The Jean Harlow Bombshell

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “Yoo-hoo!” Kate said.

  “I’m in the kitchen!”

  “There you are,” she said. Her arms were full of bags of food.

  I took a swig of coffee and helped her unload.

  “Chinese food,” she said. “I know what you like.”

  We set all the food out and heaped our plates with chicken chow mein, egg fu yung, and egg rolls.

  I sat down and drank more coffee.

  “Wow, you slept all morning. Are you okay?” Kate said, eyeballing me.

  “Just tired. I needed to get caught up on my sleep after everything with Mom.”

  She nodded while shoveling eggs into her mouth with chop sticks.

  I took my chop sticks and slid the food around on my plate, finally lifting chicken chow mein to my mouth. “Listen, I didn’t tell you about my father.”

  She dropped her sticks. “What?”

  “Yeah, he contacted Mom. Wrote her a letter. He’s still alive.” I ate more chow mein while Kate gaped.

  “Wait a minute. He’s alive and he just now contacted her? What a shit.”

  “Exactly. I think it’s what set Mom off. What made her drink. She won’t admit it. But I have my strong suspicions.”

  “Speaking of strong suspicions, how is the murder case going?”

  I filled her in on what we’d found out, though none of it seemed helpful to the actual case. More helpful to the book, perhaps. I’d have to add new information, if verified, which wouldn’t be a problem at this point.

  “Bello had an illegitimate kid, heh?”

  I nodded. “So it seems. I’d not be surprised if he had a few out there.”

  “So if Harlow sent this kid her ring …”

  “That’s a big if. I mean, why would she send her stepfather’s child her most beloved possession?”

  “You said she was a nice person.”

  “Too nice, probably. She should have gotten rid of William Powell, her mother, and Bello. But she was sweet. If crew members were sick, for example, she’d notice and send flowers. One time when a studios executive cut the crew’s coffee breaks, she stood up for them. She told them either the crew gets a coffee break or she’d not work.”

  “So, a nice woman like that would definitely send something to a baby she knew about.”

  “Her ring?”

  “The baby must have been special, or maybe sick. You know how celebs will sometimes do ‘make a wish’ appearances?”

  “You’d think she’d be mad if her stepdad cheated on her mother and had a child.” But we were talking about Jean Harlow, who had an inferiority complex and a huge heart.

  “You need to find out more about the baby,” Kate said.

  “Yeah,” I said, swallowing a bit of egg roll. “I also need to find out more about Sam, aka the Jean Harlow look-alike.”

  We ate in silence.

  “When is the book due?” Kate asked after a few minutes.

  “The editor gave me another few weeks, so it’s due in a month.”

  “Not much time to investigate and work into a manuscript.”

  When I thought about it, I felt tired, but inspired. My gut instinct told me this thread would give the Harlow story an interesting spin. And it might help to solve the murder of Justine and friend.

  I drank more coffee. “Do you want some?”

  “Nah, I never drink the stuff after noon. Keeps me awake. I need my beauty sleep.”

  I was slowly waking up with the coffee and the food. I wondered why I didn’t have Chinese food for breakfast more often. It seemed the perfect way to start the day.

  The buzzer sounded again.

  “Who could that be?” I said, more to myself than Kate.

  I pressed the button. “Sergeant Brophy left a package for you. Shall I send it up?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “A package? What kind of ‘package’?” Kate said, using air quotes.

  “Not the fun kind, Kate, I assure you.”

  Fifty-Three

  After Kate left, I took to the floor, spreading out the timeline.

  Jean married Paul Bern in 1932. Her mom and Bello were at the intimate wedding. But three months earlier, where was her mother? I glanced over at her timeline. Her mother and Bello were traveling and came back in time for the wedding.

  A few weeks after that, Bello was in France, according to the postcard and to my sources at the embassy. He was “delivering a package.” Was it a baby?

  It made sense. But whose baby was it?

  Certainly not Jean Harlow’s.

  My head hurt. This was the same spot I’d gotten to each time. How to unearth this answer?

  “When you’re stuck, move on to something else. Works every time. Or take a shower. I get all my answers and ideas in the shower.”

  I set aside the Harlow timeline and her mother’s timeline and examined Sam’s. I read over my questions scribbled on it. Now we had a few of those answers.

  Had the look-alike connected with Justine while she was in New York? Yes.

  When did she come here from Hollywood? Six months ago.

  Where was she before she lived in Hollywood? London.

  What did she do to make a living? Entertainer.

  Family? Father: Luther Stone. Mother: Grace Harcourt.

  Boyfriends? Nothing here.

  Girlfriends? Nothing here.

  I dialed my contact at the French embassy and left another message. Would he ever return my call? Or was I going to get on a train and visit DC? I hated the place and avoided it as much as possible.

  Just when I set my phone down, it buzzed. It was Den.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Not good,” I said. “I’m getting nowhere.”

  “Nothing here either, except we’ve been able to rule out that the killer was sitting in the center of Layla’s. He was nowhere in that section.”

  “How did he even get in there anyway? It’s a members-only teahouse, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not significant because they were having some kinda membership drive that day. We’ve gone over the list of visitors and I’ve had guys calling and interviewing those folks. So far, nada.” He took in a breath. “Something’s gotta give soon, y’know?”

  “Where did you say she got her implants?” I asked.

  “London. That’s where she mostly lived. Where we’ve found out most about her. But she didn’t live there consistently. Like, we have addresses for six months, then nothing.”

  “Like she was going off the grid?”

  “Yeah, kinda like that.”

  Unfortunately, transgender people were often forced to live off the grid as much as they could. But I imagined if she was estranged from a violent father, she’d have taken great care not to leave a trace.

  “Why did she come to the US? To Hollywood?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.”

  Then I remembered something I’d seen scribbled in the corner of the sheets in the folders. The word “Hollywood” poked me. Memory was an odd thing, the way it held things, and only let them out when it was damn good and ready to.

  “Hold on, Den,” I said, reaching for the folder. I opened it and, yes, there it was: “Hollywood Genetic Labs.”

  My heart nearly exploded in my chest.

  “Den,” I said, my voice quivering, “I think she was here to get genetic testing. There’s scribbles on one of the sheets in the folder. Hollywood Genetic Labs.”

  “Genetic testing?”

  Then, like a curtain being lifted from my eyes: “Maybe she was sick? Or maybe trying to prove her relationship to someone.”

  “Maybe Harlow?” Den said after a few moments. “Think about it. She looked like Harlow and was trying to make
a career out of it. Money in the bank if she could prove a genetic link.”

  “But Harlow had no children.” My brain raced. He was right. He had to be.

  “Who else in her family could have? Her biological dad? Her mom?”

  My brain circled around the facts and attempted to make connections. Her father had remarried, but he didn’t have any kids. Was Jean Harlow’s mother too old to have had a baby in 1932? I added the figures. She’d have been around fifty. People were having babies these days at that age. But then? I didn’t know. Was it possible?

  “Den, you’re brilliant.”

  He laughed. “I am?”

  “It think it was her mother. Her mother and Bello must have had a baby they sent to live in France. That has to be it.”

  “Then that baby would be Jean Harlow’s half sibling,” Den said.

  “It makes sense she’d send her ring to a half sister,” I said. My heart was fluttering in excitement and awe. Good old Jean Harlow, so genuinely nice, thinking of her half sister even as she lay on her death bed.

  “Okay,” Den said. “Interesting theory.”

  I remembered the pleading emails. “Please don’t go public with this story. He will kill me.”

  Those emails must have been from Sam/Jean. “He” must have referred to her father, Luther Stone.

  Somehow, Justine had found the look-alike and protected her from her father by bringing her to stay at Club Circe.

  Was this the big secret?

  “Charlotte? You still there?”

  “Yes, yes I am,” I said. “Things are making sense.”

  “Okay, okay. Get more sources on this before you go half-cocked,” he said.

  “I’m a researcher, Den. I never go off half-cocked. In fact, I believe nothing until I have three solid primary sources.”

  “Oh? Good. Me too,” he said. “I’ll give the lab a call and get back with you.”

  After we hung up, I reached for my laptop and keyed in “Hollywood Genetics.” Its specialty was the genetics of the stars. Of course. I clicked on the “News” tab and scrolled through. I saw nothing about Harlow. I kept scrolling—and there, eight months ago, was a news item stating they’d been able to get a sample from Jean Harlow. She’d left her DNA on clothes, brushes, cosmetics. It there were any relatives of hers around, it could now be proven.

  There you had it.

  Fifty-Four

  My head was buzzing with this new revelation. I needed to focus but I was too excited. I needed to walk this off. I changed into my yoga pants and T-shirt and slipped on my shoes. The same shoes I’d worn the day of my assault. A brief wave of panic moved through me. Calm down, you’ve been in Central Park thousands of times and were attacked once.

  I slipped the small bag over my neck that contained my keys, phone, bank card, and pepper spray. I practiced reaching in and pulling it out, several times. Okay, perhaps I was getting paranoid. But it couldn’t hurt to practice.

  We still had no idea where my attacker was, or if he was the same person who’d killed Justine and Jean.

  He could still be watching me.

  Waiting for me.

  But would he attack in the same place twice? Would he have the audacity to show his face in Central Park after attacking me there so recently?

  I sucked in air, trying to calm my racing heart.

  I couldn’t let him scare me. Couldn’t let him rule my life. Being outside was one of the few joys I had. I’d not let him take it away from me.

  I opened the door and pushed myself toward the elevator, “Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.” It was my new mantra. It became part of my rhythm as I walked.

  No running, though. Not today. My ribs were healing and I didn’t want to jeopardize it. It would be foolish. Besides, it was painful to move my arms. I knew better than to push it.

  As I walked past a falafel vendor, smelling the spicy scent, I mulled over what we’d just learned and tried to piece it all together. Justine had been trying to help the look-alike. Evidently she had an inkling she was in jeopardy.

  The look-alike probably gave Justine the ring for safekeeping. It made sense.

  If Marino Bello had taken a baby to France, and it was Jean Harlow’s half sister, it also made sense that Harlow would send her the ring rather than take it to her grave. Although it was romantic to think she went to her grave with it, she’d swelled to almost double her size and couldn’t have kept the ring on her finger.

  But why the secrecy about the baby? That was the big question.

  I walked along the sidewalk and noted a shadow coming behind me. I stepped aside, trying not to panic. I stood in the grass and let the innocent passerby go along. I was paranoid. But who could blame me? I turned around and headed back to the apartment.

  The air and sunshine were a healing balm. But it seemed just a little would suffice. My legs wearied and my mind and heart were healing, but slowly. Would I ever be able to walk or run here without thinking about that day? The way he snuck up behind me and pushed me? His hands on my back. My head hitting the bench. The feeling of helplessness. Of not being in control.

  “None of us are really in control, hon. Consider it a good thing.”

  I exited the park and stood at the corner, waiting for the walk sign. I was alone in the crowd of strangers surrounding me. I should be used to the feeling, but today it bothered me. Today, the awareness of it frightened me.

  We crossed in unison, the strangers and me. I often pondered the orderliness of humanity in situations like this. What kept people from not obeying the signs? Oh yes, you heard about those who disrupted order—wild shooters, for example. But for the most part, most of us were content to follow signs, follow the rules. It might be our saving grace.

  I ducked into a café. I didn’t want to go back in the apartment. Not yet. I paid for mint iced tea and a lemon scone and took a seat in the corner. I needed to think. Thinking had always gotten me where I’d wanted to be. My body sometimes let me down. And sometimes my mind was cloudy because of the Lyme disease, but when I was healthy and in control, thinking helped.

  If Jean Harlow had a half sister in France, I’d write a new chapter. Maybe two. Depending on the reason the baby was taken there. People viewed babies and children differently back then.

  “Children are to be seen and not heard” was the dictate of the day.

  Adoption was hush-hush.

  Babies out of wedlock were still scandalous.

  Babies born with Down Syndrome, blind, or deaf, for example, were often shoved away in homes and schools for the “handicapped.”

  Is that what had happened with the Bello baby?

  Or had Hollywood gotten wind of it and deemed it bad for Harlow’s reputation for her fifty-year-old mother to have a baby?

  This was the same studio system that probably covered up Paul Bern’s murder, by claiming it was a suicide because suicide was less scandalous. In the meantime, the woman who most likely killed him made off scot-free. Her name was Dorothy Millette and she was Bern’s common law wife, who he’d thought was safely tucked away in a hospital. She found out about his marriage to Jean and showed up in Hollywood to find him. According to Jean and Paul’s domestic help, there was a woman on the property that night. Many signs indicated Paul was murdered. They found Dorothy’s body a day later, after she took a river cruise, washed up on the banks. Either she’d killed herself or someone suspected she’d killed Paul. Her hotel room had been ransacked. Many items were stolen, including her personal journal.

  Twisted.

  So what did this have to do with the look-alike and Justine?

  If the look-alike was descended from Harlow’s line, who would care?

  Why would someone kill not just one but two women over it?

  It made little sense.

  But then again, the person who killed them wasn’t abo
ut making sense. The person was disturbed. A chill moved up my spine. I sipped my iced tea.

  I examined each person as they came into the café, searching for a familiar face, a face with a scar. Would I always be searching for him?

  After going back to the apartment and showering, I sat down at Justine’s desk, surrounded by all those books. They were calling to me—my writer’s monkey mind. Once it settled, focus was my bitch.

  I pulled up the manuscript and re-examined the places I’d marked in the text. The note about Bello and Paris. I added space and more notes.

  My cell phone buzzed. I picked it up. It was Lou from the French embassy.

  “Hi, Lou, how are you?” One must always be polite to the French.

  “I’m well, and yourself ?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. Those formalities out of the way, I wanted answers. “So what do you have for me?”

  “I’ve been able to verify that Bello brought a baby into the country.”

  “Good. Can you email me the documentation on that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you have anything else for me?”

  He hesitated. “How much would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  He laughed, then quieted. “It’s not pleasant.”

  I think my heart jumped into my throat and squeezed. “What? What do you have for me?”

  “The baby was taken to the St. Agnes Home for Orphans.”

  “Orphans?”

  “Yes, Charlotte. The man who brought her to France—Marino Bello—signed her over to the sisters.”

  My heart split. “But there must be more to the story.”

  “Yes. The child, a girl, had a disease.”

  “So they gave her up? That’s ludicrous.”

  “In the 1930s, many people didn’t know how to handle children with what is now called cystic fibrosis. It didn’t even have a name. The nuns took children in with these and many other conditions.”

  “Do you have any documentation about the baby? Who the parents were?”

  “I’ll have that soon. The papers are being faxed. I’ll forward them to you.”