Seven

After my unplanned sprint down Fifth Ave, I headed to Justine’s apartment, spent. Good thing the cops were gone.

Once again, I had no problem getting into her place. And once again, I took up residence on the chaise longue, not having the ambition or heart to explore.

I examined the apartment and noted the police hadn’t seemed to touch anything—or if they had, they had already replaced things.

I tossed and turned, slipping in and out of sleep, the face of the platinum blonde haunting me in my dreams and my waking. Finally, after exhausting myself, I suppose, I fell into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by my cell phone’s ring.

When I was alert enough to find it, it had stopped ringing. I started to fall back asleep after glancing at it to see the time, through the cracks on the screen. I truly needed to get my screen fixed. Who would be calling me at the ungodly hour of eight a.m.? I didn’t recognize the phone number. Just as I drifted off, it rang again.

“Hello,” I managed to say.

“Ms. Charlotte Donovan?” the official-sounding female voice on the other end of the line said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Susan Strohmeyer, Justine Turner’s attorney.”

Already?

“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. I’m so glad to get through to you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been crazy, as you can imagine,” I said, lying back into my pillow. No need to uncurl myself from the blanket. “How can I help you?”

“First, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.

I paused, choking back a sob. It was too early in the morning for such a harsh reality. But it was true. Justine had died sitting at her favorite table at Layla’s. She was murdered. I’d harbored a tiny sliver of hope that it was all a bad dream. “Yes, yes. Thank you.” My voice trailed off. I swallowed the burn creeping up my throat.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Susan said. “Justine left a lot of instructions on the funeral. All the planning has been taken care of. This is so typical of her, isn’t it? In any case, the few decisions left to be made are yours to make. She had careful instructions about it.”

“Me?” I blinked, trying to wake myself up if I were dreaming. Where was I? Clothes were scattered haphazardly across a chair. I was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling dusty books. The desk was full of papers, folders, and red pens. Always red. Okay, I concluded, this isn’t a dream. I was in Justine’s library-office.

“You’re aware, of course, that she had no family. Only this cousin in Florida, but they weren’t close.”

My chest filled with a hollow pang. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Waves of darkness pressed on me. I pulled my blanket in tighter. I might stay on this chaise all day.

“So you’ve got some decisions to make. Once Judith arrives in town later today, we’ll be reading the will. Even after it’s read, it will take some time to settle matters. But Justine asked that we get this taken care of within a few days after her death.”

I inhaled and found it hard to exhale. Wills. Death.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.” I let out a slow breath. My heart kicked in, rapping hard against my rib cage. I stared up the paneled ceiling.

“It’s going to take some time to sort through all of it, you understand. There are stocks, savings, other investments. Sometimes the paperwork in probate is astounding. Let’s schedule an appointment soon. I appreciate that this must all seem like it’s happening very quickly, but maybe it will help to know this is what Justine wanted. As I say, it’s going to take time to sort through. My assistant will call to set up an appointment with you, very soon.”

“Yes, okay,” I said.

I sat up, flung the covers off, and stood on the parquet floor, glimpsing my bare feet on the tile. Those are the very ugly feet of a competent woman, a woman who must attend a will reading, take care of matters. For Justine. I can do this.

“Do you mind if I bring a friend with me?” I asked. I paced between the desk and one of the bookcases.

“Not at all.”

After we hung up, I made a pot of coffee, sat down at the desk, and flipped open my laptop, half expecting emails from Justine. Of course there were none for today. But there were several from a few days ago. I wasn’t sure I could read them. Not yet.

Just like that, there would never be any more emails from Justine.

My chest squeezed with loss as I sat there, surrounded by her things. Eventually, I’d have to go home and leave this luxurious little hideaway of mine. But still, I was at loose ends. What was going to happen with the Jean Harlow book? I wasn’t even certain it would be published without Justine. But we were about halfway there and I found myself itching to dig in. Once I found the work in progress, that is. But I stopped myself. I wasn’t being paid anymore, was I? Who knew what was going to happen?

I should be searching the help-wanted ads. But I had no idea where to even begin. I drew in a breath as I scrolled through my email. Of course, there were return emails from Justine’s agent and editor.

From her agent, Natalie Vega:

“Dear Charlotte,

I’m heartbroken. Please advise about the arrangements. Let’s chat about the book soon.

Natalie”

Let’s chat about the book soon? What was there to chat about unless they wanted me to finish the book?

From her editor:

“Dear Charlotte,

I’m so sorry to hear about this. We’ll be in touch soon.

Lucille Everheart”

Reading between the lines, I assumed the project was still a go and started to click on my work files, but then Justine’s voice rang in my mind: “Not one word until there’s money in the bank.” Her number one rule. She was such a mercenary. She’d write about anyone, anything, as long as she’d get paid for it. “Don’t ever work for free,” she’d told me on countless occasions.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “I’ll wait.”

But in the meantime, the Jean Harlow twin haunted me. She wasn’t a part of the Jean Harlow project. But she kept turning up. Did she know Justine? Who the hell was she? I typed “Jean Harlow look-alike” into Google and got nothing of any relevance at all. Only one Jean Harlow impersonator for hire, who didn’t even resemble the real deal. A blonde wig and a slinky gown wasn’t going to do it. Sorry, folks.

The woman I’d seen twice was disturbingly twin-like. Sure, I hadn’t gotten a close-up view, but the second time was better than the first. The shape of her cheeks was exactly that of Harlow’s. Plump and doll-like. She was much taller than Harlow. Jean was a tiny woman, standing at five feet one inch.

Imagine being born resembling Jean Harlow. What would you do with that gift?

My phone beeped. It was Kate.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey yourself. Where are you?”

“Justine’s place.”

Silence. Then, “You’re crazy. You know that? What if someone catches you?”

I gazed around at the office where I sat: the chandelier, the books, the deep wood panels and floor-to-ceiling windows with the lovely, delicate stained-glass rose. “It would be so worth it.”