room, she was distraught. Despite what Kate said, I thought it was in fact possible that this mysterious man killed her. He’d sat at her table and placed something in her tea. She’d mentioned Jean Harlow kooks. Now, this. Someone had threatened her life. I understood now that Justine had been in trouble. Hard to ignore with the word “kill” on the dark blue computer screen.
Four
I scanned Justine’s computer files for any more threats. I found nothing. But knowing Justine, if there were more, she either deleted them or printed them off to stick in her files.
Her paper filing system was as haphazard as her computer filing system, but at least it should be alphabetical. I opened the creaky wooden file cabinet and tucked in, found the H’s, searched through the H folders, and Harlow was not there. Might she have used Jean? I examined the J’s. Nothing about Jean.
What the hell?
How about T for threats?
D for death?
No success.
I sat down in her desk chair, considering emptying the file cabinet and launching an all-out hunt. No death threat file was one thing, but the Harlow research files? Research on her work in progress? There should be scads of material. I’d delivered some of it myself. Where was it?
My cell phone’s beep interrupted my thoughts. I could barely make out the caller ID on my shattered screen.
“Hey Kate,” I answered.
“How are you feeling? Better?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something’s off. I can’t find any Harlow files, and it’s just a mess.”
“Have you eaten anything?” Kate asked after a beat.
“No, but I’ve had plenty of coffee. My brain is functioning, thank you very much.”
“Let’s have lunch and then we’ll talk. You never do well on an empty stomach. Who does?” Kate said and laughed a bit.
“Okay.” I was suddenly famished, as if the mention of food reminded my stomach of its emptiness. A late lunch might be just what I needed. “Where do you want to meet?”
∞
I spotted her right away, standing on the sidewalk in her canary-yellow pantsuit. I smiled warily. Kate’s eyes swe
pt up and down, taking me in. “We should duck into the bathroom. You need some cold water and a touch-up. Or something.”
We walked into Petey’s Pub, a darkened bar, wood-paneled, brass sconces with kelly green shades, and found the ladies’ room, where Kate preened over my face with her makeup. It was like applying a tiny band-aid over a gaping bullet wound.
Kate was unaware that one of the busiest cop bars was next to this place. Okay, maybe I did know too much about the local cops. Some women like kinky sex, some prefer grand romantic gestures or dark, swarthy men. Me? I liked cops. Almost every man I’d ever dated was a cop. Of course, I’d dated a few others, but I always preferred the cops. Still, Kate made too much of it.
Kate sighed. “It’s the best I can do. Your mom was right about you. You can’t hide when you don’t feel well. Even with those gorgeous blue eyes of yours.”
I blanched at the mention of my mom, who I’d left passed out on the couch yesterday and hadn’t called back. Most of the time, I tried to sober her up before I ventured into the city. But when Justine called, her urgent tone had prompted me to leave the house in a rush.
“Get here as soon as possible,” she’d said. “And don’t tell anybody where you’re going. Do you understand?”
Justine could be a little dramatic. “I’m a drama queen. I admit it. So what?”
“Now, let’s find a seat,” Kate said, dropping her eyeliner into her bag and leaning on the chipped Formica counter “My feet are killing me.”
“Welcome to the sisterhood,” I said, and grinned as we walked off in search of seats.
I ordered a beer with a burger and Kate ordered a salad and wine. I had to admit, the food was doing me good. My mind cleared even more from yesterday. I was convinced something was wrong. “I think the police are right. Someone killed Justine.”
“You said that, but what would the motive be?” Kate emptied her wine glass with one more swallow. “She was ancient. Didn’t owe anybody any money. Wasn’t involved in shady enterprises.”
“Can I get you ladies anything else?” the bartender asked. A large man with a rough face, a crooked broken nose, and botched plastic surgery, he moved like every step hurt. I imagined he was a fighter. Everybody in New York City had a day job while chasing their dreams. Acting. Writing. Fighting?
“I don’t think so. Let’s settle up,” Kate said, then turned to me. “I know you had a weird day yesterday. Do me a favor and get some rest. Don’t go off on some research junket and stay up for days.”
“Not likely,” I said. Kate understood me. I functioned most of the time with my Lyme. Sometimes it overcame me. But when I was on task, I was single-minded. Research was my jam. “Back to Justine. Something was very off. She also talked about Jean Harlow kooks.”
Kate shook her head. “Don’t try to make sense of this. Remember, she was either in the middle of a heart attack or drugged. The blood might not have been getting to her brain. She may have been hallucinating.”
“True,” I said and drank my last bit of beer. I just wanted it to all go away.
“Okay,” Kate said. “So if she was threatened and killed by the same person, the cops will find them. It’s out of your hands. It shouldn’t matter to you.”
“It does!” I almost yelled, then quieted. “I want to see justice for her. Besides, nine chances out of ten I’m going to finish the Harlow book. I need to know why she was threatened.”
Kate leaned closer to me and cupped my hand in hers. “You need to talk and think about something else. Seriously. Let’s get your mind off of all this.” She paused. “Let’s talk about your mom or Cloister gossip or cops. Yeah, cops.”
“What? Why?” But I was already smiling.
“I’ve got five hundred bucks that says you can’t stay away from cops for a month,” she said with an ornery grin.
“What do you mean, stay away?”
“Don’t sleep with any cops for four weeks. Bet you can’t do it.”
“Of course I can. What’s this about?”
I half expected Kate to go off on me. Instead, she quieted. “Because, my friend, you’re searching for your father and you’re never going to find him in the arms of a guy who just happens to be a cop.”
“Are you a shrink now?” I said. Why did she have to bring up my cop father? A man I barely remembered. A man who’d disappeared when I was six years old and who we now presumed dead. If his disappearance was influencing me at all, it would be just the opposite. I should hate cops. At times, I wish I did.
The bartender’s back was turned to us as he fussed with the cash register. A grizzled, blond, surfer-dude-looking guy sidled up to Kate and studied her. Overtly. His eyes swept along the length of her several times. She ignored him, leaning closer to me.
I glared at her. I enjoyed men, and if they happened to be cops, so what? It wasn’t as if all my dates were one night stands, but even if they were, I failed to see Kate’s issue with it. She’d had plenty, both before and after her transition, and with both men and women.
Leather-clad men with amplifiers and instruments gathered near a corner platform as the crowd thickened and the lights dimmed. Several women dressed in the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen grouped in a circle near the band.
Kate continued. “Prove to yourself you don’t have a daddy issue. Don’t sleep with any cops for at least a month.”
“I can do it,” I said. Still, the bittersweet burn of humiliation waved through me. I didn’t know why.
The bartender gimped up to the bar and placed the bill down. Kate stretched for it. The man next to her ordered a beer. “Can I buy you ladies a drink?” he said.
“No thanks,” Kate quipped and turned even further toward me. She plunked her red-leather bag on the table and slipped her hand inside for her credit card. “Are we on?”
“Hell yes, you’re on!” I dug into my bag and searched for Justine’s keys. The easiest five hundred dollars I would ever earn, and man, I could use the money. I still owed thousands on my last hospital stay. And I just lost my job.
“Are you two sure I can’t buy you a drink?” the man asked again.
Kate stood and towered over him. “We said no, okay? Back off.”
“What a bitch,” the man grumbled into his beer.
“What did you call me?” Her voice rose as she shoved aside her bar stool. Kate was a deep-voiced woman, and when she was pissed, it deepened more.
“Hey, hey, hey!” the bartender said, nodding his head toward the door. “If you ladies are leaving, it’s best you go now.”
Kate pulled her bag to her shoulder and waltzed off with me trailing her. “What an asshole. The world is full of them, isn’t it?” She turned to hug me. “I’ve got to run. Late meeting with Japanese buyers. Where are you off to?”
“I’m heading to the police station, remember?”
She laughed and pointed her finger at me. “Remember our bet!”
“How could I forget?” I said as she sashayed off to talk fashion with the Japanese.
My gaze dropped to my red sneakers. Feet, don’t fail me now.
Thirteen short blocks was nothing back in the day, before my diagnosis, when I lived in the East Village with three roommates and a closet-sized bedroom. After retreating to my childhood home on Cloister Island, and several hospital stays, my Lyme was now manageable. Today, I’d stop and rest every few blocks as a precaution.
I edged along the Central Park sidewalk, glimpsing the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, trees and flowers in bloom, sunlight streaming through thick brush. It might have been the perfect spring day, except for the word “murder” fresh on my mind.
Five
The officer behind the counter clicked away at his keyboard, spotted me, and held up a finger. I nodded.
When he finished, he glanced up at me. “How can I help you?” He was young, early twenties, u
niformed, and had soft brown Bambi eyes.
“I’m here to see Sergeant Den Brophy. My name is Charlotte Donovan,” I said.
“Hold on a minute, Ms. Donovan,” he said, picking up the phone.
I peeked around the small reception area. Clean, institutional-white bricked walls held trophies, encased badges, and awards. Papers, metal pipes, and white-and-red metal boxes donned the walls too, along with reward posters.
“He’ll be right here,” the officer said and turned back to his keyboard.
Soon the door opened and Sergeant Den Brophy shot me a smile, which landed in places in me I willed myself not to think about. Not today.
“Ms. Donovan, please come in,” he said.
He led me through a snaking path between cubicles and desks. The scent of stale coffee and industrial lemon soap hung in the air. We landed in a darker room with a monitor and another uniformed officer—a woman. “This is officer Grace Callahan,” Den said. “She’s an intake specialist and will take another statement from you. Then we’ll review the security footage, okay?”
I shook the officer’s hand, realizing then how sweaty my palms were. What was I so nervous about? It wasn’t as if I’d done anything wrong. But my heart raced. My skin heated. Was it warm in here? Or was it just me?
“Another statement?” I said as Den gestured for me to sit. I sat on a metal folding chair, which made an unpleasant squeaking noise.
“It’s just procedure,” Den said, taking the seat next to her. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning.”
The woman smiled at me. “Go on, please.” Her fingers hovered over at the keyboard.
I recounted the day and Justine’s death and answered their prompts and questions as best I could.
“Would you like some water? Coffee?” Den asked me after I gave my statement.
“Water, please,” I said.
“I’m finished,” said Officer Callahan, standing up after closing her lap top. She stretched her hand across the table to shake mine again. “Pleasure meeting you. Good luck.”
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 3
