B004183M70 EBOK

by Rosemary Stevens

  Praise for It's a Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder

  "Beehive hairdos, Jackie-O clothes, British rock stars . . . and murder. What fun!"

  —Kasey Michaels, author of High Heels and Homicide

  "Toss a fresh-faced secretary-school graduate (and her flight attendant roomie), a hip British-invasion band, and a hotel room together in the blender that is 1960s New York City, and what do you get? Murder (with the roommate a prime suspect)—and the ensuing undercover investigation. That's what happens in Rosemary Martin's quirky novel. . . ."

  —New York Post Required Reading section

  "Bebe's charming naivete ... her gusto for the singles life, and her considerable intellect make her an unusually appealing sleuth. Add this to the plethora of sixties details, and the result is a clever mystery that's also a trip back to a time when things were groovier."

  —Publishers Weekly

  "A fun read with a groovy and far-out plethora of wonderfully defined characters and situations that will keep you turning pages."—Rendezvous

  "How boss! Good girl Bebe Bennett dons her best Jackie Kennedy suit as she tracks down a murderer— just a little detour as the naive Virginia darling moves to Manhattan. Think sixties! Think bangs and a flip! Think That Girl! meets Miss Marple and you'll have a ball." —Jerrilyn Farmer, bestselling author of the Madeline Bean Mysteries

  "A groovy trip back in time." —Romantic Times

  "If you ever pictured That Girl hooking up with the Rolling Stones, this is the book for you. It's a Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder has romance, charm, originality, and plenty of Dippity-do." —Harley Jane Kozak, Agatha Award-winning author of Dating Dead Men and Dating is Murder

  "A groovy new series that cozy mystery lovers will fall head over heels for."

  —Susan McBride, author of The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club

  TWIST AND SHOUT MURDER

  A MURDER-A-GO-GO MYSTERY

  ROSEMARY MARTIN

  ©

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 CamberweB Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2006 10 987654321 Copyright © Rosemary Stevens, 2006 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank-you to my agent, Harvey Klinger.

  Thanks to WBP for the inspiration.

  Thanks to Donna Andrews, author extraordinaire.

  I couldn't possibly write without the support of my family: Tommy, Rachel, and Alana. I love you all so very much.

  TWIST AND SHOUT MURDER

  CHAPTER ONE

  New York City April 30, 1964

  I closed the door to my apartment building on East Sixty-fifth Street and zipped down the steps to the sidewalk. The glow I felt because Bradley Williams, my dreamy boss, had given me a generous bonus to follow him to his new assignment as head of Ryan Modeling Agency kept my spirits high despite what I called my Problem with Bradley. I hoped that today matters would improve. Otherwise, I might have to kill someone.

  I'd saved some of my bonus money, but the rest I'd given to Darlene, my stewardess roommate, to shop for me on her next layover in swinging London. I had shortened all my Jackie Kennedy-style suits two inches above my knees so Bradley could admire my legs. But fashions from London! That would catch his eye.

  Yesterday the box had arrived. Darlene had shopped on Carnaby Street! She sent me short, mod dresses in vibrant colors and some daring miniskirts. If Daddy saw me in them, he'd go ape and drag me back home to Richmond, Virginia, even if I was twenty-two years old. But what was a girl to do? I was proud of my legs, which made up for my 34-As and narrow hips.

  To wear with the shorter skirts, there were light tan "tights" that looked like stockings with underwear. Darlene had pinned a note on these saying, No more girdles!

  Giving me dictation was going to be a whole new experience for Bradley.

  At the bottom of the box, Darlene had packed the most groovy item of all: a pair of white go-go boots! I loved those boots! I tried them on and danced around in front of my full-length mirror, feeling happy and a little naughty. If anyone had seen me, they'd have thought I was nuts.

  I might have to refrain from wearing the boots to the office, though Ryan Modeling was cool. Maybe one day if I felt particularly daring. . . .

  "Hey, there, Miss Sweet Face, don't you look . . . different this morning," called Harry, the wino who slept across the street behind St. Vincent Ferrer Catholic High School. In the almost two months I'd lived in New York City, I had never been able to figure out why Harry didn't clean up and get a job and a decent place to live. But Harry had proved himself a friend, and I dashed over to see him, digging in my purse for quarters.

  "Good morning, Harry. Do you like my new look?" I twirled around for his inspection. I had on a double-knit, A-line dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Diagonal hot-pink, white, and black stripes made up the body of the dress, which ended about four inches above my knees.

  Harry scratched his gray hair. Then he stroked his scraggly beard. "Kinda short, isn't it? I mean for a nice girl like you."

  I laughed and handed him two quarters. "No, silly. This is the new look from London. You know, in England where the Beatles come from."

  "Bugs?" Harry said, looking around, confusion making his wildly bristling eyebrows come together.

  "Oh, Harry, you make me sad that you d
on't even know who the Beatles are. They were on The Ed Sullivan Show in February, singing and making every girl

  fall in love with them. You should get into the world again. I'll help you," I assured him.

  He began to move away. "Bebe, I like my world. Takes away the pain. Thanks for the dough."

  I walked down to Lexington Avenue, putting Harry's troubles aside for the time being. Now that I had finally mastered the subway, I made my way to the nearest station and dashed down the steps. I smiled as several people turned to look at me in my cool dress.

  I rode the train down to 199 Lafayette Street, where Ryan Modeling, second only to Ford Modeling, had offices on the seventeenth floor. On the eighteenth floor we had a studio for photo shoots and making commercials, and where we leased space for a live TV show.

  Riding along with the occasional jolt, I thought back over the past few days of my new job.

  Bradley and I had taken a tour of our new quarters. The agency's decor was the height of modern, even in the typing pool, where brand-new Selectras were on every desk. The supervisor, Mrs. Seeds, assured me that I could call her if I needed any help with typing or covering the phones during lunch.

  On the eighteenth floor, we looked at three large shooting areas separated by steel walls; the makeup room; dressing areas; and a holding area for clothing sent over from stores or clients. And then we met Gina Simmons, the woman responsible for dealing directly with the models. A former model herself, now a well-maintained woman in her forties, Gina looked at us with hard eyes. She had portfolios spread out on her desk and replied to Bradley's introduction with a chilly, "I look forward to working with you."

  We had moved over to the leased space.

  Bradley said to me, "I've heard that Debbie Ann's a perfectionist, gossipy, and a bit opinionated, but she's had a rough life."

  "Oh?"

  "Her husband committed suicide, leaving her with a boy just out of high school."

  "How terrible," I said, shocked.

  "It gets worse. Her son left her not long after that to join the army and fight in Korea. Later, she learned he was killed there," Bradley said.

  "A double tragedy."

  He nodded. "I'm only telling you this so that you'll be patient with Debbie Ann."

  "I promise I will. I watched her show last Friday at four o'clock. I'm eager for an introduction."

  Inspired by Julia Child's successful program on cooking, Debbie Ann aired Fun in the Kitchen with Debbie Ann.

  Debbie Ann Allard was a well-groomed woman in her fifties with brown hair (dyed?) swept back from her forehead and ending beneath her ears in rows of flipped-up tight curls. She wore a shirtwaist dress and an apron with colorful flowers on it. With natural charm, a constant smile, and nonstop chitchat (I didn't know how she managed all three), she demonstrated how women could whip up easy, delicious meals that were much less complicated than Julia Child's.

  Advertised as "Every Homemaker's Friend", Debbie Ann began each show promising that the viewer could follow along and have a scrumptious meal waiting for her husband when he came home from work. A grocery list for the following week's dishes was posted on Friday afternoons before the show started, so that women could shop for upcoming recipes.

  I was amazed seeing "the kitchen" set.

  Debbie Ann's set featured a modern kitchen complete with a new Philco Galaxie range in turquoise. The "walls" were covered in a cheerful wallpaper of turquoise and orange stripes with small yellow flowers between the lines. A new Presto mixer, Deluxe toaster, a set of orange Tupperware, and a copper planter with artificial buttercups gave the set a homey feel.

  It was about two in the afternoon, and "Every Homemaker's Friend" scurried about, checking off items for the day's show on deviled chicken. A harried-looking girl I thought must be her assistant helped.

  Debbie Ann saw us and, as fast as a rocket, she came shooting over, all smiles and charming greetings.

  "Did I mention, Mr. Williams, that Fun in the Kitchen with Debbie Ann has consistently drawn a wide audience since the day we first went on air? I remember it well," Debbie Ann said in a nostalgic, sweet voice, one hand over her pointy bosom, not giving Bradley a second to speak. "I showed women how to make crabmeat Norfolk with Harris's crabmeat. For only ten cents' postage and a label from any Harris can, one could get an adorable reusable seashell for baking and serving crab dishes. Women loved the idea!

  "After that first show aired, I received hundreds of grateful letters from housewives. In fact, while I don't want to seem immodest, my fan mail has grown into the thousands. Today's busy homemaker needs all the help she can get. I'm so proud to assist them," Debbie Ann finished, finally out of breath.

  Bradley smiled, looking as if he wished Debbie Ann didn't chatter so. "I know you are, Debbie Ann. The show is very popular, according to the figures I've seen. Advertisers love it."

  "I'm so glad. When she doesn't have to spend long hours in the kitchen, a woman has time to dress and look her best for her man. My true aim, you see, is to help the ordinary woman please her husband when he comes home from the office."

  I felt sorry for Debbie Ann. Clearly she was trying to please the husbands of New York City, because she'd failed to please her own and he'd committed suicide.

  Jolting to a stop, the train I rode picked up more passengers. I couldn't wait to get to Bradley—er, work. I thought with pleasure of my Danish Modern desk and credenza with its direct view into Bradley's spacious executive suite. He'd had his furniture from our stint at Rip-City Records moved here: Arts and Crafts desk and seating arrangement, lovely rugs done in blue, cream and rust, and his bar, hidden away in a cabinet.

  When we'd moved in on Monday, I couldn't stop grinning. My desk offered a complete panorama of Bradley's gorgeous self, affording me many opportunities for covert visual delight. All I had to do was lift my gaze from whatever I was typing on my Selectra, and there he'd be at his desk, working hard, his St. Louis Cardinals mug waiting to be filled with fresh coffee.

  And he could see me, too. My desk didn't have a front, so my legs were fully visible as I sat there, oh, so innocently trying to drive him insane with desire.

  While that was terrific, this arrangement also afforded me a front-row seat for something I didn't want to see: the Problem.

  The train stopped, cutting off any further musings. I ran up the subway steps and hurried to Ryan. Arriving breathless in the office, I put my purse in my credenza and immediately began to brew coffee. Bradley was in his office, wearing a medium-blue suit with a hint of iridescence. My favorite. Of course, there was also his navy suit, his gray one, and his black one . . . Ooops! Here was my chance to show off my dress.

  Not exactly posing, but close to it, I stood in Bradley's doorway, smiling. "Good morning, Mr. Williams."

  Bradley looked up from his newspaper. His gaze slid slowly down the dress to my legs, where it lingered, before he raised his eyes to mine.

  I held back a giggle. It seemed he was concentrating on what was right in front of him, ready for the taking—after we were pronounced man and wife, of course.

  In an instant, though, his normal unflappable demeanor was back in place. One thing about Bradley: He was always cool.

  "Coffee—I need coffee, kid."

  "I have a pot brewing. It'll be ready in a minute," I replied cheerfully, though I wished he'd stop calling me by that stupid nickname.

  Couldn't he see I wasn't a kid? Okay, maybe there was about eight or nine years' difference between us. So what? Lots of women married slightly older men. Mama told me it was because men didn't mature as fast as women.

  "You're ever efficient, Miss Bennett," he said, giving me a wide smile that made me completely forgive him for the "kid" remark.

  "Thank you, Mr. Williams," I said, reeling.

  "By the way, Miss Bennett, your title here at Ryan Modeling is executive secretary," he told me. "I'm the boss, and I feel you've earned the promotion."

  My heart filled with pride. The training
I'd received at Charlotte Marie's Secretarial School, my jobs back home in Richmond, and my hard work at Rip-City Records had paid off! "Thank you, Mr. Williams. I'm very pleased."

  "I am too," he said. "You're an excellent secretary. One I wouldn't want to lose for any reason."

  "I'll get your coffee now." I walked out of his office floating on a cloud. A bonus, an increase in pay, his appreciation of my legs, and now the title of executive secretary! Just wait until I told Darlene—especially that remark about not wanting to lose me!

  My parents would be so proud. I wouldn't tell them the part about my legs. Maybe now Daddy would get off my back about living in the big, bad city.

  At lunchtime, humming "One Fine Day" by the Chiffons as I went about my work, I heard the elevator ding. The person who got off had me crashing back to earth.

  The Problem arrived in a low-cut, orange-sherbet-colored minidress a good two inches shorter than mine. Without a glance at me, she swept directly into Bradley's office as if she owned the place.

  Struggling not to let her bug me, I sat at my desk with its sunny yellow blotter, and tried to study the memo I had been typing for Debbie Ann's weekly grocery bill.

  It was useless. I looked at the woman in the mini- dress. She was the one giving me nightmares: Suzie Wexford, the agency's top model, a star whose every new photo shoot was eagerly anticipated by the whole country.

  "Bradley, darling, it's utterly lovely and so feminine. How did you know Tiffany's is my favorite little shop?" exclaimed Suzie, loud enough for me to hear. She was the stunning blond model Bradley had taken out every night this week, breaking his own rule of dating a girl only once.

  That's what really had me scared, worried to the point that I was grinding my teeth in my sleep. Surely Bradley was not ready to give up his bachelorhood, his key to the Playboy Club, his nights out with a string of blondes, his man-about-town reputation. Surely he wasn't prepared to settle down, with a model, no less.

  When he decided to marry, I was supposed to be the pure girl he turned to with a Tiffany's engagement ring. And my dreams were not groundless. A few weeks ago Bradley and I had shared a flaming-hot kiss, even though he apologized for it afterward and said there could be no office romances in his life. Suzie was repped by Ryan, but I guessed he didn't consider her an employee.