“What’s going on in that little pea brain of yours?” Kate asked.
“You don’t want to know,” I said.
“We’ve been waiting fifteen minutes,” she added. “I wonder what’s going on? These lawyers live by the billable hour.”
Just then, a woman dressed in a cream pantsuit came from behind the door and called us. We stood and followed her back through a long gray hallway, past closed doors, until we happened on an open door where several people sat around a shiny rectangular table.
Greetings and introductions were exchanged. Judith Turner barely acknowledged me—nor did her lawyer. Lawyer? Why did she have a lawyer? Odd.
Susan Strohmeyer, Justine’s attorney, handed each of us folders. A stack of official papers were piled inside. But I couldn’t spot the will.
“First, I need to apologize to you. Justine made some changes to her will several days before her death. The changes have been misplaced so we can’t discuss them right now,” she said.
“Jesus Christ,” Judith Turner muttered.
I glanced at the clock. Perhaps I’d be home within the hour. Maybe things would be wrapped up quickly. But Susan’s face gave no indication that she would give up the search.
“As I said, I’m sorry. But we do have other matters to take care of. There were some addenda to Justine’s previous will still in place.”
“Can I get anybody water? Coffee?” the assistant in the cream suit said.
“Just get on with it.” Judith waved her bejeweled hand.
I despised her. I could see why she and Justine were not close. “I’ll take some water,” I said. I’d make her wait. Yes, I would. Judith briefly glanced at me with the gaze that said, “Oh look, the help would like some water.”
“Me too,” Kate said, smiling politely, following my lead. Which she rarely did.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Susan said as she watched her assistant walk out of the room.
“Since you both knew Justine so well, you’ll not be surprised to know some of her wishes about probate and so on are out of the ordinary,” Susan continued, smiling with a twitch. Her assistant walked back into the room with water, placed our crystal glasses in front us, and poured. She sat down next to Susan, where larger files full of papers sat on the mahogany table.
I suddenly wondered what I was doing there. I had assumed I’d be helping to disburse the funds because I worked for Justine. But it dawned on me that her lawyers had been hired to do this very thing. So why was I here?
“Justine was very concerned that her clothing be properly taken care of,” Susan said. “By that I mean, she wanted her clothes to go to a charity where homeless women are seeking employment … Second Chances?”
“How lovely of her,” Kate said.
“But she would like for Charlotte to pick out a few things for herself. Whatever she wants,” Susan said. “She has asked for Charlotte to be the person who sees to her wishes and thought it only fair that she select a few items.”
Of course. That’s what I was doing there. Justine was giving me more work to do. Along with the book on Jean Harlow, I was now in charge of Justine’s clothes. I pictured her wardrobe—mostly suits, including several Chanel suits, and garish scarves and hats, like something out of another century.
“The estate will pay you for your efforts,” Susan continued. “As well as your efforts to clean the apartment.”
My face reddened. Clean? When had I ever cleaned for Justine? What would make her think I would clean her place?
“Oh, for God’s sake, why don’t you just hire a professional to do it? Why would Justine want her assistant to clean her apartment?” Judith said with venom.
Kate cleared her throat. “I’ve got to agree.” She laughed nervously. “Charlotte is not a cleaner.”
“Charlotte is the only person Justine trusted enough to be alone in her apartment.”
My heart went from pounding to bursting.
“She’s left an allowance for large items you might want to take care of. Carpet cleaning and so on.”
The dusty carpets and drapes would need professionals. “But I thought she had a maid,” I said.
“No, she let her go months ago,” Susan said.
Judith Turner sighed. “What am I doing here?” It was hard to believe she and Justine were related. I couldn’t find a family resemblance at all.
“I had thought we’d be reading the will, but since we’ve been unable to locate the changes …” Susan said and shrugged. “I’m sorry. As soon as we find them, we’ll inform you.”
“How does that happen?” Judith’s lawyer spoke up. “How do you misplace something like that?”
Susan stood, gathering her papers and folders. “As I said, it was changed just days before her death. Her holdings were extensive. We think it may have been misfiled. You have my word that finding her will is a priority. In the meantime, Ms. Donovan, here’s the key to her place and the instructions on what to do with her clothing.” She walked over to the door. “Good day.”
The keys sat on the table reflecting in my glass of water. A bubble of emptiness or grief welled up from deep in my chest, as a sob escaped and my head dropped into my hand. Justine. Judith Turner tsked and slammed her hand down.
Kate stood, grabbing her purse and my arm.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Thirteen
K ate and I hopped on the next train and were lucky enough to snag two seats next to each other. “I can’t wait to dig in. I’d love to check out her wardrobe. Do you want to start tonight?”
The man sitting on the other side of me had an extreme case of manspread and smelled of old cheese.
“I need a few days. First I need to get some actual writing in. I have to finish this book. The deadline is unforgiving. So the cleaning will have to wait.” I shifted my leg a little more to the side of the manspreader. Move over, bucko, you only get one seat.
“Just let me know when you’re ready,” Kate said as the train was halting.
“How about Saturday?”
She stood. “This is my stop. I’ll check my calendar and get back with you.”
I watched her waltz off the train.
A man took her seat and turned to me. “Miss Donovan?” A whiskey-gravel voice said.
Was it me he was asking about or another Miss Donovan? I wasn’t acquainted with him.
“Charlotte Donovan?” His eyes caught mine and I couldn’t turn away. I was trapped between him and the cheese-smelling manspreader. The train started back up.
My face must have shown my shock and concern.
“I’m sorry. My name is Severn Hartwell. I’m sure Justine must have mentioned me,” he said.
Hartwell. What was he doing here? Didn’t he live in California? Had he come to town for Justine’s memorial?
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell,” I said.
“I’m so glad I ran into you.”
How did he know who I was? How did he recognize me? Was he at Justine’s service? My heart raced and a wave of nausea nearly overcame me.
He went on. “I may be hiring an assistant in a few months and was wondering if you’d be interested.”
This man was Justine’s biggest competitor. I sat there remembering all of the dirty tricks he’d tried to use against her to attempt to ruin her career. There was the time he’d sent fake documents to her, hoping to fool her into writing the biography of Norma Shearer on a completely false note. There was also the time he’d hacked her social media accounts. Oh, I could go on. The train car lurched and rumbled.
Justine had been dead a week and he was already scoping me out.
“I don’t think so,” I said, attempting to smile politely.
“I’m sure you don’t have a very good impression of me,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. But I do need help, and Justine used to say you
were the best assistant she’d ever had.”
A chill moved along my spine. I doubted Justine had ever even spoken with him. What was he about? Did he just happen to find me on this subway train? Or had he been following me?
My heart thudded against my ribs. My breath was shallow. My hands balled into fists in my lap.
“I’m making a bid to finish the Harlow book, you see. My agent is in negotiations with Justine’s publisher,” he said with his thin lips glazing over perfect teeth. “By all rights I should be writing that book.”
Wasn’t there any air in this train? Sweat pricked at me as I wondered how anybody still breathed.
I drew in what oxygen I could find. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hartwell. I’m finishing the Harlow book. I think you’ve been misinformed.” I smiled a stiff smile at him. I stood as the train came to a stop. It wasn’t where I would usually exit, but I needed to get some air—and shed this man.
“Pleasure meeting you,” he said as I walked off. The words didn’t match his menacing tone. I never turned back. A wall of ice felt as if it were sliding up and down my back. Why was he making a bid on the book? The contracts were all signed and ready to go.
Unless Justine’s agent had it wrong?
I moved with the crowd and slipped into a coffee shop as soon as possible. I searched in my purse for my cell phone and lifted it, surprised by my trembling hands.
“Natalie, this is Charlotte Donovan,” I said, not even giving her a chance to say hello. “I ran into Severn Hartwell on the train and he said he’s bidding to finish the Harlow book.”
“What? Calm down, Charlotte. Okay?”
I drew in air. “I think he must have followed me from Justine’s lawyer’s office. That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“He followed you?”
“I think so, and he offered me a job,” I said.
Natalie laughed. “What makes him think you’d work for him? Listen, the last I heard of him is that he’s writing another Harlow book. He’s been trying to sell it. Nobody will publish it.” She quieted. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not in so many words,” I said. “But he must have followed me.”
“I’m slapping an injunction on his ass. He has no business anywhere near you.”
No wonder Justine thought so highly of her agent.
“If he wants to publish a book on Harlow, he’s going to have to indie publish. Justine was very highly thought of. Believe me. No publisher will touch his project,” Natalie said. “Now, how much have you gotten done?”
Damn. I didn’t think she’d ask me that question. “Not much.”
The silence on the other end of the phone spoke of disapproval. Then, “You need to get cracking. I know it’s hard on you, with Justine’s death and all. But get those words on the page.”
Of course I would. I could. I’d been way too busy with mundane details like memorial services and meetings with lawyers. Plus spotting a Jean Harlow twin around the city.
A sigh escaped me. “Yes,” I said. “I hear you.”
I was fine. I was going to write this book. No matter what Hartwell said. Or thought. I owed it to Justine to finish it and do the best I could do. I needed to focus on writing. But first, in the spirit of cooperating with the police on Justine’s murder investigation, I called Den. He needed to know about this “impromptu” meeting.
Fourteen
The next two days I worked on the book, camping out in Justine’s office-library on the couch. I succeeded in my attempt to not go online and investigate the Jean Harlow look-alike or dig deeper into Justine’s records. Nor did I check my email. I just had to get words on the page, as Natalie said.
I started each day with a cup of coffee and a walk in Central Park. When my sickness wasn’t flaring, it was the way I started every day. Walking. I missed Cloister Island the most in the mornings, when I would walk along the beach, no matter the weather, and watch the sunrise. The reservoir in the park was lovely but it wasn’t a beach, with its driftwood and seashells, rocks, and pounding, rushing surf.
I had spotted the Jean Harlow look-alike more than once during my morning walks. I decided not to chase her. Not yet. I didn’t want her to know I was aware of her existence. I hoped this would throw her off a bit so that, eventually, I could confront her.
Saturday morning, after my shower in the bathroom off of the library, I launched into writing even though I was expecting Kate. I reached the end of a chapter and took a breather. I itched to make a search of more of Justine’s files, even though the Harlow files seemed to be missing. What the hell?
I made my way to the filing cabinet and grabbed a stack. I knew it would come to this. I wasn’t going to rest until I examined every file. Had she misplaced the Harlow files? Filed them under some weird system?
I sat down in the leather chair next to the bookcase and sorted, glancing over each file.
An hour later, my cell phone chimed and continued to chime. I was surrounded by papers and files and hated to move in order to answer. But I did. It was Kate. She had arrived to help me clean.
“C’mon up,” I said into the phone.
“The doorman,” Kate said. “He won’t let me.”
“Let me talk to him,” I said.
A scuffling, echoing noise came over the phone “Yes,” he said. “I see no permission here to let this woman in.”
“Permission? She’s a guest of mine. Do I need to fill out a form?” I said, half kidding.
“Yes, you do,” he said, then let out a gravelly breath. “But for now, I’ll approve her. But if you’re going to be here, you’ll need to familiarize yourself with our policies.”
“Okay,” I said. Duly scolded.
I didn’t know how long I was going to be here—long enough to justify learning all the rules? Hard to believe Justine had lived someplace with so many rules. But then again, she was extremely security conscious.
I glanced around the library and it filled me with awe and delight. I still hadn’t explored the rest of the place, but I was falling for this room. The spread-out files and papers seemed to fit right in.
A knock came at the door. I made my way there and opened it to a slightly bedraggled Kate.
“I thought your doorman was going to frisk me. Seriously,” she said, and then hugged me.
“C’mon in,” I said. With Kate’s arrival I was forced out of my head-space and into reality.
“Holy shit!” she said as she entered the apartment. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “I don’t know where to start.”
“First of all, we’re going to clean it,” Kate said. “It’s so dusty.”
“Yeah, dusting and vacuuming will help,” I said, suddenly realizing how stale the air was. Why hadn’t I noticed before?
“Can we open windows?” she asked.
We went around the front room and tried to open windows—all but one was sealed shut. We pulled back the heavy curtains and cracked that one open. Light and air streamed into the place.
I caught a sudden whiff of something. What was it? Justine’s perfume.
“You okay?” Kate said. “You just paled.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. Of course pockets of the scent would be strewn about the place. It made sense. Justine only ever wore one kind of perfume: Cotillion, by Avon. I had always found it odd—and endearing, frankly. Here was this very wealthy woman who insisted on wearing Avon perfume. “I have a sensitive nose. I like Cotillion. It’s the only one I like.”
Kate sneezed. “I brought you more clothes.” She handed me a bag. She’d been shopping for me again.
Dust particles scattered in the light and landed all around us. “Bless you,” I said. “And thanks for the clothes.”
“Thanks. I need all the blessings I can get. I think you’re right. We n
eed to get the dust under control before, you know, before we start to sort through her things. Where’s the bathroom?”
“The small one I’ve been using is right over there, but I wonder where the master bathroom is,” I said, walking through the hallway. “It might be back through here.” I opened a door to a closet. “Nope.”
Kate opened another door and gasped. “Now that’s a bathroom!” she said and entered the room.
I peeked in. A sunken marble bath tub, a huge shower, and a sink to match, surrounded by candles and silk flowers. The tile work was breathtaking; the original art deco tile and patterns were worked in with the newer marble, and so on. It was an amazing space.
I left the room to give Kate privacy and headed back to the library. I gathered up the files and piled them on the edge of Justine’s desk, right next to the second set of keys I now possessed. Then I turned my attention from those files to vacuuming and dusting.
A little while later, I dragged Kate out onto the balcony for some fresh air.
“Would you look at that?” she said as we stepped outside. The view was astonishing. The balcony overlooked Central Park and the southernmost part of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. Beyond that, the West Side of the city. It was almost as if we weren’t a part of the city at all while we stood here.
Separate from the city. Quiet. Undisturbed. This is where Justine lived and worked. As much as she was a social animal, the work she did required solitude. Did she ever sit on this balcony and take in one of the most beautiful views of the city? Or did she spend all of her time behind her computer, between our lunch and dinner meetings?
“We better get busy,” Kate said. “I’ve got a dinner engagement later with clients and can’t miss it.”
Justine’s bedroom was bigger than two of the largest rooms put together in my family’s Cloister Island home. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a settee draped by a silky turquoise shawl gave the room a pop of color. Otherwise the room was austere white and cream. Even the furniture was blonde. The bed was a king-size platform bed and was flanked on either side by low, built-in wall tables, which might have been original to the apartment.
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 7
