"I'm glad to hear that." I put as much authority as I could into what I said next. "Woman to woman, Lola, between now and when we leave, you should stay away from alcohol. It makes a girl look bloated, and you're so pretty, we wouldn't want that to happen. I went to bat for you, and don't want to come off looking like a fool."
"I get your drift, Bebe. I'll stay off the sauce, no problem. Now that Suzie's croaked, I think my life will be taking a real good turn for the better."
We went over the details of the trip, and Lola was easy to please on every issue and thrilled that she'd be working with Pierre again. The whole time I talked to her, I couldn't help thinking about how much Lola had to gain from Suzie's death and how different she acted now that Suzie was dead.
At lunchtime I thought it best to bring over one of the girls from the typing pool to cover the phones. I intended to go by Pierre's, and I didn't know how long I'd be gone.
I called Mrs. Seeds, who was in charge of the girls, and put my request to her.
"Let me check and see who is available, Bebe. Hold on one moment."
I sat with the phone propped up to my ear, tidying papers on my desk and laying out a fresh telephone message pad.
Finally Mrs. Seeds came back on the line. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Girls can get such crazy ideas in their heads. Danielle will be right over."
"Thanks," I said, and hung up.
Bradley was still behind closed doors in his office.
He must be reassuring clients. I'd bet he'd also called his uncle Herman.
My thoughts were interrupted when a tiny young woman walked slowly down the hall until she reached me. She wore a modest white blouse and blue skirt and had pretty dark hair. She said, "I'm Danielle. Mrs. Seeds said I was to come here and answer the phone for you while you're at lunch."
"Thanks for coming, Danielle. There are just three lines," I said, showing her the phone. "These two are for general calls to the agency, and the third is Mr. Williams's private line. Don't use that one if you need to use the phone. If any calls come in that sound like reporters, anyone asking about Suzie, don't give them any information. Your reply should be that Ryan has no comment on Suzie Wexford's death other than to express sorrow for her loss. Okay?"
Danielle's hazel eyes widened. "Yes." She looked over toward Bradley's door. "Is he ... in there?"
Obviously she'd read the newspaper and come to the conclusion that Bradley was a cruel murderer, roaming the halls of Ryan Modeling looking for fresh young girls, like a scene from one of those paperback slasher books.
"Danielle, Mr. Williams is a good man, and he didn't kill Suzie. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You'll see when the police arrest the real killer," I said, and smiled.
Danielle nodded and took her place in my chair.
Just as I was about to leave, the phone rang. Looking ruefully at Danielle, I said, "Here, I'll get that one.
"Ryan Modeling Agency, Miss Bennett speaking."
"Bebe, it's Gloria."
"Hi, Gloria, I've been trying to get in touch with you," I said, turning and making sure Bradley's door remained closed.
"I've been busy doing makeup for Edie Segwick. Did you know she dyed her hair silver to match Andy Warhol's? Hey, what was that news you were going to tell me at the fair? A date?"
"Yes, I'm going out tonight to the Phone Booth with a male model I met, but I wanted to talk to you about Suzie's death."
"Good riddance!" Gloria said, and laughed. "You can't live wild like she did without putting yourself in danger. Wonder who killed her? Do you happen to know?"
"No!"
"You don't have to yell in my ear," Gloria complained. "I'd like to shake the killer's hand, even though I'll lose some money not working for Suzie, but I'll make it up."
"I don't know who did it," I said, noting that a second person on my suspect list sounded cheered by Suzie's murder.
"Guess Suzie's secrets died with her. Bet it was one of those very secrets that got her killed," Gloria said.
"I love juicy secrets," I said, thinking about Jeff, the high school sweetheart, and Roberts, the photographer guy. "When can we get together and grab a burger?"
"Gee, I'm booked all tomorrow; then Wednesday we're going to the Virgin Islands."
"You'll be at the memorial service for Suzie, won't you?" I asked, not wanting to tell her that I would probably be on that flight with her.
"Gloria? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, Bebe, I guess I'll come. Some of her clients will likely attend, and I don't want to make them wonder why I'm not there. Otherwise there's no way I'd go"
I gave Gloria the memorial service information, ended the call, and said good-bye to Danielle.
I took the elevator downstairs and hurried to the corner. The day had turned cloudy with drizzling rain. Marv didn't have his usual line of customers at the hot-dog stand. I managed to place a hand on his arm and ask about Betty.
"The doctors don't know when the baby will come. Betty's switched from fresh pineapple cravings to peanut butter. She's eating it right out of the jar."
"Easier on you, Marv! Just stock up on Peter Pan. I gotta run, but I just wanted to say hello before I get a cab."
"Good luck in this weather."
Marv was right. While my hair turned into a frizzy ball, taxi after taxi went by without stopping, all full.
Finally a cab pulled over, and I gave the driver Pierre's address on East Forty-fifth street. The cab raced away from the corner, causing my usual slide and bump in the backseat. From my purse, I pulled out my black daisy Mary Quant compact and surveyed the rain's damage. The Dippity-Do I'd applied to keep the ends of my hair flipped up was fighting a valiant battle against the moisture in the air. I ended up powdering my nose and refreshing my lip gloss, while my stomach rumbled with hunger. I'd have to wait to eat: Questioning Pierre took precedence over lunch.
My thoughts turned to Lola and Gloria. Both women had reason to want Suzie dead. Both women would have had the opportunity to kill her. Suzie would have let either of them into her apartment, even at that late hour.
Arriving at Pierre's, I paid the cabdriver, then ran up the steps and rang the buzzer. And waited. I rang the buzzer again. "Who is it?" a male voice demanded.
I pressed my finger down and spoke into the intercom. "Mr. Benoit, it's Bebe Bennett from Ryan Modeling. I need to talk to you about a photo of Suzie Wexford for her memorial."
A minute passed, during which I wondered if he would answer me, then, "Come on up to the second floor." The door gave a distinct click, and I pulled it open. The first level was a short but elegant hall with a door to the right marked, A.
"Up here," Pierre said from the landing above, scaring me to death.
I climbed the steps and followed him into what turned out to be his studio. On one side were hardwood floors with no carpets, a squarish black leather couch and matching chairs, and a white square cube as a coffee table. In the middle of the room stood a camera set up on a tripod, a huge umbrellalike thing, which I knew from photo shoots helped with the lighting, a set of lights, and a black lounging chaise.
But it was the walls around the high windows that captured my attention. Pierre had covered them in aluminum foil. On the closest wall I saw a distorted view of myself. No photographs were in evidence until one looked up to a winding iron staircase where the foil ended and brick walls lined with photographs began. The glass inside each frame had been shattered. Every photograph was of Suzie.
A chill went through me. Had Pierre done this in a fit of temper when Suzie refused his proposal?
"Does it meet with your approval, Miss Bennett?" Pierre said in an overly polite tone, his voice carrying a French accent from his earlier years. He wore his customary black, but as I took a few steps closer to him, I could see that his face around his goatee was bloated, and his eyelids were swollen.
"Excuse me for gawking, Mr. Benoit. It's just that I've never been in a photographer's studio before," I said.
>
"Call me Pierre. Mr. Benoit makes me feel old. You're a very pretty girl—what did you say your name was? And that dress would look better with go-go boots."
"Thanks. I have some boots, but haven't worn them yet. My name is Bebe Bennett. Please call me Bebe. I'm sure you don't remember, because you had so many famous people at your elegant gala showing, but I was there. I admire your work."
"Thank you," he said in a mournful tone. "Now that my star is gone, I don't know how I can take another photograph."
Saying this, he broke into loud sobs.
Here was my cue. I took a step closer and said,
"Suzie will be missed by many. I know you and she were close."
He wept openly now. "Never. Been. So hurt."
I had to get him to calm down enough to have a conversation. "Can I get you a glass of water?"
"No. Tissues upstairs," he mumbled, collapsing onto the chaise.
I hurried up the spiral staircase, my heels clanking on the metal.
Pictures of Suzie on the walls, all smashed.
Big bedroom with a huge, unmade bed.
All the window shades pulled down.
Clothes scattered, all black.
Photo on the dresser of a young boy and his parents with mountains in the background.
Framed photographs stacked against the walls. None hung.
Where were the tissues? I looked around and found a box on the dresser. I grabbed it, turned on my heel, and started to make my way out of the room, feeling uncomfortable being in a man's bedroom.
I stopped. There had been a bracelet on the dresser. Aware of the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor, I tiptoed back into the room. Sure enough, it was the bracelet Bradley had given Suzie. Evidence of his relationship with her. Evidence she had been in Pierre's bedroom since Bradley had given her the bracelet. I pocketed it, mentally adding "stealing" to my list of sins, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and went carefully back down the spiral staircase.
Pierre was where I had left him, tears falling silently now.
"Here," I said, offering him the tissues.
He accepted and blew his nose. "I apologize for my display of emotion. What can I say; I'm French."
"There's no need to apologize, Pierre. Everyone has feelings."
"Ah, but it is weak for a man to show his. She always did bring out the weakness in me."
How I wanted to ask him about the shattered pictures of Suzie, about the bracelet, about their last dinner together, but there were just the two of us in the studio, and he was not in control of himself. What if he confessed to killing her, then killed me?
"I know you're grieving. When was the last time you saw Suzie?" That seemed a safe enough question.
He paused. Reaching for another tissue, he wiped his face with it, then got up and walked over to where a few pretty glass decanters sat with glasses on the white cube. "Would you like a drink?"
"I appreciate it, but no. I don't drink much, and I haven't eaten lunch yet."
"I'd offer you something, but I have my meals ordered in, or I eat out. This is only wine; are you sure you won't partake?"
"I'm sure, even though I know that as a Frenchman, you must have the best wine. Maybe another time?"
He stared at me. "Yes. I would like that."
"About Suzie. . . ."
He poured wine into a glass and almost drained the liquid in one swallow. "I saw her last Friday night. We had dinner together here."
"How lovely. I'm sure she enjoyed it."
His expression darkened, and his gaze went from my shoes to my eyes. "What position do you hold at Ryan?"
Uh-oh. "I'm Bradley Williams's executive secretary."
With all his might, Pierre threw the glass across the room, where it crashed against the wall and fell to the floor in pieces. My heart beat fast at this display of temper.
"Your boss is filth! He treated my Suzie as a plaything, not as the goddess she was!" he shouted.
"I-I don't know much about their relationship," I lied.
"Believe what I tell you then, because it is the truth. Williams tried to come between Suzie and me, but the two of us had a bond that could not be broken. She toyed with him, since he was head of the agency, but felt nothing for him. Nothing!"
I did not reply to this, as the uneasiness I felt in Pierre's presence increased. But that didn't stop my head from reeling. Gloria had been right when she said Pierre was possessive of Suzie. I could easily imagine him having the motive and the opportunity to kill her, but didn't he love her too much? Even if he didn't, he'd spent his life building a name for himself. That wasn't something he would throw away easily, would he? If only I could get him to talk about what happened at that dinner, but now was not the time.
I said, "Would it be too much for you to select a photograph of Suzie for the memorial Ryan is planning for her?" I quickly filled him in on the details, trying to bring some normalcy to the conversation.
"This photograph would be on loan, no?"
"Oh, of course. I'll personally make sure it's returned to you."
"I know all of the photos I've taken of Suzie by heart. There is one that will be perfect." He walked over to the far side of the room, near where the glass lay shattered, to a large group of framed pieces. He picked one out and began stroking the frame with his fingertip.
Several minutes passed before I cleared my throat. "Is that the one?"
He looked at me as if he'd forgotten my presence. Carrying the large silver-framed photograph, he handed it to me. "Yes."
I accepted the heavy piece, which was about two feet high, and gazed at it. The setting was summer in Central Park. Suzie sat on a blue blanket, a wooden picnic basket beside her. She wore a red-and-white gingham shirt, tied at the waist, and white shorts with no shoes. She was about to take a bite out of a hamburger. Her delighted look at being photographed screamed Mom, apple pie, and baseball.
She looked nothing at all like the Suzie I knew. I wondered if it was one of the earliest snaps Pierre had taken of her.
"You see the innocence in her, Bebe? How she speaks for the typical American girl? That is how I will always think of my Suzie."
Everyone was entitled to their delusions, I thought. "This will be perfect. Thank you, Pierre, for loaning it to Ryan. I'll make sure it's displayed in the front of the church, where everyone will see it."
"I'll bring it myself," he insisted, taking the photo back from me.
I nodded in agreement, too afraid of him to argue.
Suddenly it appeared he wanted me out of the apartment. He led me to the front door. With one foot out in the hallway, I turned and said, "I could get another photographer if you feel you can't do the B. Altman's shoot tomorrow."
He ran a hand across his forehead. "No, I'll be there."
I smiled. "Your reputation as a real professional is well deserved, Pierre."
He shrugged. "You're correct. My work is my life. I must continue or go mad."
"Perhaps time in the Virgin Islands will help. You remember the photo shoot for Durden swimwear?"
His eyes narrowed. "That is to go on? Who will we use as a model? There's no one who can do it but Suzie, and she is lost to us."
I took another step away so that I was fully in the hallway. "I understand your sentiment, believe me, but this is business, as you know. We've decided to use Lola."
Pierre's face went red. "That drunken, washed-up bitch who hated my Suzie? If your Mr. Williams didn't kill Suzie, then without question Lola did!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I headed back to Ryan in a cab with the windows rolled down. The sun poked out of the clouds, and the radio blared the Temptations' "The Way You Do the Things You Do." As usual, the driver had to snake his way through the crowded streets. He loved his horn, and used it frequently, but I tuned it out, thinking of my last words with Pierre.
After he'd made his proclamation of Lola's guilt, I'd had to soothe him by assuring him that he could make Lola look fabulous, and that
Ryan had no choice but to use her, since she was known as a star model.
Pierre hadn't liked it, but the businessman in him won out, and he went along. I started praying Bradley would be cleared in time for the Virgin Islands trip, as I predicted Pierre would be hard to handle, but logic told me otherwise. I wondered if Detective Finelli would come to Suzie's memorial. Probably, if he really was investigating and had not just decided Bradley was a murderer.
I had the cab drop me at Marv's corner, but I was out of luck. Marv had packed up after lunch. Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see it was almost two thirty! My growling stomach insisted on food and drink. I needed something fast, so I could relieve Danielle, who had probably developed ulcers from the stress of working for a suspected murderer.
I caught the elevator and punched eighteen. Maybe Debbie Ann had a piece of fruit to spare.
An hour and a half before showtime, Debbie Ann was already in makeup. She wore a turquoise shirtwaist dress with a white-and-turquoise apron. Her assistant, Nellie, took notes while Debbie Ann talked nonstop.
I walked onto their set. "Hello, ladies. I apologize for interrupting, but I've come to beg a favor."
Nellie squinted at me through her glasses. "Wow, that's the shortest dress I've ever seen, except for in the magazines."
I pasted a smile on my face. "This length is all the rage in London, Nellie. For the first time in memory, London, not Paris, is setting the trends. Isn't it groovy?"
"Um, no," Nellie said, nose in the air. "I wouldn't wear it, especially in this office, where you might catch the attention of a killer."
Debbie Ann piped up before I could set Nellie straight. "Nellie is right, Bebe. A dress that short might be popular in London, and I admit I've seen it here in New York, but I don't think the trend will last. Women will not embrace the idea of showing as much leg as a prostitute."
Heat burned my face.
Debbie Ann went on: "Frankly, I'm surprised to see you here, Bebe. Aren't you frightened, working for someone the police consider their chief suspect in Suzie Wexford's murder?"
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