6. Take the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty.
7. Go to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
8. Attend Mass at Saint Patrick's Cathedral.
9. Stroll down Fifth Avenue and window-shop.
10. Kiss one certain guy next to the clock in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. (This was a recent entry.)
Oh, I knew the list was only a fraction of all the wonderful places to go and things to see in New York. But it was a start, and it grew all the time. Most of all, I wanted to have fun and enjoy life. But first there was that murder. . . .
I took off my lavender suit and hung it carefully on my suit rack. After grabbing a pair of embroidered blue pajamas out of the only other piece of furniture in the room, an "antique" wooden dresser with mirror I'd found at a junk store, I changed clothes and joined Darlene in the nearly empty living room. One pole lamp with three black shades lit the room, and a small black-and-white TV squatted on the floor in the corner. On the wall opposite the white brick, Darlene had hung three framed op-art posters. The disks of black going into white played tricks with the viewer's eyes. I liked to stare at them.
Darlene was sitting on the wooden floor cross-legged in a pair of Japanese silk pajamas. In front of her was the bag of goodies, the bottle of Mateus, and two wineglasses. The black-and-white TV in the corner played "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" without the sound.
"The fuzz are going to arrest me for murder," Darlene said unhappily, her fingers hovering over a Sugar Daddy, then a pack of Chuckles, before finally deciding on a packet of Jujubes. She popped two into her mouth and poured us each a glass of wine.
I sat down across from her. "No, Darlene, you mustn't think that way." I picked up a Hostess cupcake. "The police don't have any evidence that you did it, because you didn't do it."
"I still can't believe it all happened. I feel numb with shock." She put the rest of the Jujubes aside and moved on to a Twinkie.
"I know. I feel like I've been run over by Grandpa's tractor. And I feel so responsible." I took a big bite of the cupcake so I could reach the white cream.
"What do you mean?" Darlene asked, licking a crumb from the side of her mouth, then washing it down with wine.
I swallowed. "If it hadn't been for me, the police wouldn't know about your being away for those fifteen minutes. They wouldn't think that's when you went upstairs and killed Philip."
"That's not true, Bebe. Mr. Duncan, that elevator guy, would have told them. I don't hold you responsible. Try one of those candy cigarettes."
"You're sweet, Darlene, but I still feel like a rat, even though I was just being honest with the police." I drank some wine and pulled one of the cigarettes out of the pack. "What are you going to tell the airline?"
"That I'm sick. Bronchitis should do. That can linger on for weeks. Though I hope all this will be cleared up faster than that. How am I going to keep from going crazy, stuck on the ground for who knows how long? I've gotta have my wings, gotta fly."
Reaching out with the hand not holding the candy cigarette, I touched her arm. "Somehow it's going to be okay. The police don't arrest innocent people. You'll be all right. But I do wish we had someone to help us with this."
Darlene's eyes widened. A big smile lit her face. "Stu!"
"You're hungry for stew?" I said, puzzled.
"No, Stu. He's a stew-bum. His first name is really Bert, but everybody calls him Stu."
"Huh?"
"There's a type of guy who dates only stewardesses. He hangs around airports, looking for them, asking them out. Some people call them airport johnnies, but Stu isn't like that. He's a cut above. I've known him over a year now, and he's always been the perfect gentleman with me, taking me to supper clubs and plays. And he's super rich! He's the son and sole heir to the Minty-Mouth Breath Mints fortune. I'm going to call him right now."
"You think he's home?"
Darlene jumped to her feet. "He keeps all hours. If anything, he may be out with another stewardess—or in Paris or the Caribbean."
This last was said with a slight pout. But almost immediately Darlene was in the kitchen, dialing the wall phone. Soon her excited voice could be heard.
"Stu, honey, I need you. I'm in trouble. Can you come over?"
Pause.
"Yes. Okay. Pepperoni sounds great. 'Bye."
She hung up the phone and came back into the living room, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "He's bringing pizza. I'm going to change. You might want to throw a bathrobe over your pajamas."
"Shouldn't I change too?"
"No," Darlene said over her shoulder. "I told you, he dates only stewardesses. Oh," she said, pausing and taking something out of the pocket of her pajamas. "This is what was stabbing me in the foot in Philip's room. I stepped on a tie tack, and it pierced the sole of my shoe. Luckily it didn't ruin my red heels."
She handed me the small metal object. Orange, blue, and white, it looked like some sort of sports team insignia. I guessed it would have to be returned with Philip's things to whatever family he had back in England. I put it on the kitchen counter, tucked near the wall so it wouldn't fall off and get lost, then went to get my bathrobe.
About thirty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
Darlene appeared from her room in a lounge outfit of black slacks and a green tunic. She looked pretty in a playful way. I had thrown on my pink chenille robe— the one with big coffee cups on it—and had cleaned up the evidence of the candies and cakes.
"Stu, honey, I'm so glad to see you," Darlene said, flinging the door wide and reaching up to kiss a tall man.
"Bet you're glad to see the pizza too, doll. Here, who is this? No, wait. This must be Miss Bennett, your new roommate."
I smiled. "You're right, but please call me Bebe."
Balancing the pizza box with one hand, Stu held out his other hand. "Stu, here, and I'm always pleased to meet a beautiful woman. Have you ever thought about becoming a stewardess, Bebe?"
"Nice to meet you, Stu." I shook his hand. "And no, I'm very happy being a secretary for now." He was a nice-looking man of around forty with silver threads running through his dark hair. His brown eyes fit that often-heard description of laughing eyes. He had a strong jaw and a wide smile, and seemed like the type who was always ready for a good adventure. All in all, a charming person.
With a flourish, he spread on the floor a white tablecloth he had brought and placed the pizza box in the middle. Darlene and I laughed.
"Stu, you're such a card. I'll get plates and a wineglass for you," Darlene said.
Soon we were settled and eating pizza.
"So, doll, tell me what's got my favorite gal upset."
"The fuzz are going to arrest me for murder!" Darlene declared.
Stu laughed. Hard.
"You terrible man. I don't know why I called you," Darlene said with a sexy pout.
"I'm sorry, doll. It was the image of you in a striped jail outfit that got me."
Darlene acted like she was mad at him, so he had to tease her out of it. Then the whole story came spilling out. I had to interrupt her several times to insert what I thought were critical points. Like the lyrics written in black eyeliner on the wall.
"You've memorized them?" Darlene asked me.
"Yes, and I wrote them down in a little notebook I keep in my purse. I have trouble remembering numbers, you see. They get all mixed up in my head. So I carry this notebook to write them down. It comes in handy for other things too."
"What a smart girl," Stu said. "I may have to call you Scarlett. You are a Southern beauty."
Perhaps jealous of the attention being taken from her, Darlene said, "And this big ol' detective just wouldn't leave me alone, Stu. He kept at me until I thought I'd tell him I killed Philip, just to get him to stop badgering me."
"That's the way they operate, doll. Now, listen. It seems to me that whoever killed this Philip must have been someone who came over on that flight with him. No one in the U.S. knew him, right
?"
"Except my boss at the record company," I said. "He's the one who discovered the band, and I remember him saying he was the first Yank the band had ever actually spoken to."
"Okay. But your boss wouldn't have any motive to kill the golden goose, so to speak."
"Oh, absolutely not," I said, shocked. "And Br—I mean Mr. Williams—would never, ever kill anyone. He's a very honest and respectable gentleman."
"Gentleman?" Darlene smiled at me.
I put my hands on my hips. "Yes!"
"Okay, we believe you, don't we, Stu?"
"Sure. Now, there would have been Philip's band- mates, his manager, and his girlfriend, if he had one," Stu said, ticking suspects off on his fingers.
Darlene shot me a warning glance when Stu said girlfriend. and said, "I think he had an ex-girlfriend, but she's been hanging out with the drummer of the band."
"Excellent possibility there. The police will have their hands full."
"Not if they think Darlene did it," I inserted.
Silence fell.
Then Stu said, "But Darlene had no motive."
Stu didn't know about the "close" relationship Darlene had with Philip.
Suddenly rising to his feet, Stu said, "Come on; I know exactly what you need, doll. Pack your things."
"What?" Darlene said, jumping up in excitement. "Where are we going?"
"My place in the Hamptons. Some sea air will do you good. Make you forget all this."
"But what if the airline calls, Darlene? You're supposed to be sick," I reminded her.
"You can cover for me, Bebe. It will only be a day or two." Turning to Stu, she said, "Sounds like a blast, honey."
"Pack your bikini," he said, and winked.
Darlene threw him a flirtatious look. "Stu, it's April. I'll freeze."
"I'll keep you warm, doll."
My heart was pounding in my chest. Darlene should not be leaving New York City. "But the police told Darlene and me not to leave town," I told Stu.
Darlene waved a hand. "The Hamptons are still New York. They don't count. Stu, you're a dreamboat." She hurried from the room.
Stu grinned at me and began packing up the pizza remains and his tablecloth, humming Elvis's "You're the Devil in Disguise."
I walked into the kitchen and picked up one of the candy cigarettes. Pretending to smoke it, I considered the matter of Philip Royal's death. The police were way too ready to pin the crime on Darlene, and her solution was
to frolic in the Hamptons with Stu. Yes, I decided right then, there was only one person who get to the bottom of this murder investigation.
Me.
I inhaled too hard and choked when the candy hit the back of my throat.
CHAPTER FOUR
At Charlotte Marie's Secretarial School for Young Ladies in Richmond, Virginia, we had learned typing, shorthand, filing, and dictation; telephone etiquette, grooming, and coffeemaking; how to remind your boss to eat lunch if he got too involved in his work, the importance of volunteering to stay at the office if he was working late, and, last but not least, how to marry him.
We didn't learn how to solve a murder. But I wasn't going to let that stop me.
I wanted to meet Keith, the band member I was supposed to go out with. Actually I wanted to meet all the band members, but Keith was the one I had an excuse to see. First, since it was a weekday, I had to go to my job as Bradley Williams's secretary at Rip-City Records, something I looked forward to every day.
Dressed in a navy suit, with matching heels and purse, pearls, and white gloves, I arrived at the office to find everyone talking about Philip Royal's death, the news having made page two of the New York Times. And Darlene's and my names were in the article!
The doorman: "Terrible thing for a nice girl like you to see, Miss Bennett. Was he all blackened from the electrocution?" The receptionist at the front desk: "Is it true your roommate murdered that pop star? You can stay with me for a while if you need to. Did they take her to jail?"
Iris in the typing pool: "I saw Philip's picture." Sob. "He was so cute. I wanted to meet him and get his autograph." More sobbing.
Janet, secretary to Mr. Purvis, the company president: "I'm sure Mr. Purvis will keep in mind that Bradley Williams could not have known Philip Royal would be murdered and cost the company so much money."
This last comment was something I hadn't thought of yet. Would Bradley—that's what I always called him in my head, and I worried one day it would slip out in front of him—be in trouble because of Philip's murder? Would Mr. Purvis frown on him for jeopardizing the success of the Beefeaters' first U.S. record album?
I reached my desk, uncovered my typewriter, and quickly removed my gloves. I placed my gloves and my purse in my desk drawer and looked anxiously toward Bradley's closed door. Normally his door was open during the workday unless he was in a confidential meeting.
Did he already have his coffee? I supposed he would buzz me if he needed something. I put on a fresh pot. I couldn't wait to see him.
I had fallen hard for Bradley Williams the first time I met him. And I wanted him for keeps. He was the one on my "serious list" whom I wanted to marry. Of course I tried very hard to conceal this fact from him. So far I thought I'd done a good job. Men liked to think they were the ones chasing. Besides, he thought of me as an unsophisticated girl from a small town in the South. Not his usual type. Which actually gave me an advantage, I thought. Anyway, he was quite the ladies' man, and I couldn't bear to be just one more conquest. Oh, no. I heard he loved 'em and left 'em. That was what had happened with all his other secretaries. At least, that was what I finally figured out the employment agency meant the day they told me about the interview for the job.
"Mr. Williams, who reports only to Mr. Purvis, president of the company, has had six secretaries in the past year, Miss Bennett. We do not want you to go to the
job interview ignorant of the facts," Mrs. Fitzwalter, a stern matron with black glasses, had said.
"Is he so very hard to please?" I'd asked.
Mrs. Fitzwalter had cleared her throat. Twice. "There's no sense in keeping things from you. Mr. Williams is an attractive man. The young ladies employed by him have not behaved professionally, shall we say, in their position as his secretary."
"You mean they didn't perform well?"
"They performed all too well, Miss Bennett, and were subsequently asked to leave by Mr. Purvis," Mrs. Fitzwalter said briskly.
Thoroughly confused, I sat there, saying nothing. Was this what Mama meant when she said men didn't like it when women appeared smarter than them? Were the girls fired because they acted too intelligently? Or was it . . . Something Else?
"Now here is the address, and your interview is for ten o'clock on Friday. Please be prompt. I know the Charlotte Marie girls are just as well trained as the Kath- erine Gibbs girls, so I needn't worry," Mrs. Fitzwalter said with a forced smile. "Just be the honorable person I know you are, and all will be fine."
"Yes, Mrs. Fitzwalter."
On that Friday, I had been nervous as I discarded one outfit after another. One was too frumpy for a record company, another too frivolous for a job interview. I finally decided on a pale blue suit with navy piping, navy shoes, purse, hat, and, of course, white gloves.
I had been ushered into the office by a woman perhaps in her early sixties. She was plump, with soft gray hair, and wore a shirtwaist dress with a full skirt, a style popular several years ago. "I'm Miss Hawthorne, dear, secretary to Vince Walsh. Mr. Walsh is one of Rip-City's talent scouts. He reports to Mr. Williams on various regional acts the company might be interested in signing. In fact," she said in a confidential tone, "he's working hard on a folk act out of Buffalo we might sign."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Hawthorne. My name is Bebe Bennett, and I've come to interview for the position as Mr. Williams's secretary."
Miss Hawthorne's lips pursed. "I do hope you won't be like the others. You look like a sweet girl. I'd hate for you to be taken
in by him."
"Taken in?"
Miss Hawthorne drew in a deep breath. "Mr. Williams has a reputation."
I smiled. "Oh, yes. I hear he's up-and-coming."
A look of shock passed over Miss Hawthorne's doughy face and she peered at me for a long moment before she seemed to relax. "What I mean, dear, is that the man chases skirts all over Manhattan."
"Oh."
"And he never misses the cocktail hour."
"I see."
"So be on your guard. Not that I think even he would stoop to seducing such an innocent young thing as you."
I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks.'I knew I looked younger than I was, but it still rankled to be called "an innocent young thing." "I assure you, Miss Hawthorne, there is no way Mr. Williams could ever engage my attention other than as his professional secretary."
"I'm so glad to hear that, Miss Bennett."
"You may count on it as a sure thing."
At that precise moment, Bradley Williams walked out of his office and, without lifting a finger, claimed my heart. For a minute I stopped breathing.
Dressed in a slim-cut dark suit and thin tie, he was tall and trim, with that shade of blond hair dubbed "dirty." He had a high forehead, a thin, straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils, an angular jaw, a square chin, and the most alluring set of full lips I'd ever seen on a man. I wanted to kiss them right there. Then there were his eyes. Blue, but a shade I could hardly describe. Peacock blue would be going too far, but not by much. The only thing that saved his face from total perfection was a
cresc£nt-shaped scar under his left eye. Perversely, though, the scar made him all the more handsome.
I hardly remember him introducing himself or what happened over the next few minutes. I was on cloud nine, floating away with Bradley. Suddenly Miss Hawthorne had vanished, and I was in his office. I focused on the furnishings rather than allow myself to be mesmerized by my would-be boyfriend. I meant boss. He'd hardly hire me if he thought I was a gaping schoolgirl.
Bradley's office reflected his regard for the arts and crafts movement, a style I was familiar with due to my late aunt. The desk was made of golden oak; a matching credenza rested against the left side wall. On top of it stood a copper lamp with a mica shade. Above it were two mica-shaded sconces. The credenza held a hi-fi system in the middle. On the right side of the room was a long mission-style sofa with a coffee table and two chairs. On the floor, lush Turkish carpets in shades of light blue, dark blue, cream, and rust completed the look. A door to the left, slightly ajar, led to an executive restroom.
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 3
