I buried the evidence among the clean towels.
We heard the key turn in the lock.
Darlene threw the covers back on the bed, then pretended to be tidying them.
I got out the Windex and sprayed a big blue splash on the mirror above the desk.
Two uniformed New York Police Department officers entered the room, clearly startled to see us.
I thought for sure we would be thrown out, maybe even taken in for questioning. It would be bad for Darlene, who was already a suspect. My heart rate increased, and my chest tightened painfully.
"Good afternoon, Officers," Darlene said in her Texas drawl. "How are y'all doing today?" She patted the bed.
The taller of the two policemen grinned. Lean and lanky, with sandy-colored hair, he was clearly halfway in love with Darlene already. His partner, a balding, stocky fellow with a paunch, looked leery as he stood with one hand hovering above his nightstick.
Balding spoke first. "What are you two doing in here? The room was already cleaned."
"We're just doing our job, cleaning all the rooms on this floor," Darlene said with another killer smile.
"Yes," I chimed in. "We just finished 1556 and came down here because the room was unoccupied." Best to let him think we knew nothing about any murder. "Is there a problem?"
Sandy Hair spoke next. "Didn't you girls know a guy was murdered in here?"
Darlene allowed her glossy lips to part in an astonished O.
I dropped the Windex on the desk. "Lord have mercy! And I haven't even vacuumed yet." With that statement, I went to the vacuum cleaner and began unwinding the electric cord from its holder. "What happened? Was he shot? I don't see any blood on the carpet. I hope I don't have to clean up any blood."
Balding stared at me. "He was electrocuted in the bathtub."
Darlene and I both moaned dramatically.
"That's awful," I said. "I guess you got the person who did it."
"Not yet, but some dame is the most likely suspect," Balding replied.
Darlene sneezed.
I plugged the vacuum into the electrical outlet. "May we finish up here, Officers? We'll be out of your way in just a few minutes, believe me. We don't want to get in any trouble with the head of housekeeping. And being in here now that I know someone was killed ..." I gave what I hoped was a convincing shudder.
Balding eyed me unfavorably. "I guess it's all right if you hurry. We have work to do in here."
"Okay by me," Darlene said.
I nodded, then turned on the vacuum and began running it around the gold carpet.
Balding went to stand outside the room, but Sandy Hair stayed and watched as Darlene dusted. With each swish of the feather duster, her bottom twitched, completely holding the young officer's attention. He didn't pay the slightest attention when a ching sounded in the vacuum cleaner. Darlene heard it, though, and gave me a look. I kept on vacuuming as if nothing had happened. She dusted harder.
Soon we were finished. I rewound the vacuum cleaner cord, and Darlene put the feather duster on the maids' cart. With another big smile for Sandy Hair, who looked decidedly dejected at her departure, Darlene drove the cart out the door I held open for her.
We wasted no time returning to the maids' closet, passing only a family with a squirming toddler in the hall. Once in the closet, I slammed the door behind us.
"That was close. Did you hear that sound?" I whispered, reaching down to the vacuum bag compartment.
"Yes. Let's see what we have."
I retrieved the bag and opened it, letting loose a faint cloud of dust. "Thank God those policemen let us off so easily."
"I think it was the short skirts," Darlene said, and sneezed because of the dirt exposed in the bag.
I split the bag down the center and pawed through the gray dirt.
Darlene sneezed again.
Then my hand felt something slick and metal. I pulled it out. "Here, I've found it."
Sneeze. Sneeze. "What is it?"
I wiped away the dirt from the object and recognized it at once.
It was a triangle-shaped dangly gold earring.
Exactly like one of the ones Astrid had been wearing in those naughty photos.
This proved Astrid had been in Philip's room sometime on the day of his death. Had she been the one to put the fatal amplifier plug into the socket and end the pop star's life?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Now we can place Astrid at the scene of the crime," I said, turning pancakes in a skillet. It was early Monday morning, and Darlene and I were in our minuscule kitchen. I was clad in my pink chenille robe. Darlene sat at the small green-and-white-speckled Formica table, wearing her purple lounging pajamas and painting her fingernails with Cutex's new spring color, Hot Pink.
I had survived dinner with Daddy the night before and managed to dodge all directives about staying out of police investigations. By now Daddy would be on the train back to Richmond, content in believing his daughter innocent of meddling in police business.
Darlene yawned, then used the long, white-ridged applicator brush to polish her left pinkie. "From what you've told me about Astrid, I think she's our prime suspect. Say, do you want to use this nail polish?"
"No, thanks. It's a little bright for me. You're just saying that about Astrid because I told you she came on to Bradley."
"No, really. She's Philip's ex, and an ex-girlfriend always has a motive. And you know what they say on Dragnet about motive, opportunity, and means adding up to the killer. Seems to me like Astrid fits all three."
I put a plate of pancakes on the table, along with a bottle of Vermont Maid maple syrup. The farm maid smiled at us from the label. "If Astrid is guilty, she put
on quite a performance when she appeared at Philip's tribute. She's one cold woman."
Darlene pointed a newly varnished nail at me. "And that's exactly the type who could walk casually into Philip's bathroom, see an opportunity to get rid of him for good, and seize the moment."
We both looked down at Astrid's gold triangle earring lying on the table between us.
I said, "We need to take this to the police and tell them where we found it."
Darlene checked her nails, put the polish aside, and then carefully pulled a stack of pancakes in front of her. "And as quickly as possible. I can't put the airline off much longer. I've coughed my way into a couple of days off, but it won't be long before they get suspicious. Besides, I'll go stir-crazy being on the ground and sitting in this apartment. I have to clear my name. What do you say I go to the police today while you're at work? Or could you meet me there on your lunch hour?"
I poured syrup generously over my pancakes and then reached for some coffee. "I could meet you. I'd like to be there—"
The sound of the buzzer from downstairs startled us both.
"Who could that be at this hour?" I asked.
Darlene stood up, holding her hands out so her nails wouldn't rub up against anything and smudge. "I'll go find out."
She went to the intercom next to the front door with me following behind her. "Who is it?" she asked, pressing the button.
"Detective Finelli for Miss Roland," his authoritative voice sounded over the speaker.
Darlene and I exchanged dismayed glances.
Into the intercom, Darlene said, "Come on up. Third floor, apartment B."
When she made sure the button was off, Darlene
turned to me. "What can he want? We're the ones who want to show him Astrid's earring."
"I don't know, but I don't like this. I've never even had a policeman come to my door, let alone a detective. And I'm in my robe!"
There was a knock on the door.
"Don't worry about it. He's the one who's coming over at such an early hour," Darlene whispered, walking over to the door.
"Good morning, Detective," Darlene said, letting Detective Finelli in. "Would you like some coffee? Or do you think I might poison it?"
So much for the good-Southern-girl app
roach. Manners never fail to disarm, Mama had taught me. Darlene had never spoken about her mother to me.
The detective held his hat in his hand and ran his other hand over his crew cut. He nodded to me. "Miss Bennett, Miss Roland. I'll pass on the coffee. I'm here on official business."
"Won't you sit down?" I said, indicating the pink sectional.
We all took seats, Darlene and I sitting next to each other, not exactly huddled together for comfort but close to it. Detective Finelli got out his pocket notebook, leaned forward on his left leg, and looked Darlene straight in the eye. "Miss Roland, do you know Astrid Loveday?"
Darlene swung an arm out over the back of the sofa. "No, I can't say that I do."
Finelli's gaze did not waver. "Think before you answer. Are you sure you do not know Astrid Loveday?"
Darlene reached up and patted a red curl. "I meet a lot of people in my job as a stewardess. It's possible I could have served her on a flight and not known it was her, but I'm certain we've never been formally introduced."
Detective Finelli made notes. "Do you know who she is?"
Darlene looked at her nails. On the index finger of her right hand the polish had smudged. She tried to pat it into place. "Since the death of Philip Royal, I've heard that she used to be his girlfriend."
"You didn't know that fact prior to Philip Royal's death?"
Darlene looked up. "No. Why?"
"I'll ask the questions, Miss Roland. Now once again, did you know that Astrid Loveday was Philip Royal's girlfriend prior to his death?"
"No."
I watched the interplay between the detective and Darlene with growing concern. Was this the time to bring out Astrid's earring? Somehow I didn't think so. Where was he trying to lead Darlene? Because it sure seemed he was trying to get her to say something. Was it some sort of trap?
Detective Finelli's next words confirmed my worst suspicions. He turned to another page in his notebook, glanced over the words on the page, then fixed Darlene with a steely gaze. "Miss Roland, I have a statement here from Astrid Loveday. She says that before his death, Philip Royal told her he was seeing a red-haired American stewardess."
Darlene leaned forward on the sofa. "What? That couldn't have been me, if that's what you're thinking. I just met Philip on the flight over from London."
"Are you absolutely sure about that, Miss Roland? Think before you answer."
"I don't have to think," Darlene said, offended. "Of course I'm sure. It must have been some other stewardess he was seeing. We do get around, you know."
"I don't think so. Miss Loveday says that Philip Royal had been dating this red-haired"—here he looked pointedly at Darlene's flaming locks—"American stewardess and was going to break off the relationship upon his arrival in America. Didn't you tell me Philip Royal stood you up for your date?"
"That's because he was dead!" Darlene protested.
"Would you have been angry if he broke off the relationship, Miss Roland?"
"There was no relationship."
"You were dating."
"We'd known each other less than twenty-four hours."
"A lot can occur in that amount of time, especially between a stewardess and a pop star."
Darlene folded her arms across her chest and glared at the detective.
"And it would have hurt if Philip Royal abruptly stopped seeing you for another woman, maybe broke some promises, wouldn't it, Miss Roland? It would have hurt, and you would have been angry."
"No," Darlene said, but was ignored.
"How angry would you have been? Angry enough to kill Philip Royal in a fit of jealousy when he told you that he wasn't going to go through with your date that night at the Legends Hotel?"
Darlene jumped to her feet. "That's not true. He was dead, I tell you."
Detective Finelli rose slowly to his feet and took a step toward Darlene. "How did it happen, Miss Roland? Did you come up to his room and find him playing his guitar in the bath? Did he tell you then that there was someone else? That he was going back to his girlfriend? Did you see the plug for the guitar lying on the floor? Imagine in a flash that if you just plugged the amp in, life would be over for Philip Royal? That he couldn't waltz away with another woman?"
"Stop it! Stop it right now!" Darlene shouted.
I stood next to her, holding her by the arm, and said, "That's enough, Detective Finelli. You don't have any right to come here and make all these wild accusations against Darlene based on some floozy's statements."
Detective Finelli's sharp gaze pinned me. "So you know Astrid Loveday?"
Happy to take the heat off Darlene, I said, "I met her
at Rip-City's tribute to Philip Royal. The one where the media met the band members. Miss Loveday was present." No need to tell him about the confrontation Bradley had with Astrid at the Legends Hotel lounge over those tabloid reports.
Detective Finelli closed his notebook and put it in his inside coat pocket. He looked at Darlene again. "Are you sure you want to stand by your statement, Miss Roland? I can check with the airline and see how many times you've flown in and out of London in, say, the past six months."
Darlene's chin came up. "Go ahead. It doesn't matter how often I've been in London. I'm telling you I just met Philip on this flight over. We got together on the plane, we had one date—if you could call it that—once we landed, and then we were supposed to go out that night—the night he was murdered, by someone other than me. That's the truth, and I won't lie, no matter how much easier it would make your job."
He shrugged and put on his hat. "I'm just trying to get to the truth. I'll be going now, but you can be sure I'll want to talk with you again, Miss Roland."
We all walked to the door. Darlene slammed it after the detective walked out. "Can you believe that witch Astrid? Lying like that."
"Darlene, don't you see what this means?" I said.
"What?" she huffed.
"It means that Astrid must be feeling the heat of the investigation. That's why she deliberately made up a story to turn the focus back to you. There's no other explanation for what she did. Astrid must be guilty."
"You know what else this means?" Darlene said, her cheeks flushed with anger.
"What?"
"It means we can't turn that earring over to the police now."
"Why not?"
"Because it will look like we planted it in Philip's room
to get me off the hook. In the end, I'll look even more guilty. No, we have to keep that piece of evidence to ourselves. We have to continue investigating until we can find out who the murderer—or murderess—is ourselves and we have proof. Then we go to the police."
Darlene's blue eyes sparked fire, but I could see that her chin trembled.
"Darlene, are you okay?"
She stood up straighten "I'm a Texas girl. I've shot rattlesnakes before. Detective Finelli just shook his rattle at me, and now I mean to take aim."
"What are you going to do?"
Darlene took a deep breath. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I think I'll call Stu and see if he'll take me to lunch today. Maybe he'll have an idea. We need to find out more about Astrid. Stu knows people in London. Let's see what he can come up with."
"That sounds good. I have to get ready for work. Do you mind cleaning up the kitchen?"
"No, honey, you go ahead. Make yourself pretty for Bradley. Wear that royal-blue suit of yours. Men love royal blue."
I took Darlene's advice and laid out the royal-blue suit on my bed, then went to my records and pulled out Meet the Beatles. I spared a fond glance for the guys in their turtlenecks before carefully letting the vinyl album slide into my hands, gently holding the record by its edges. I put the black LP on the turntable and found the groove for "It Won't Be Long," one of my favorite John Lennon vocals. I hummed along as I put on the royal-blue suit, matching heels, and white gloves. Soon I reluctantly told John and the boys good-bye—carefully replacing the album in its sleeve before I headed for the office.
> Once I reached the tall building in Midtown that served as headquarters for Rip-City Records, I headed to the heart of the office: the coffeepot. Noticing it was already empty, I started a fresh pot and went to check on Bradley. He was in his office, sitting behind his golden oak desk, and, bless him, his eye looked just as bad. Still he took my breath away in a gorgeous dark suit, white shirt, and blue-and-gold tie.
"Good morning, Mr. Williams," I said, trying hard not to drool. "How is your eye today?"
He looked up, giving me a blast of his incredible blue eyes. "Good morning, Miss Bennett. Thanks for asking about the eye. Your steak helped a lot. The eye probably looks worse than it feels. Didn't slow me down at all Saturday night after I dropped you off," he said, and winked at me with his good eye. "Which reminds me. See that this bottle of perfume is sent to the address on the attached card."
A bottle of Chanel No. 5! If Bradley were to get me any sort of scent, it would probably be Budding Beauty Little Girl Toiletries by Tussy. I fumed.
He was looking at me looking at him. "Er, is there coffee, Miss Bennett?"
I tossed my dark hair. "I just made a fresh pot. Let me get you some." I took his cup, a Saint Louis Cardinals mug—doing my best to ignore the remark about his evening and the ensuing bottle of perfume, darn him!—and filled it with the steaming beverage. The crease between Bradley's eyes did look very pronounced this morning. I pushed aside the possibility that the crease was caused by his having frolicked with females. Something was bothering him.
"Here you are, Mr. Williams. What else can I do for you this morning?"
"Thank you, Miss Bennett. That will be all for now. Just take care of the usual filing. I'll have some letters to dictate in a little while."
I hesitated. "I don't mean to pry, but you seem preoccupied for so early on a Monday morning. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"That's a pretty suit you're wearing," he said.
I felt a warmth go through me at his words. Nevertheless, I trained my gaze on him, willing him to take me seriously.
He looked at me, then sat back in his chair, a pencil balanced between his two injlex fingers the way he always did when he was thoughtful. "All right, Miss Bennett, I don't see why you shouldn't be among the first to know, although it won't be official until later today."
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 10
