It’s not so easy these days to get away with murder, kidnappings, and so on. Cameras are all around us. Big Brother is watching. If you run a red light, the cops trace it and send you a ticket. Tracing people online is easy. Which is why thoughts of the Jean Harlow look-alike held firm in my mind. There were so few traces of her life—at least, none that we could find. That had to be deliberate.
∞
My cell phone buzzing awakened me at three a.m. Who the hell would be calling? I blinked away the blur. No number. I rolled over and let it ring.
The damn thing buzzed again.
“Hello!”
Heavy breathing.
“Hello? Who is this?” I sat up on the chaise. It wasn’t as if I’d never had a heavy breather on the other end of the line. But things in my life had gotten so strange that this call freaked me out.
A sob. Female.
“Can I help you?”
“She’s dead,” the voice said between sobs.
“Who?”
“Harlow,” the garbled voice said.
“Yes,” I replied. Keep her on the phone. Didn’t they always say that on TV? Why? “Do you know anything that could help us find who killed her?”
Silence. Then muffled sobs. “I should never have called.”
Which one was this? Marilyn? Madonna? Her voice was too soft and muffled, like an old-fashioned radio losing its signal.
“It’s okay. We’ll protect you.” I somehow found words between the thoughts circling in my brain. “We’ll do everything we can.”
“Her father,” the voice whispered. “Her father.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.” She hung up.
“Wait!” But it was too late.
I examined my phone like it held the secrets of the universe. But the number was “unrecognized.” Still, maybe the police could trace it and we could compel the person to tell us more. If she knew more.
Wide awake, skin prickling, I stood and paced around the library. Her father. Her father. Why would a father kill his child? How naïve was that question? It probably happened a lot.
But wait. Was I going to believe an anonymous caller in the middle of the night? It could have been someone wanting to throw me off the trail. We didn’t know the look-alike’s real name—let alone her dad’s.
And, what’s more, we were uncertain if her murder had anything to do with Justine’s. We needed hard evidence.
Evidence. Den’s face sprang in mind.
It was three fifteen a.m. Could I call him? He was a cop, used to getting calls in the wee hours.
My phone was burning in my hand. I pressed Den’s name.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Pick up Den.
“Yeah.” A gravelly, sleepy voice came over the phone.
“It’s me, Charlotte.”
“Yeah. What’s up?” A smoky image of him in bed swirled around in my mind. I shoved it out.
“I just got a call from someone about our Jean Harlow.”
“And?” He yawned.
“She said her father killed her.”
“Yeah? Did she give you a name?”
“No.”
Disappointment vibrated in the air between us.
“Will you be able to trace the call?”
“We can try. Let’s hope she’s not using a burner phone. Then there’s not much we can do.”
“Sorry to call you in the middle of the night.”
“Come down to the station tomorrow and I’ll have the guys look at your phone. Around ten.”
“Okay. See you then. Good night.”
I lay back down, tossed and turned. I couldn’t find peace. Who was I kidding? I lifted myself from the chaise and padded into the kitchen, where I brewed a big pot of coffee. I expected this to be a break in the case and not just some Jean Harlow fan fruitcake. I hoped the phone call would lead us down the path to answers.
When I walked into the station, a kind of buzz was happening. Something electric and untouchable, but exciting.
Den met me at the front desk with a grin. “We’ve got a break. C’mon. C’mon back.”
I followed him through the snaking hallways and cubicles.
“This is Joe Delvechio. He’ll take your phone and get it back to you before you leave.”
I smiled at Joe and handed him my phone.
“Please sit down,” Den said, gesturing at a chair across from a small, plain desk.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve found out exactly how Justine was killed.” His cheeks were flushed and the veins in his neck throbbed. “All we have to do is uncover a trace of it in Harlow to link these two murders.”
As I couldn’t seem to locate any words in my brain, Den continued.
“He injected her with potassium chloride. That was the other drug, the lethal one.”
“What? We witnessed him slip something into her tea.”
“That was the Valium. But on closer examination of the security footage, we could see him quickly inject her right after he dropped the pill in her tea. The ME confirms it.”
I remembered viewing that on the recording—the quick pat on Justine’s shoulder. That must have been when he did it.
“So, how it works is an overdose of potassium causes severe heart arrhythmias and mimics a heart attack. In a matter of minutes, the heart spasms and then stops. The ME says huge amounts of potassium goes into the blood whenever any muscle tissue is damaged. The heart is a muscle, right? So it would look like a fatal heart attack. Unless there were more tests.”
I felt a loosening in my lungs. An unraveling. A release of tensions, as if I’d been holding my breath for all this time. My hands glommed onto my burning face. Unwanted tears splashed over my cheeks in a waterfall of emotions. Was I crying in front of Den?
He leaned over. “Are you okay?” Placed his hands on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath for me?”
I tried. Breath came in heaving stutters.
“I assumed you’d be thrilled about this,” he said softly. That voice. That soothing voice of his spread through the center of me. I nodded.
Sorting my emotions was beyond me. Conclusive evidence. A half-resolution sat in my chest as I attempted to gain composure, but it ripped and tore at me. This wasn’t the closure I’d anticipated. It was empty. Justine was still gone, and we still had no idea who killed her. The same with the Jean Harlow look-alike.
Joe came back into the room. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“What do you have for us?” Den stiffened, now alert, sounding official and not sympathetic at all.
“Nothing. Not one damn thing.” He handed Den my phone.
Thirty-One
Such is life. One door opens, another closes. Or so they say.
We knew what killed Justine. But we still didn’t know who.
We didn’t know who called me or why.
Nor did we learn who killed the Harlow look-alike—or if she had been injected with the same substance. Den assured me they were rushing as fast as they could. He sounded dejected, almost as if he were ready to give up.
But I wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Whether Den liked it or not, I was heading back to the Dream Girl agency. One of the emails sent to Justine had come from there. My gut told me that both Madonna and Marilyn were acquainted with Jean.
“Hey, Kate, are you up for a show?” I said into the phone.
“What kind of show?”
“An impersonator show. I’m guessing there may be drag queens.”
“I’m in,” she said.
The anticipation and energy in Jezebel, the Dream Girl club, was almost palpable. The host sat us at a table with a candle votive glowing in the center. From our vantage point, we could see the stage, but not completely.
“I’ll have
a martini,” Kate said. “What else? This place calls for it.”
“I’ll have the same,” I said to the server, a woman dressed in a tuxedo who reminded me of the usher at Justine’s memorial service.
“Nice establishment,” Kate said, fingers tapping on the pink tablecloth.
Though it was dim, my eyes were adjusting and taking in the other audience members. An older man and woman sat catty-corner from us, holding hands. On the other side of us was a gay couple, also holding hands.
“Maybe we should hold hands,” I joked.
“What?” Kate said, then realized the surrounding couples were all doing so. “No thanks,” she said, waving me off.
But still, it was the kind of place that made me feel a bit wild. Like I could do anything here, be anybody here.
Music played softly over the speakers. Heads were bobbing in front of the stage; I wasn’t sure we’d be able to view much. But it wasn’t important. What I wanted to do was approach Madonna and Marilyn after the show. Madonna was on the bill, headlining. The rest of the cast? A surprise billing. But I was hoping to meet Marilyn from the agency again.
The server brought our martinis and placed the glasses on the table. “Enjoy the show,” she said, smiling.
The lights blinked out and we sat in the dark, all eyes on the stage. “Like a Virgin” came over the speaker and the spotlight shone on to a Madonna impersonator, who pranced around and lip-synched to the song. I was certain this was my Madonna.
I suddenly wondered whether she was transgender, too, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was finding her after the show to ask if she was the one who’d called me. If it wasn’t her, then I would need to find Marilyn—whether or not Marilyn was here tonight.
I glanced at Kate, who was enthralled by Madonna and clapping her hands in time with the beat.
I had to admit, the Madonna impersonator rocked. You’d swear you were looking at a young Madonna, tarted up in a wedding dress that was gradually being pulled away from her and tossed aside. A bump. A grind. Body sways. Pouty lips. Brazen, raw sexuality.
Almost like Jean Harlow’s. In fact, I’d read somewhere that Madonna credited both Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe as inspirations.
Soon she was down to a sexy white chemise and body suit, slinking around the stage.
The song suddenly changed rhythm and another person pranced out—a Beyoncé impersonator.
Kate caught my eye. She was a devotee of all things Beyoncé. Her eyebrows rose. “Nobody can even come close to the real thing.”
But as Beyoncé gyrated her performance, a grin spread across Kate’s face. Madonna exited the stage.
“I’m going backstage,” I said into Kate’s ear.
“Wait. What?” She grabbed me. “They will not let you backstage.”
I flashed Justine’s press pass. “Be back soon.”
Kate hesitated. “I should come with you.”
“No, that would be suspicious,” I said into her ear, above the music.
“Okay,” she said after a few beats, then looked at her watch. “Thirty minutes and I’m coming after you.”
I nodded. A part of me hated to leave Beyoncé.
But I headed out to find the backstage door, which I did without a problem. A security guard lifted his eyes from his magazine.
“Hold up,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“Press,” I said, and flashed Justine’s pass. Given the way most people felt about the press these days, I wasn’t certain this would work. But I had to try.
“I see nothing on the schedule,” he said, unsure.
My eyebrows knitted. “Are you sure? They’re expecting me.”
He sized me up. A shortish woman, dressed casually in nice jeans, a shirt, and a blazer. I looked harmless.
He nodded. “Okay. Go ahead.”
The knot in my stomach relaxed. I wasn’t aware it was there until it eased. I walked down the narrow brown corridor, with its stench of stale perfume mingled with jaded dreams, and found a dressing room. I rapped on the door. No answer. I moved down the hall toward a sign that read Stage door—Quiet.
A group of performers stood there. It was as if I’d just wandered into Hollywood. In that clutch of people, I found the Marilyn impersonator. I was certain it was the same one I’d met at the agency.
“Excuse me,” I said. All eyes on me.
Marilyn flashed me an uneasy look. “Say, you’re that writer from the other day.”
“Yes. Can I talk to you?”
“Quickly. I’m going on in ten.” She fluffed her hair as she came forward. We grouped together off to the other side of the hallway.
“So, how can I help you?’ She leaned on the wall, crossing her arms.
The resemblance remained startling. Disturbing. I reminded myself she was not Marilyn Monroe.
“I guess I need to know if you called me.”
Her eyebrows gathered. “No, I didn’t call you.” Her eyes traveled to someone else. She looked behind me.
Sal Mendo ambled up the hallway.
“Hey! How did you get back here?” He grabbed my shoulder. I squinted at him and his hand. He removed it. “You’re bothering the girls. You need to go.”
“I’m working on a story.” I flashed Justine’s press pass.
He reached for it and examined it. “I don’t know who you think you’re kidding. You’re not Justine.”
Crap. Shards of fear moved through the center of me.
“No. I’m her assistant,” I found the voice to say.
Mendo paused. “Look, I had the utmost respect for Justine Turner, but you don’t have any business here.”
“You knew her?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know her well. But I knew her.”
“Did you realize she was working on a Harlow biography?”
The man’s face changed. “Yeah, everybody knew, but like I told you, I know nothing about any Harlow impersonator. And you need to go.”
I glared at him, then looked at Marilyn, who would not make eye contact. Okay, if she hadn’t called me, it must have been Madonna. If she was telling the truth, it was Madonna I needed to speak with.
“Okay,” I said. “Sorry to trouble you.”
As I turned to leave, cold pressed into my back and I shuddered.
Thirty-Two
Back at the apartment, Kate and I discussed what went down. “I couldn’t stay because the guy was watching me like a hawk,” I said. “But I need to get to Madonna.”
Kate laughed. “Don’t we all.”
“I’ll look for her tomorrow.”
“Don’t you have a book to write?”
“Yes, but this has something to do with the story. I feel like there’s a strange connection here.”
Kate leaned forward after fussing with her scarf. “I’m not following.”
“Den and I suspect the person who killed the Harlow impersonator is the same one who killed Justine.”
“You said that earlier. But I don’t understand why. It could be two very unrelated cases. First, you said the look-alike’s body was found where?”
“In the back of an abandoned car down by the East River.”
“I don’t guess the tea room killer could be the backseat killer. Do you? It doesn’t seem to fit.”
I mulled that over. “I doubt where the bodies were discovered counts. What matters is Justine was working on the biography. I was being stalked by a person who looks like the subject of the biography, and now she shows up dead. Of a heart attack, no less. Maybe caused by poison.”
“Hmm, I see your point. But why? Why would someone murder them? Is there something about Harlow? The ring? Surely he or she didn’t kill them for the ring. They’re dead. If they had the ring, the killer just eliminated their chances of getting it. Right?”
&nbs
p; “You’re right. On the face of things, it makes no sense. And yet, there’s more here to chew on.”
Kate sighed, a long, drawn-out, yawn-type of sigh. “Girl, you are borderline OCD. I swear. You always have been. You never know when to quit.”
“Is that bad?” I said, grinning.
Kate waved me off, shaking her head. “I guess it’s served you well,” she said after a few beats.
“And then there’s the phone call,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s weird and creepy. How would she know anything about the look-alike’s father?”
“Well, it sounded like she’d met him, or maybe the look-alike told her about him.” My stomach knotted. I hated speaking with Kate about fathers.
“I see why you need to find that person and ask what it’s all about.”
“So I’ll check into the Madonna impersonator. If Marilyn was being honest about not calling me, then it must be Madonna.”
“You know what’s funny? You’re chatting about Harlow on the one hand, and two celebrities who’ve said she was their inspiration on the other.”
“An odd coincidence, but you’re right.” I was chilled. The slight scent of Cotillion hung in the air. “Did it get cold in here?”
Kate nodded.
“I’ve not been able to figure out the thermostat.”
“That felt like someone opened a window, not anything to do with the thermostat. Odd. These old apartments are so sturdy. But they can also be drafty and dilapidated.”
“That must be it.” I didn’t mention Justine’s perfume. “I can’t wait for the tox reports to come back on Harlow.”
“Yeah, that’ll tell us everything, right? If she was poisoned by the same thing. Man, how freaky would that be?”
Freaky, indeed.
As Kate filed her nails, my eyes moved to my laptop and I reflected on the story. I always felt I should write instead of doing anything else. But then, after hours of writing, I suspected I should get out, away from the computer and the story. The constant push and pull between these things was a part of my life, and I wondered if it was the same for every writer.
The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 14
