I sat down on the chair opposite him, waiting expectantly.
"You see, kid, Rip-City has decided not to release Philip Royal and the Beefeaters' album after all."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I felt a sick sensation in my stomach for the guys in the band. All they had worked for! "Not release the album? But the guys—when was this decided?"
Bradley held my gaze. "Early this morning at a breakfast meeting. I trust you to keep the news to yourself for now."
"Of course. But why has the label decided not to release the album? The record is finished and ready to go."
The sunshine in the room hit Bradley's golden hair, making it shimmer. "Go where, kid? The band has no lead singer. There's no way to send the guys out on the road for concerts to promote the album, no way to get television gigs lined up. Think of it. Are we supposed to put just Reggie, Keith, and Peter on The Ed Sullivan Show? Who's going to sing the songs?"
"I see what you mean, but does the band have to go out and perform in public? Can't you just release the album and get the songs played on WABC and other radio stations across the country to boost album sales?"
Bradley leaned forward and put the pencil down on his desk. "It's critical that the girls—and they're the bulk of the paying audience—see the guys behind the songs. You know that, Miss Bennett. They want singers they can idolize, ones they can dream of meeting and marrying. Without Philip, it's best to cut our losses now by not pressing and releasing the album."
I thought of my own feelings about John Lennon and the rest of the Beatles and felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Bradley was right. But the band! What would happen to Reggie, Keith, and Peter? They would be crushed. Everything they had worked so hard for would go down the drain. "When are the guys in the band going to find out, and who's going to tell them?"
"I'll be calling a meeting with their manager, Nigel, for tomorrow morning at eleven. That's the first opportunity I have, my schedule is so tight. I'll explain matters to him, and it'll be up to him to tell the band." He regarded me closely. "Look, Miss Bennett, I don't want to have to be the messenger bearing the bad news, but it's part of my job."
"I know that. It's just that I keep thinking about the guys. All their hopes and dreams will be dashed. They'll have to deal with that along with their grief over Philip's death."
"I know, kid, but what can I do? The word came from Mr. Purvis. This is a business, and the big guys want a profit."
An idea came to me. "What about your great-uncle? Could you go to him?"
"Only if I can come up with a viable plan to save the album, and I don't have that right now. You see, I agree that it's not in Rip-City's best interests for the album to be released. It's not that I don't understand the band's position, but I'm a businessman too. Uncle Herman is as big a shark as the rest of them. What could I say to him? He always looks at the bottom line."
"I guess things are pretty bleak."
"Not really. Try to remember this: A British record label is bound to pick the album up. The boys already have a name over there. The album will be released to the British public. All is not lost."
"I suppose you're right, although the guys wanted to make it in America."
"That's just not going to happen."
"I guess they'll want to go back to England now." I thought Reggie wouldn't be sorry to return home to his wife and baby son.
"I don't think they'll be allowed to go until the murder investigation is cleared up," Bradley pointed out. "Now, you'd better get Nigel on the phone for me, please."
He was right. I went back to my desk feeling down in the dumps. If only there were something I could do. I flipped through my Rolodex and found Nigel's number. The thought came to me that it might be a good idea to talk to him about the murder before he got the news about the album not being released. Afterward, he might not be so willing to talk to someone from the record label.
He answered the phone sounding like I'd woken him.
"Hullo."
"Hello, Nigel, this is Bebe Bennett from Rip-City Records. How are you this morning?"
"Too early to tell, luv."
I forced a chuckle. However he felt was bound to be better right now than he'd feel at this time tomorrow. "Mr. Williams would like to set up a meeting with you for tomorrow at eleven. Would that be a good time for you?"
"Sure. I'd be glad to meet with 'im. There're some things I think the label could be doing for the boys that I 'aven't seen 'appen yet. We need to 'ash things out."
I barely suppressed a groan. "Very good. We'll expect you at eleven. Oh, and Nigel, I wonder if I might speak with you privately about Philip. I, um, want to get some information together for a bio for him. Can you meet me for coffee after work today?" I crossed my fingers at the lie. I wondered how many Hail Marys the priest would assign me at confession this week.
"Right. Where do you want to meet?"
"I could come to the hotel coffee shop, say around five thirty?"
" 'Ow about the lounge, luv? A fella's got to have something to wet 'is lips around that time o' day."
"All right. The lounge it is. See you then."
I hung up the phone to find Vince Walsh standing over my desk, having listened to every word I said. The shoulders of his dark suit were peppered with white flakes of dandruff, and he smelled of that darned cologne. "Good morning, Mr. Walsh."
"Hello, babycakes. Here's a report for Bradley."
"Thank you. I'll see that he gets it."
Vince lingered like a bad cough. "So tomorrow is when ol' Nigel's gonna get the big news, eh?"
"I don't know what you mean," I said stiffly, remembering my promise to Bradley to keep quiet about the album not being released.
"Play it your way, muffin-cup, but America won't be playing it at all. The album, that is. I'll have to be sure to hang around so I can see Nigel's red face when he comes out of Bradley's office. What time's the meeting?"
"I'm not allowed to give out information about my boss's schedule." I turned to my typewriter and inserted a sheet of paper. I didn't have anything to type at the moment, but if I had to, I'd make something up.
He laughed. "Never mind. I heard you say eleven." He leaned closer to me, forcing the smell of his cheap cologne into my nostrils. "Say, how about you and me go out sometime? I'll take you to the pictures and afterward to the Automat. Whaddya say? This Friday night sound good? Or would you rather catch an act with me?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Walsh, but I make it a rule never to date anyone I work with," I said. It was true, Bradley and I had never been out on a date. Except in my dreams. Still, confession this week was going to be grisly.
"I think you can make an exception for me," he said, and leaned over the typewriter so close to me that I felt a wave of nausea from the cologne.
Bradley came out of his office as I was stumbling for a reply. "Miss Bennett, I'm ready for that dictation now."
"Yes, Mr. Williams," I said, grabbing my steno pad, tripping over my chair, and putting as much distance as I could between myself and Vince Walsh.
"Hey, Bradley, why don't you tell your secretary to come with me to the Bitter End this Saturday night to hear that guy you're so jazzed about," Vince said.
I looked at Bradley, sure he would decline Vince's offer.
But instead the beautiful traitor looked from me to Vince and said, "That might not be such a bad idea, since I can't be there myself. I have other plans, and I'd value two opinions. You don't mind, do you, Miss Bennett?"
"Oh, no, I'm keen on the idea," I said, my voice dripping sweet sarcasm, my hands folded across my chest, my gaze on Bradley.
Vince grinned in triumph. "I'll pick you up at eight."
"Since this is business, Vince, not a date, I'll meet you at the Bitter End at eight," I corrected. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take dictation for Mr. Williams."
"I'll catch you later, kitten," Vince promised. Then he turned to Bradley. "Hey, Bradley, that's some shiner you've got there. A jealous
husband? We know how good you are with the ladies."
"You've got it all wrong, Vince."
"Do I? Not over a chick, huh?"
Bradley's expression reflected a warning.
Vince beat a hasty retreat.
Bradley shut the door. "I hope you don't have to break a date for Saturday night to go with Vince. No, wait, I don't mean to pry into your personal life."
Pry all you want! "That's all right. I'll handle Vince Walsh. You know, I think Mr. Walsh is jealous of you, Mr. Williams, and that he speaks out of turn. He certainly seems to relish what he thinks is a failure for you. Maybe he wants to move up into your job."
Bradley shuffled papers on his desk. "Yes, he's made no secret of the fact that he wants my job. Maybe he's fool enough to think this mess with Philip Royal is his chance to get it. I'm a patient man, but even I have my
limits. If Vince doesn't start bringing in talent for Rip- City soon, he'll be out on the street."
"Good— Um, I mean, that makes sense. You've done absolutely nothing wrong in the situation with the Beefeaters." I found I was gripping my steno pad so hard the metal rings were digging into my skin, leaving marks.
"I'm glad to have such a champion on my side, Miss Bennett." Bradley's eyes twinkled. "I'm pleased you made it clear to Vince that your going with him to the Bitter End is not a date," he said in an overly professional tone. "We can't have office romances, now, can we?"
I barely refrained from throwing the steno pad at his head. "You said you had some dictation for me, Mr. Williams. If so, I'd like to take it now. Otherwise I have things to do."
I crossed my legs and made sure my skirt hiked up several inches above my knee. He deserved it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I called Darlene from the shiny telephone box down in the lobby of the Legends Hotel. I wanted to tell her I wouldn't be home after work. I also wanted to find out what happened during her lunch with Stu. She answered on the second ring.
"Hi, Bebe, lunch with Stu was a blast. He took me uptown to a great little place called EE's. They had a wild beef roast in mushroom sauce."
"What about Astrid?"
"Stu thinks he can find out about Astrid in London."
"He has contacts?"
"Yes, but the darling is going to fly over there himself and prowl around. Isn't he wonderful? I told him not to flirt with any of the stewardesses, but I might have saved my breath. My minty breath, get it?"
I smiled at her reference to Stu's being the Minty-Mouth Breath Mints heir. Stu might flirt, but he'd come back to Darlene.
"Listen, Darlene, I called to tell you that I'm having drinks with the band's manager after work. I won't be home."
"Great! Why don't you arrange for us all to go out later? I know a fabulous club called Rocket-a-Go-Go. All space stuff. I need to see the guys in the band and dig up some dirt. How about it, Bebe?"
"Okay, I'll see what I can do. They'll probably be glad of a chance to get out and have some fun."
"You'll need to come home and change. I have an outfit you can't believe that I think would fit you. Very boss."
"Me wear one of your outfits? This I've got to see to believe. I'll call you after I meet with Nigel."
I hung up the phone and made my way to the lounge.
Maria was waiting on Nigel, who was seated at the bar. Nigel wore tweed pants with a red-and-blue wide- striped shirt. His nose was the perpetual red, full of the broken capillaries common to heavy drinkers. Sure enough, from the look of disapproval on Maria's dark features, I could tell Nigel had already consumed a couple of beers before my arrival.
" 'Ere you are, luv. I remember you now from dear Philip's tribute. A right 'elp you were with the press, especially that terror, Patty Gentry. That bird's always out to get something dirty on me boys. Wants to make a name for 'erself."
I settled myself awkwardly onto the adjacent bar stool, bar stools not being my favorite chairs. Taking off my gloves, I asked Maria to bring me a Virgin Mary. I remembered Patty Gentry paying more attention to Bradley than the guys in the band. "I didn't do that much, Nigel, but I'm glad to help in any way I can. I'm fond of the guys."
He grinned and lifted his beer. "That's part of their charm. People are drawn to 'em. It's what'll make 'em famous."
Maria brought my drink, which Nigel eyed without comment, and I began my questions. "So, Nigel, how are you doing, you know, since Philip's . . . death?"
He raised bushy eyebrows. "You mean since some common American criminal callously did my boy in?"
I perked up. "How do you know an American killed him?"
"Wouldn't bloody likely be an English gent. No proper Englishman would do such a thing."
"Oh."
He pounded his fist on his chest. "My boys were loved and admired by everyone in England. Then we come over 'ere to the colonies and before you can say 'Bob's your uncle,' my boy is sitting in a tub of electricity, frying like your mum's fish on Friday night."
"I have to disagree. The murderer may not have been an American."
"Eh? What?"
"How long had you known Philip?"
Nigel took a swig of beer, then sat back in his chair in the manner of one about to embark on a long story. "Since they was kids I've known the lot of 'em. They all come from broken homes. Fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds, angry and without a place to go with their guitars and music. Reggie's mum is dead. I saw that Philip 'ad a gift. I encouraged them to play. They played in my garage, slept on my floor, and rattled about the English countryside in my old van, playing gigs wherever they'd 'ave us."
"You were like a father to them," I said, remembering the lyrics of that song, "Get out of My Way."
"That I was. They're like my sons, and I'll stick by 'em no matter what 'appens. I wasn't much for coming over 'ere to America, but it's where the big money's to be made, and that's what Philip wanted. The big money and the fame. He wasn't 'appy with being known just in England. I got them that, you know. Top of the charts in Britain."
"I know they're grateful."
"They are. That's why I paid no attention to those silly rumors about them getting a fancy new manager now that they 'ad an American record deal. That was just Philip spouting off when he was in 'is cups—that's English for drinking, luv."
"I see. So Philip threatened to get a new manager?"
Nigel waved an expansive hand. "Never mind about
that crap. The boy didn't mean it. My boy wouldn't have left me behind after all I done for 'im."
I was quiet for a moment, allowing Nigel to nurse his beer and blink back the tears that threatened. I didn't believe for a moment his theory of an American killer. No one here knew the guys, much less wanted to kill one of them. As for Philip wanting to have a new manager, perhaps one more skilled than down-home Nigel, this presented interesting possibilities, and I wouldn't put it past Philip for a second. Did Nigel? Could Nigel's grieving-father act be just that? Could he have been shoved out at the last moment, and in an angry rage murdered the man he considered his son? But there was someone else I needed to ask Nigel about.
"Nigel, what about Astrid?"
He snorted. "What about 'er?"
"What do you think of her?"
"Pain in the arse, that girl, but Philip loved 'er. What can a body do?"
"So you think they would have gotten back together had he lived? What about Peter?"
"The thing with Peter is nothing, poor boy. No, it was always Philip and Astrid. Those two were a case of 'can't live with you, can't live without you.' "
I didn't know about that. Astrid seemed to be getting along just fine since Philip's death. Perhaps Nigel was romanticizing Philip and Astrid's relationship.
"So where's this bio going to be published?" Nigel asked.
"I'm not sure. It's something I'm doing for the record company." Another Hail Mary. "What are you and the guys doing tonight? My roommate knows a cool place to go where we could get some drinks and hang out. How does that sound?"
"
Sounds like the best offer I've 'ad all day. I'll round up the boys and meet you back down 'ere at eight?"
"Make it eight thirty," I said, wondering how an outfit that belonged to petite, buxom Darlene could possibly fit taller, small-breasted me.
It wasn't long before I found out.
"What do you mean 'no'? I think it would be darling on you, Bebe. Just try it on."
We stood in the doorway of my bedroom, Darlene holding up a fuzzy sweater dress.
"Darlene, it looks like a tight sweater, only longer."
"That's because that's what it is," Darlene said, and grinned. "Come on, live a little. Pink looks pretty on you, and even you have to admit the style is modest."
"The style is modest—it's really just an Empire waist with sequin trim around the collar and cuffs—-but the material is bound to cling all over. Not to mention the fact that it's going to be short on me."
Darlene thrust the hot-pink angora number on my bed. "Put it on and let's see. I'm going to throw something on myself. Wait until you see what the dancers at the club wear. You'll be Miss Modesty herself, I promise."
A short time later, after I sprayed some Emeraude cologne on—I wanted to be the woman who dared to be different, like the ads said—I studied my reflection in my full-length mirror. The dress was deceptively sexy. The style was simple, but boy, did it hug every one of my curves. And it ended well above my knees, giving the viewer quite a gander at my legs.
"Darlene, I don't know about this," I said, turning a shocked eye to the back view. "Oh, dear."
"You sound like that old Miss Marple character," Darlene scolded, coming into the room wearing a navy wool cocktail dress with a middy top, pleated skirt, and rhine- stone banding around the low waist and exaggerated vee neckline. The dress was sleeveless, showing off Darlene's creamy freckled arms. "Do you like it? I just got it this afternoon at Bonwit Teller."
"Bonwit Teller! Darlene, you didn't! It must have cost a fortune."
"Actually, Stu paid for it. He saw it in the window and said it had to be mine."
I needn't worry about attracting attention in my dress when Darlene was around in that outfit.
She eyed me critically; then a slow smile came over her face. "If only Bradley could see you now."
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 11
