The Jean Harlow Bombshell

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “The writer’s life is a bitch, believe me, kid.”

  Still, it was the only thing I’d ever wanted to do. Was I sadistic? Were we all?

  I never wished to be anything else, like a computer programmer or a teacher or, God forbid, a police officer. But here I was, investigating two murders. The daughter of a cop who left his family; the woman who craved cops in her bed. Sometimes I worried Kate was right. Sometimes I wondered if I had a problem with the men in blue. I mean, who wouldn’t, after it all. But I wouldn’t give her satisfaction over that revelation. Not at all.

  The startling fact I’d found out about myself over the past few weeks was that I didn’t need sex as much as I believed. Or maybe I’d just been distracted by the murders and my work. But that had never happened before. Another surprising revelation was that Den, an incredibly hot cop, liked me without sleeping with me. But what would happen after?

  My heart fluttered. I didn’t know what would transpire with Den, but he seemed different. “Proceed with caution, dear girl.”

  Thirty-Three

  Kate and I decided to attend the impersonator show once again. This time, I vowed to have a conversation with the Madonna entertainer. I figured she was my caller, and I needed to learn what she meant by implying that the Harlow look-alike’s father was responsible for her death.

  We stopped in a nearby bar for a few drinks before the show. Kate plopped herself onto a bar stool and I stood next to her, leaning on the bar. She wore a crimson pantsuit with lips to match, and thick gold chains and drooping earrings.

  The bartender took her in. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hands on the bar.

  “I’d like a diet coke and JD.” Kate flipped her hair back.

  “I’ll take a Guinness. Do you have some on tap?”

  He nodded in my direction, but his eyes never left Kate. “Sure thing.”

  “So, do you expect this woman to know anything at all about Harlow?”

  “If she’s the one who called me, she definitely knows something. Any little piece at this point would help.”

  The bartender set our drinks in front of us. Two more people sauntered up to the bar and he moved in their direction.

  Kate grunted. She probably was remembering her own father and the beating she took when she told him she was getting the operation. She’d showed up at my door, half dead. It sickened me to remember it. Even now. Even after all these years. He was enraged so much about his son’s gender that he beat the living shit out of him.

  “I think about my father sometimes,” she said. This surprised me, because Kate didn’t like to talk about him. “I wonder if he ever regrets his actions.”

  “I’m sure he does.” I lifted the Guinness to my lips, downing the thick, bitter liquid as the foam kissed my mouth. Our families had assumed Kate and I would get married, even when we both knew that wasn’t the case—we were simply best friends of different genders. Why was that so hard for people to understand?

  She shrugged and sipped from her drink. “I’m not considering him tonight. Let’s think about getting answers from Madonna.”

  I lifted my glass. “Damn straight!”

  As I drank, a weird sensation crept up my back, as if someone was behind me. I set my drink down and turned to see Severn Hartwell—Justine’s biggest competitor, the man who’d followed me onto the subway. He sneered. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. My body tensed.

  Kate was looking in the other direction. But the bartender headed our way.

  “Hey, what can I get you?”

  Hartwell paused. “Nothing now. I didn’t realize you let scum like this broad in the place.”

  “What?” I turned toward him. “Get lost, Hartwell.”

  Kate’s attention zoomed in on him.

  “What gives, mister?” the bartender said.

  Hartwell grabbed me by the shoulders—so hard I swear every vertebrae in my neck jammed. A rush of focused anger moved through me and, without planning it, my knee jabbed into his groin and he yowled, crouching into a ball.

  A large man headed our way. Must be the bouncer. Kate grabbed Hartwell and shoved him into the large man. “This guy attacked my friend!”

  “What a bitch!” Hartwell said between labored breaths as the bouncer dragged him off.

  The air buzzed around us for a few minutes, and then a calm came over the place. The bartender set two more drinks in front us. “On the house, ladies.” He grinned one of the widest I’d ever seen.

  “Who the hell was that?” Kate asked, after thanking the bartender.

  “That was Severn Hartwell. Another biographer. He wanted to write the definitive biography of Jean Harlow. Justine got the exclusive book deal. No other publisher would touch him. So he’s throwing a hissy fit. Followed me onto the train one day.”

  “Oh,” Kate said. “I remember.” She shrugged again. “So why doesn’t he write about someone else? Greta Garbo? Chaplin? Seems like there’s a lot of stars to pick from.”

  “A few months ago, I would’ve agreed. But like Justine said, this biography brought out all the Harlow kooks.”

  Kate laughed. “Who knew?”

  “Right?” The absurdity of the situation grabbed hold of me as I finished my first stout and moved on to the second. I found myself laughing too.

  “This is not funny,” Kate said with a sobering quality. “You’ve been chased, threatened, and stalked.”

  “Yeah. It’s not funny at all.” I took a sip from the new glass of Guinness, my hands trembling.

  “Hey, where’d you learn to kick like that, anyway?” Kate smiled.

  She knew perfectly well where I’d learned to kick. My gram taught all the girls on the island how to defend ourselves.

  Adrenaline coursed through me and my hand still trembled as I lifted the glass to my mouth again. I’d never put into practice any of my gram’s self-defense moves. I always theorized that if I were attacked, I wouldn’t have the presence of mind to remember to kick a man in the groin. But damn, it was a reflex I didn’t know I possessed.

  “A lady never divulges her secrets.” I licked the foam from my mouth.

  Later, Kate and I sat at our table at the club. The atmosphere, once again, bristled with energy and excitement. Fifteen minutes until show time. Last time I’d waited until about halfway through the performance. But tonight I couldn’t wait. I excused myself and headed for the backstage door once again.

  The guard stopped me. It was a different guard, which was a good thing. I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I wanted a smooth entry and exit.

  I showed him my press pass and he motioned me through. I walked down the long gray halls to the doors with names painted on them. I tapped on the door that read “Madonna.”

  “Okay!” she yelled. “I’m almost ready.”

  I knocked again.

  “Jesus!” She opened the door in a huff. For a brief flick of a moment, I swore Madonna herself was standing in front of me. “You again? Does Sal realize you’re here?”

  “No. Can I come in?” I looked both ways and didn’t see Sal Mendo coming. I moved forward.

  She pressed her hand on my chest, stopping me. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here. But I’ve got nothing to add to what I’ve already said, okay?”

  “Did you call me the other night?” I asked. Madonna’s eyebrows gathered; her arms folded. “Because the Jean Harlow impersonator is dead. Probably was murdered. If you knew her and have any information—”

  The Madonna impersonator pushed me hard, and I landed on my ass with an embarrassing, painful thud. Then she slammed the door and locked it.

  “Go away!” she yelled. “Just leave me alone or I’ll call the cops!”

  Fuck. Every instinct within me told me Madonna might know something, and that s
he was the one who’d called. But it was obvious she wasn’t interested in talking. And if I pressed it, it might spark more attention.

  I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out another card, and slid it beneath her door.

  Thirty-Four

  W ell?” Kate said as we left the place. “Any luck?”

  “She shoved me and slammed the door.”

  Kate laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”

  “Well, you missed it,” I replied.

  We walked along the lively street. It was dark, but well-lit by businesses up and down the pavement. We were moving at quite a clip when an arm reached out and grabbed me.

  “What the—”

  Kate turned and followed as the person, wrapped in a long overcoat, pulled me into an alley.

  “Hey!” Kate said just as the person revealed herself to us.

  “Shhhh,” she replied.

  Madonna.

  “What’s this about?” I said. My shoulder ached where she’d snagged me.

  “It’s a warning,” she said, breathless. “Don’t come back to the club. Sal has your photos, and the bouncer won’t let you in.”

  Was that it? She pulled me off the street for this? There had to be more to this.

  “Okay. I wasn’t planning to return. You pushed me. I don’t need that. I’m just trying to bring justice to the Jean Harlow impersonator.”

  Kate stood with her chest sort of puffed, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed. She sensed danger. And so did I. What was going on here?

  “About that …” Madonna said. “I did know her, but not well. She tried to get work with us and Sal was unimpressed.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure of his reasoning. She was a beauty.” She paused. “But she might have sent an email from the agency, if that’s why you keep asking us about her. We all use the agency’s computers from time to time.”

  That was interesting. And so far, it all rang true. But there had to be more to it. Or else why was Madonna being so secretive?

  “I spotted her at the computer and she was frightened,” the impersonator added.

  “Of what?”

  “Well, at first I assumed it was because I’d caught her and she wasn’t supposed to be there. She hadn’t been hired.” Madonna twisted her head and looked both directions, lowered her voice. “But she said her father had located her and would kill her.” The impersonator’s face drained of color. She herself was frightened. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so scared.”

  Kate’s eyes were now wide with excitement—or was it fear? Sweat beads formed on my forehead. If the Jean Harlow look-alike’s father had found her, and killed her, her murder had nothing to do with Justine’s. It didn’t figure. I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that the murders were connected.

  “So do you suspect her father killed her?” I asked in a whisper.

  “I’m almost certain of it.” Madonna cracked her gum, a habit I despised.

  “Do you have a name for her dad?” Kate asked.

  Good question. I should have thought to ask that.

  “No,” she said. “So many trans people have such a rough time with family. It’s very … sensitive. We’re not all Caitlyn Jenner, you know. ”

  Kate grunted.

  I felt queasy when I considered it. “Did you learn her real name?”

  “Jean’s?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, no. We never use our real names,” Madonna replied. “The only person who’d know would be Sal, for paycheck purposes, and he never hired her, so …”

  A pedicab driver whizzed by me, cutting it close.

  “Those bastards,” Madonna said. Chew. Chew. Chew. “A menace to the streets.”

  “So the only information you can offer is that she was frightened of her father and maybe he killed her. But you’re uncertain,” I said.

  “That’s right. And please tell nobody where you’ve gotten that information from. I don’t need cops poking around in my business, if you know what I mean.” She blew a large pink bubble, and I thought once again how she was so Madonna-like.

  It was interesting to get confirmation for our theory. But I doubted it would help without names. We needed names, the one thing these impersonators didn’t seem to want to give.

  “Why so secretive?” Kate asked. “Is that Sal guy a prick or what?”

  “Yeah, he’s a piece of work. I don’t need him to learn I’ve talked to you, okay?”

  We both nodded.

  “I’m also afraid that Sal might know Jean’s father. Or Jean’s father is around somewhere watching us? I might be paranoid. But I’d like to live a while longer, such as it is.” She rolled her eyes. “Gotta get home to the kids. The sitter hates when I’m late. But promise me you won’t come back. It could be dangerous for you.”

  I didn’t expect to return. Besides, Madonna might be right. “Okay, I promise. Take care of yourself.”

  A softness came over her face, as if nobody had ever said that to her before. “Thank you.” And she was off.

  “What do you think?” Kate said after she left.

  “She’s genuine. But we need details.”

  “Interesting to learn about the Jean Harlow impersonator’s father.”

  “Yes, but we don’t know her real name, let alone his,” I said, exasperated.

  “How much longer can these people remain unnamed? I’m certain a name will turn up soon.”

  I hoped Kate was right. I wanted justice for both murdered women. But the eccentric way both of them lived their lives was making it difficult. Nobody ever suspects they’ll be murdered and people will try to track down their killer.

  Then again, it sounded like the Jean Harlow look-alike might have suspected it. Perhaps she’d left a trail of bread crumbs somewhere—or was that too much to hope for?

  Thirty-Five

  The next afternoon, Den called with news. “Breast implants,” he said.

  “She was transgender, so I figured.” I turned away from the keyboard. “So, what does it tell us? Anything?”

  Now that I was drawn away from my words on the screen, images of her body played in my mind. Would I ever forget that heartbreaking corpse on the metal table?

  “Evidently there are traceable numbers on the implants, which should be able to tell us where she had the reassignment surgery, at least,” he replied.

  “That’s a start,” I said. Thank goodness for implant manufacturers. Never thought I’d be thinking any such thing.

  “Have you had further luck finding information?” he asked. Papers crinkled in the background.

  “No. I’ve been writing. Haven’t been online at all,” I said. “I might do some research later tonight.” I wanted to tell him what I’d found out from the impersonators, but I needed to do that in person.

  “Speaking of later tonight,” he said, “I thought I’d stop by with a pizza and some wine. What do you think?”

  I blinked. The real world beckoned. And I had to eat, didn’t I?

  “But I thought we’d agreed not to see one another until after we solve the case …” I wasn’t sure I could handle the temptation.

  “This isn’t a date. This is a brainstorming session,” Den said, but his voice spoke of a different kind of session.

  I paused. I really wasn’t sure I could contain myself and it hadn’t quite been a month yet. I couldn’t lie to Kate, but it was tempting.

  “Well, sure then.” A girl had to eat. And drink wine.

  Sometimes I lived too much inside my head. The realm of ideas and words was my comfort zone. When I’d been in the zone for days, the world I created in my writing seemed more real than the physical one. I appreciated people like Kate and Den in my life, who pulled me out of my reverie from time to time. Human contact was necessary.

&nb
sp; “Okay,” Den said. “See you soon.”

  Curls of excitement rippled through me.

  I straightened up the place a bit. I was still hunkered down in the library, so I gathered my papers there, folded the blanket I was using while sleeping on the chaise, and took a few dishes into the kitchen and rinsed them off. The gleaming faucet curled around in a curlicue, hovering over the porcelain sink.

  In my mind’s eye, Justine stood next to me, running her fingers through the warm water. Every inch of this place spoke of her. It still carried her scent within the walls, carpets, and draperies.

  I hadn’t been back to the secret room. The book deadline was pressing and I was in the zone, words were flowing. Besides, it freaked me out a little. A secret room filled with Hollywood memorabilia. Maybe some of it was priceless. A secret that Justine kept hidden from me all these years. It stung.

  But she’d also kept her apartment a private haven, never allowing the “help” to enter. Yet here I was. Struggling to unravel the mystery of who killed her, and who killed my stalker, and trying to figure out if there was a link.

  The Jean Harlow look-alike knew Justine lived here, of course. Had she been stalking her? Did she know about the secret room?

  Just how many apartments in the building might have such a room? The L’Ombragé had an interesting history. Known as one of the city’s finest art deco buildings, its apartments had been gutted and updated so many times that the floor plans were sometimes inaccurate. The apartment in its spire intrigued me. Who lived there? Why would you live in a tiny circular abode?

  The buzzer buzzed. “Ms. Donovan?”

  “Yes,” I said, pushing my little black button.

  “A Den Brophy is here to see you.”

  “Send him up.”

  Excitement spun through me. No greater aphrodisiac than temptation existed. Could I resist if he made a pass? Would he? He seemed determined to not date someone involved with a case. But how far was he willing to stretch it?