Eight

Justine’s last wishes were not ordinary. This didn’t surprise me.

But the opulence of the Club Circe, where her memorial and wake were being held, was more than surprising. It was shocking. I’d read about these private women’s clubs in the city, of course, but never imagined I’d be inside one.

“Jesus,” I breathed.

“He’s not going to help you now, honey,” Kate said, sliding her arm through mine.

We were at least thirty minutes early and the place was already packed. I searched for Den or any of his ilk—but true to his word, I couldn’t spot him. “I’ll be like a fly on the wall,” he’d said. Den. So hot. A little over three weeks left until my bet with Kate is over. But who’s counting?

A huge, softly lit but sparkling chandelier hung from the center of the grand foyer. A circular pattern with, I assume, the goddess Circe was on the floor—mosaic tiles, pink and gray. Two sets of red-carpeted stairs curled upward and led to a central upstairs space.

“Which way do we go?” Kate asked.

“Let’s follow the crowd.”

Although the room was full of people, the ambiance was quiet, hushed, reverent, as if we were in a cathedral. Someone blew their nose. Another person sniffed. A nervous laugh erupted.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a woman dressed in a tuxedo approached me. “Charlotte Donovan?”

I nodded.

“Right this way, please,” she said, waving her well-manicured fingers donned with at least two sparkling green gems, which I think were emeralds.

She led us down a black-and-pink-tiled hallway flanked with ornately framed paintings of women I probably should have recognized. Historically important women. Powerful women. A whiff of a floral fragrance caught my nose. Then I smelled leather. Old leather. If these walls could talk, they’d speak about the secrets of generations of wealthy, educated, powerful women.

“You are to be seated in front,” she said, with a slight British accent I hadn’t noticed earlier.

My heart raced. Why? Why had I agreed to this? Why did it have to be this way?

I glanced at Kate, who smiled and nodded. “You’ve got this.”

Not only had I agreed to finish the Jean Harlow book, but I’d also conceded to a very public announcement about it—during her memorial service. “Part of the deal,” Justine’s editor, Lucille, had said. “It’s the only way to go.” The publisher would pay me the rest of Justine’s advance for me to finish writing the biography.

I sucked in air. Justine had faith in me. I wasn’t going to let her down. As uncomfortable as the public aspect of this made me, I was up to the challenge of finishing the book. I wanted to finish it. Unfinished business was not going to fly—it would pick at my more than slightly OCD nature. But why did they insist on making this announcement at Justine’s service?

Kate and I took our seats. While others were being seated, I tried to take it all in without gawking at all the celebrities. I searched the crowd for a man with a scar and a pointy chin—the man who’d killed Justine by dropping poison into her tea. Would he dare show his face here? How stupid would that be?

“Most criminals are not that bright,” Den had said to me. “A lot of them would just get off on being at the funeral of someone they killed. In fact, many of them do.”

At least, that’s what the police were banking on. The place was full of undercover cops—along with celebrities, movie producers, publishers. Justine was respected and admired in film and publishing circles. Unless you’d gotten in her way or were a competitor.

From where I sat in the front of the room, it was almost impossible to be nonchalant in trying to spot the suspect, which required cranking my head around and making it obvious. I tried to play it cool, but Brad Pitt had just walked in, sending little ripples of excitement through me. I blinked nervously, and he disappeared into the crowd behind me.

“Pitt’s alone. Do you think I have a chance?” Kate joked.

Judith Turner, Justine’s cousin, and her entourage came through the door and sat in the front seats at the other side of the aisle. She didn’t even glance my way.

Susan Strohmeyer, Justine’s lawyer, had informed me that Judith couldn’t make it to the reading of the will, so that event had been postponed until the next day. We still had no idea who’d inherited Justine’s wealth or which of the many charitable organizations she’d helped would receive it. But we’d find out soon enough.

I glanced up at the stained-glass dome ceiling—once again, a goddess depicted in the sparkling, vibrant colors. The surrounding walls were papered in velvet. Velvet walls, for God’s sake.

My pulse raced as the place quieted. A woman took the small stage and cleared her throat. Sweat pricked at my forehead. I just wanted to get out of there. The stately room suddenly closed in on me.

Kate reached over and grabbed my hand. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “All you have to do is stand up when they call your name.”

Tell that to my quivering knees.

I had no idea what the woman said—or who she was. Justine Turner this, Justine Turner that. It all became blurry and hard to focus on. And then my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I heard my name. Kate poked at me. I stood.

“Charlotte Donovan, Justine’s assistant of almost twelve years, will be finishing the Jean Harlow biography,” Natalie Vega announced.

I started to sit down, but then her voice prompted me not to.

“Turn around, Charlotte. Let them see you.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

I turned and nodded. I glanced over the crowd. A redhead wearing a black hat with a net over her face caught my eye. I blinked. The face of Jean Harlow was beneath that net.

Crazy. Brad Pitt. Meryl Streep. Billy Joel. My eyes swept over the celebrity-filled crowd. But in the center of the sea of faces was this redhead, with the face of Jean Harlow covered by a black net hanging from a hat. Was I hallucinating?

I swayed. My knees jelled. Kate stood and gently helped me sit down.

“Are you okay? It looks like you saw a ghost,” she whispered.

I nodded. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t find the words to tell her, I think I just saw a red-haired version of Jean Harlow.

At the depth of my Lyme disease, I’d suffered wild, fevered hallucinations. I wondered if this could be my reaction to all the stress. Losing Justine. Sneaking around to stay in her apartment. Trying to help the police find her killer. Now the biography was on my plate, with a pressing deadline. I considered walking away from it all, but I desperately needed the money.

True to Justine’s wishes, the service was quick. She was not a religious woman, nor even spiritual. She wanted no “celebration of life” nostalgic overviews. Just a few words were spoken by the president of Club Circe. I had already cried myself to sleep missing her, but several people who were there were sobbing and sniffing. Justine would be missed.

This part of the service was over, and now the reception in a ballroom in the club would begin. I couldn’t stay. A profound, dark weariness crept over me. I wouldn’t care if Clark Gable himself rose from the grave to escort me. I needed to get back. I needed a bed. Or a chaise longue, as it were.

“I need to get going,” I said to Kate as the crowd began dispersing and filing out of the room, presumably making their way to the ballroom.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“But—”

“No buts about it. You’re paler than I’ve ever seen you. Have you been keeping up with your meds?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s just the stress of the day, I think.”

As we walked out of the room, a man with an oddly shaped beard caught my eye. Something about his gaze freaked me out. It was a kind of glare, tempered by an attempt at civility. Those beady eyes reached out to me. He was vaguely familiar. But my mind was a muddle.

Kate pulled me along until we escaped the swanky, old-school woman’s club.

We took up residence in the café across the street from Justine’s place, with Kate insisting I eat before I lie down. As we sat there, I forced myself to eat even though I was queasy. I glanced out of the window as a throng of people passed by, and as a bit of an opening between head and bodies occurred, like the parting of the sea, the redhead from the funeral appeared across the street.

I grabbed Kate. “Look at her.”

Kate followed my finger.

She was standing near the L’Ombragé. Sobbing.

“Who is she?”

“I have no idea. She was at the funeral. Look at her face,” I said.

Kate stood and leaned further into the window. “I can’t see her face. Just red hair.”

But the redhead slipped into a cab and pulled off, leaving both Kate and me in a state of perplexed disbelief.

“Are you certain that was the same woman?”

I nodded. “Yes, and she looks exactly like Jean Harlow.”

“Not that again, Charlotte,” Kate said.