While I waited for Darlene to finish up, I heard the sound of a big truck outside. Curious, I went to the front window and looked out. A moving van was parked outside our building. I could hear footsteps going up to the apartment right above us. The mobsters!
"Darlene, come quick!"
Darlene rushed over and I filled her in. We heard furniture scraping the floor directly above us and waited until footsteps came back downstairs, then peeked out our door.
A slim young man with a goatee spoke to a man dressed in a mover's uniform. The mover was carefully carrying a large wrapped item that could only be a painting.
The young man spoke. "Can you believe that we were actually questioned by the police? Some woman thought we were killers!"
Darlene and I looked at each other, wide-eyed.
The mover laughed. "And all you were doing was talking about repainting your scene?"
"Yeah, they took hearing my partner and me talking about rubbing someone out as . . ."
The voices faded away as the men were on the lower floors.
Darlene closed the door. "They were artists. And we called the police!" She began to laugh.
"Oh, what imaginations we have," I said, and burst out laughing.
"Looks like we'll be getting new neighbors," Darlene said.
"Yes. Hey, we'd better go. We're late," I said.
***
Later, after we'd been to the police station—where Harry entered and left as fast as he could—I went to my office.
I stood for a moment watching Bradley doing paperwork before he looked up and saw me. If Vince had ended my life, I would never have had a chance to find out if Bradley could grow to love me. As it was, I was alive, and I felt great. I entered his office, sat down in a chair opposite him, and crossed my legs. My pink skirt came up at least four inches above my knee.
"Oh, good morning, kid. How are you?" His gaze dropped to my legs. I was sure sorry to have to divert his thoughts.
I watched the emotions passing over his face as he listened to my account of the night before.
"Thank God you weren't hurt," was the first thing he said. "I warned you not to place yourself in danger." His eyes were intense as they studied me.
He came around the desk and smoothed a piece of my hair back. There went my heart again. His shoulders were so close, I could reach out and pull him down to me. Using his right thumb and hand, he cupped the left side of my face. "You sure you're okay?"
Well, I could be a lot better. "I'm fine," I said, and then to change the subject, "I'm outraged by your cousin's tactics to gain your uncle's favor."
Bradley's hand went to my shoulder. "Drew will get away with it, too. From what you described, the murder was an idea planted in Vince's head by Drew. It will be Vince's word against Drew's. There is no hard evidence against Drew. But I had a long talk with my uncle last night after Drew flew down to see him. I'm certain Uncle's okay with how I've handled this situation at the company."
"Thank goodness," I said, looking up at him. "But it's terrible to think about Drew getting away with what he did. You'll have to be careful in the future."
Bradley appeared to become aware that he was touching me. He went back to his desk chair and sat down. Darn it!
He looked at me and said, "I don't think he'll try anything again. But back to your involving yourself in this investigation, I want to say—"
There was a knock on the office door. I went to answer it. A man dressed in a Western Union uniform stood there. "I have a telegram for Bradley Williams."
"I'll take it," I said, signing his book.
I handed the message to Bradley.
"What's this?" Bradley said. At my shrug, he opened it and read aloud: " 'Great job at Rip-City. Stop. Time to move up. Stop. You do like models, don't you? Stop. Report to Ryan Modeling Agency nine a.m. April twenty-seventh. Stop. Herman Shires."
Bradley sat back with a big grin on his face. "This is fantastic! It shows Uncle's confidence in me. What a terrific opportunity. Ryan is the biggest modeling agency in the U.S., next to Ford." He let out a short laugh. "Wonder what Drew will do when he finds out I've been given a fabulous new assignment?"
"I hope nothing," I said in a small voice. Bradley was leaving! To reign over a flock of models, no less! I felt like I'd eaten bad egg salad.
He was still staring at the telegram, grinning from ear to ear.
Abruptly he noticed the expression on my face. "Er, Miss Bennett, if I were to give you a five percent increase in your pay, would you consider coming with me to my new job? I know you care about Rip-City, but you're a valuable secretary to me, and I don't want to lose you. Please say yes."
The Rockettes danced in my head. My fairy godmother waved her magic wand over me. A chorus of angels sang in my brain.
"Why, yes, Mr. Williams. I'll come with you. It'll be groovy."
He grinned. "I'm glad to hear it. Now let's get back to work. There's a lot to get done before we leave. Uncle's given us only a week's notice."
"Yes, Mr. Williams."
I smiled secretly to myself as I settled in to take dictation.
Bradley and I worked until the late afternoon. I enjoyed every minute of it.
But as much as I liked being with him, I had a mission to accomplish that night down in the Village.
At eight o'clock I met Nigel, Keith, Peter, and Reggie at a coffeehouse called Swanky. Inside it was anything but swanky, with scratched wooden tables crowded together in front of a small stage.
Keith said, "What's this all about, Bebe?"
"Yeah," Nigel said. "Your message said it was urgent."
Peter twitched. "You don't think we're going to play here, do you?"
Reggie looked at me. "We haven't fallen this far, have we?"
First I told them all about Vince. There was much grumbling about how they'd like to get their hands on him.
Then I got down to business. "I brought you here to meet Devon Woods. You don't already know him, do you? He's English."
"Never heard of him," Keith replied. "What's the point?"
I could barely contain my excitement. "Darlene brought me down here my first week in New York to hear a singer named Bob Dylan. Before he came on, Devon sang. Devon's been trying to get in with Rip-City for months, but Mr. Williams felt he needed to be part of a band. I thought you could listen to him and see if you like him. If you do, maybe you could join forces."
The guys agreed to this, and we all sat down.
When Devon came on and sang, the guys started whispering among themselves.
After the set was over, I brought Devon over to meet everyone. It was a mutual admiration society from the beginning. Devon turned out to be a big fan of the Beefeaters. He even got along with Keith and shared some of his ideas about the blues.
About an hour later, the guys and Devon got up for an impromptu set. Devon knew the Beefeaters' greatest hits in England. Keith even let Devon take over Philip's place. The guys sounded great together. Keith smiled and gave me the thumbs-up signal from the stage.
I was so excited, I wanted to call Bradley right away. I tried to tell myself Monday morning would be soon enough, but my desire to tell him the Beefeaters lived again overcame me. With my trouble with numbers, I still couldn't remember his phone number.
However, I knew where he lived. There were only a few numbers to remember: 79 West Seventy-fifth Street.
I looked at my watch. It was after nine on a Saturday night. Bradley was probably out. I would go to his apartment and simply leave a note. He just had to know!
Nigel was so into the music, it took me a minute to get his attention. "Nigel, I have to leave. You think everything is okay here?"
"Bebe, you're an angel, that's what you are. I think we've got the band back together again. Maybe Rip-City will want us after all."
"I think there's a good chance of that. The guys can fine-tune what they're doing right now over the rest of the weekend. Then we can get Bradley to listen. With any luck,
you'll have a new contract." And Bradley wouldn't have to fly off to London to meet new bands ... and new girls . . . before tying up loose ends at Rip-City.
I left everyone happy and went outside. New York was even more alive than normal on a Saturday night. There was no chance of getting a taxi. I could take a bus, but . . .
I raised my chin and decided to take the subway. I marched down the steps and joined the milling crowd. A train came in with a great deal of noise and a gust of wind. People poured out the doors, while others piled in.
I carefully studied the posted map. Once I was pretty sure what to do, I bought a token, confirming my route with the bored-looking man in the booth.
When my train came, I boarded and took a seat. I looked around, determined there weren't any murderers on the train, and got out my little notebook. I wrote Bradley about the new Beefeaters. I folded the square of paper, intending to push it through his mail slot or leave it wedged in the door.
I exited the subway station at Seventy-seventh Street, feeling proud of myself, and walked until I found his apartment. Only it wasn't an apartment. Bradley owned a town house.
The outside of his building was really cool, all black and white marble squares covering the ground leading up to a door painted white with an oval glass circle. The oval circles were repeated on the upstairs windows. Very modern.
Light shone from inside. Should I ring the bell?
I thought of leaving the note and going home, but I did want to see his face when he found out I'd helped put the band back together. Maybe he'd respect me for it. It was important to me to have his respect. I'd grown up a lot in the past two and a half weeks.
Closing my eyes, I rang the bell.
When the door opened, my eyes flew wide. There was Bradley looking like a Hollywood movie star in a white dinner jacket. "Miss Bennett. What a surprise to see you. You look lovely in that rose-colored dress."
"Thank you. I have some news that couldn't wait until Monday morning. I hope you don't mind my coming by this way."
For a moment, he looked confused. "Um, come in."
He held the door open. I stepped into a foyer and followed him into a living room. His apartment struck me as being the epitome of masculinity. Paneled walls, a built-in black velvet sectional, a hi-fi system, a bar built into the wall.
And a sultry redhead sitting at a table set for two.
Uh-oh.
I turned to him, heat infusing my face. "I didn't mean to intrude. I'll just go now. Here's the note that will explain everything." I tried to press it into his hand, but he wouldn't take it.
"Nonsense. Come and meet my friend," he said, going deeper into the town house. I followed, feeling miserable.
Bradley said, "Miss Bennett, this is Donna Moore. Donna, my secretary, Miss Bennett."
"Miss Bennett, I'm pleased to meet you. Bradley, darling, how charming of you to let your little secretary come by."
I felt like a schoolgirl next to Miss Moore's sophisticated white beaded dress, matching white antique handbag, and elaborately high hairdo. And she was a redhead. Had Bradley gone through all of New York's blondes and started on the redheads? When would it be the brunettes' turn?
I tried to keep a smile on my face, but I wished I hadn't come. It was too late now.
Bradley said, "What brings you here?"
The story of Devon and the guys came tumbling out of my mouth. "I'm so excited for the band. They really seemed to hit it off. I think you'll like them."
"I'm impressed, Miss Bennett. First you catch a killer, now you've put talent together, and possibly saved me a trip to London. Is it any wonder I want to keep you as my personal secretary?"
I smiled as if this were everyday work for me.
Miss Moore looked as if she'd like to take the ice pick from a nearby bucket and thrust it into my heart.
Bradley said, "This calls for a celebration. Donna and I were just about to pop open some champagne."
I felt giddy thinking about drinking champagne with the man I adored.
Bradley looked toward his kitchen. "Let me see. Hold on a minute, kid, and I'll get you a . . ."
Oh, no! He wasn't going to get me a soft drink after all I'd done—solving the murder, putting the band back together, and . . . and . . . growing as a woman.
I tilted my head at Bradley and gave him my brightest smile. "Glass of champagne!"
And I didn't even choke on the bubbles.
***
Look for Bebe Bennett's next mystery adventure in the very groovy Murder A-Go-Go series: TWIST & SHOUT MURDER!
Secretary Bebe Bennett and her boss, man-about- town Bradley Williams, have a new assignment at the Ryan Modeling Agency. Bebe, who's still in love with Bradley, is more than a bit dismayed by this move, imagining the beautiful women he will meet. Sure enough, he's soon dating top model Suzie Wexford—until one late night when Bebe gets a call from Bradley requesting her help in contacting his lawyer. Not the company's corporate lawyer, but a criminal lawyer, he explains. Suzie Wexford has just been found strangled with the Pucci scarf Bradley recently gave her and now he's in jail for murder!
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 23
