I opened my mouth, but she was quicker. "I think the entire affair is a horrid reflection on our company. The two of them should never have been dating. Office romances rarely end well, except for the amazing instances when the man actually marries the woman. Obviously the two had a falling-out—perhaps Suzie demanded an engagement—and Mr. Williams lost his temper in a deadly way. I admit, I was taken in by the man, charming and attractive as he is. But a little birdie told me that a replacement for Mr. Williams is on his way. We must hope the man arrives swiftly, before any damage can be done to my show's ratings."
Debbie Ann paused for breath, and Nellie broke in.
"I'm so very happy Mr. Williams never showed any personal attraction for me," she said.
Every Homemaker's Friend opened her mouth, but this time I cut her off. "Debbie Ann, who told you Mr. Williams is going to be replaced? And what makes the two of you so certain that he killed Suzie Wexford?"
Nellie rolled her eyes.
Debbie Ann focused a stern gaze on me. "Bebe, I hope you haven't been blinded by a handsome face. Do not permit yourself to be alone with him under any circumstances."
Outnumbered, I decided to play along. "All right, I won't," I said, fingers crossed behind my back. "But, Debbie Ann, you still haven't told me who the 'little birdie' is."
"That's because I know how to keep a secret. All I'll say is that when Mr. Williams killed Suzie, I had to make sure my position and reputation would be protected. Otherwise I would have to entertain offers from other studios that would want me to broadcast live from their facilities."
Translation: Her agent told her. Was it true? Would Bradley's uncle really send in a replacement? God, please not that awful Drew, Bradley's cousin and competitor, whom I'd met last month. I dismissed the thought from my mind, deciding it was pure gossip, and Bradley had nothing to worry about.
Debbie Ann glanced at her watch. "I'm glad you came to visit, but I have only an hour before my show starts, so—"
"I'll go. I really came up to see if you had any food to spare for a secretary who missed lunch." And now wished she'd suffered in silence.
"Bebe!" Debbie Ann exclaimed, her tone one of severe disapproval. "One should never skip a meal; it's simply not good for your body. I thought you were going to take my suggestion and pack a tuna sandwich, an apple, and a Thermos of milk for lunch every day. What happened?"
"I've been busy, and—"
"That's no excuse for bad nutrition." She went to the refrigerator and began pulling out the makings for a sandwich.
"Oh, no, Debbie Ann, please. One of those apples and, um, a glass of milk would be fine, thank you. I'm going to have a big dinner. Honest." I wanted to be nice to her, despite her lecturing and her feelings about Bradley. After all, her husband had committed suicide, and then she lost her only son in Korea.
Debbie Ann sighed theatrically. "All right, it's your health, your future." She meticulously washed an apple, scrubbing it so hard I thought all the skin would fall off, poured me a glass of milk, and gave them to me.
"I really do appreciate this. It won't happen again."
"I hope that's a promise you'll keep, Bebe," Debbie Ann said, then turned her attention to that evening's show, enabling me to make my escape.
Rather than take the elevator, I took the steps to the seventeenth floor. As I approached my desk, Danielle picked up the phone and said, "She's back, Mr. Williams." Pause. "You're welcome."
With that, Danielle gave me a guilty smile, then bolted in the direction of the typing pool.
Bradley's door flew open.
"Where have you been, Miss Bennett? Do you know what time it is?"
He was as mad as a hive of bees Daddy once disturbed when mowing our lawn. I looked at my watch. "It's just a minute or two past three."
"I repeat, where have you been for the past three hours?"
Mrs. Seeds from the typing pool moved our way, probably wanting to speak to me. Instead, Bradley's loud, angry voice must have dismayed her, as she turned on her heel and hurried back the other way.
"Mr. Williams," I said calmly, "there's no need to shout. I didn't leave for lunch at noon. I was too busy."
He pointed at the apple and the glass of milk in my hands. "And apparently you were too busy to eat when you did leave."
I placed the food and drink on my desk. When I turned around, he was motioning me to come into his office. I followed him, and he closed the door and loosened his tie. "I want a straight answer. Where have you been?"
"I didn't realize my job description included having to report my activities outside this office—"
"Oh, for the love of God!"
"All right! I went to Pierre's studio."
Bradley looked so adorable, I wanted to forget he had me on the grill. "Pierre Benoit? His studio? Why did you go there?"
Uh-oh. "I thought it important to go in person and pick out the photograph of Suzie we'll be using at the memorial."
"You could have called Pierre and asked him to bring one."
"I-"
"I don't see the portrait in your hands."
"Pierre decided he'd bring it himself."
"He picked it out by himself too, I'll bet."
I knew where this was going, and I didn't like it. "Actually, Pierre did select it. But I had no way of knowing that before I went to his studio."
"Alone, in a man's apartment, possibly Suzie's killer."
Remembering the uneasiness I'd felt at Pierre's, I blushed.
"That! That pink on your face tells me what I want to know. You went there, even though it could possibly have been dangerous, and you asked questions about where Pierre had been when Suzie was murdered. Isn't that what you did, Miss Bennett?"
Darn him! "It might have happened that way. But I also had to talk to Pierre about the B. Altman's shoot, and the Virgin Islands shoot, and calm him down when I told him we'd be using Lola! And it wasn't his apartment; it was his studio."
"If I'm not mistaken, he lives at his studio."
An image of that big bed upstairs at Pierre's flashed in my brain. "I guess."
"You were poking your nose into something that doesn't concern you."
"It does too concern me," I shot back, feeling like a five-year-old arguing with another five-year-old.
Bradley scowled. "I've told you, this is my mess, and I'll take care of it. You are not to get involved. Now, I'll ask you again: Why did you put yourself in a chancy position over my affairs?"
Because I love you, you fool! "Because you're my boss, and I don't want to lose my job if they throw you in jail for something you didn't do."
That gave him pause. He stared at me to see if I were telling the truth. I stared back.
He lowered his voice to a deadly calm. "You will lose your job, Miss Bennett, if you investigate Suzie Wexford's murder and I find out about it."
"What?"
"I've told you not to do it, so you'd be going directly against my orders. Have I made myself clear?"
Men and their pride! "Why must you feel this way? I solved that other murder. I can help you."
"You almost got yourself killed with your investigating, if you recall. I won't have you put your life in danger again. I don't need you to help; do you understand?"
My body felt as if it were shrinking into itself. He didn't need me. "Yes, I comprehend what you're saying, Mr. Williams. If I may go, I do have work to accomplish."
He opened the door. "Good idea. Drink your milk and eat your apple too, kid."
I couldn't decide whether the itching in my hands meant that I wanted to smack him, choke him, or thrust the scissors Danielle had left out into my own heart.
I decided Bradley had already done the latter, threatening to fire me, and took a big crunchy bite out of my apple.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bradley was irrational, I reminded myself, stricken with shock and grief. I mustn't hold it against him that he was behaving like the most pigheaded, willful, stubborn mule I'd ever com
e across.
The phone rang.
"Ryan Modeling Agency, Bebe Bennett speaking."
"Now that's a pretty name, Bebe Bennett. Miss Bennett, how'd you like to make a lot of cash, fast? All I need are your thoughts on the man who killed Suzie Wexford—"
I cut him off. "Since I don't know who that man is, I cannot help you. Please do not call here again." I hung up.
The phone rang again.
I jerked it to my ear. "The agency is grieving Miss Wexford's death, and we have no further comment—"
"Bebe! It's me, Darlene."
I sighed. "Hi, Darlene. I thought you were another reporter."
"Been calling all day, have they?"
"Yes, although I was out part of the afternoon, so I don't know exactly how bad it's been."
"You sound like you're in the dumps."
I lowered my voice in case Bradley should sneak up on me. "Bradley chewed me out for going over to Pierre's studio. I had a valid reason to go, but of course I did a little snooping."
"What'd you find?"
"Some very interesting facts. Pierre was a mess, sobbing his heart out. He asked me to go upstairs to the bathroom to get some tissues. Get this: Smashed framed photos of Suzie lined the wall, and I found her bracelet—the one Bradley gave her—on the bathroom vanity."
"Suzie's pictures were smashed? Sounds like someone has quite a temper. What about the bracelet? Did you five-finger it?"
I patted the pocket in my dress to make sure the bracelet was still there. "I did."
"Good girl!"
"I like to think I'm borrowing a piece of evidence."
"That's right. Pierre didn't need it. You'll look better wearing it. It proves Suzie was in Pierre's upstairs bathroom."
"We already know they were having an affair, and I'm not going to wear the bracelet. At some point I'll return it to Bradley."
"At any rate, we'll talk about Pierre later. I took the liberty of going through your clothes to find something for you to wear tonight on your big date."
I chuckled. "Okay, Edith Head. What did you come up with?"
"The perfect dress: your royal-blue chiffon, the one with spaghetti straps, fitted waist, flirty skirt, and folds of chiffon around the bust area to, er, fill you out."
"I haven't been brave enough to wear that one yet, but I will tonight. A problem might be the shoes—"
"Covered. You've got a sexy pair of silver sandals with kitten heels, and I've got the clutch to go with them."
"Oh, Darlene! That sounds pretty."
"Correction, honey. It sounds sexy."
"Darlene, it's my first date with Louis," I reminded her. "I don't want to come across as fast."
She laughed. "Don't worry; you won't. You'll look gorgeous. Don't forget what I told you about men and royal blue. They can't resist a woman wearing that color."
I laughed. "If you say so. I'd better leave work right at five, since I got caught in that drizzle and my hair is a mess."
"Lots of Aqua Net hair spray will do the trick. Oh, and I left out a tube of lipstick that matches the hot- pink nail polish you have on."
"Thanks, but does this mean you won't be home when I get there?"
"Cole's taking me to dinner. He doesn't know it yet, but afterward we're going down to the Village for a Bottom Painting. It's all the rage," she said, and giggled.
"A Bottom Painting?" I asked in disbelief.
"I don't know if I'll see you tonight or not, but we'll catch up and I'll tell you all about it. Bye."
"Bye." I hung up, thinking that Darlene might stay overnight with Cole. How could I get her back with Stu? I'd puzzle over that one later.
The rest of the day flew, and at quarter to five I knocked on Bradley's door.
"Come in."
I found him in the process of pulling on his suit jacket.
"Mr. Williams, I'll be leaving in a few minutes. Is there anything you need before I go?"
"No, thank you. I'm headed home myself." He pulled his London Fog raincoat from his personal closet, dropping a navy-blue wool scarf in the process. "Just close the door behind you when you leave. I'll see you later."
"Good night." I eyed the scarf, then peeked out the door. Bradley entered the elevator, and the doors closed behind him.
I picked up the scarf, held it to my face, and breathed in. My fingers trembled as I smelled his lime aftershave, and apparently my heart thought it was running from Dracula, because it was beating so fast.
Looking both ways to be sure the coast was clear, I darted from Bradley's office to my credenza and slipped the scarf into my purse. I was becoming quite the kleptomaniac, but I assured myself that I was simply borrowing the items and would return them. Bradley had no need for a wool scarf in this spring weather, and Suzie wasn't going to miss her bracelet now.
I didn't know why I wanted to keep Bradley's scarf for a little while. It seemed such a pathetic, childish thing to do, like a toddler with a favorite blanket. In my own defense, I was going out with Louis tonight, taking a step away from my adoration of Bradley. Yet my conscience tweaked me. Was it fair to go out with Louis while feeling the way I did about Bradley?
Deciding to continue this internal debate on the subway, I gathered my things and headed toward the elevator.
The phone rang.
I stopped in my tracks and then, sighing, I went back to answer it.
"Ryan Modeling Agency, Miss Bennett speaking."
A male voice said, "I tried to call Gina, but she must have gone for the day."
"And you are?"
"Jack Norton. I'm supposed to be at the photo shoot—"
"Yes, I remember. The B. Altman's shoot at Lincoln Center tomorrow morning."
"I can't make it."
"Why not?"
"Gee, you sound just like Gina except with a Southern accent. I'm sick."
"You don't sound sick. What's wrong?"
"Hey, I don't need some hayseed holding my toes to the fire, okay, lady?"
I clenched the receiver. "And I don't need a model, who is supposed to be a professional, canceling out on this agency at the last minute without a darn good reason."
His voice rose. "I'm going on a barge party off Long Island tonight, and I expect to be boozed and passed out somewhere in the Hamptons at ten in the morning. That a good enough reason for you?"
The nerve of him! "Very well, Mr. Norton, I'll leave Gina a note. Before I keep you from your party, can you give me your trouser and shirt sizes?"
"Thirty-two-inch waist, size fifteen shirt." He hung up without saying good-bye.
I leaned against my desk. Darn it! There were four girls and four guys in that shoot. I'd have to find someone else, and quickly.
My thoughts turned to Louis. I'd ask him tonight if he would like the assignment. Perhaps if Bradley observed me handling this situation competently, he would let me go on the Virgin Islands shoot in his place.
Unless I caught a break in the case.
Poor Louis. The man wasn't going to have the full attention of his companion tonight.
Waiting for the elevator, I still couldn't help but wonder how Bradley would feel if he knew his "kid" secretary had a date with a handsome male model.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once home, I tried to take a quick bath, but all the water kept running out of the tub despite the plug. I gave up and took what Mama called a kitty-cat bath, using the washcloth. While drying off, I spotted a note from Darlene next to a perfume bottle.
The note read: Don't turn your nose up at this classic man-killer. Wear it tonight!
The perfume was My Sin. I gasped. I couldn't wear that! I knew the fragrance had been around for years, but the very name made me blush. ... I hesitated. I could smell it and see what it was like, I rationalized, turning the cap. A heavenly but sexy odor wafted to my nostrils.
It smelled even better dabbed behind my ears. I had put the bottle down and turned to leave the bathroom when Bradley's voice played in my head, saying he d
id not need me to help him. I applied perfume on my wrists and, closing my eyes, between my 34-As.
I armed myself with a can of Aqua Net and went to work on my hair. Next I freshened my makeup and smoothed Darlene's hot-pink lipstick on my lips. Taking a step back from the mirror to see the results, I had second thoughts. Much brighter than the usual pale pink Mary Quant lip gloss I used, the hot pink made me seem . . . well, older somehow. Deciding that might not be such a bad thing, I went into my bedroom and dressed.
Passing the yellow vinyl chair I call the Banana, the one I had obtained while doing some curbside shopping soon after moving in with Darlene, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. Oh, my! Even with the pearl necklace and earrings Mama had given me when I graduated from secretarial school, the dress and the lipstick and the silver sandals made for a sexy look. Was it too sexy? I looked at the Banana chair—more specifically, to Bradley's wool scarf I'd put there. Suzie's bracelet was under the seat of the Banana along with my New York to-do list— the latter I had sadly neglected.
I ran back to the bathroom, tissued off the hot-pink lipstick, and applied the pale pink. Then I headed back to the full-length mirror. Darn! Some of the hot-pink lipstick lingered, making the gloss turn an ugly shade. Back in the bathroom, I cleaned my lips again and reapplied the hot-pink lipstick. Nodding at myself in the mirror, I dropped the lipstick, my daisy Mary Quant compact, a few dollars (Mama always said to be prepared to take yourself home from a bad date), and my apartment keys.
At quarter to seven, I turned on the black-and-white TV Darlene had recently found a stand for, sat on the pink sectional, and watched the end of the news. President Johnson was making a speech on what he called "the war on poverty." He also addressed the Civil Rights Bill before Congress, saying it would be passed by the end of the summer. A 102-year-old man, Edward Everett Cauthorne, prepared to be the guide when he and twenty-nine of his fellow residents in a Rockaway Beach retirement home toured the World's Fair. No rain was expected for tonight or tomorrow, which, I thought, was good news for the B. Altman's shoot.
The intercom sounded promptly at seven. I leaped off the couch, then took a deep breath before answering the summons.
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