A Cozy Beatles Mystery: Larceny in Liverpool (A Cozy Beatles Mystery Series Book 1)

by Kal Smagh

  She set down the pieces of paper and looked at me squarely, "Helen. Are you doing this on purpose?"

  She was dead serious.

  I felt icy, awkward. A cold sweat came up on the back of my neck.

  She continued, her tone pleading, trying to get through my thick head, "We have so much mail. And now I need to get this magazine together to go out to all of these fans."

  What could I say? Out of options I sought to shift attention to the magazine and away from my calamities. "When does it have to go out?"

  She sniffed inward, resetting her focus to the tasks at hand, "We are aiming to go to the printers by the end of the month and then to have it mailed out before Christmas."

  We looked at one another and then she turned back to the magazine. The morning went on with each of us in our own bubble of tasks. She worked on the magazine, and I worked on the mail and it was largely quiet in the office throughout the hours and then the phone rang.

  Freda took the call. After listening silently, she said, "Well, now there’s more. The police are coming to visit Brian. Do you know what that’s about?"

  I could have shared a guess, but at this point was afraid to incriminate myself. It was all looking very bad. I just shrugged.

  She said, "Brian just said he’ll call back over here afterward. For you."

  I bit my bottom lip and turned back to the mail, my mind racing. Why would he wait to talk with me instead of talking to me first? He didn’t trust me, that’s why. I felt an awful creep of dread rising in my chest.

  We worked up until lunchtime, each moment growing my anxiety, and then she took out a sandwich and ate at her desk while she continued to play with the designs for the magazine.

  I said, "I’m going to get a sandwich. Would you like me to bring you anything?" As I finished saying the words the phone rang out, puncturing the stillness in our mail room. We both looked at it as it rang a second time.

  Freda suggested, "Why don’t you pick it up this time?"

  I picked up the black receiver, feeling it weigh heavy in my hand. "Hello?"

  Brian said, "Helen, please report to my office. Immediately."

  CHAPTER 23: BRIAN’S OFFICE

  I stepped outside the office door with my coat on and looked where I’d placed the post. The letter was still there and there were no new mail bags delivered yet. The postman had not been to us.

  I trudged across the way and to Brian’s office. Entering his outer office I said hello to his secretary.

  From inside his office, I heard him speaking into the phone.

  "That’s incorrect. It is the Beatles’ song...no, they’ve been working on it already…" He was exasperated, "...you’re not correct…" It went on for another minute and then he hung up.

  Stonefaced, he waved me in with a single sharp flick of his wrist. His office was brightly lit and the furniture was finely polished wood. It was just as I had pictured it would be.

  He pointed to a chair, his composure obviously rattled, "Please be seated, Helen."

  I felt like in the principal's office, impossible to relax.

  On the edge of my seat, Brian continued from his chair behind his desk. "I was visited by an Inspector Tuffle today." He must have seen the wave of fear cross my face.

  "You know him then, yes?"

  "I've spoken with him."

  "Outside the Splinter Bar. On the night your purse, and the lyrics, were stolen."

  "Yes."

  "He’s indicated you’ve also had contact with the owner of that establishment and the lady accompanying him. Is this true too?"

  "Yes."

  How did they know that?

  He sighed and knotted his brows. "Then you knew about my lunch with the banker. Things others wouldn’t know."

  As I nodded, he picked up the newspaper and folded in a quarter was my photo with the caption "Beatle Girl". He said, "I’ve taken five calls today from the media wanting to know who is dating Paul McCartney."

  I felt so small and so visible under the spotlight at the same time. I looked down at my clunky shoes. The same shoes I'd run away from danger in last night.

  "Look at me, Helen."

  I lifted my head to see how serious he was.

  "And now, in the minutes since I called you over, I’ve just taken a call from an attorney who says the Beatles have stolen a song from a local singer."

  My stomach fell. "Stolen? How?"

  "I don’t know how it came about. But with that news I now have a lawsuit on my hands."

  Lawsuit? Why would...then it all came together in my mind.

  Of course, Melanie Bumpus and Earl Henry, and likely Wayne Prescott, had gone on offense so that they could have more time to record, and prevent the Beatles from recording, Please Please Me. I struggled to talk, "I...don’t know what to say…"

  He turned to look out the window. "This is awful news. Just awful."

  To an outsider it would likely not be clear that Brian’s use of the word ‘awful’ was a deep admonishment. Just in the year I had known him this was the lowest of the low. He was so disappointed in me. It was as if the skies had turned black and the lights had been blown out. I felt a bitter cold sweeping the room, settling into my bones. Suddenly lightheaded, an aching growing in my chest, I felt like a trapped deer feels before being devoured by an angry leopard.

  Wait, maybe it wasn't so bad. I was probably exaggerating. I tested, "What song?"

  "Please Please Me! The song stolen from us in your purse." He rubbed his eyes, anguished, then looked up to the ceiling. Now I was just plain insulting him.

  "How can that be? You’ve recorded it already."

  "A different version. The one the boys are working on now is different than that. Jazzed up. It’s more catchy.” He rubbed his forehead and lit a cigarette. "If the boys cannot record next week, then this whole effort is ruined. Do you see what a mess you’ve caused talking with them? With everyone?"

  Words escaped me. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders.

  "I knew it was bad news that the Splinter Bar and Wayne Prescott were involved. Now with their aggressive act it will stop our momentum."

  "You have other songs. You can still--"

  "--This is the one EMI wants. The one George Martin wants."

  "Who is he?"

  "You don’t know him. But he’s all I’ve got, and he claims it’s going to be a hit." He rubbed his hands together nervously, "I’ve worked so hard... these windows of opportunity are so narrow. We must make that appointment next week."

  I scrambled to think of a way to help. All options evaded; my head was swimming.

  "I’d like it if you would take some time today. Go for lunch and linger. Think about how you may improve. Then come back later and help Freda. That’s where I need you to help the most. I have to consider your employment. I will try and talk to the attorneys."

  I stood up.

  He continued, "Don’t talk to anyone else. And stay away from Wayne Prescott and his bloody Splinter Bar."

  I tried to shift his anxiety, asking, "Did you get the lyrics from John?"

  "I did. They've been sent by registered courier to EMI in London this morning. Hoping to hear positive news later today or tomorrow. But it won’t matter if we are prevented from recording. EMI won’t touch us again."

  "I feel so bad."

  He looked up at me, his face registering how incredibly stressed he felt, "It is bad. So now, please step away for a few hours. I need to consider what we do from here."

  At the door he added, "I need to warn you, Helen. This may be the end of your work here."

  I excused myself and staggered outside. The rain from yesterday had turned to frozen pellets falling from the sky, pelting me with tiny thwacks as I walked away utterly devastated. Plodding down the block I crossed at the corner, the cold turning icy. Past another intersection I found a bakery and went inside to escape. The smell alone made me feel only one percent happier. Right now, I would take it. A full three percent tota
l was an appreciable difference. The other ninety-seven percent would not be overcome. Not now.

  I looked at the display case and its contents of powdered sugar donuts, flaky cherry red fruit tarts, and cakes frosted in off-white buttercream.

  "You look like you’re having an awful day, young lady. How can I help you?" How pathetic was I that strangers were remarking on it?

  "I am." I held back a tear but felt it brimming in my eye. "It’s a lousy day."

  "It sounds like you need a piece of cake."

  I sniffed, pointing at the case, "I’d like that one."

  "A slice, coming up."

  "Not a slice. All of it."

  I walked to a small table far away from the windows and was served a full, round, two-layer cake with sliced almonds over buttercream frosting. Inside the first bite and every one afterward I tasted light and moist chocolate. As I ate, I thought about Freda working while I slowly inhaled loads of sugar and fat, and felt very guilty. Her happiness percentage couldn’t be much higher, and Brian’s was not even registering, if even out of the negative place I had put him.

  CHAPTER 24: JOHN’S LETTER

  I trudged back. It had been an hour since I’d left Brian’s office. There was work to do.

  Standing on the street corner, I waited for traffic to reduce before attempting to cross back through the intersection. A dark police car pulled up swiftly, stopping in front of me in the median. It was Inspector Tuffle, with the wide forehead, and he pointed emphatically, yelling through his rolled up window in the chilly air, “Proceed to the corner.“ Cars and lorries backed up behind him, some honking in the distance who could not see it was a police car blocking traffic.

  I did as I was told walking past the front of his vehicle. He pulled around behind me cutting diagonally across yielding traffic. Parking on the corner he got out of the squad car, his dark uniform made me afraid.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why? Did you find the envelope?“

  "I’m asking the questions here. It seems those missing lyrics all lead back to you."

  I was flabbergasted, "How can that be? I had my purse stolen. You heard me." I wasn't good at not asking questions it seemed.

  “We looked through the rubbish bins in the area and there was no trace of a purse. The theory now is you had somebody take it on purpose and run away with the goods. You kept us questioning you while your accomplice headed for safety."

  "Do you even think that's true?"

  He blinked several times, impatient with my queries, "I’m going to have to take you in for questioning."

  "What for?"

  "You'll see."

  My blood turned as cold as the whipping wind, and I felt my jaw hanging open in disbelief. He pointed to the back of the car and I did as I was directed, my legs incredibly heavy; he opened the backseat of the police car. The dark seat felt cold on the backs of my legs.

  Before he closed the door he glanced up the block, then squinted at me, extremely serious, “Are you going to behave? If so I won’t put any handcuffs on you."

  I started, "It's just, why--?"

  "--Handcuffs? Young lady?"

  Unable to speak I shook my head. I was so angry and afraid at the same time with Inspector Tuffle, who seemed convinced I was the robber. I felt a terrible pit in my stomach. He closed the door with a thud and I sat in the back of his frigid police vehicle feeling alone and fearful. I watched him walk around the car through the windows, and he entered behind the steering wheel, radioed that “he had the suspect”, put the car into gear and entered traffic driving the opposite direction of NEMS.

  How did I become a suspect?

  What would I tell my mother and father? I couldn’t just blurt out I’d been arrested by the police...is that what one did? How do you start that conversation? Would it be, 'Hullo, father...guess where I am right now?' My father would be livid; I pictured him coming unglued, his face turning red. Mother would burst out into tears and wail so loud the neighbors would come running. Her hair would be bursting out the sides wildly before I'd spoken another sentence.

  Worst, no one would believe me. No one did believe me.

  I said to Inspector Tuffle up front, "You're making a mistake."

  "I'm not."

  "You are," I insisted. I wasn't going to let this misjustice take place. "I don't have any friends."

  "What does that mean?"

  "No one was my accomplice. I don't have any."

  He shook his head, just one dismissive snap, and drove onward. "You can tell it down at the station."

  The inspector drove forward a few blocks, turned left and went down a few blocks.

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Not under arrest."

  "Then why are you taking me to the station?"

  I saw him sigh, drawing in a great breath and letting it bellow out. He didn't respond.

  He sure was taking the long route to the station. We'd been driving for a while.

  A sharp crackling sound from up front made me jump out of my seat. He picked up a handset and took a static filled call from the radio. The speaking was so fast and stark I couldn't catch what was even stated from the other end.

  He responded, "Acknowledged."

  He turned left again and came back a few blocks and then to my surprise pulled over on the side of the road where he had first picked me up, completing a circle. Stopping the car on the side of the roadway he leaned over the seat, "I’ve got a more important call I’ve got to go on. Because of that I’m going to let you out. Mind that you stay in Liverpool in case I need to come back and pick you up again."

  What? I was completely baffled. What sense did this make? I reached for the frozen handle but it didn't work. Of course, it didn't; then anyone could just run away which was exactly what I felt like doing.

  He exited the vehicle and came around and opened my door. I stepped out feeling the cold wind hit my cheeks, this time a welcome slap to the face. My adrenaline was still pumping and the buttercream sugar was still coursing in my veins.

  Inspector Tuffle pointed in the direction of my work, “Go back to your office. I might be in contact with you again.“

  Completely afraid I began my lonely walk back. It had now been three hours since I'd left. I was embarrassed and at a loss to explain what just happened to me. It was better that nobody else knew this. Brian was already prepared to fire me. I didn't need to lose my only friend, too.

  The postman was delivering three bags of mail and putting them by the door.

  Wow! The letter was gone from where I’d put it. I asked the postman, "Did you take the envelope from here?" I pointed.

  "Where?"

  "Here," I pointed again.

  "There was no letter there. None to pick up."

  I picked up a mail bag and went inside. Freda was at her desk, as usual.

  "Oh, good. More mail for us."

  Us. She said ‘us’. Perhaps I wasn’t fired.

  I retrieved the other two bags. Together we sorted through them and continued our ritual of stacks and oddball requests. I asked, "Do you even want to know where I’ve been?"

  "I know already."

  "Really? How?" Did the bobbies come here first to look for me?

  "You’ve been to a bakery."

  "No! How’s it you know that?" Was everyone watching me?

  "You have frosting on your blouse."

  I looked down and on my blue shirt was a smear of white frosting. I hadn’t absorbed all the cake it seemed, though my stomach was feeling full, and still a bit queasy. I wasn't sharing any more than I needed to. If she wanted to think I'd only been to the bakery that was fine with me. I needed to turn the conversation, and the letter I'd left was intriguing. "I have a question for you."

  "Go ahead."

  "Did you take an envelope off of the door?"

  "When? Today?"

  "Today. After I went to visit Brian."

  "No."

  I believed her.

 
Squinting at me she asked, "Why? What was it?"

  "Don’t kill me."

  Her jaw stuck out, "What won’t I kill you for now?"

  "It was fake lyrics. From John and the boys. I got them yesterday from them."

  "Fake? What does that mean? Fake lyrics."

  "Words to a made-up song. As bait for the Please Please Me bandit."

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  I said, "Since it’s missing, someone’s stolen them."

  "The postman could have taken them."

  "Spoke to him just now. He said there was nothing there. It was gone before he got here."

  Freda thought for a moment, registering what I was telling. She asked, "Who took it?"

  "I don’t know. But I know how to find out."

  "Oh, no you don’t. What did Brian tell you?"

  "Go away and then come back and work."

  "Does this match his direction?"

  "The first part, yes. But overall, no."

  "Then stop it."

  "I can fix things."

  "You’ve fixed enough, don’t you think?"

  She opened a pouch and dumped out a hundred or more envelopes on the desk between us, perfumes rising in the air, some heavier than others, containing gifts. I took a stack and began sorting piles as well. This went on for several minutes. Then Freda asked, "I can’t let you cock things up any further. At least not alone. Where?"

  "Splinter Bar." She was joining me?

  "We can’t get in there. We’re underage."

  "I think we can get in. We’ll need to wear disguises."

  "Disguises. For both of us?"

  "It’s not safe alone."

  "It’s not safe even if we’re together. It’s a filthy pit."

  "Why go? What difference is it if we have John’s lyrics? The Beatles have what they need to record."

  "Yes. But there are people working against Brian. He was really stressed out about a lawsuit. We can stop them."

  She looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was.

  "What is your plan?"

  "I don’t know yet," I admitted.