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

by Kal Smagh

  Freda and I exited the office and stood in the emptying stage area where Marcus Jacobs sat with his hand on his guitar, no longer playing, a look of loss on his face. A lorry with flashing police lights sent odd shadows casting rapidly across the room.

  Freda and I walked up to Jacobs. I said, "You weren’t half bad."

  He smiled at me. "What was all of that about in the office? And why does everybody have to leave?"

  "They're in trouble for stealing."

  "Stealing what?"

  "The song you were just singing. The one about panties."

  "Really? They brought that song to me just yesterday evening and I’ve been playing it and practicing it."

  I asked, "Did they tell you where it came from?"

  "No."

  Freda said, nodding her head to me, "It was from John Lennon." Then she shared a wide grin to me, "John Lennon."

  I said, "That much is true. Did they say anything about a song called Please Please Me?"

  "Yes. But that is a Beatles song."

  "That is true, too," Freda said.

  I asked, "Did they want you to play it?"

  "Record it."

  "Really? When?"

  "Tomorrow, downtown. But I wouldn’t do it. That’s stealing. I love those guys."

  Freda looked at him differently suddenly, almost with admiration.

  Marcus sought to clarify, "So they stole that Panties song? They sold it to me."

  Did I hear that right? I pounced, "They sold Pretty Panties to you?"

  "Yes. The fat one did."

  "When?"

  "Right before I came on stage. Said I couldn’t play it until I paid." He pulled a receipt from his pocket.

  "Is that for real?" I gasped. My god! That was the linchpin!

  Just then the three were led out of the office in handcuffs toward the entrance for the awaiting lorry. It’s flashing lights pulsed off their faces.

  I said, "Inspector, come here! The singer says that Mr. Henry sold the song to him."

  Mr. Henry’s scowl grew deeper. The inspector said, "Well then that adds to the charges."

  Mr. Prescott said, "Idiot! The singer is a poser without talent."

  Melanie said, "You sold it because we’re broke."

  Mr. Henry shouted, "Shut up! Both of you!" They were led out of the front door and loaded up in the wagon.

  I turned back to Marcus; he was wounded by the acidic comments. I said, "This crowd full of people thinks different about Marcus Jacobs after tonight."

  I saw my comments register on his face. And he smiled. "They did seem to get into it, didn’t they?"

  "It was obvious you won them over."

  He laughed loudly. "I’m no poser." Then he added, "I need to talk with John. To thank him and offer him money for the song. This could be my break."

  That hit me hard. This whole thing could not work out that the break went to Marcus and not the Beatles. It made me worry again that things still were not right.

  Freda and I walked towards the door and exited the foul-smelling bar for the wonderful sweet air of the street.

  I asked Freda, "You don't think he'll have a hit with Pretty Panties, do you?"

  Freda said, "Not a chance. He'd have to resell it, or definitely change the lyrics. No way that is being played on the radio. But, as long as the crowd sings louder than him he may actually have a career."

  And then we both laughed and I put my arm over her shoulder.

  She said, "I like boys."

  "So do I," I chuckled, "and I like you, as my best friend."

  CHAPTER 29: MR. EPSTEIN

  What was this, day five or six? I'd lost track. A week?

  I walked in our little office and Brian was there already talking to Freda. They both turned and looked at me.

  Freda said, "Look what the cat dragged in."

  "Am I late?" I checked my watch. It was just 9 AM.

  Brian said, the warmth in his voice palpable, "Freda has told me about yesterday and I’ve confirmed it with the inspector. I’m most grateful for your efforts. Sorry I doubted you for a moment."

  He patted me on my shoulder, happily.

  He continued, "And then also this morning the lawsuit has been dropped. And even better news," he held up a piece of paper, "This came in from London just this morning.

  "When?"

  "A few moments ago."

  I asked, "Is that what I think it is? What I hope it is?"

  He said, "You already know what it is, don’t you?"

  I did, but I wanted to hear him say it. "Go on," I pushed him as a 17-year-old girl can do.

  He grabbed the paper in both hands and read from it, "Your lyrics to Please Please Me are approved. We look forward to recording next week."

  When he looked up his face was flushed with excitement. He was even a small bit teary and then shook it away. He said, "There’s so much work to do. And this is such an opportunity. You’ve both done so well, I couldn’t ask for more."

  Freda said, "Don’t start bawling, Mr. Epstein. Then we’re all going to be blubbering before you know it."

  Just then we heard the postman drop bags of mail outside the door, landing with a whump on the ground. Two more whumps followed.

  "And to top it all, Love Me Do has risen to number 17 on the charts. This is momentous. So much more than we ever thought."

  Brian pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes and then stuffed it away. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his billfold, extracting money. Handing the pounds to me he said, "For your trouble. Please go buy yourself a new purse." He handed money to Freda and she accepted, smiling. "You and Freda both."

  "And," he pulled out more bills, "A reward for each of you." He handed each of us tens of pounds more. I felt my jaw fall open. It was easily worth a month or more of wages.

  With that Brian went out the door and suddenly we heard a loud clatter. I ran to the window; Brian was on the sidewalk, having tripped and fallen over a mail bag and then caught his footing, muttering, "Dammit!"

  I stifled a laugh, he looked so funny. This proper gentleman in a heap on the ground, spouting low obscenities.

  Then a moment later he called out, exasperated, "There’s mail out here, please."

  Freda called back from over my shoulder, loud enough so he could hear through the door, "We’ll get it now."

  I saw him walk away, the spring in his step returning. He was Brian Epstein, manager of the Beatles, and he had secured a record for the boys.

  Freda and I clasped hands and hopped around in a circle, giddy that we were past the danger and it looked like blue skies ahead even amid the late November clouds. I felt like I was hopping around on marshmallows, lighter than I had felt in days.

  Freda opened her desk drawer and took out a hard-backed book. "Look at this."

  "Is now when we begin reading?" I asked giggling.

  She opened up the front cover to reveal the inside of the book was hollowed out. Rather than pages inside there were a few wrapped chocolates. She said, "These are chocolate liqueurs, courtesy of Paul’s father. He’s been teaching me about nice things like this, coffee, and cheeses. He drops them off."

  "We’re underage for liquor."

  "Not for long."

  She held up the book/chocolate box and I extracted one and held it to my nose. We both unwrapped and then she popped one into her mouth and I did the same. Biting down we both started coughing at the same time as the alcohol burst forth.

  Accchhh!

  My throat was scalded.

  It took a moment to recover and then we giggled for two full minutes afterwards. Maybe it was too soon to grow up. Why would anybody want to with times as happy as these?

  I staggered to the door and pulled it open. I retrieved the overflowing bags of mail and a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds warming my face. Lugging it inside I set them on the desktop one at a time, sensing things were turning better.

  I was out of the doghouse with Brian. I had a bond w
ith my new sister and friend. I had an exciting job working for the boys who acted like rowdy brothers and played music like gifted maestros. What more could a girl want?

  I didn’t want for anything.

  But my mother still wanted a boyfriend for me. Maybe sometime later. I felt fulfilled and happy as myself. Belonging to a group of people who counted on me, and valued me for what I was right now.

  CHAPTER 30: IN FRONT OF THE CAVERN CLUB

  Setting up in front of the Cavern Club that evening the crowd was as spirited and animated as ever. The doorman let us have our bruised table and we were again overrun by zealous teenagers filling out the forms rapidly and exhausting our supply in record time.

  After we ran out of supplies, I snapped the table's legs in to break it down and returned it to the doorman. It was like clockwork and we were a well-oiled team after only these several days of working together.

  Freda said, "Do you want to go get a bite to eat?"

  "I’m going to try to sneak around and get in. Come with me."

  "You won’t have a chance. There is a side door, but they’ll only let bandmembers in."

  "But, have you ever gotten in over there?"

  "Yes, but the boys have to be there. And they’ve long since gone inside. You’d have a better chance trying to shove your way through the front door with the crowd."

  "I’m going to try." I felt a strange sense of conviction like I hadn’t felt before. And if I just kept after it, and was persistent, I would find a way.

  She shrugged, "Be my guest. I’m hungry. Back in a bit. If you get in, I’ll see you after the show back at the office."

  With that she walked off with her new white purse over her shoulder and disappeared down the street into an eatery.

  I looked at the Cavern entrance.

  A boy about my age came up to me, "Are you the Beatles girl from the papers?"

  "I might be."

  "You're prettier in person." I turned and he was smiling at me, freckle faced, with gentle green eyes. I smiled back, and thought for a split second to stay and have a chat. Mother would pounce on me with twenty questions if she heard wind of his interest. And take that, Ping! A boy was interested in me!

  But I had a mission.

  "I've got to go. Sorry, maybe another time," and then I walked around the block and came up the backside of the building to a door marked:

  ‘Stage entrance, Keep Out, Performers only’.

  A black jacketed doorman was stationed in front of it with a menacing look on his face. He had big muscles like the now arrested bouncer at the Splinter Bar, and I expect that was enough to keep most rabble-rousers away. But I was a teenage girl in the company of the most wonderful band in the world. I approached, "I’m with the Beatles."

  Delightfully, his voice was squeaky, a hilarious contrast to his size, "Right, little girl. So am I."

  "If you ask them, I know they’ll let me in."

  He scoffed, "Heard that one before. Why don’t you go back out front?" he sounded like a woman who’d breathed helium. I fought not to laugh.

  "Can you at least ask them?"

  "If I asked for you, then I’d have to ask for every other girl who comes to this door. I’d lose my job. So, the answer is no."

  I looked at him and weighed whether it was worth pleading further.

  It wasn’t. There would be another opportunity later. I hoped.

  I would have to be satisfied that I had headed off a plot to derail the Beatles and that their manager, my boss, was happy with me. I turned and slunk away down the alley. At least I had a new purse out of the deal. It was blue and had a zippered top so that no one could reach into it and grab papers out.

  I heard a sharp whistle behind me. Oh boy, someone is going to say something about ‘Beatles girl’, or Pretty Panties.

  I heard the same whistle again, phfwwwwt! This time I turned around and standing next to the doorman with his head leaning out the door was mop-topped Paul. He waved to me, and at the same time as I started to wave back, I heard several girls scream, "Paul McCartney!"

  I took off on a dead sprint feeling the other girls behind me several steps. But they were not gaining on me. My knee bruise and my swollen eye didn't matter now. I flew up the steps and through the door and into the back of the Cavern Club.

  Paul patted me on the shoulder, "Brian told us what you did. You’re with us now."

  He led me up the stairs and then down another set of stairs and opening the door there were the other three sitting in the dressing room in their show clothes, white shirts and thin black ties, shiny boots and wonderful shaggy hair. Ringo was putting on a vest.

  George said, "You’ve been a very naughty girl." He looked up at me, "You look like you’ve lost a pound."

  I wondered if it was worth it to tell him I’d eaten an entire cake by myself. Never mind.

  Ringo added, "It’s back to the record shop for you, troublemaker."

  John was wearing his glasses, and he looked at me with the most serious look I had seen. He asked, "Is it true that my song was popular, even after that hack Jacobs played it?"

  "Yes, it’s true."

  John exclaimed to the others, "I told you all there was money to be had in writing songs about ladies' knickers!"

  Paul said, sotto voce, "He says that all the time."

  There were two sharp knocks at the door, and then an enormous man wearing plastic glasses popped his head in. "Two minutes, boys."

  They picked up their guitars and walked past me into the hallway. I stood in the dressing room not knowing what to do.

  Paul said, "Maybe you better stay with us."

  George added, "For your own safety." Then he said to Paul, "This one hyperventilates."

  "You can be in the wings," Ringo said. "There’s not much room. And the floor will be jammed."

  Moments later they emerged on stage to loud cheers and wild shouts. It was small, the Cavern Club. We were in a basement and I was loving every second of what I felt. I was on the stage with the band, even if just in the wings.

  Paul called out "1, 2, 3, 4…!"

  Heads began bobbing immediately, knowing the song, the same one I'd heard just the other night, singing the chorus as one loud room of happy people.

  ...I Saw Her Staaaanding There!...

  With that they were off and running, driving drums reverberated off the walls and the house was rocking, pulsing and swaying and happy. I saw from up on the stage level into the commotion with a sense of bliss and excitement, feeling the chords and the driving bass drum and their voices raise me.

  The audience from my place on stage was a whirling kaleidoscope of colors, spinning and shaking, gorgeous and happy; the backs of the Beatles in my foreground playing their hearts out, in perfect synchronicity like they'd done this a hundred times.

  Teens in clothing of soft pinks and royal blues, deep reds and checkered whites, tinseled silver and bold black and ebullient golds flew about from all directions. Girls in flowered dresses and necklaces, boys in collared shirts, all atop a hidden brick floor and pressing to red walls.

  From stage left I felt the thumping music reverberating through me to my core, warming me within, and I was happy—compelled even—dancing harder than I ever had before, like I was a seven-year-old at a sunny-day social. Twisting, spinning, my hands overhead, my knees bent, shaking my backside.

  Only this was the Beatles.

  The Beatles!

  If I was the 500th Beatle when I started this job just a few days ago, now I know how wonderful it feels to be upgraded. Number 499, that’s me. I disregarded the jealous stares from a few of the girls in the audience, whomever they were.

  It feels so good to be here. Right here. Right now.

  #

  In my home in Florida, Inspector Tuffle said, "So my father arrested the people who were trying to steal from the Beatles. And you were accused of the crime, but he figured it out."

  "He detained me. Don't gloss over that."

  "To
let the sting happen?"

  "Sure." If that is what he wanted to call it. I still remember that cold police car and how afraid I'd felt in that moment.

  "He kept you out of harm's way, the way I see it."

  I smiled at him, this forty-something-year-old man, who had missed out on his father. "Yes, it’s true. Your father helped to save the Beatles."

  He sat back in his chair and clasped both hands behind his head. "I never thought I would hear a story as satisfying as this." Then he leaned forward, "And that was only the beginning for you, right?"

  "Yes. The very beginning."

  "You sound like you have more stories."

  "Oh, yes. So much more happened in 1963. They recorded that first album; they had their first number one single. They became regulars on the BBC. And as crazy as things were, they got even crazier."

  He leaned back in his chair, "Beatlemania."

  I nodded in acknowledgement.

  He smiled; his grin as wide as Florida is long. "You know, I don’t have to be home for a few days. I’d love to hear more. And, if you’re game, I’d love to see your photos."

  I took a sip of my tea, well past cold. I offered, "Did you know that the Beatles almost did not play for the Queen Mother?"

  Inspector Tuffle said, "I thought that they did play for the Queen."

  "Queen Mother, yes, they did. And Princess Margaret. But they almost didn’t. It was a whole to-do."

  #

  I once spoke to each of the Beatles about the opening chord to A Hard Day’s Night.

  You know. The one beckoning, Come with us!

  The chord heralding a convergence of colors and guitars and drums, then pivoting and rocketing into a brilliant lyrical chase...all this from old gray England. An anthem to draw frenzied fans along. A lightning bolt shooting down from the sooty sky to lift all around into the clear blue horizon; it filled me with molten electric energy, recalling the ushering-in of a new frontier, illuminating a path we’d all somehow discovered together. We, the young, and young-at-heart, were immediately thrust into a bold voyage forward with our aimpoint a fresh, new world, led by the fun loving Beatles.