"Nigel had to go bail him out. Nigel said Keith always did have a terrible temper," Darlene related.
"Hmmm. That's for sure. What about Reggie?"
"He and Jean are the only ones who have been quiet, biding their time until they can go home. As far as Patty Gentry goes, Nigel said the rock 'n' roll world is better off without her reporting her nasty lies. That she was nothing but a leech."
"He actually said that about Patty?"
"Yes," Darlene confirmed. "Nigel himself is a maudlin drunk. Once he was filled with brown beer and sitting in a place that seemed like home, he started crying. He said he and Philip had fought about coming to America. Nigel said if only Philip had listened to him he would be alive today. That it would be like the good old days and there'd be no talk of getting a fancy American manager. But Philip went so far as to say that Nigel need not come with them to America if he didn't want to."
"You're kidding! I think Nigel is much more hurt about his possible firing than he lets on, and now that we know Philip didn't care if he came to America or not . . ."
"I agree. When Nigel finished talking about getting fired, he laid his head on the bar and wept like a baby."
"What do you think? Could Nigel have killed Philip and Patty?"
Darlene put her fork down. She held her head in her hands and shook it. "It's either him or Keith. Peter doesn't have the guts. Neither Nigel or Keith has a good alibi and both are passionate enough about Philip to have wanted him dead. And that song 'Get Out of My Way,' keeps haunting me. Why did the killer write it on the bathroom wall?"
I thought a moment before I spoke. "From the way things have gone, I'd say to throw light on everyone involved with Philip."
"Clever. And neither Nigel nor Keith liked Patty Gentry. Come on, Bebe, it's late. I'm going to bed." She closed the bakery box and rinsed out our plates while I wiped crumbs off the table.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday, I left Darlene sleeping and went off to work. I tried to concentrate, but I kept thinking about the killer. I pulled out a steno pad and on one side I wrote Nigel and on the other side I wrote Keith. I then listed in each column each man's motives to see Philip and Patty dead.
The buzzer on my phone sounded. I quickly closed my steno pad. "Yes, Mr. Williams?"
"Come in here please, Miss Bennett."
"Right away."
I hung up and went to Bradley's office. As usual, I couldn't help but admire his sense of style in dress and his truly beautiful face. He was basically a good man, too, if you forgot his blondes.
"Close the door, please, and have a seat."
Uh-oh. Could he have found out about last night?
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me. "I hate to do this, kid, but I figured it's better to tell you now and get it over with."
Alarm raced through me. I wondered if he was going to fire me for my involvement with the murder investigation. "Wh-what is it?"
"I know you like Sal Vitelli."
Whew! This wasn't about me. "I do. He's a great singer. And Mama loves him."
Bradley tapped a piece of paper on his desk with his pencil. "Unfortunately, his sales figures don't measure up, kid. His latest single didn't even make the top forty. The label is dropping him."
"What? Oh, no!"
"I knew you'd be upset. That's why I wanted to tell you before it happens."
"When is it going to happen?"
"He's coming in at four thirty. I timed it that way so that you wouldn't have to be here when he leaves."
"There's nothing you can do to help him, Mr. Williams?"
"No. And you have to learn that this is the way business is. You can't let your personal feelings get in the way. As it is, I've probably kept Sal with us for a year longer than I should have. But this British Invasion has taken over the charts. Sal's time as a star is over. Another, more modest record company might pick him up and put out his albums on a smaller scale."
"You really think so?"
"I do. And that's what I intend to tell him."
I nodded. "Okay. But I want to be here when he leaves, in case he needs someone to talk to."
Bradley looked at me for a long moment. "You're a good person, Miss Bennett. I admire you."
I caught my breath.
Funny how I had just been thinking the same about him. I wanted to tell him that I admired him too—actually, I wanted him to show me how much he admired me by taking me in his arms—but my throat closed.
I smiled and got up out of my chair. My heel caught on the chair leg. I regained my balance before falling. Darn it! Why did he cause me to behave like a dimwit? I smoothed my apple-green skirt and held my head high as I walked back to my desk.
At lunchtime I ran downstairs to the street and had a hot dog and a Coke. The chilly day made me scurry back to the office, but not before I thought of my plan for the band. If all went well, tomorrow night would be special.
Unless someone in the band was arrested between now and then.
Bradley called me back into his office around four. He said, "I've gotten approval from Mr. Purvis to go to London for two weeks on a talent search. Even though I know tomorrow's Saturday, could you come in for a few hours and help me catch up on some work? Say from nine to one?"
"Of course."
He smiled.
I'd come in every Saturday for him if he needed me.
At four-thirty Sal Vitelli arrived. He wore his expensive, tasteful suit proudly. Smiling at me and greeting me by name, he seemed unaware of what was about to happen. Oh, no. I got him a cup of coffee the way he liked it and showed him into Bradley's office.
I sat at my desk, anticipating a loud shouting match.
Vince came up and banged his fist on my desk to get my attention. "Daydreaming, Miss Bennett?"
"Don't do that again! And no, I'm worried about Mr. Vitelli."
"Yeah, he's getting the ax. I talked to him last week and tried to drop a hint in his ear. The old guy doesn't think Rip-City will drop him. He talked about you and your mother, as a matter of fact."
I looked at him, something I tried to avoid doing. It was impossible not to smell him. "What did you say?"
"I was trying to tell him how he wasn't as popular as he thought. That you and your mother only liked him because you're from the South. Southerners don't know better. They even like all that country-western stuff."
Anger welled up in me. "How dare you say those things about the South? And how dare you ruin the compliment I paid Mr. Vitelli?"
"Hey, Miss Bennett, no need to get all riled up."
"You know, Vince, I'd rather not have to talk to you unless it's about business," I said, I was so angry.
Vince narrowed his eyes at me.
At that moment Bradley's door opened. Sal came out of the office, his face ashen. I shot Vince a look that said I'd scratch his eyes out if he said a word. He turned and went in the direction of his office.
Mr. Vitelli stood like a statue.
"Mr. Vitelli, can I get you anything?" I asked.
He looked at me, his brown eyes focused far away. "No, thank you. I won't need anything anymore."
His choice of words and tone of voice chilled me. What if he was planning on doing something drastic now that he didn't have a contract?
When he left the office, I grabbed my coat and followed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I caught up with him outside the building. "Mr. Vitelli, it's me, Bebe," I said, gasping for breath.
He looked at me with a beaten expression. "What, did they forget to throw my gold records out with me?"
"No, nothing like that. I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to right now." I had to breathe fast to match his steps.
"I'm going for a drink. I'm going to drink all night."
"May I come with you?"
Sal waved a hand. "It doesn't matter."
He went into the first bar that we came across and ordered a double whiskey. I ordered a ginger ale. Wh
en the drinks came, Sal downed his and ordered another. He said nothing.
"Listen, Mr. Vitelli—"
"Call me Sal. I already feel a hundred years old."
"All right, Sal. I can't know precisely how you're feeling now, because I'm not a star like you, but don't you think this is only a small setback? I mean, another record label will scoop you up like you were a tub of chocolate ice cream."
Sal still had that faraway look in his eyes. "This is it for me. I'm finished. Over."
I leaned forward. "That's not true. Think of all your fans. They'll be anxious for your next record. They won't care which label releases it. They just want to hear you sing!"
He looked at me then. "I'm all washed-up. A man my age, trying to get a deal. There's no point. In fact, there's no point in my going on at all."
"Sal! Don't say such a thing! Ever. Didn't you hear what I said? Your fans are still out there, waiting for your new album."
He polished off another double whiskey. "There was a time when I was compared to the big guys, Sinatra even. But those days are long gone. Nobody respects me anymore. The night I came into town—it was the night that young English singer was killed—I went to the Legends, where the label puts up all its talent when they come to town. Vince Walsh was walking through the lobby. He saw me. I know he did. Yet he didn't even bother to acknowledge me. A nothing like Vince Walsh, who couldn't find talent if it was placed in front of him with an audience of a hundred thousand, ignored me. That's how far I've fallen."
"Mama taught me that it doesn't reflect well on the person speaking when they talk bad about someone else," I said. "But I'll say this anyway: Vince Walsh is a moron. You can't let what he does affect you. You are a star. There are a lot of people out there who love you. And I'm sure in your personal life there are people who love and care about you too. Am I right?"
He lowered his head. "I've got six grandchildren from my two kids. My wife and I divorced a couple of years ago."
"Your divorce probably made you feel low."
"Yeah."
"But that's in the past. Don't you see the things you have to live for, Sal? There'll be a new record contract. And maybe a special lady will come along for you. Women must be throwing themselves at you!"
His mouth twisted in a half grin. "I can still get my fair share of attention from the ladies." He heaved a sigh. "I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself right now. Thanks for talking to me, Bebe."
"You'll call your manager first thing in the morning and have him get you a new contract?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"You don't have your fingers crossed behind your back, do you?"
He laughed. "No."
I sat back and stayed to hear some of his stories— stories he'd probably told many times before. He asked me to join him for dinner, but I was bone tired. Plus I needed to check in with Darlene to see if there had been any developments during the day.
I gave Sal a big hug, and he moved into the dining area. A woman spotted him and held out a piece of paper for his autograph.
I smiled. Sal would be okay.
I went outside and started walking down the street to get to the corner. As I walked, I glanced at the stores I passed. A neon sign read, DELI SANDIWCHES, NEW YORK SAILORS, REUBENS, PHILLY CHEESESTEAKS."
I stopped.
I stared at the glowing lime green words, philly cheesesteaks. A chill tingled in my blood.
On the night of the murder, Vince was supposed to be in Philadelphia listening to a new folk band. I remembered he even complained to me that he'd missed all the action the night Philip was killed, because he was away in Philadelphia. How could Sal have seen him at the Legends?
Why would Vince lie about being in Philadelphia?
But wait. He didn't lie, I knew, because I saw the report Vince gave Bradley on the band he was supposed to be listening to.
How could Vince be in two places at once?
And why would Vince want to kill Philip Royal?
I ran to the end of the street and threw up my hand for a taxi. Several passed that already had passengers until finally one stopped for me.
"Legends Hotel, please. Hurry," I told the driver. He obeyed my order, causing me to flatten against the backseat.
The driver had the radio station tuned to WABC. Scott Muni was praising the Beatles, but I couldn't concentrate on John Lennon just now. All I could think of was Vince.
I tipped the cabdriver heavily when he dropped me at the front door of the Legends Hotel.
I raced across the lobby, past the desk clerk—who luckily was not Mr. Owens—and ran for the elevators. The cars were all on higher floors. I tapped my foot in frustration.
The first one came back down. A young man was operating it. A group of people piled in. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" I cried.
The pimple-faced operator looked at me without interest.
"Is Mr. Duncan working tonight?" I asked him.
The operator shrugged and closed the doors.
I stood next to the bank of elevators. A group of people began milling about waiting with me. I tried to stand in the center of them and not call attention to myself.
Finally the next elevator came down. A crowd of people all talking at once came out. I looked past them and saw Mr. Duncan. Thank God! The people around me surged forward. I just made it into the elevator car.
Inching my way across the group, I managed to stand next to the elderly man. "Mr. Duncan," I whispered. "I have to talk to you."
He cupped his ear, looking puzzled. His hearing problem. I'd forgotten.
I rode all the way up to the top floor until the elevator was empty.
"Why didn't you get off at the fifteenth floor?" he asked.
"Because I have to talk to you."
"Okay, but make it fast, because I have to do my job." He pressed the stop button.
"I want to talk about the night the singer was murdered."
"Oh, boy."
"Please! This is very important. I need to know if you took a man up to the fifteenth floor."
"Plenty of them."
"Okay, but this one is about five feet, ten inches tall. He wears his hair greased back. He has a bad dandruff problem."
Mr. Duncan closed his eyes, thinking. "Smell like a polecat?"
"Yes! That's him."
Mr. Duncan opened his eyes. "I remember. I was reading the racing form when he came in. He told me to take him up to the fifteenth floor immediately and to hold the car to wait for him or he'd report me for reading the form on duty. He was really in a hurry."
"Why didn't you tell this to the police?"
"Nobody asked me. I get a lot of rude people. Part of the job. Plus I thought he'd report me for reading the racing form."
"How long was he gone?"
"Now, that I can't remember. I went back to reading the racing form."
Impulsively, I reached over and gave Mr. Duncan a hug. "Go ahead and take me downstairs."
"Sure, miss."
My thoughts were scrambling around in my head like eggs foT breakfast. Vince! Vince! Nigel was right when he'd said no Englishman would kill Philip. But why Vince? And how could I prove it?
I flew out of the Legends and ran to the nearest phone booth. I put in a dime and dialed the apartment.
Darlene picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"
"What are you doing?" I asked her.
"Stu and I were going out for supper. Why?"
I quickly filled her in.
"But why would this Vince guy want to kill Philip?" she asked. "The band was going to make the record label a lot of money."
"That's what I don't know. We need to go through Vince's office and see what we can find out."
"Can you do that by yourself? I mean, you work there."
I chewed my bottom lip. And I could get fired if anyone saw me pawing through Vince's office, not to mention killed if Vince came in and caught me. "I'm afraid, Darlene.
What if Vince is the killer, and he comes in and discovers me? I'd feel much better if you were with me."
"I'm sorry, honey. I should have thought of that. And, hey, is there a phone booth near Rip-City's building?"
"Yes, right across the street. Why?"
"I know we said we weren't going to involve the men anymore if we could help it, but we could use Stu. We could have him stationed out there. He could call up to your phone in the office if anyone comes into the building."
"That's a great plan. When can the two of you be at the building?"
"Say thirty minutes?"
"I'll meet you then," I said, and hung up, shivering.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Oh, you brought a flashlight. Good," I said.
Darlene had dressed all in black. Only her idea of camouflage meant a black strapless cocktail dress. I still had on my apple-green suit, white gloves, and matching green shoes from work.
I opened the door to the office with my key. Darlene trained the light from the flashlight on the floor. "Which one is Vince's office?"
"There." I pointed to a door four down from Bradley's. "Do you think we should search his secretary's— Miss Hawthorne's—desk too?"
"I don't know. You're the one who works with them. Would she cover something up for him?"
I thought of plump Miss Hawthorne and her grandmotherly ways. "No. Let's go straight to his office."
"Why are we whispering?" Darlene asked.
"That's the way they always do it on TV."
"It's probably for the best," Darlene conceded.
We reached Vince's office and I turned the handle. "Damn, it's locked," I said aloud.
Darlene looked at me with mock horror. "Bebe Bennett, did you just say 'damn'?"
Heat rose to my face. "Extenuating circumstances."
"Let me see the lock," Darlene said, nudging me out of the way. "Think, Bebe—what do the locks look like from the other side of the door?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are they keyed like this, or just a button?"
"Oh! Just a button."
"Good. What we need is something slim to insert in the lock that will push that button back."
"You mean like a nail file? That's how they do it on—"
"Yes, I know that's how it is on TV. But this has to be thinner." She looked around and walked to Miss Hawthorne's desk, scrutinizing her pencil holder.
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 21
