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

by Rosemary Martin

  Darlene coughed. She reached over and took the jar of Vicks Vaporub, opened it, and waved it under her nose. The mentholated smell filled the room. "Um, I'm not sure."

  Mrs. Wainwright did not seem pleased. "We need you, Miss Roland, and would hate to have to keep assigning your flights to other girls. We wouldn't want you transferred to a smaller hub, say, Indianapolis."

  Darlene's eyes rounded. "No, I'm sure I'll be well enough to fly by Monday."

  My mouth dropped open, but I closed it before anybody could see. How could Darlene make such a rash promise when we didn't have the killer?

  Mrs. Wainwright's lips curved slightly, smoothing all the lines around her mouth. "Very good. One of the schedulers will call you Sunday with your flight information."

  Darlene nodded.

  Mrs. Wainwright turned and waited for me to show her out of the apartment. I led the way. "You know, Darlene has been very, very sick."

  "I'm sure she has. But once she's flying again, she'll feel much better. Nothing like work to set a girl straight."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Once she was gone, I heaved a sigh of relief. Darlene was still in bed, and I heard her crying. I rushed to her side.

  "Oh, Bebe, what am I going to do? They'll fire me for sure if I don't take the flight they assign me on Sunday. Or worse, send me out of New York, which would be just as bad as firing me. I worked hard to have New York as my hub."

  "Don't you worry. We'll have gotten you cleared with Detective Finelli by then."

  "How?" Darlene wailed.

  "I don't know for sure, but we will. Have some faith. And lots of drinks with Nigel tonight. Don't forget Nigel told me that Patty Gentry was a 'terror.' And remember that Philip was going to fire Nigel."

  "Okay. Thank you, Bebe. You're the best."

  I left her washing her face and headed to the office.

  It was a quarter to nine when I arrived at Rip-City.

  I made coffee and then poked my nose into Bradley's office. "Would you like a fresh cup of coffee, Mr. Williams?"

  "Yes, thank you, Miss Bennett. And some of those delicious cookies you brought in yesterday. I have a busy day lined up."

  Heh, heh. I knew the cookies would get to him. "Anything special?"

  "No, just more paperwork. And I have to talk to Mr. Purvis. I need his okay to fly to London and look for talent, now that we don't have the Beefeaters."

  "So you think Mr. Purvis still wants to jump on the British-Invasion bandwagon?"

  "Definitely. It's very hot right now, with no signs of letting up. The Beatles rule the country. The public wants more groups from England."

  "Well, I hope Rip-City can sign a British band." If he went to London, I wondered how long he would be gone. And if he liked girls with a British accent.

  I also thought about my scheme to help the remaining Beefeaters, and vowed to get on it today.

  After I brought Bradley his coffee and cookies, I returned to the reception area to find a stranger standing there.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "I'm looking for Bradley Williams's office," he said with a Midwestern twang.

  "I'm his secretary, Miss Bennett. Is he expecting you?" I tried to remain poised as he looked me up and down in obvious appreciation. A half smile played about his lips.

  "Trust Bradley to have a cute young secretary. Nah, he isn't expecting me. But he'll see me. I'm Drew Pruitt, his cousin."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Drew Pruitt was an average-looking man in his late twenties. I could see no resemblance between him and Bradley. Drew's forehead was square, but then his face angled in sharply. He wore a flashy Italian-cut suit and expensive leather shoes. Mama had taught me to check a man's shoes to tell if he had money. Drew did.

  Drew's auburn hair was slicked back on his head. Not a spot of dandruff or lint marred his suit shoulders. I knew from talks with Bradley that Drew ran a large chain of exclusive department stores, the flagship store being in Chicago. What could he be doing here?

  "If you'll have a seat," I said, gesturing to the olive- green chairs, "I'll let Mr. Williams know you're here."

  "Thanks. Hey, you're not from New York, are you?"

  "No, sir. I'm from Richmond, Virginia."

  Drew let out a chuckle. "Bradley's been reduced to importing secretaries from other states. How amusing. But I'm charmed by your accent."

  "Thank you," I replied stiffly, not liking what he said about Bradley.

  He sat down. I went to Bradley's office.

  "Yes, what is it, Miss Bennett?"

  "Your cousin Drew Pruitt is here to see you."

  Bradley looked up from a Billboard chart he'd been reading. "What did you say?"

  I closed the door behind me. "A man calling himself Drew Pruitt is here to see you. He talks with a Midwest accent and wears gangster-looking Italian-cut clothes."

  Bradley put the chart down. "I can't imagine what would bring him here from Chicago. He's one of the three of us competing for control of Uncle Herman's empire, you know."

  I decided then and there that I did not like Drew. "Do you want me to send him in, or tell him you're too busy to see him today?"

  "No, no, I'll see the weasel. Give me five minutes. And close the door behind you."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams."

  Out in the waiting area, Drew had made himself comfortable. He'd lit a cigar and was reading the newspaper.

  "Mr. Pruitt, Mr. Williams will see you in about five minutes. May I bring you some coffee while you're waiting?"

  He gave me the once-over again, his gaze lingering on my legs. "Sure. I take it with cream and four sugars. I like sweet things." He winked at me.

  I ignored this bit of flirtation and went to get his coffee. Behind me I could hear that Vince had come into the room and was greeting Drew. Darn Vince. He had antennae when it came to trouble.

  When I returned with the coffee, I saw that Vince had a big smile on his face, but that Drew was basically ignoring him. Why would Vince be schmoozing Drew? Unless he thought Herman Shires was about to replace Bradley with Drew? The coffee cup shook in my hand.

  "Ah, here she is with my coffee," Drew said, and took a sip. "Just the way I like it."

  Vince gave a big cheesy grin. "Yeah, muffin-cup—I mean, Miss Bennett—is something special. She's refused a date with me so far, but I think I can change her mind."

  Drew's eyes narrowed at Vince's words. "She looks bright and intelligent to me. Perhaps she'd prefer someone higher up in the company. Like me."

  Vince frowned.

  Not knowing where to look, I said, "I'd better go back to my desk. Mr. Williams will be buzzing me when he's ready to see you, Mr. Pruitt."

  Drew stubbed out his cigar and saluted me with his coffee cup. Vince followed me back to my desk. "So how about it? When are you going to let me show you a good time?"

  I straightened papers on my desk, not meeting his gaze. "As I've told you before, Mr. Walsh, I don't date coworkers. Period."

  "You need to break that rule. I can show you how to break a lot of rules—"

  I was thankful when the buzzer on my phone sounded. I jumped for it. "Yes, Mr. Williams?" I paused to listen to him. "Right away."

  "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Walsh." I got up from my chair before he could say anything else.

  After I opened the door to Bradley's office, I turned to leave, but to my surprise Drew grabbed my arm. "No need to go anywhere, Miss Bennett."

  I looked to Bradley.

  Bradley said, "Drew, what brings you to New York? And let go of my secretary."

  Drew smirked, but released me. "I have a report to make up. Your cute secretary can take notes."

  Bradley kept his cool, but I could tell he was not happy to see Drew. They were rivals, after all. And even though it sounded snobbish, I thought Drew was not in the same class as Bradley.

  Bradley said, "All right, we'll play this your way for now. Come in and close the door. Miss Bennett, do you mind staying?"

/>   "No, Mr. Williams."

  Bradley held a pencil between his two index fingers and looked at Drew. "What's this all about?"

  "What, no small talk, no 'How've you been, cousin'?"

  "We aren't exactly on close terms, Drew. So spit it out. Why are you here?"

  Drew leaned back in his chair and smiled in a predatory way. "Uncle Herman agreed to my suggestion that I come and find out what the hell you're doing with Rip-City." He turned to me. "Get out a pad and take notes."

  I looked to Bradley for approval. He passed me a pad and pencil. "Go ahead, Miss Bennett. I want a record of this meeting as well."

  Bradley turned back to Drew. "You say Uncle Herman agreed to your suggestion. Then it wasn't his idea that you come here."

  Drew took a sip of his coffee and put the cup on Bradley's desk. "He's concerned, Bradley, old boy."

  "Funny, he hasn't called me," Bradley said.

  "Maybe he wants someone else's opinion."

  "Maybe you just wanted to come here and cause trouble," Bradley shot back.

  Drew put his hands in the air in a gesture of innocence. "Hey, I'm not the one who parties all the time, not growing up, not meeting my responsibilities."

  "And you think I am? You think I've neglected my duties at this company?" Bradley dropped the pencil to the desk, got up, and leaned against his desk, looking down at Drew.

  "Face facts," Drew continued. "You went over to London on the company's dime, and spent what? A month? Then you came back to the States after signing this Beefeaters band. No sooner had they landed here than the lead singer was offed."

  "It was two weeks, and I signed a talented band that had a lot of stage presence and already had hits in Britain. There was no way for me to know that Philip Royal would die."

  Drew raised a brow. "Die? Don't you mean be murdered? And the killer is still on the loose. What a publicity nightmare, Bradley."

  "I'm handling it."

  "You are? Is that why that woman reporter was murdered after she wrote an unfavorable article about Rip- City dropping the album? Did you have her wiped out? Is that your way of handling things?"

  Bradley took a step closer to Drew. Drew stood. The two men held a staring contest. I hadn't written a word, too angry at Drew to record his accusations.

  Bradley said, "Maybe that's the way you take care of things in your company in Chicago, but it's not my way. I have no idea who killed Philip Royal or Patty Gentry."

  "Is that so? Then how hard can it be to find out? Did you hire a private investigator?"

  "The police are handling it. My job is to move the company forward."

  "You know what I think, Bradley? I think you're too afraid to have anyone else take a good look at what's going on and how badly you've screwed up."

  "I don't like you, and I don't like your accusations," Bradley said.

  "Face it, old boy, you're down for the count on this one. Maybe if you didn't spend company time screwing anything in a skirt, tempting as Miss Bennett here is—"

  All of a sudden Bradley used his right fist to punch Drew in the face. The move caught Drew off guard. He fell to the floor.

  I stood up.

  Drew was on the floor holding his bleeding nose. I probably should have gotten him some tissues, but I found I didn't want to. I said to Bradley, "You know, Mr. Williams, I can still smell a rat in here."

  Bradley straightened his tie and looked at Drew like he was a roach on his floor. "Get up if you want some more."

  Drew didn't move.

  "If Uncle Herman wants to know anything at all about Rip-City, he can call me," Bradley said. "Or I will go to him in Palm Beach and report in person. In fact, I think I will call him and tell him about your visit. He didn't send you. You came on your own for your own selfish reasons. And that's how I expect you to leave. On your own. Right now."

  Drew pulled a white handkerchief out of his top pocket and wiped his bloody nose. He got up, a cold, hard look in his eye. For a moment, I was worried he would strike Bradley in return. But instead he made his way to the door.

  In the doorway, he turned and said, "Uncle will hear about this from me too. You can be sure of that. I've got plenty to tell him. And you can kiss good-bye any chances you have of being left the one in control when Uncle dies. Alfred isn't doing anything to put himself forward. He's too content with his family out in LA, running that movie studio. So it's between you and me, Bradley. And I'm definitely the best man for the job."

  With those words, he walked out of the office.

  Bradley sat down in his chair. "Miss Bennett, I'm sorry you had to witness that, and I apologize for my cousin's inappropriate remark about you. Drew is obviously being very aggressive in seeking Uncle's favor."

  I stood there, chewing my bottom lip. I wanted to comfort him. "Drew Pruitt is a jerk! You're a good man, Mr. Williams. Good men always win out over jerks."

  He let out a laugh. "Do you really believe that, Miss Bennett?"

  "Yes, I do."

  Bradley rubbed a hand over his face. "Go on back to work, kid."

  It was hard leaving him, but I did. Ideas swirled in my brain. Darlene needed me. Bradley needed me, whether he would admit it or not.

  I wouldn't let either of them down.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After Drew left, Bradley closed his door, telling me he had work to get done. Possibly he would call his uncle now.

  I sat at my desk and made a phone call. The secret plan I had for the band—assuming there were no complications in the form of one of them being the killer— advanced. After slipping a copy of the Beefeaters' demo in my purse, I took a trip down to the Village that night to a particular person's studio.

  After a long talk, and some skillful negotiation, I came away feeling quite pleased with myself. There was hope for the Beefeaters yet.

  I whistled and a cab stopped for me. It didn't smell too good, but I took it anyway. The cab whisked me through traffic to my apartment. The driver was particularly aggressive. I had to close my eyes three times as he veered close to other cabs. The windows were open and he cursed other drivers and used his his horn liberally. I was glad to reach my apartment in one piece.

  I turned the key in the lock of our apartment and found Darlene sitting on the pink sectional. She was wearing her purple lounging pajamas with the pant legs rolled up. She squeezed a tube of first-aid cream and spread it thickly over her badly skinned knees.

  "What on earth happened to you?" I cried.

  "Someone knocked me down and threatened to kill me."

  I immediately sat next to her. "Oh, my God! How awful. Are you all right?"

  Darlene gently pulled her pant legs down over her knees and rolled up her sleeves. Her elbows were scraped raw too. She applied cream to them. "I'm fine. I had finished with Nigel and went to hail a cab. I couldn't get one in front of the pub and decided to walk down the block to the cross street."

  "Oh, is that what you do when you can't get a cab? It makes sense, now that you mention it."

  "Bebe, you've lived in New York for over a month now and haven't figured out that you can catch a cab easier on the cross street than in the middle of the block?"

  "Hey, tonight I actually whistled and got a cab. Just tell me what happened."

  "As I walked along, suddenly someone—a man—came up behind me and shoved me hard to the ground."

  "Goodness! Did he take your purse?"

  "No. He said, 'Watch your step, bitch. Stop investigating.' And he had a British accent, just like the guy who broke into your office, Bebe."

  I sat with my heart beating hard, imagining how Darlene must have felt. "He had to be the same person."

  "I agree. Everything happened very fast. But I got up and tried to run after him. I saw him go around the corner. He'd knocked the wind out of me, though. When I ran after him in my heels, I tripped over some broken pavement and went down again. The bastard disappeared."

  "Poor Darlene, your elbows and knees. And you must have been so fr
ightened."

  "Frightened? I was mad as hell!" Darlene looked at me with her eyes blazing. "I could have caught the bastard. But he escaped."

  I touched her arm. "It sounds like you did your very best."

  "My best failed. Don't you see, Bebe? I could have had him. I could have had him." Tears welled up in Darlene's eyes, but she dashed them away.

  "Let me get us some of that chocolate cake you brought home from the bakery yesterday. Can you make it into the kitchen?"

  "I'm okay." She got up and walked stiffly into the tiny kitchen and sat at the table.

  I got out the white bakery box and cut us each a generous slice of cake. Putting a plate and fork in front of Darlene, I said, "Detective Finelli, Stu, and Bradley have all said we should stop trying to find the killer. That it's dangerous. Now the killer has managed to catch both of us off guard and threaten us."

  Darlene swallowed a mouthful of cake. "You don't think that's going to stop me, do you?"

  "No, not any more than it's going to stop me," I said. "It just means we need to keep the men out of this if we can. We don't want them interfering. For some reason they don't think we're capable of taking care of ourselves."

  Darlene nodded. "I'll have to tell Stu I fell on the apartment steps."

  My brows came together. "How is Stu going to see your arms? It's chilly outside. We're still wearing long sleeves."

  Darlene smiled a wicked grin.

  I held up my hands in surrender. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Tell me, do you think Nigel could have come out of the pub and pushed you?"

  "It's possible," Darlene said. "The man who shoved me had on a trench coat and a hat worn low. Nigel had been wearing a trench coat, but so do a lot of men."

  "What did Nigel say in the pub?" I asked, digging into my slice of cake.

  "Things have gotten worse with the band cooped up."

  "Cooped up? I just went on a wild ride with them after midnight on Tuesday," I reminded her.

  Darlene shrugged. "Apparently it wasn't enough. Nigel says Peter is stuffing himself with tranquilizers since Astrid left him.

  "Keith went to a supper club last night, got drunk, and was outraged when people there didn't recognize him. The police came, took him away, and threw him in the drunk tank.