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.