Jean Harlow Bombshell – Chapter One

As I squeezed through the tables of tea drinkers, the scent of jasmine, orange blossoms, and saffron heavy in the air, I spotted Justine tucked into a deep curtained booth. Even at this distance, her peculiar bearing alarmed me.

A woman who fidgeted and fussed, never sitting still, Justine sat motionless. Was she ill? Upset? Was there a problem with the Jean Harlow book? She wouldn’t say why over the phone, but she insisted I meet her here at Layla’s Tea Room, one of the oldest establishments in the city. A place of fading glamour.

God forbid we meet at a fast food restaurant or quaint coffee shop, something more my style. But Justine was accustomed to calling the shots. Always.

The tea room was too dark, sunlight peeking through spaces in the tired silk drapes on the windows, and tables lit only by candles. I had once imagined this place as a charming British tea room, but all Layla’s needed was a few opium pipes and colorful plush pillows scattered on the floor and it could be straight out of Morocco.

I hurried to Justine as fast as I could, given the dimness of the room, and almost tripped over a large handbag that had slipped from someone’s chair. After stepping through the obstacle course of chairs, tables, and purses, I considered arriving at Justine’s booth a victory.

She never glanced my way.

“Justine?” I managed to say.

Decked out in a lavender suit complete with a hat shadowing her face, Justine ignored me. She had that thousand-yard stare I knew so well. She was in Justine-land.

I sat across the table from her, shoving aside a heavy crimson velvet drape.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re here.” With every silver hair in place, curled around her jawline in a page-boy cut, she lifted her chin in acknowledgment.

“Of course,” I said, sliding my bags along the curved booth seat. “You sounded upset. Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, pressing her hand to her scarf-draped chest. “This Harlow book has brought all the kooks out!”

The server sauntered over and glanced at me. “Can I get you something?”

“Alfredo, you remember Charlotte, my assistant,” Justine said, sweeping her arm in my direction.

“Yes, of course. Peppermint tea?”

How did he remember? Justine claimed he remembered everybody’s favorite tea and cakes. One of the co-owners of the place, he must have been in his seventies.

I nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Don’t forget the honey cakes,” Justine said and winked.

“Sure thing, gorgeous,” he replied.

“He’s fishing for a good tip.” Justine’s ruby-colored lips curled into a grin. The fringe from her aqua-and-silver floral scarf splayed onto the table. She drank her tea and fussed with her scarf. “Is it warm in here or is it me?”

“You’re drinking hot tea and your scarf is draped over you,” I said, reaching over the small circular table. “Loosen your scarf.” I stretched over to help her untangle herself and found the fabric drenched.

“Stop fussing over me, would you? I need to talk with you,” she said, pulling the fabric from my hands.

“What is it, Justine?”

As she leaned over and the candlelight caught her face, making it clearer, her pallor alarmed me. She fanned herself with her hands and her eyes slanted. “Did you see the man who just left?”

“Man? Do you mean Alfredo?”

She shook her head. “No. Not him.”

Her chin quivered, as if she were frightened or confused, completely unlike her. Just what was going on with the Harlow book? What man was she talking about? It was rare for Justine to be so mysterious, so unsure of herself.

Sweat beads formed on her upper lip and cheeks.

“Let me get you a cool towel or something,” I said.

She reached out and grabbed my arm. “Please don’t fuss,” she said, glancing around at the nearest tables.

“But you don’t look well. Are you okay?” I pulled away from her.

She shrugged. “I’m as okay as any woman my age with a bad ticker.” She cackled and lifted the tea to her lips with a trembling hand.

I stood from the table. “I’ll be right back.” She didn’t want to cause a scene, but she was not well. I needed to do something.

In the ladies’ room, I found a tiny linen towel and ran cool water over it. I squeezed excess from the towel and hurried back to the table, where Justine slumped over half of the table. Had she fallen asleep? Damn, she was worse off than I imagined. I slid across the U-shaped booth next to her and pressed the cool towel to her head, figuring she’d snap to attention and warn me off.

But she didn’t.

Alfredo walked to the table and placed the honey cakes and a pot of peppermint tea at my spot. He perfected the setting, then glanced up at us and leaned forward. “Justine?”

“She’s not feeling well,” I said, pressing the towel to her face. She slumped even further. I pushed her back and shook her gently. Her mouth dropped open.

Alarmed, Alfredo motioned to another staff member.

The booth’s curtains whooshed and closed around us. In a flash, Justine and I were enclosed in the private booth. Alfredo then reached for her wrist. Another server promptly appeared through the curtains.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Pulse,” he said, frowning.

Pulse? My heart thudded against my rib cage. Why had they closed the curtains? Justine needed to breathe. I tried to open the curtains.

“No,” Alfredo said, sniffing. “She’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean?”

His lip curled downward. “Justine is dead.”

“No,” I said, shaking her. “Justine! Wake up!”

Alfredo shushed me as he choked back a sob. He turned and mumbled something to another server, gestured, and leaned toward me. “He’s calling the authorities. Perhaps it’s best if we wait in the back.”

I steadied myself, my arm still around her, as the towel slipped from my other hand. “I’m not leaving her,” I managed to say in a voice I barely recognized, a shivery whisper edged in the panic creeping in my throat. A primal scream bubbled in my guts. I swallowed it for now. Instead, I sat next to Justine in silent vigil. She shouldn’t be alone.

Nobody argued with me.

I stayed next to her even after a woman appeared, examined her, and pronounced her dead. She introduced herself, said something about being a death investigator. Doctor something-or-other with bright orange punk hair … I struggled to make sense of anything. Death investigator?

“Heart failure,” she said to the police officer sidling up beside her. “She have a history?”

Icy cold, my teeth chattered when I answered. “Yes,” I said. “Justine had a serious heart attack five years ago.”

The death investigator pulled the curtain aside. “You’re in shock. Can we get a blanket?”

“Was she feeling sick?” a Daniel Craig look-alike asked me. He wore the uniform of the NYPD, dark blue with gold medals and patches.

“Yes,” I said. “She was hot, sweating, like a lot. I ran to the restroom for a cool cloth, and when I came back, she was slumped over. I didn’t even know she was dead. She wasn’t clutching her chest or anything like that.”

Even as I spoke the words, it felt like someone else was saying them. Justine was dead. And she was sitting next to me.

“Heart attacks in women sometimes present differently. Sweating. Nausea.” The orange-haired death investigator draped a blanket over me. Its weight pressed on my shoulders, but where was the warmth?

“What is your relationship with the deceased?” the police officer asked. My eyes went to his name tag. Sergeant Den Brophy. An Irish cop with a Brooklyn accent. Eyes as blue as a jay’s wings.

“I’m her assistant,” I said, still chattering. “Charlotte Donovan.”

“I need your phone number, address, and hers as well,” he said. “Closest of kin?”

Willing away the fog in my mind, I remembered her cousin. “Yes, she has a cousin in Florida. Judith, I think her name is. Yes, Judith Turner.”

I  gave them my home address on Cloister Island, where I worked, lived with my mom, and where I’d traveled from less than two hours ago. 

Sergeant Brophy scribbled notes on his pad. The death investigator shifted her weight, hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her pants.

“So the deceased had a history of heart problems, and, given her age, her death is not exactly what we’d label suspicious, even though it happened in a public place,” the sergeant said. “Are you certain she was alive when you left the table?”

My mouth went dry. I licked my sandpaper lips. Was she?

“I think so, but I turned my back when I ran to the restroom,” I said.

“So you’re not certain?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I guess not.”

“Understandable,” the death investigator said.

Was this really happening? Was I sitting next to my dead boss? Was this some kind of bad dream? I blinked hard.

“Are you certain you’re telling us everything?” Sergeant Brophy said.

Was I? Was I leaving something out? Think, think, think. Justine shaking, frightened, talking about Harlow kooks and afraid of some man who’d been sitting with her before I arrived.

“Wait,” I said, no longer shivering. “There is something I found odd. Justine said a man had been at her table.”

“And?” The officer’s head cocked in interest.

“She seemed frightened of him. And we were supposed to have a private meeting. Nobody else was invited.”

He wrote on his notepad. “Did she say why she was afraid of this man?”

I swallowed a sob. No. “She didn’t get a chance to tell me.”

Sergeant Brophy stepped out for a few minutes, and the death investigator fidgeted around with papers on a clipboard. I maintained my vigil. Oh, Justine.

She glanced at the officer when he returned. “And?”

“We’re in luck. The place has security cameras, and we’re getting a description of the man from the server,” he said and turned his focus to me. “Your story has been corroborated, Miss Donovan. We’ll call you as soon as we know something.”

Know something? The air whooshed out of my lungs. Did they think the man hurt her?

“Do you think that—” I stammered.

He lifted his hand. “We just want to talk to this guy. He’s a person of interest at this point. Nothing more.”

But my heart thundered in outrage.

Sergeant Brophy leaned across the table. “Here’s what going to happen now, Miss Donovan.”

I lifted my face and studied Sergeant Den Brophy. His posture and attitude oozed cop, and his voice soothed me with its concerned tone, like a strong but honeyed hot toddy on a cold winter night.

“We’re going to open these curtains,” he said. “When we do, you’ll see a huge partition. The staff placed it there while we were talking. The other customers think there’s a plumbing problem. But we’re going to shut the place down now. Potential crime scene. So we want to handle this as fast as we can. Understood?”

“Yes,” I said. Partition. Plumbing. Crime Scene. Fast.

“We’re also going to take Justine away from you.”

A hollow pang erupted in the center of my chest. “No,” I said, blinking away tears. “Please, no.”

I knew it was ridiculous. I knew Justine was dead. But if they took her away, I’d never see her again.

“Look,” he said in a lowered voice. “I understand you want to stay with her. But you just can’t.”

What was I going to do without her?

When they pulled her body from the crook of my arm, cold and emptiness swarmed through me. They advised me to look away as they placed Justine on a stretcher with a body bag and secured her. But I couldn’t. The efficient, calculating sound of the zipper, the glint of the reflecting candlelight on the metal teeth, and the crinkling, milky gray bag melted as I tried to stand before everything blackened.

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