It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder

by Rosemary Martin

Vince led us to a table, placed the reserved sign facedown, and began his attack.

  "So, babycakes, you sure are looking wicked tonight," Vince oozed, his tacky cologne in full evidence.

  I pulled my skirt down over my knees. "This is an interesting place," I said, changing the subject. "I'm anxious to hear Mr. Diamond."

  "And I'm just happy to be with you."

  Saved! A waitress came up and took our orders. Vince requested a Manhattan. I asked for a Coke.

  Vince's eyebrows went up. "Babycakes, just a Coke? Come on, you're in one of New York's hot spots. Live a little."

  "I'm here on business, and I have to get home later. I have no intention of getting blitzed."

  Vince sighed dramatically.

  The houselights went down, leaving a spotlight on a bar stool in front of a redbrick background.

  A tiny, terrified girl with short brown hair, no more than seventeen, came on first. She wore a long cotton dress with a cactus print all over it. Despite her little- girl appearance, her strong voice, singing about the civil rights movement, held the audience captive. When she finished, she whispered that her name was Adele, and thanked everyone. A respectable round of applause made her smile and give a timid bow before she exited the stage.

  Vince whispered to me, "She's got no looks. No one's gonna sign her."

  "I thought she had great potential. Do you always sign acts based on their looks?"

  "Yeah."

  No wonder Vince hadn't gotten very far at Rip-City.

  A man came up to the bar stool next. I caught my breath. Handsome, with thick, dark, wavy hair, he wore a dark red turtleneck underneath a navy jacket.

  He smiled at the audience, making a shiver go up my spine, and said, "Hi, everybody, I'm Neil Diamond."

  A hearty round of applause met these words. Either Mr. Diamond had played the Bitter End before, or he was simply well-known among the Village coffeehouses.

  The room got quiet as he took his acoustic guitar and strummed a few notes. Then he opened his mouth and began to sing. The song, called "Solitary Man," was about a man who kept falling in love with the wrong woman and decided to remain on his own until he could find the right one.

  Totally entranced by his beautiful, rich voice and the lyrics of the song, I was sad when the song faded away with, "Mmm hmmm, solitary man."

  The crowd burst into loud applause.

  I grinned at Vince. "We've got to sign him. He's going to be a star!"

  "Girls don't go for his type. He's from Brooklyn."

  "Well, I'm a girl, and I think he's handsome and sexy," I countered, outraged at Vince's line of thought.

  "I'm tellin' you, babycakes, Neil Diamond will never amount to anything."

  I stood. "I've heard Mr. Diamond sing. He has enormous talent. I'll be giving my report to Mr. Williams."

  Vince looked surprised. "You're leaving me?"

  "Yes, I am. And in the future, Vince, don't call me 'babycakes' or 'muffin-cup' or any of those other offensive terms or I'll report you to Mr. Williams." So saying, I marched out of the Bitter End, feeling proud of myself for finally standing up to Vince—the devil with the consequences—and took the bus home.

  I stayed up for two hours writing my report to Bradley about Neil Diamond before going to bed exhausted.

  Sunday, I went to Mass, then came home and crashed. I couldn't get that kiss Bradley had given me out of my mind, or my heart. .

  Monday at the office was torture. I was behind in my work because of my absence Friday, and Bradley kept giving me more, plus I had to type the report on Mr. Diamond.

  Although his door was open, Bradley rarely spoke to me unless it was to give instructions regarding this letter or that chart or a phone call he wanted made.

  I decided I would not show him how miserable I was. If he could be businesslike, so could I. I kept a professional, pleasant manner, even though it was killing me.

  At lunchtime I escaped the heavy atmosphere, took the elevator downstairs, and ran out to the street for my daily guilty pleasure, a hot dog. Hoards of people seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere. Cabs honked. The air smelled like different foods cooking, mixed with exhaust fumes from trucks unloading goods. The excitement of New York City was all around me.

  I stood against my building, eating my hot dog and watching people go by. I treated myself to a bottle of Coke and took it back upstairs with me. No matter what happened with Bradley, I couldn't go back to Richmond. I loved New York City.

  There was a note on my desk from Bradley, saying he was going out to lunch and not to expect him back until around three. I held the paper in my hand and reread the words. Bradley often had business lunches that went on until two, but three? I wondered if he was meeting some woman for a few hours of pleasure. Stop! I crumpled up the piece of paper, threw it in the trash can, and told myself not to think such thoughts.

  I was transcribing a letter from dictation when Darlene called.

  "Hi, Bebe, how are you?"

  "Fine," I said, unable to share my sadness with her. After all, she was a suspect in a murder investigation. What were my bruised feelings about Bradley compared to that?

  "You were asleep last night when I came home," Darlene said, "so I didn't get to tell you that Stu and I are planning to go for drinks at the Legends tonight. We just want to see what's going on over there since Patty Gentry's death. Want to come with us?"

  "I don't want to be a third wheel," I said.

  "Bebe, don't be silly. Come on and meet us. You don't have other plans, do you?"

  "No, I don't have other plans." What other plans would I have?

  "Well, then, come on."

  I sighed. "Okay, but it's going to have to be late, because I have so much work to do. I probably won't get out of here until seven."

  "Stu and I will be waiting for you in the lounge."

  "All right," I said, and hung up the phone. At least I wouldn't be alone with my thoughts tonight.

  Bradley came back to the office at three fifteen. A faint odor of alcohol followed him. I heard him using his electric shaver in his executive bathroom. About twenty minutes later he emerged from his office with a fresh shirt on.

  "I'm leaving for the day, Miss Bennett."

  Already? She must be very enticing. I held back a sniffle. "Very well, Mr. Williams."

  "Have you finished the report I gave you?"

  "No, but I'm planning on staying late to catch up on all my work."

  "Fine. Just remember to lock the door when everyone else leaves at five."

  Then he was gone. In the bottom drawer of my desk I had an emergency Hershey candy bar. Now was the time for it if there ever was one.

  The afternoon went on, and slowly people began to leave. An idea formed in my mind, a childish one, but I couldn't help myself. When everyone was gone, I went into Bradley's office. In a half closet next to the executive bathroom hung several of his shirts. I opened the door and stood there gazing at the neat rows of cotton. Of its own volition, my hand crept up and touched the cuff of a white shirt. It was heavily starched.

  Suddenly I realized what I was doing and dropped the cuff. This was not the eighth grade! I was a grown woman, and grown women did not moon over their would-be boyfriend's shirts.

  I marched back to my desk and dug into work.

  It was when I was working on a letter from Bradley to Patty Gentry's boss when the lights in the office suddenly went out, leaving me in pitch blackness.

  For a moment I was too stunned to move.

  Then it hit me: I had forgotten to lock the door to the office. Someone had come in and turned out the lights!

  I couldn't see who was there. Frozen at my desk, I called out, "Who's here?" My voice sounded weak and frightened despite myself.

  My heart started beating hard. I could sense a figure coming right up to the glass partition next to my desk.

  Then a voice with a heavy English accent whispered, "You'd better watch yourself, bitch. Stop investigating or you'll b
e the next one to die."

  I sat there unable to move or speak, I was so terrified. He threw something on my desk that landed with a thud. Then I heard him hurry across the room toward the exit. The door closed with a soft swoosh behind him.

  Shaking all over, I got up from my desk, bumping into things in the dark, and stumbled over to lock the door. My fingers trembled on the simple lock, but I managed it. I found the light switch, and once more the office was lit.

  Then I raced back to my desk.

  I barely held back a scream.

  On top of the report I'd just typed for Bradley lay a dead rat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chilled to the bone and trembling, I put my hands over my face so I couldn't see the rat. Through the cracks in my fingers, I made my way into Bradley's office. I needed him.

  No! I was supposed to be a strong, modern woman. I could handle this myself. I started to walk back to my desk, but a noise in the hall made me jump.

  Okay, I couldn't handle it myself! But how to reach Bradley? I had his home phone number, but it was on my blotter, tucked into a corner. The blotter where the rat lay. And with my trouble with numbers, I couldn't remember it.

  I looked wildly around the office. Okay, calm down, I told myself. It's possible he has his phone number in here. I went to his Rolodex and flipped through it. Nothing under his name.

  Then I looked down at his desk. I cleared some papers away. There was a long list of phone numbers typed by a previous secretary. Thank God! I scanned the list: Bernadette, Susannah, Claudia, and it went on all the way down the sheet—all girl's names. Darn him!

  But at the end of the long list was the blessed word home.

  I picked up the telephone receiver, my finger shaking in the little round circles of the dial, and prayed he'd answer.

  On the third ring, he said, "Hello?"

  "Mr. Williams, this is Bebe. I mean, Miss Bennett."

  "Miss Bennett. Is there something wrong?"

  "Yes! You've got to come help me. There was a man, and it was dark, and he threatened me, and now there's a rat on my desk!" I rushed the words out, trembling.

  "Miss Bennett, are you hurt?"

  "No, he didn't touch me."

  "Is the door to the office locked?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you in my office?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll be there right away. Just sit in my chair or lie down on the sofa and take deep breaths."

  "Thank you. Please hurry."

  I tried to sit down, but couldn't. I paced the office, that menacing voice playing over and over in my head. Who could it have been? One of the guys in the band? Nigel? I didn't recognize it. But then, he had been whispering. Another chill ran down my body.

  Finally I heard the office door open. For a moment I was certain the bad man had returned. I looked around for something to defend myself with. Then Bradley came into the room. I forced myself not to run into his arms. He had on a pair of casual slacks and a black turtleneck. He looked sophisticated and sleek. Then I noticed he had a gun in his hand. I was afraid of guns even though Daddy kept an arsenal.

  "Come, sit down," Bradley said, leading me to the sofa. "Start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

  We sat down. I could hear the ticking of the clock on his desk. I folded my arms together. I couldn't get myself to talk.

  "Miss Bennett, would you like a drink?"

  I held my hand to my throat. "No, I can't stand the thought of drinking my Coke now that it's been sitting next to the rat."

  "I meant something a little stronger." He put the gun in the waistband of his pants, got up, and went to his credenza. From where I sat, I could see bottles of alcohol and glasses. He retrieved a shot glass and poured amber liquid into it. "This is just a little whiskey. Drink it slowly."

  I accepted the glass, our fingers touching. Slowly I sipped the contents. Warmth filled me as the liquid went down.

  "Better?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "All right. Now try again to tell me what happened."

  "I had finished typing up a sales report and was working on that last letter you gave me, the one to Patty Gentry's boss."

  "I remember."

  "All of a sudden the lights in the office went out. Everything was so completely dark, I couldn't see my hand in front of me. Then I realized there was someone in the office."

  "Didn't you lock the door like I told you to?"

  Ashamed, I remembered that I'd been busy mooning over Bradley's shirts and had completely forgotten about locking the door. "No, I forgot."

  Bradley sighed and said, "Then what happened?"

  "Someone came right up to the partition beside my desk. He spoke to me—no, he whispered. It was so creepy. I'll never forget it. He had a heavy British accent."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said, 'You'd better watch yourself, bitch,' and then, 'Stop investigating or you'll be the next one to die.' He threw that rat over the partition, and it landed on my desk. Only I didn't know it was a rat until after I heard the man leave, and I turned on the lights."

  "Dammit. He was warning you off snooping around the murders of Philip and Patty. He threatened your life."

  "I guess so."

  "Will this make you stop, Miss Bennett?"

  I straightened my shoulders. "No. These scare tactics won't work with me."

  "Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, but you called me for help, and you were quite hysterical."

  I thought fast. "That's because it's a man's job to deal with dead animals."

  "You were scared, as well you should be."

  "Well, anybody would have lost their cool. I'm okay now, though," I lied, my heart skipping and jumping in my chest.

  "I think we should call the police. They might be able to get fingerprints off the door to the office."

  "No! Don't call the police. The bad man probably had on gloves. No one would carry a dead rat with bare hands. And Detective Finelli would only lecture me again about being involved in the investigation."

  "Which would be appropriate," Bradley said firmly. "You're in over your head. That man had you at his mercy."

  "Could you just take the rat out of here?"

  Bradley stood up. "You're like a puppy with a sock in its mouth and someone is pulling the other end. Come on; I'll grab some newspaper and wrap the rat up. We'll go downstairs together. You've had enough here for one night."

  I waited until Bradley had the rat away from view. Holding my nose—the rat had left a stink—I got my purse and gloves from my desk drawer.

  Together we went downstairs.

  "I'll find a Dumpster and get rid of this. Are you all right to get a cab home alone?" Bradley asked.

  "Actually I'm supposed to meet Darlene and Stu over at the Legends," I said. "I'm late."

  Bradley shook his head. "Kid, I don't know what more I can say to you."

  "Thank you for helping me out tonight, Mr. Williams."

  "You're welcome. I just hope the next time you need help, I won't be too late."

  He waited until a cab stopped for me and saw me safely inside, then walked away. I turned around in the seat and watched him go.

  At the Legends, I headed straight for the lounge. Maria was working. She smiled at me. "Your friends are over there, Bebe. Do you want a drink?"

  "A ginger ale sure would taste good about now."

  "I'll bring it right over."

  "Bebe, you're almost an hour late," Darlene said.

  I sat down at the table. "Wait until you hear what kept me." Between sips of ginger ale, I told the story.

  Darlene gasped and shuddered. Stu looked at me seriously and said, "If you two are going to continue with this, you're going to have to really be on your guard. Maybe you've gone far enough. Threats from a killer are not to be taken lightly."

  Darlene got that militant look on her face, the one that said Back off, buster. She said, "We've gotten this far, okay? And just think: If the kil
ler is unnerved enough to threaten Bebe, we must be getting close."

  "What if he had decided to eliminate Bebe?" Stu said. "She was all alone, defenseless in that office. Have you thought of that?"

  "I won't make that mistake again," I promised.

  "Still, this is a dangerous business—"

  Darlene interrupted Stu. "Look who's just come in the door."

  We Jill three turned to see Astrid, carrying a full-length fur coat—even though it was in the fifties outside—and wearing a long red dress. She came into the lounge with a tall, well-groomed man of about fifty years old.

  Stu said, "I know him."

  But before he could tell us who he was, Astrid brought him over to the table. "Hello, everyone. This is Bill Siddons," she announced, running her hand down his arm. "He's the head of Siddons Modeling Agency."

  Greetings were exchanged all around. Stu and Bill recognized each other. Stu stood, and some backslapping followed.

  Then Astrid cooed, "Bill, darling, would you be a luv and get me a pack of ciggies? The machine is just down that hall."

  "Sure, baby," Bill said, and went to do her bidding.

  The minute he was away, Astrid turned to us, an ugly look on her face. "Well, you see, you stupid turnips from the South, Bill is my real alibi for the night of Philip's death. Sure, I would have taken Philip back, but the jerk wouldn't have me. And Peter is such a bore with all his anxieties."

  Stu said, "How did you hook up with Bill?"

  "I met Bill a year ago when he came to London looking for talent. I kept his number and called him the minute we landed in New York. He took me out to dinner—a long, lingering dinner that lasted until the wee hours of the morning, if you get my drift. We've been seeing each other ever since then. Now I've finally persuaded him to let me move in with him. He's signed me on as a model too. I'd been hedging my bets and Bill paid off. So your little murder investigation is over where I'm concerned. I even met with Detective Finelli today, and I'm off the suspect list. You underestimated how clever I am."

  "We underestimated what a slut you are," Darlene said.

  Astrid ignored her and turned to me. "If you had any sense, you'd be looking at Nigel. He's bitter as hell knowing Philip was going to fire him. Plus he tried to leave the country."