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

by Rosemary Martin

  "No. To make matters worse, they've cut my hours this week."

  "Listen, I don't know how much it would help, but I'm with Rip-City Records, and we're having a gathering tomorrow night in the ballroom of the hotel. I'm sure we can use some extra staff."

  The girl's jaw dropped. "Honest?"

  "Honest. I'll take care of letting them know to expect you. Just be in the ballroom at four to help with the setup," I said. "The extra cash might help until you can find a roommate or another place."

  "Thank you," she said. "TTiank you from the bottom of my heart." She touched my hand, and I turned my hand around so I could give hers a reassuring squeeze.

  "You're not in any other kind of trouble, are you?" I asked, afraid of what answer I might get.

  "No, I'm on the pill."

  "Gee, I've never known anyone who takes it. I'm glad it works," I said, wondering if Darlene was on it. "Now, I'd like a Virgin Mary, please." I wanted to order before Keith could get there and volunteer to buy me something else.

  Maria brought the drink in seconds—with two celery stalks. "Hey, you didn't let that slimey Mr. Owens take you in about making calls upstairs, did you? I saw you talking to him, and then him handing you the phone."

  "Actually, I had to slip him a dollar to ring a room for me. The house phone was out of order."

  Maria shook her head. "He puts that sign on the house phone when his manager is off for the night. There's nothing wrong with it."

  "Why, that jerk," I said. "He took advantage of me."

  Maria looked sad. "Seems like they all do." With that she went to wait on another customer.

  Soon a tall, extremely thin man in striped pants and a paisley shirt, his dark hair styled in a Beatles haircut, walked in. He immediately attracted attention. He was good-looking in a tougher way than any of the Beatles, as if he'd enjoy a good fight and a good bourbon. He had nice brown eyes, a long, aristocratic nose, and a charming smile, but his face bore a few pockmarks, left over from a childhood bout with the chicken pox, I guessed. There was a coldness about him, an aloof air that said he was already a star.

  He came to my table and sprawled in the gold chair opposite, giving me the once-over. "Damned sorry I missed our date. What did you say your name was?"

  "Bebe Bennett. You can call me Bebe."

  Maria returned and smiled at me, checking to make sure my drink was okay. Keith ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Mentally, I patted myself on the back for guessing right. "What's that you're drinking?" he asked.

  "Um, a Bloody Mary," I fibbed.

  "I definitely like this Kentucky bourbon."

  "Listen, let's not talk about my drink. Let's talk about Philip."

  He lit a cigarette and slowly blew out the smoke. "Rotten thing to do, whoever did it."

  His gaze slid away from me as if he were remembering other times, times with Philip.

  "You must miss him. Had you known each other long?"

  "Yeah, we'd been mates for a long time."

  Then I remembered the words of the song:

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

  "I'm so sorry. Everyone at the record company is upset. We're trying to put a tribute to Philip on the album cover."

  His attention sharpened. "You're with the record company?"

  "I'm Bradley Williams's secretary."

  "Will you be at the tribute tomorrow night?"

  "Yes, I will."

  He smiled. "Good. I'll have the jump on the others 'cause I met you tonight."

  I smiled back. He finished his drink more quickly than I thought was proper and ordered another. Maria frowned behind his back. In my best casual tone I said, "So how come you weren't downstairs waiting for me last night when we were supposed to go out?"

  Keith passed a hand over his brow. "This is a bit embarrassing, but you see, I was boozed, and passed out. Philip would have come and got me, but . . ." He lit another cigarette.

  "Had you seen Philip yesterday?"

  "No, hadn't seen him at all since we landed and got to the hotel. We were given the day to rest. When we first got here we were jet-lagged, but some guy at the record company had plans to take us all around and show us the Statue of Liberty. We finally put our foot down and told him we needed a day to sleep off the time change."

  "I can understand that," I said.

  "When I woke up I went to Philip's room, but Darlene was there with some other bird— You're blushing. Was it you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  Keith smiled and leaned toward me. He smelled of bourbon and cigarettes. "You're awfully pretty."

  "Thank you. I was in Philip's room after he'd been murdered. Darlene and I found the body. I wonder why anyone would want to kill him." I murmured this last bit in the most wistful way I could manage.

  He sat back in his chair. "It was probably that bitch Astrid."

  I almost jumped out of my seat. "Astrid?"

  "Yeah, his ex-girlfriend. She thought she was still his girlfriend, even though she's with our drummer, Peter, now."

  Remembering the song, I took a chance. "Isn't she a model?"

  Keith snorted. "That chick wishes. The things she's done haven't exactly been the Parisian runways."

  She acts like she loves me but she wants to strut down the runway.

  "She's here in New York then, with Peter?"

  "Yeah. Look, I don't want to talk about Philip any

  more. I need something to take my mind off his death." He leaned closer again. He really was good-looking. "Are you sure you don't want to come upstairs?"

  Uh-oh. I looked at my watch. "No, I'm afraid I have to go home now."

  "I'll see you tomorrow, though. What about the day after, Saturday? You have a cute accent."

  "You're the one with the cute accent."

  "No, you."

  "No, you are."

  "No, silly. You."

  We smiled at each other.

  "Actually, I was thinking of picking out some things for my roommate at the used-furniture places. Her ex- roommate took all her living room stuff."

  We stood up. Keith said, "I'm the one to go with you. I've bargained my way through the London shops and markets at Portobello Road. We'll find some things for you—promise."

  I laughed. "Okay, let's talk about it at the get-together tomorrow night."

  "See, I've made a deal already." He winked. With that, he showed that he knew how to make an exit, and did.

  I decided to take a cab home. Cabs were a topic Darlene and I had argued about. She thought I should take the subway more, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Daddy had warned me that all kinds of bad things happened down there. So I went outside and threw my arm in the air until, as if by magic, one of the Yellow Cabs stopped for me. I loved that feeling of power—that just by smiling and putting my hand out, a car would stop for me. Maybe someday I'd get up the nerve to take the subway.

  On the ride home I thought about what I'd learned, and couldn't wait for Darlene to come home from the Hamptons so I could fill her in.

  Keith had no real alibi for the time Philip was murdered. He had said he was asleep. Of course, I knew of no motive yet, but then there was that song.

  Keith was also an attractive man. Even though my heart belonged to Bradley, it wouldn't hurt to go furniture shopping with Keith. Wasn't it Bradley himself who said variety was good? So there.

  Approaching home, I saw the wino Harry seated on a step a couple of doors down from my stoop. "Good evening, Harry."

  He seemed dazed, but smiled when he saw me. "Evenin', miss. Have you got a quarter for ol' Harry?"

  I was already digging in my purse and pulled out two quarters for him. I knew Darlene would have scolded me, but she wasn't around.

  Walking up the stairs to my apartment, I thought back to the murder suspects. Philip had an on-again/off-again girlfriend named Astrid, a stormy romance that had maybe turned into a romantic triangle with another band member. Plenty of motive there. And again, the
song. That song might hold the key to who had killed Philip Royal.

  Who knew what I might be able to uncover at the tribute tomorrow with all the band members present? Not to mention Astrid. I'd get to meet everyone and try to pry out their secrets. Who would think an innocent country mouse like me would be doing anything more than showing polite interest?

  The evening would be eventful; of that I had no doubt.

  Now, what should I wear?

  CHAPTER SIX

  "So, Keith, who do you think murdered Philip?" music critic Rolls Trank asked without sparing a thought for the lead guitarist's feelings. Rolls was short, with dark curls and glasses and a big cauliflower-like wart in the center of his chin. But he ruled rock gossip.

  At five o'clock on Friday, we stood in the chandelier- lit ballroom of the Legends Hotel amid a crowd of journalists, reporters, and hangers-on, all stuffing themselves with pigs-in-a-blanket and other hot nibbles, washed down by free liquor. Philip Royal and the Beefeaters' new album played loudly over the room's sound system. A tribute to Philip it might be, but a good time was being had by all.

  By everyone except the band members, who all looked rather glum. Keith was far on his way to becoming drunk. "I did it. There's a lead story for your bleeding newspaper tomorrow." He swallowed the last of his bourbon with a flourish.

  Rolls took notes.

  I smiled nervously. Part of my job here tonight was to protect the band from the media. "Rolls, why don't you get something to eat? Keith is just putting you on. You're wasting your time here. The band is grieving."

  The music critic scowled at me over his glasses but moved away.

  "What's with you, Keith?" I asked over the music.

  "Rolls could very well have quoted you and made headlines with that statement."

  "Let him. I don't care. At least my name would have been out front instead of Philip's. Keith Michaels, Killer. You know," he said, leaning toward me unsteadily, "the band used to be called just 'The Beefeaters.' Later it was Nigel's idea to add Philip's name in front. Nigel always loved Philip like a son."

  One's like my father, listens to what's in my head.

  "Nigel's your manager, isn't he?" I asked, on the alert.

  Keith nodded and then swayed on his feet. "He's the one who went along with Philip, wanting us to play this plastic pop stuff." Keith's features twisted. "I wanted to play real blues music, but no. We had to follow in the Beatles' shadow. As if anyone could."

  I looked around to see if people noticed the anger in his voice, but everyone was busy with his or her own conversation. Keith sure had a temper when he drank. And from what he was saying, he and Philip had disagreed about the musical direction of the group. Was it enough for him to have harbored a murderous grudge?

  Keith was peering at me closely. "Like those threads you're wearing, Bebe."

  I looked down at my strawberry-pink Empire-waisted beaded dress and matching pink shoes. "Thank you."

  Before I knew what was happening, he slipped an arm around me. "Why don't we beat it and go up to my room?"

  Quickly, I slipped out of his grasp and spotted Maria, the cocktail waitress I'd befriended yesterday. "Excuse me, Keith, but I have to check on the food. My job, you know," I said, trying for a rueful look.

  Before he could say a word, I was steps away from him and hurrying to where Maria was pouring Swedish meatballs from a hot stainless-steel bowl into a warming tray on a linen-covered table.

  "Maria! How is everything going?"

  The dark-haired girl smiled at me. "Very well, Bebe. And I have you to thank."

  "I'm glad I could help."

  "Has that tall Englishman you were in the lounge with been giving you trouble? I saw you talking with him just now."

  I glanced over my shoulder to where Keith stood at the bar, ordering yet another drink. I sighed. "No, not really."

  "He drinks too much. I know the signs. Better be careful."

  "Yes, I think you're right."

  "One of his friends has been running in and out of the room all evening trying to use the telephone in the booth down the hall. I noticed while I've been working the food."

  "Oh, really? Which friend?"

  Maria stirred the meatballs in the tray and indicated a brown-haired guy in black pants and a dark blue turtle-neck, leaning against the wall near the exit. He looked cornered by a pretty blond reporter with a tape recorder and a microphone. I didn't recognize her.

  "Thanks, Maria. Is Mr. Duncan here tonight?"

  "The elevator operator? I think I saw him."

  "Maybe someone could take him some soup. He's been sick."

  "Okay."

  "You take care." I made my way toward the blond reporter and the guy in the blue turtleneck. "Hi, I'm Bebe Bennett from Rip-City."

  She didn't look happy to see me. In an English accent she said, "I'm Patty Gentry from RPM magazine in England. We're covering our local boys on their big trip to America. I guess you know Reggie Jones, the Beefeaters' bass player."

  "Actually, we haven't met." I held out my hand, and he took it, looking grateful for the interruption.

  "Awfully nice to meet you," he said in that same English accent that Keith had. There, though, the resemblance ended. Where Keith was all angular and sophisticated, this

  guy was a teddy bear, with a round face, brown eyes, and hair that fell into his eyes every couple of seconds.

  "Reggie was just going to tell me whether or not the rumors that he has a wife tucked back home in Manchester are true," Patty said, frustration at my appearance tingeing her words. "It's a story I've been working on since I began covering the band a year ago."

  Reggie looked like he'd swallowed a porcupine.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bradley walking through the crowd. I willed him to look at me, and he did. Or maybe it was Patty, the pretty blonde, he saw. Anyway, he came over to us, looking gorgeous in a dark blue suit, a pale blue shirt that made his eyes stand out even more, and a narrow tie.

  "Hello, who might you be?" Patty purred.

  I reminded myself that I had already attracted the attention of the police. Kicking Patty would not help, although it would feel really good.

  Bradley smiled his beautiful smile, the one that makes me want to kiss his full lips.

  "Is everyone enjoying the evening?" Bradley asked after introducing himself to Patty. He eyed her white boots, shorter-than-short skirt, tiny top, and metal daisy- chain belt with an attention that even I, who was intrigued by the London fashions, had not shown. I wanted that pretty, sexy belt. And maybe even the boots.

  "I am now," Patty whispered breathily.

  "Jolly good time, considering the circumstances," Reggie said.

  "Everything's running smoothly, Mr. Williams," I replied, barely refraining from wrapping my hands around Patty's bleached blond hair and pulling it out by its black roots.

  "Can you get me a drink, lover?" Patty asked Bradley.

  "Sure, anything to keep the press happy and encourage close relations between America and England," he said.

  Close relations indeed!

  The two moved away toward where a bar was set up, leaving me standing with my mouth open. If Reggie noticed, he was too much a gentleman to say anything. Instead, he kept glancing longingly out the exit.

  Finally I realized I was being rude by staring at Bradley's and Patty's retreating backs and managed to say something. Granted it wasn't anything brilliant or tactful. "What's out the door that you want so much?"

  Reggie smiled sheepishly. "You're from the record company, aren't you?"

  "Yes. I'm Bradley Williams's secretary."

  He nodded to himself. "It's all right to tell you then. I've been telephoning home all night trying to reach my wife. She's not answering."

  "It's true then that you're married?"

  "Yes. I've got a baby son, too."

  "Congratulations, Reggie. Why is it such a secret?"

  Reggie shifted uncomfortably. "Philip insisted it would
be bad for the band's image as swinging pop stars if it were known that I'm married."

  "I see. How does your wife feel about keeping the marriage a secret?"

  "She and I both hate it! Why should we have to hide our love? Especially after Jamesey was born three months ago."

  "Only three months ago? You must have had a hard time leaving England and coming over here while the baby's so young."

  "I did. You should see how cute he is. Here, let me show you a picture." Reggie dug in his pants pocket until he produced a dog-eared black-and-white snapshot of a tyke who looked exactly like him.

  "What a precious baby he is," I admired. A brief image of me holding Bradley's and my baby flashed through my mind. I made myself look at Reggie.

  "Thanks. Philip and I fought about my leaving him. To tell you the truth, I never lusted after stardom the way Philip did. I would have been happy playing in England. But there you are." He shrugged and put the picture away.

  I couldn't help but wonder if the two guys had fought over the decision to keep Reggie's marriage a secret too. Surely they had. How deep was Reggie's resentment over Philip's orders?

  "I think Jean—that's my wife—isn't answering the phone deliberately. We had a row when I left. I'm so bummed out. Say, you're terribly easy to talk to. I shouldn't be burdening you with all this."

  I touched his arm. "No, no, really. I don't mind. I'm interested in the band. I feel sorry for what's happened with Philip's death. Some welcome to America you've had."

  "Thanks. It's been quite a shock." He blinked. "Oh, I shouldn't have put it that way, should I? And it doesn't help having a shark like Patty following us over, watching our every step. Heaven only knows what that chick's written for the English papers about Philip's death. She's reckless in her reporting, and one day she's going to make someone really wig out. Here's Peter. Have you met him? Peter!

  "Miss Bebe Bennett, this is Peter Smythe, our drummer. Peter, this is Miss Bennett."

  "Please call me Bebe," I said, extending my hand.

  Peter looked a few years older than the other band members and had a receding hairline carefully concealed by a comb-over. In fact, looking closely at that receding hairline, I saw what appeared to be pen marks right at the juncture where sandy hair and scalp met. Good grief, was he marking where the hair started so that if he lost any more he'd know it?