The Jean Harlow Bombshell Page 12

  This was a bit chancy, I admit. But then again, who’d think to look for a valuable ring in an ordinary handbag?

  Twenty-Five

  The next day, I was able to move back into Justine’s apartment. We’d boxed up most of her clothes and were just waiting for the charity to come and get them. Kate was back at her Chelsea townhouse, checking in with me what seemed like every hour on the hour. My Jean Harlow look-alike was still at large, which made her nervous.

  I remained ever-watchful when I took my daily walks in Central Park. Once I thought I saw her near Strawberry Fields, the section of the park dedicated to John Lennon. But it turned out to be another platinum blonde, of which you don’t see many these days.

  Maybe the look-alike was gone. Maybe she’d finally stopped stalking me.

  I wished I could say the same for my cyber-stalkers.

  What information was I missing? Along with the psychics, Hollywood strangeness, and collectors, there was a thread of dark angst running through the newer emails I was seeing, but they seemingly had nothing to do with the ring. Or maybe they did and I just wasn’t understanding how. A family secret?

  I forged ahead, diving into genealogy records of the Carpenters, examining newspaper accounts and probate records, poring over the timeline again. Nothing had stood out. Perhaps the craziness only surrounded the ring and the superfans, who oddly enough were worse than any fans we’d previously run across. And I hadn’t been prepared for this. It was astounding how so many people were still so interested in Jean Harlow.

  One thing was clear in the middle of all of this murk: I needed to get the book finished and turned in. Then my life would get back to normal. Well, semi-normal. I’d need to find a job.

  I nodded to Gerald as I entered L’Ombragé’s glittery lobby. I knew is name now, as well as his wife’s. He nodded back. “Miss Donovan,” he said. All the staff were familiar with me and had been alerted to the break-in, as security had been taken up a notch.

  I still couldn’t make my mind up about what to do with the ring. And the book wouldn’t get finished until I decided. I could write an afterword covering the ring … but without provenance and proof, I couldn’t be certain the bauble was the real thing. If I took it to a jeweler, it would only be a matter of days before the news was out. And my life would be hell.

  A crushing sensation filled my chest. I was certain the ring was why Justine was killed.

  I focused on the story in front of me, willing away monkey-mind notions of another deeper narrative here. It was just my imagination. I had no real proof of anything. Stick to the facts. Stick to what I knew.

  After several hours of writing, my cell phone brought me out of my reverie. Den.

  “Sergeant Brophy,” I said.

  “Charlotte,” he replied. “How’s it going? Any news?”

  A stab of guilt tore through me. How could I keep this secret from Den? He was working so hard to find Justine’s killer.

  “No news,” I said. “I’m still getting emails. So is Justine. I have stacks of them. I’ve been printing them out and organizing them. There’s a psychic pile. A collector pile. A Hollywood pile. And then the mysterious pile from someone pleading for help, but those stopped a while ago.”

  “Have you seen your look-alike?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “How’s the case going?”

  “We’ve got a bit of a lead. Can you meet me at Bryant Park in about an hour? I hate the phone.”

  I glanced at the clock, then back at my computer. I was on a roll. But Den might have news. And, well, Den. “Sure. See you there.”

  The only time I didn’t like Bryant Park was during fashion week. I tried to steer clear of long, lanky, beautiful women wearing outfits that would cost me a year’s salary.

  I found a seat at a metal bench and took in the view. It was a nearly perfect late spring day. People were strewn over the middle lawn, which in the winter was an ice rink. Metal tables and chairs were scattered along the sidewalks. A young mom pushed a stroller holding her daughter, dressed in pink. The girl held her doll and giggled while the mom talked into her cell phone.

  I glanced around for Den. So far, I hadn’t spotted him.

  A maintenance guy walked by me pushing a rolling trash can with one hand and eating a huge soft pretzel with the other. I wasn’t the cleanest person in the world, but that nearly made me gag.

  The scent of spicy food, greasy and peppery, suddenly distracted me. Where was it coming from?

  Tourists snapped photos with their phones, couples hunched together drinking coffee, and the carousel spun forward.

  Still no Den, and no spicy food. Soon the scent was replaced by a strong perfume. In the crowd, a sign poked up. Was someone protesting? What this time?

  He moved forward, dressed in a wrinkled suit and tie. The sign said, Jesus is my boss.

  “There you are,” Den’s voice came from behind me.

  I shifted my gaze to him. My breath caught in my throat. I’d been trying not to think about him, since we couldn’t date as long as he was on this case. And we couldn’t sleep together because of my bet with Kate. It was best not to fantasize about him. But a hot rush moved through me as he took a seat next to me. Our thighs touched, barely.

  “What’s up, Den?”

  “I’ve got some news. A lead.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “The tox reports are back on Justine. And she did in fact have a heart attack, but it was brought on by a mix of Valium with some other drug we’ve not been able to pinpoint yet. The guys are working on it. Said something about chemical reactions eliminating traces of the other drug.”

  The news hit me like a brick wall. Proof. We had proof Justine was murdered—as if the security footage wasn’t enough.

  “We can’t be certain, but all the clues we have lead us to the ring as the motive. Someone wanted that ring and determined that by getting rid of her, they’d get access to it.”

  A rush of fear shot through me as I sat there with the ring in my purse. “What would make them think they’d get access to it?” I asked. “If Justine had it, it would be hidden away somewhere,” I managed to say. The maintenance guy strolled by us with another trash can, still eating his large pretzel.

  “Still, maybe if we find the ring, it will lead us to her killer.”

  Not likely. My heart skipped a few fluttery beats. Here I am, lying to Den.

  Well, not exactly lying, but not telling him the truth, either. Nevertheless, I resolved to go with my gut on this. The ring would stay in my purse.

  “How would it help?” I said.

  “If we found it, we could make a big splash about it, luring the killer out of hiding.”

  Not bloody likely.

  “Sounds dangerous,” I said, breathy.

  Den nodded. “It would be.”

  We watched a few children walk toward the carousel.

  “But since we don’t have it, the point is moot.” He paused. “But we do have a lead. At least I think it’s a lead.”

  “What? What do you have?”

  “One of those emails stood out. It was one that was asking for help. Came from the Dream Girl agency, according to the guys in the cyber crimes unit. Do you recognize the name?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an entertainment operation that specializes in impersonators. You know—the actors work through this agency, get jobs. It runs a club where some of them work.”

  “Is my stalker in show business?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.” He paused. “I think if we find your Jean Harlow impersonator, she can shed some light on what’s going on, where the emails are coming from, and so on. At least she can tell us why she’s been following you.”

  It made sense. Where else would a Jean Harlow look-alike work? The entertainment industry. My heart sped up in excitemen
t. Maybe we were getting close. Maybe she could tell us everything we needed to learn to bring Justine’s killer to justice.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “What are we waiting for?”

  Twenty-Six

  I ’m sorry. We don’t represent a Jean Harlow impersonator. Truth is, the younger crowd doesn’t even know who she is,” Sal Mendo said from behind his too-neat desk. Shelves lined with gleaming awards, and a few plants, served as decor.

  You wanna bet, I wanted to respond, but didn’t. Den had only agreed to allow me to come along if I promised to be quiet. As in: not one word.

  “As I say, Mr. Mendo, this is a murder investigation, so it compels you to think about it. Someone sent an email from here.”

  Mendo flung his hands up. “What can I say? Jean Harlow is not on the program here. Do you think she’s a killer?” His double chin jiggled as he spoke. I tried not to stare.

  “I can’t comment on the specifics of an ongoing investigation. But it’s imperative we find her.”

  Mendo fussed with his tie. “Understood.”

  I’d been in enough talent agencies to realize there was more to the place than the official office where they greeted potential clients and other business-sorts.

  Den stood, with the exacting confidence I more than admired in him. He moved like an Adonis. “Here’s my card. If you remember otherwise, please call me.”

  I followed Den’s lead, but I wasn’t ready to give up. Why was he? Didn’t he know people clam up in front of cops? Why didn’t he press the guy more?

  “Excuse me,” I said. Den shot me a glare. “May I use your ladies’ room?”

  “Certainly,” Mendo said as he opened his office door. “Down those stairs and off to the right.”

  “Thanks.” Was I really going to do this? Damned straight.

  I made my way down the stairs. Show posters lined the walls. All impersonators: Cher. Beyoncé. Britney Spears. If this was any indication of the Dream Girl agency’s audience, maybe Mendo was correct—they may not appreciate Harlow. A winsome note of regret moved through me; it was too bad. But as I rounded a corner, more posters hung on the walls, and I followed them. Off to the left: Marilyn Monroe. Audrey Hepburn. Mae West. Several doors lined the hall.

  “May I help you?” a voice from behind me said. I turned to find a Madonna look-alike, dressed the part.

  “I’ve gotten lost. I was looking for the ladies room.”

  “The other way,” she said, pointing. “Busy day here. You don’t want to get run over.”

  “Oh?”

  “Publicity shots.” She smiled and posed, hands on hips in a very Madonna-like stance.

  I chuckled. She curtsied. Very un-Madonna like.

  I gathered my courage. “I was wondering if you’d answer a question for me.”

  “You a cop?” She slanted her eyes at me.

  “No, no, no,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “I’m a writer working on a Jean Harlow biography.”

  A door opened from behind me. Madonna glanced and nodded at the person.

  “And?” she said.

  “Have you ever seen a Harlow impersonator here?”

  She crossed her arms and leaned on the wall, appearing to be thinking it over.

  “Hey, Madonna, get your ass in there. The photographer ain’t got all day,” the person behind us said.

  “Hold your horses,” Madonna said, standing her ground. “Sorry, hon, I can’t think of anybody. Hey, Marilyn! C’mere a minute.”

  The next thing I noticed was a Marilyn Monroe impersonator standing next to my Madonna. “She’s a writer,” Madonna said, nodding her head in my direction. “Working on a Jean Harlow book.”

  “Really? How cool,” the impersonator said, breathy like Marilyn.

  “You’ve been at this a lot longer than me. Have you ever seen a Harlow act?”

  Marilyn stiffened. “Why?”

  Madonna blinked.

  “Hey lady,” Sal Mendo’s voice came down the hallway. “Don’t you know your left from your right?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Mendo,” I said. I reached into my bag and handed both of them a card, turning my back on Mendo and as I whispered, “She may be in trouble. I need to talk with her.”

  They each took my card and scattered into the rooms.

  ∞

  “Why did you do that?” Den asked once we were far enough away from the agency. We were walking along the busy sidewalk, the sky darkening and the wind picking up. A spring storm fizzled at the edges of the late afternoon. “We have a protocol,” he said.

  “Look, Den, I know these entertainment types, and they don’t care for the cops. I thought if I could get past Mr. Slick I’d get a scoop. That’s all.”

  “He wasn’t too thrilled to find you snooping around downstairs. You may have jeopardized this line of the investigation.”

  Curls of disappointment moved through me. I hadn’t wanted to do that. “But I also made what might be an in-road.”

  Den didn’t realize how I could be. Giving up was not in me. After all, this was research—a different kind than I usually did, huddled behind my laptop or between stacks of books at the library. But still. I didn’t take no for an answer. Especially from a slick talent agent.

  “And?”

  “I’m not certain, but I think Marilyn Monroe may know something.”

  He grimaced. “Did you get her real name?”

  “No, but I gave her my card and told her our Jean Harlow might be in trouble.”

  Den tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, and snapped his fingers. “Appealing to a possible friend like that might work. Did she say she knew her?”

  “No, Mendo interrupted our conversation. But she seemed interested, like she was ready to talk about it before he interrupted.”

  “Let’s hope it works. Let’s say she does know the impersonator. If she mentions you, it could either send Jean Harlow to you or force her deeper into hiding. And what are you going to do if she reaches out to you? She’s been stalking you. Do you think she has your best interest at heart?”

  I had to admit I had no idea what to expect. But for the first time since Justine died, I was in control. Nobody was chasing me. I’d turned the tables. The undeniable spark of inspiration energized me.

  Twenty-Seven

  W hen I sat down at Justine’s computer, I had every intention of writing an email. But as I read over the threatening words of that first email again, uncertainty crept in.

  “I’ll kill you. I swear if you go public with this I’ll kill you,” it said.

  What could be so important and secretive about Jean Harlow’s life that someone had threatened to kill Justine to keep it private? I’d convinced myself the murder had something to do with the sapphire ring, but as I read the email this time, my theory made no sense. Going public with the fact that the ring had resurfaced wasn’t enough to kill someone, was it?

  I could just ask, couldn’t I? After all, that was why I’d sat down here. I would email back, explaining that I had taken over writing the book and requesting that he or she fill me in.

  Why not?

  The person could be a nut job. But their beef was with Justine, not me. Although perhaps their problem would be with anyone writing the Harlow book.

  Another notion caught my mind. One of those nagging ethical dilemmas placed into my brain years ago by a journalism professor. What would you do for a story? For the truth? Do you owe it to your readers to deliver it without hesitation? Why write biographies if they are just going to perpetuate the same stories repeatedly?

  There was nothing new in this book. It was Jean Harlow’s biography, written in a fresher style, repackaged, with the famous Justine Turner’s byline. But connecting this tale with the importance of the ring, along with the existence of my beautiful stalker and the fact of Justine’s murder, would
give me a real story. Meaty.

  I had no proof of connections anywhere, though. Not yet. And I had to wonder if telling Harlow’s story was worth dealing with a potential threat because of the ring—or because of some rumor of a deep, dark family secret?

  I typed the words: “To whom it may concern.”

  Okay, that was a good start. What to say now? Excuse me, why did you threaten Justine?

  I paused. How to handle this? I heard Justine’s words: “I always say sleep on it.”

  Okay, I was going to table this until the morning.

  But the next day my mind was even more murky. I would just focus on getting words on the page.

  A few more days of writing, secluded in Justine’s place, and I’d not heard a word from either Madonna or Marilyn Monroe. Nor did I see the Jean Harlow look-alike during any of my Central Park jaunts. Perhaps my strategy had failed.

  I read over the last chapter I’d completed, adding a few commas and fixing spelling errors.

  I was feeling very familiar with Jean Harlow. Or, Harlean Carpenter. This happened with every subject during the writing of the book. I’d refer to them in present tense as they became a part of my thought process—it was as if they were still alive. For example, I’d run across a certain style of a dress and think, “Oh, Clara would adore this.” Seriously. It was like living in a strange time warp. Just me and my imaginary friends.

  After we finished the books—or at least, up until that point—I would go into my ritualistic hibernation mode for a few days. A cleansing. Sometimes I started pre-researching the next biography during that phase. I didn’t know if this would be the case for the Harlow book, since it differed from the get go. And now, with Justine gone, I wasn’t certain where any of this left my career.

  For all of my talk of selling out to be her lackey, Justine had been a good mentor, guiding me through the difficult, almost impene­trable publishing world. All I wanted to do was write—but writers no longer had that luxury. We needed to market, do social media, and blog.

  Justine’s agent and publisher tended to most of those details. She was a force in the publishing business. But I was not. I didn’t expect the publisher to work as hard for me.