On the wall, written in something black, were the words:
Starvin' for the good life, baby, without any ooofff you
Starvin' for the real thing, on my own, bein' true
Here it is on my plate, if only I could reach it
Oh, it's so sweet, I can almost taste itman
Get out of my waaaayyyy
Get out of my waaaayyyy
I said, "Look, Darlene, someone's written lyrics to a song on the wall."
"Why would Philip write lyrics to a song on the wall in"—Darlene picked up a black eyeliner pencil from the white-tiled floor—"black eyeliner, then get in the tub and
play his guitar?" Darlene gasped. "You don't think he deliberately killed himself, do you?"
"No, Darlene, I don't think Philip did this to himself. Surely there are easier ways to kill yourself. It's worse than that."
Darlene's blue eyes rounded. "What are you saying, Bebe?"
"If Philip plugged his guitar into the electrical outlet and then stepped into the tub of water, he would have been electrocuted immediately and fallen in the tub. Instead he's lying down with a towel over his face."
"Bebe! Clue me in here."
"Someone did this."
Darlene's eyes almost popped out of her head. "Are you saying Philip was murdered?"
"It looks that way. Maybe he was in the bath, playing his guitar without plugging the amplifier in. Someone came in meaning to kill him, saw the opportunity with the guitar, and took it. Then whoever did it wrote those song lyrics on the wall. Why, I don't know." I paused for a thoughtful moment. "I didn't know pop stars wore eyeliner. Do you think John Lennon does?"
"Bebe, you're way off base, and you've got quite an imagination. Who would want to kill Philip? He just came to the United States for the first time. We got in this morning. Hardly anyone here even knows him. It must have been an accident."
"We'd better call the police, Darlene." I moved away from her out of the bathroom, into the bedroom, past empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and picked up the phone next to the rumpled bed.
Somehow I managed to speak calmly into the receiver and give my name and location. The dispatcher on the other end of the line instructed me to stay where I was, and not to let anyone into the room under any circumstances until the police arrived. I agreed and hung up.
Almost immediately there was a knock on the door.
"Come on, Philip, we're late meeting up with those American birds," a voice with a thick English accent called from the other side of the door.
Keith.
And we hadn't closed the door all the way.
Darlene rushed from where she'd plunked down in a chair and slammed the door in the lead guitarist's face. "Ouch!" she cried, grabbing her right foot.
"Blimey, Darlene, was that you?" came a muffled voice through the door. "Why'd you slam the door in my face?"
Darlene looked wildly at me, her body guarding the door, hands splayed against it, injured foot forgotten for the moment.
"Tell him there's been an accident and you can't let him in until the police get here. It's the truth," I stage- whispered.
Darlene shook her red curls in the negative. Instead, she looked through the peephole and said, "Philip and I can't be disturbed right now, Keith. Come back in an hour."
"Got the other bird in there with you?" was the response.
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, my mouth open in shock.
"Yes," Darlene said unforgivably.
I stood to my five feet, seven inches (I do have decent long legs, God's way of making up for my lack of chest) and placed both hands on my hips, glaring at petite Darlene.
She put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion.
The sounds of fading laughter came from the hall. "Philip and the birds. Always has a flock."
Darlene checked the peephole again and turned back to where I was sitting. "He split."
"How could you tell him that about me?"
"Bebe, we've got a dead body in the bathroom. Keith's thinking we're doing a threesome is the least of our problems."
"But my reputation!"
"Bebe, you've got nothing to worry about."
"I'd better not. Mama always says a girl's reputation is priceless. What's wrong with your foot?"
Darlene balanced on one high heel and looked at the bottom of her right foot. "I stepped on something sharp. It looks like a tack or something."
A brisk knock on the door halted the conversation.
Darlene pocketed the tack.
"Police! Open up!"
The room suddenly filled with men wearing blue NYPD uniforms and a plainclothes detective who took Darlene aside and questioned her while a police officer stood guard over me. Another officer was busy talking to the hotel detective, who showed up demanding to know what was going on. More officers were doing God only knows what in the bathroom where Philip lay. An ambulance crew arrived, and a man I think was the coroner. Flashbulbs went off, over and over. All of a sudden I realized I was shaking.
"Miss Bennett?"
I looked up from where I was sitting at a small round table near the window. The plainclothes man loomed over me, notebook in hand. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and navy tie. His hair was dark and styled in a crew cut. I figured him for about thirty. As he sat down in a chair opposite, a feeling that I had done something terribly wrong came over me. His brown eyes were condemning. I had been the one to electrocute Philip Royal, those eyes said. I had wanted to see Philip dead. Never mind that I'd never met him. I swallowed with an effort.
"Yes, I'm Miss Bennett."
"I'm Detective Finelli, in charge of this case."
"Pleased to meet you."
His face didn't change. If anything it grew more stern.
"You live with Miss Darlene Roland at 138-140 East Sixty-fifth Street, apartment three-B?"
"Yes. It's a walk-up, but very comfortable. Well, we
don't have much furniture now because Darlene's ex-roommate took it all, but I plan to surprise Darlene with some new things because she's not charging me much rent."
Detective Finelli remained blank-faced at all this information. "And where do you work?"
I sat up taller. "I'm secretary to Bradley Williams. He's vice president of talent at Rip-City Records, and very good at his job. He's the one who discovered Philip Royal and the Beefeaters in London and brought them over here to launch their first album in a few weeks. Mr. Williams is a well-known man-about-town."
Detective Finelli began to look strained. "I'll take your word for it. Now, Miss Bennett, why don't you tell me how it came to be that you are at the Legends Hotel today."
I began twisting my fingers together under the table, where I hoped the detective wouldn't see, but somehow I felt he could. "I'm here because my friend Darlene set me up on a double date."
"With who?"
"With Keith."
"Keith who?"
"Gee, I don't know his last name. He's the lead guitarist for Philip Royal and the Beefeaters." Then it struck me that there was no longer any such band. "I mean he was until—"
"Until what, Miss Bennett?"
"You know," I said, nodding toward the bathroom.
Detective Finelli took notes. "So you came here expecting a date. How did you end up in Philip Royal's room?"
"What do you mean?"
"Was that the plan all along? Were you two girls just coming up to the guys' rooms?"
"No! We were supposed to meet them in the lobby and then all go to the Peppermint Lounge, but the guys hadn't shown up yet and Darlene went to call, and Philip
didn't answer, so the nice elevator man, who had a cough and is hard of hearing, brought us up here, and the door was open, and that's when we found Philip!"
I took a deep breath.
Detective Finelli blinked and jotted down a few words. I didn't think I liked him even though he wore a wedding ring and was probably a nice family man with several young children.
&nbs
p; "Were you with Miss Roland when she went to call Philip Royal?"
"No, the house phone was down the hall. I stayed behind and helped the elevator operator, Mr. Duncan, with his cough."
"With his cough?"
"Yes. It's only right to be helpful. You know that, being a policeman."
"I'm a detective. Now, how long was Miss Roland gone?"
"I don't know. A few minutes."
"Ten minutes? Twenty?"
I tilted my head and stared at the ceiling. Finally I looked back at him. "Maybe fifteen minutes."
"Then the two of you came up here and discovered the body?"
"Yes. Darlene thought it was an accident, but I didn't think so."
"Why did Miss Roland think it was an accident?"
"I don't know. Didn't you ask her?"
Detective Finelli removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow. "You thought it was a murder?"
"Yes, and before you ask me how I knew, I'll tell you. Because if he'd tried to do away with himself, he wouldn't have been lying down with a towel over his head after he'd plugged in his guitar."
"Very astute of you, Miss Bennett."
"Thank you. Is that all?"
"For now. We're taking fingerprints and doing our job
here. There will be an autopsy to determine the time of death. I must tell you that you cannot leave town until this matter has been investigated and resolved."
"Then it really was a murder!"
"Don't leave town, Miss Bennett."
He got up, but one of his underlings brought over Mr. Duncan. I gave a tiny wave at the elevator operator, and he twisted his lips in a weak smile. He obviously didn't want to be involved in any of this.
"This is Mr. Duncan, sir. He brought the girls up."
Detective Finelli introduced himself while I sat there shaking. I felt out of breath, like I had back in gym class when the teacher made us run around the football field.
Darlene was being questioned between sneezes by yet another police officer. I could just hear the conversation between Detective Finelli and Mr. Duncan.
"So Miss Roland was gone from the lobby of the hotel for at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer?"
"Yes, sir, that's right. I hope I won't get into any trouble. All I did was give those two girls a ride up to this floor. I don't know anything about any murder. I've been with the hotel goin' on eighteen years now—"
Detective Finelli interrupted him. "You'll need to come down to the station and sign a statement saying what you just told me, that's all. You may have to testify in court. But I don't see where your job would be in jeopardy."
Mr. Duncan was allowed to leave the room. He did so with a glum look on his face. Detective Finelli walked over to Darlene and the police officer, and words were exchanged. Darlene started to cry. I fought the urge to go to her.
Finally she was free from questioning, and she ran straight into my arms. We stood there shivering.
"Let's get out of here," I said.
Tears streamed down Darlene's face. "Bebe, they say I can't leave town. They think I did it because I admitted Philip and I were, er, close on the plane."
"You did it? That's ridiculous! Don't worry. They told me not to leave town, either."
"But don't you see, I can't account for that fifteen minutes."
"What fifteen minutes?"
"The ones Detective Finelli told me both you and the elevator operator said I was gone. No one saw me at the house phone except the lady who was ahead of me, and we'll never track her down."
"Oh, no, Darlene, I feel responsible." Guilt curled in my stomach.
"It's not just you; it's Mr. Duncan, too."
"I'm so sorry. Truly."
"Not only am I under suspicion for murder, Bebe, but if I can't leave town, I can't fly! Don't you see what this means? How can I be a stewardess if I'm grounded?"
CHAPTER THREE
We got off the bus at Lexington and East Sixty-fourth Street. Yellow Cabs raced past us while we waited to cross the street to Joe's Market. There we stocked up on cakes and candies, forsaking our ongoing diets. Darlene bought a bottle of wine. This was a crisis, after all. Once we finished loading up on goodies, we were walking home when, as we were passing Donohues Steakhouse, with its pink-and-black awning, a wino appeared out of the shadows.
"Can you shpare some shange?" he slurred.
I hesitated. The poor man smelled as if he hadn't showered in at least a month. A thick growth of gray beard covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Rags that passed as clothes hung on his thin body.
"Bebe, come on," Darlene whispered, shifting the bag of groceries from one arm to the other. "He's been out here before, and he'll never sober up."
"But Darlene, he looks hungry."
"Don't give him anything. He'll only spend the money on booze."
But I couldn't help myself. I pulled two quarters from my Lady Buxton wallet and handed them to him. "Please get something to eat."
"Harry thanks you, ma'am. Sheen you 'round. Have a sweet face."
"Bebe, come on!"
Without any further exchange, we turned right onto East Sixty-fifth Street. St. Vincent Ferrer Catholic High School stood on the left side of the street. The side and back of the school faced our apartment building. All was quiet for the evening. It was about nine o'clock. We reached our building—brick with dark green trim— Darlene lecturing me the whole way on how foolish it was to give Harry any money. We climbed the two sets of stairs to 3B, sagging with relief as we made our way inside.
"Pajamas, cake, candy, and some wine," Darlene said.
"Sounds perfect. What kind of wine did you get?"
"Mateus. It's choice."
While Darlene went to open the wine, I admired our bachelorette pad. The apartment opened to an average-sized living room, one wall of which was all white brick with a fireplace. If you went immediately right when you came in the door, you entered what passed for the kitchen, with its green linoleum floor. There was room for a tiny table for two in there, but otherwise barely enough space for Darlene and me to move around together. Then, to the left of the living room, there were two bedrooms, both small, with a bathroom in between that we shared. The shower barely trickled out enough water for a good washing, which was hard when you were trying to get a day's worth of Aqua Net out of your hair. Worse, sometimes the water turned freezing cold without warning. It was just an inconvenience, though. I loved it here, no matter what! The pulse of the city drove itself into me the first day I arrived on New York soil— or pavement, I should say.
I went to my room. When I moved to New York, I brought all my new clothes. Daddy had been extremely generous with me before I left Richmond. He sorta dotes on me, since I'm an only child. He himself took me to La Vogue, Clothes for Ladies and Their Daughters, a very fashionable shop in downtown Richmond.
Daddy said I could have whatever I wanted, that if I was going to "do this darn fool thing," I should look fabulous. He wouldn't have any New Yorker thinking I was a hick from the South. Mama didn't say anything. What Daddy says in the house rules. Plus, Mama is . . . well, delicate, and stays home mostly and looks after Daddy. Her only hobby is gardening.
Anyway, now I had so many pretty suits and dresses, they didn't all fit in my minuscule closet. I'd had to go out and buy a clothes rack.
I'd also brought my record player, my albums, and my 45s. And, of course, pictures of The Beatles. So the dingy, off-white walls were covered with shots of John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
The single bed—there really wasn't room for a double—was secondhand, with a black-painted headboard and footboard. Who knew what kind of wood it had been initially. I had bought a new mattress and box spring, and at a secondhand store I found an almost-new- looking bedspread with big black-and-white-and-yellow daisies on it.
Then one day I had found The Banana, a long, bright yellow vinyl chair that reminded me of a banana. I was walking the streets nea
r my apartment, exploring the neighborhood, when I saw a couple moving the chair out of their building and taking it to the street for the trash.
Reminding myself I was a mature, modern woman, and a lot of "curbside shopping" was done in New York, I raised my voice and said, "Excuse me, but are you trying to get rid of that chair?"
"Yes," the middle-aged woman replied, glaring at the man next to her. I assumed he was her husband. "It doesn't go with the rest of our decor."
"May I have it?"
"Do you like the shape?" the man asked with a leer.
"Shut up, Rob," the woman snapped. She turned back to me. "If you can haul it away, you can have it."
I had hurried back to the apartment, tipped the super heavily to help me move it, and now The Banana was mine. The chair was in great condition and remarkably comfortable, though it did take up the last bit of space in my room. Still, I loved to curl up in it and read or listen to music.
Sometimes I'd lie on it with my feet dangling off the side and take out my list of things I wanted to accomplish in New York. I had jotted notes during the last days before I left Richmond. Written in an old steno pad, one side was serious things and the other, fun things. I took it out from under the cushion of The Banana. It was private, and I didn't want Darlene or one of her stewardess friends reading it. I opened it up now and glanced over it. So far the serious side read:
1. Find a job I love. (This one was scratched off.)
2. Get married to the man of my dreams by age twenty-five. (That gave me three years to reel in a certain person I knew with gorgeous blue eyes.)
3. By twenty-six, move into a house that my husband and I love. With a big bedroom.
4. Have a healthy, beautiful baby—a boy for the first—by my twenty-eighth birthday. A girl within the two years following.
5. Live with my husband for the rest of our lives.
Now for the fun side:
1. Have breakfast at Tiffany's. (My favorite movie! When I saw it almost three years ago, my plan to move to New York began. Plus, I could shop for my engagement ring there.)
2. Eat an oyster at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal.
3. Float a sailboat in Central Park.
4. Visit the world's biggest bookstore, the Strand, on Broadway and Twelfth Street.
5. Go to the top of the Empire State Building!
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 2
