It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder

by Rosemary Martin

  Sitting opposite Mr. Williams, I held on to my purse for dear life, staring at the Charles Rennie Mackintosh pewter clock.

  "As you can see from my office, I'm a student of architecture," he said. His voice was low, just a touch on the raspy side.

  "Oh," I replied brilliantly, forced to look at him and all his male beauty again. I guessed his age at about thirty, maybe thirty-two.

  "My apartment, on the other hand, is decorated in a thoroughly modern style. I like variety."

  He smiled.

  I blushed.

  He grinned at my blush.

  "Miss Bennett, you're from a small city, I understand."

  "Richmond, Virginia."

  "How do you like New York?"

  "I like it very much."

  "You're not overwhelmed by it all, are you?" he asked, turning slightly and indicating the scene from his window.

  "I find it invigorating."

  "Invigorating? I like that word."

  Another smile. God, he was gorgeous! Hire me! Hire me!

  "I assume you have all the usual skills?"

  "The usual skills?" I repeated, wondering just what he meant by that.

  "Yes, typing, shorthand, telephone, keeping me on schedule with my . . . dates." This last was said with a smile that could have lit the entire Empire State Building.

  "Of course, Mr. Williams."

  He leaned back in his chair, a Morris piece in dark blue leather, a pencil held between his two index fingers. "I see they've sent me a girl just out of school this time. Trying to keep me out of trouble. Well, they've done their job, kid. Start on Monday."

  Kid?

  I spent that weekend shortening the hems on all my skirts by two inches. He wouldn't think me a "kid" for long!

  The buzzer on my phone brought me back to the present. I picked up th«weceiver. "Yes, Mr. Williams?"

  "Come in here, please, Miss Bennett."

  "Yes, sir." I placed the receiver back in the cradle and grabbed my steno pad and pen. Just as I reached the office door, Mr. Purvis, the company president, walked out. I almost bumped into him, I was so excited that Bradley had summoned me.

  "Good morning, sir."

  "Damn if it's a good morning, girl," he said.

  I eased past him into Bradley's office. He was in his shirtsleeves, a take-out coffee cup in front of him, his desk strewn with contracts.

  "Would you like a fresh cup of coffee, Mr. Williams? I just made a pot."

  "Miss Bennett, you read my mind." He looked up at me and smiled. I tried hard not to throw myself across his desk, and I'm proud to say I succeeded.

  When I returned with the coffee, he thanked me and motioned for me to sit down.

  "Miss Bennett, I don't mean to pry into your personal life, but would you like to tell me what happened last night at the Legends Hotel?"

  As far as I was concerned he could be my personal life. I called myself to order. While he drank his coffee, I told him the whole story, not leaving out a single detail. He was a good listener, interrupting only a few times to ask questions.

  Finally he said, "So you never met Keith?"

  "No, but I intend to this afternoon, after work."

  "Why?"

  Could it be he was a little jealous? I could hope. "I'd like to get to know him before the party tomorrow night. Are we still holding the party for the band in the ballroom at the hotel like we planned?"

  "That's what Mr. Purvis and I were discussing. Yes, we've sent out invitations to the media. It's too late now to cancel everything. But instead of a party, it will be more of a tribute or wake, if you will, for Philip, as well as an introduction of the band to the media. Philip's family wants his body shipped home to England as soon as the police release it. They will not even allow a formal memorial service here in the States."

  "That's too bad."

  "Yes. To make matters worse, the company hasn't decided yet what to do about the band's album, whether we should go forward and release it or cut our losses now. That last part's confidential."

  "Yes, sir. Are you ... I mean, because you're the one who signed the band, could you be in any trouble?"

  He took a moment to look into my eyes. "You're a loyal girl, Miss Bennett," he said, making me feel like a puppy. "I'll tell you something I haven't told you before. My great-uncle is Herman Shires. Ever heard of him?"

  "Doesn't he own a whole bunch of companies, including Rip-City Records?"

  "Very good. You've done your homework."

  I sat with my spine very straight. "It's part of my job to know all about the company."

  He nodded in approval. "Uncle owns a conglomeration, you might say. He has no son to leave it all to, but he does have three nephews. I'm one of them. My cousins, Drew and Alfred, are currently working at other companies my great-uncle owns. It's a test, you see, to find out which one of us can make the most success out of himself. The one who wins is left controlling interest in all the companies when Uncle passes away."

  "Wow."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "So you see why Philip Royal's death is such a problem. If I make— pardon the pun—a royal mess out of this, my great-uncle will not be pleased with me. He might leave me here to molder away forever. Or send me to one of his smaller companies."

  "What do you mean?"

  "His plan is to move the three of his nephews around to different corporations to see how we do. Try us on for size. But he might not give me that opportunity."

  My heart sank to my stomach. Bradley leave? But a voice in my head said that even if he did, he would take a valuable secretary with him. I had to find out who killed Philip Royal, not only for Darlene's sake, but for Bradley's. And I had to do whatever else it took to make sure that Bradley looked good, no matter what the company decided to do about Philip Royal and the Beefeaters.

  Bradley spoke again. "Enough of my personal predicament. I need you to go down to the art department and tell Jim that we'll need a change on the album cover.

  Some sort of tribute to Philip. See what ideas he can come up with, even though it's the last minute, in case we decide to go ahead and release the album."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams," I said, taking notes. "I'll also check with Miss Hawthorne about the tribute tomorrow night. I'll make sure everything goes as it should."

  Bradley smiled, and I noticed his gaze went to my legs. Then he looked at me and said, "Is that your kind way of saying Miss Hawthorne is forgetful and someone needs to look after her?"

  "Of course not. Miss Hawthorne is a very sweet lady and competent. It's just that being in charge of the tribute is a big responsibility, and I want to help. The function must go off without a hitch, especially now."

  "Miss Hawthorne is dotty, and you know it."

  "She can be a little forgetful at times, that's all."

  "Have it your way, kid," Bradley said in a tone that indicated our meeting was over.

  I ground my teeth at the word kid.

  In the art department, I was told Jim was busy with another project, and I'd have to wait to see him.

  "Okay, Debbie," I said to the receptionist in Art. "But could I have a look at the cover for the Philip Royal and the Beefeaters album while I'm waiting?"

  "Sure."

  While Debbie went to find it, Vince Walsh, one of the senior talent scouts and Miss Hawthorne's boss, crept up behind me and made me jump. "Hey, cookie."

  "Hello, Mr. Walsh." I didn't like him, hadn't since the moment I'd been introduced to him, and I felt bad about it. He oiled his hair, which didn't prevent dandruff from falling to his shoulders. He also smelled heavily of cheap cologne. But that wasn't why he bothered me. He said things to me I didn't like. I told myself he didn't mean anything by them. I was being oversensitive. Still, they stung.

  "Or should I call you muffin-cup?" he asked, staring at my chest.

  I felt my face flame. Maybe I should join in on the joke, but somehow I couldn't. I restrained myself from mentioning anything about his abnormally sma
ll feet.

  "What are you doing down here in Art?" he asked.

  "Mr. Williams sent me on an assignment." I needn't tell him Bradley's business.

  "Oh, really."

  "Here you are, Bebe," Debbie said, returning with the album.

  "Thanks, Debbie."

  "Philip Royal and the Beefeaters, eh?" Vince sneered. "Not anymore."

  "You don't know that," I said. "And anyway, the album's all recorded, set for pressing and then release."

  "What's a band without its lead singer, baby? No, Bradley's down the tubes, and he's gonna have a rough time getting out."

  "That's not a very nice thing to say about your boss." Get bent, Vince, I thought.

  Vince shrugged. "I'm just saying this whole mess with Philip is not so good for Bradley's career, if you ask me. I'm sorry I was away in Philadelphia listening to a band we might sign. I missed all the action." He walked away whistling.

  Anger burned in my chest. I'd always been taught it wasn't nice to feel angry, that one must look at the positive side of people. I had a hard time doing this with Vince Walsh. Then I felt guilty about feeling so disapproving about Mr. Walsh. Maybe I would get him some Head & Shoulders and slip it into his office anonymously. That would help him with his dandruff problem. As for his remarks about Bradley, the man simply didn't know what he was talking about. I hoped.

  Trying to settle myself back into a fcomfortable position in the chair, I spent the time while I waited for Jim reading over the demo album for Philip Royal and the Beefeaters. The words to all the songs were printed on

  the back cover. I read over them casually until I came to one. Then I sat up straight in my chair and gasped.

  Get out of My Way

  Well the lessons I've learned I don't really like 'Cause they just go to show you can't tell who's all right

  One's like my father, listens to what's in my head But even though he's given me shelter, now he takes all my bread

  Starvin' for the good life, baby, with-out any ooofff you

  Starvin' for the real thing, on my own, be-in' true Here it is on my plate, if only I could reach it Oh, it's so sweet, I can almost taste it—man Get out of my waaaayyyy Get out of my waaaayyyy

  She acts like she loves me but she wants to strut

  down the runway And now I know I'm a ladder and that's the only

  reason she stays As for the other girls they're only there for one night And then they're all out of my sight

  Starvin' for the good life baby, with-out any ooofff you

  Starvin' for the real thing, on my own, be-in' true Here it is on my plate, if only I could reach it Oh, it's so sweet, I can almost taste it—man Get out of my waaaayyyy Get out of my waaaayyyy

  Then there are my mates, the ones I thought were my boys

  But they're worst of all, taking my pride and joy

  And turning it into something it was never meant to be

  When all I wanted was just to be me

  Starvin' for the real thing, baby, on my own, be-in' true

  Here it is on my plate, if only I could reach it

  Oh, it's so sweet, I can almost taste it—man

  Get out of my waaaayyyy

  Get out of my waaaayyyy

  The chorus to the song was the one written on the bathroom wall in Philip Royal's hotel room! The one written by the killer. Did this mean the song meant something to whomever murdered Philip? I had to tell Bradley. And the police.

  Without another word to Debbie, I raced to the elevators with the album in hand.

  I paused when I reached my desk. Bradley was on his phone. It wouldn't hurt to write the lyrics to the song down on a piece of paper before showing it to Bradley. That way I could have the words to help me figure out who did Philip in.

  Slipping out the little notebook I carried in my purse, I quickly copied the lyrics before Bradley got off the phone.

  He looked up as I entered. "Yes, Miss Bennett, come in. You look charmingly flushed."

  "Thank you. Br—Mr. Williams, I was just down in Art, like you told me to, and I was waiting to see Jim, and I asked to see the album cover."

  "Yes. Take a deep breath, Miss Bennett."

  Oh, why must he persist in treating me like a child one minute and flirting with me the next? I took the deep breath, pushing out my 34-As as far as they would go.

  His gaze dropped to my chest. I felt a wave of triumph.

  "Do you feel better now, Miss Bennett?"

  I could kill the man. "Yes. What I want to tell you is

  I realized that what I saw written on the bathroom wall in Philip's hotel room—probably written by the killer— was the chorus to one of the songs on the album."

  His right cheek puffed out and he blew out air. "Here, let me see that."

  He scanned the lines, then said, "I remember this song very well. The company didn't want to include it on the album because it's an angry song. The rest of the tunes are fun and breezy. But it was a deal breaker. Philip threw a fit and insisted on including this song. This all happened recently. We already had enough invested in the band that we agreed to include it."

  "What are we going to do, Mr. Williams? Shouldn't the police know about this?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "I think they should. Would you call them, Miss Bennett?"

  "Certainly."

  "Meanwhile, I'll make sure this song is pulled from the album. I take it you didn't have a chance to talk to Jim."

  "No, I wanted to tell you about the song right away."

  "You did good, kid." He left the office, album in hand.

  Kid. I ground my teeth. I made plans to call the police. And to meet Keith, my would-be date.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To my dismay, the house phone was out of order when I reached the Legends.

  "How do I know you're not just another girl wanting to meet him?"

  Dealing with the snobby desk clerk to reach Keith was not my idea of fun. He was the one with the mole that looked like an earring. His name tag read Mr. Owens. "Because no one here in America even knows these guys, Mr. Owens. How many girls have you had asking for them?"

  "Quite a few actually. Their picture was in the newspaper."

  "Look, you saw me here yesterday. I know the band."

  "Then why don't you know Keith Michaels's room number?"

  "Because I didn't go up to his room."

  "That's right. You went up to the dead one's room."

  I gave him my brightest smile. "I know you want to help me. You're probably just going by the hotel rules. You don't have to give me the room number. If you would call Keith's room and let me speak to him as if it were the house phone, that would be good enough, okay?"

  Mr. Owens glanced around the lobby. Then he discreetly extended his right hand palm up, making the uni

  versal gesture with his thumb and fingers that meant money.

  So that was the way of it.

  I pulled out fifty cents and placed it in his palm.

  He didn't move.

  I sighed heavily, took back the change, and replaced it with a dollar.

  He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and handed me the receiver.

  The phone rang and rang. Just when I thought I'd have to go through this whole procedure again another time, a voice with a heavy English accent said, "Hullo."

  "Is this Keith?"

  "Yeah."

  "How do you do, I'm Bebe Bennett, the girl you were supposed to go out with last night."

  Silence.

  Darn, he couldn't even remember my name. "Darlene's friend."

  "Oh, yeah, right. How's it goin'?"

  "Well, actually, I'm downstairs in the lobby. I was wondering if you'd like to have a cup of coffee with me, so we could talk about what happened."

  "Why don't you just come up?"

  I'd cut out of the hotel before I went to his room. "I'm sure you're tired of being cooped up in your room with the reporters outside. A change of scenery, even if it is only the coffee shop
, will do you good."

  "All right, but make it the lounge."

  "Okay. I'm a brunette, and I have on a navy suit."

  "Be right there."

  I handed the phone back to the desk clerk, who ignored me, and made my way to the lounge. Passing a policeman in the lobby reminded me of my phone conversation earlier that day with Detective Finelli. He'd told me in a bored voice that they already knew about the song, having questioned the other band members. I'd

  felt like an idiot. He asked to speak to Darlene, but luckily I was able to tell him I was calling from work, not home.

  Before going to the lounge, I looked for Mr. Duncan, the elevator operator, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe he had the night off. I hoped his cold was better.

  The lounge was a dim area with gold cone-shaped lamps hanging from the ceiling. One could sit at the bar itself, or at one of the round Formica tables. I chose one of the few available tables and sat staring at the gold flecks in the top until a dark-haired woman dressed in a gold-and-black cocktail uniform came to take my order.

  "What can I get for you, miss?"

  From the swelling around her eyes and nose and the redness in the whites of her eyes, it was obvious she'd been crying.

  "I'd like to order a drink, but maybe you need someone to talk to right now. I've been told I'm real good at listening."

  The waitress fought back fresh tears.

  "Maria," I said, reading her name tag, "is it something another girl could help with?"

  "It's my boyfriend," she whispered in a rush. "He convinced me to get an apartment with him. Now we had a fight, and he moved out. The rent is due, and I can't pay it on what I earn."

  I confess I was shocked. I'd never met a woman who lived with a man outside marriage. But this poor girl, surely no more than my age, didn't look like a hussy. She looked like a girl who made a mistake and was wronged in love.

  "Are you working tomorrow night?"