"Bradley," I mumbled, and threw my arms around him, never wanting to let go.
"Sshh, you're safe now, sweetheart," he whispered. "I've got you; go ahead and cry."
"I'm not gonna cry," I said, and sniffled. "I'll ruin my eye makeup."
I felt rather than heard his deep rumble of laughter.
"That's more like it," he said, continuing to stroke my hair. "You're going to be fine."
Sirens announced the arrival of the police.
Bradley eased me away from him, much to my regret. He said, "Let's deal with the police; then I want to know what in hell you were doing working a hot- dog stand."
That had the effect of throwing cold water on me. What had happened to sweetheart?
Uniformed officers swarmed the area. They secured the crook in the patrol car while an officer asked me if I was hurt.
"No, sir, this is ketchup on my apron. I'm okay."
"You sure?" the young cop asked. "You look pretty shaken up. I don't want you going into shock. How about a check at the hospital?"
"No, thank you. I'm rattled, but it'll pass."
Bradley said, "I know Miss Bennett, and I'll watch her for the rest of the day."
I felt better already!
The officers shooed away the crowd.
My officer took a statement from me, detailing what had happened. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Bradley, standing nearby, listened intently. The cop told me I would have to go down to the station house and sign the statement once it had been typed up. I agreed, and the officer turned his attention to Bradley.
"Sir, may I ask your name, and can you tell me about your involvement in this incident?"
Bradley hesitated. "My office is on this block. I came out to get some lunch, and stopped when I saw what was happening. The other men here are the heroes. I just happened by and saw Miss Bennett after the fact."
"So you weren't a witness to the crime?"
"No," he said.
"All right, then. I suppose there's no need to involve you. Miss Bennett, you'll be notified when to present yourself at the precinct. The two of you are free to go."
The four men who saved me came over to shake hands. I hugged each one. I kept trying to thank them, told them they'd be in my prayers, but they said they'd done what anyone would do. Gradually they drifted away.
"Would you like a soda?" I asked Bradley.
"No," he responded in a terse voice.
Uh-oh. Using a bottle opener, I took the top off my Tab and drank, liking the soda as much as Coke. I took a napkin and daintily wiped my lips. Then I used more napkins to clean my hands. I removed my apron, folded it carefully, and tucked it away.
"All right, that's enough, Miss Bennett," Bradley said.
So we were back to last names. "I'm sorry, Mr. Williams; I seem to have gotten mustard all over the front of your suit. Do I have some on my face?"
He looked down, saw the huge yellow stain on his tailored suit coat, and took it off. "Yes, you do."
Outside in the bright sun, I could see he didn't have an undershirt on. I wanted to stare through his white shirt, but had to refrain. Bradley had a fierce look on his face. I knew I was in for it.
I took another napkin and wiped my face. "I think your suit coat is ruined. I don't know what men's suits cost, but you can take it out of my paycheck."
"My suit jacket is the least of my concerns right now. I—"
A man walked up to the stand.
Bradley barked, "Closed."
The man looked at me. "Hey, are you Bebe? I'm Mickey, Marv's cousin."
"I'm so glad to see you!" I had to explain everything that had happened all over again. To my surprise, Bradley remained.
Mickey listened, horrified by what I told him. "Thank God you're not hurt, Bebe." He came around to my side of the stand, leaned down, and said, "Marv has a permit for a gun. He's been robbed before. Here's the gun right here."
"Oh, please! Don't bring it out! My father has a collection, and I'm afraid of guns," I pleaded.
Mickey put the gun back and stood up. "Don't want to spook you. You and your boyfriend go on. I'll take care of this. Marv will be so grateful. Free hot dogs for life!"
"Marv already told me," I said absently, thinking Debbie Ann wouldn't approve.
"Let's go, Miss Bennett," Bradley said.
We walked back toward Ryan. I carried my Tab. "Mr. Williams, I'm really—"
"Don't talk to me yet," he ordered. "I'm not in control of myself at the moment."
I took a swallow of Tab instead of smiling. Bradley was out of control? Instantly I felt like doing a twirl in the middle of the sidewalk.
We climbed the steps to the area in front of the door to our building. Bradley took me lightly by the elbow and guided me to one side. I remembered standing in that spot with Jerry, the soldier who told the story of Bradley's heroism.
Bradley removed his black shades and looked me in the eye. "Miss Bennett, the responsible part of me says I should call your parents and tell them how much trouble you've gotten into since your arrival in New York."
I gasped, thinking of what Daddy had said on the phone. "Don't you dare!"
He held up a hand. There was a spot of ketchup on
it. "Since I'm no gallant gentleman, I won't. I've had a difficult time keeping a secretary—"
"We both know why that's so," I interrupted.
He peered at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. "I didn't think the gossips would keep their mouths shut, but then, I do have a reputation to maintain. However, after the last secretary, I figured I'd do better in Uncle Herman's eyes if I kept my . . . activities . . . out of the office. That's all I'll say about those days. But you . . ." He pointed his right index finger at me. "You are the most vexing, exasperating, provoking, nosy, maddening, walking magnet for trouble I've ever known!"
I raised my chin. Then I batted his finger away from my face. "Number one, you have ketchup on your right hand. Number two, I am a valuable secretary— your words. Number three, I'm smart and capable, and, unlike you, I care about people."
He blinked at that last part. Then he retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his hand. Once finished, he looked at me again, angrier than before, if that were possible.
"I do care about people, but that's not the topic now. You are the topic. You defended yourself against a knife-wielding criminal with a bottle of mustard, for the love of God!"
"It worked!"
"No, it did not work, Miss Bennett. From what I heard, the man had the knife out, ready to cut you, stab you, do whatever he wanted with you, and you stood there like a deer ready to be run over by a truck."
"How would you know about deer? You live in Manhattan."
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, leaving a thin line of ketchup. "I grew up in Oklahoma and Missouri. I know about deer. Don't try to change the subject. I want you to immediately, and I mean immediately, stop putting yourself in danger."
"By not helping people?"
"No! Yes!"
"I'm sorry; that's not in my nature. What happened today won't be repeated. Marv and his wife are at the hospital. Mickey will take over until Marv decides to return."
"Good, but there's more. Don't think it's escaped my notice that you are writing things in your notepad in a secretive manner."
Devil!
"Nor have I been in the dark about your going to Pierre's, getting chummy with Lola, whispering with Gloria, all people who could be suspects in Suzie's murder."
"Aha! You agree with me then that they're suspects."
Bradley lost it. "What did I tell you about not getting involved in Suzie Wexford's murder investigation? God, I should have known you couldn't keep out of it. You make me want to strangle you, Miss Bennett!"
Inside, I smiled, happy to have gotten him worked up. I did have some power over him, after all. Who knew where that could lead?
Unfortunately, I saw Bradley's gaze swing toward the street.
There, liste
ning to us arguing, stood Detective Finelli, leaning against his car and taking notes.
Without a second's thought I ran over to him. "Mr. Williams didn't mean that last part. We were kidding around, that's all."
Detective Finelli ran a hand over his crew cut. "Thanks for the explanation, Miss Bennett. I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear it."
"You're making fun of me, Detective, and I don't like it. Nor do I like your following Mr. Williams around. He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Love is blind," he replied, looking at me sharply.
I whipped around to see if Bradley had heard that, but he'd vanished, thank heavens.
"My personal life is none of your business, Detective." I tried for a steely gaze.
Detective Finelli's expression remained neutral. "So, I'm correct. You are in love with Williams."
"You tricked me!"
"Doing my job, Miss Bennett. Although I think I've got the man who killed Suzie Wexford, I have to cover every base. You have quite a strong will. I wonder how jealous you were of the attention Williams showered on Miss Wexford."
Without giving me a chance to reply, he got into his car and drove away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the time I reached my desk, it was almost four o'clock, and I was beat. Bradley's door was closed, serving as a blockade to any further sparring.
Danielle's pretty face appeared much more relaxed today.
I said, "I can't thank you enough, Danielle, for helping me. Was everything okay while I was gone?"
"We had lots of calls from reporters again, Bebe. I'm beginning to recognize their voices," she said, and chuckled. "And I'm happy to cover for you. Mrs. Seeds says I'll get extra money in my next paycheck."
"You deserve it. Danielle, can I confide in you?"
"Sure, I can keep a secret."
"You know I'll be attending Suzie's memorial tomorrow, but there's more. A strong possibility exists that I'll have to go out of town tomorrow, and won't be back until Saturday. Would you be willing to cover for me again? You'd have to do a little more than answer the phone, I'm afraid. There's some typing to do on the Dictaphone, Debbie Ann's weekly grocery bill invoice—"
"Bebe, I could use the extra money, and I'm used to typing." She paused, then added, "I'm not afraid of Mr. Williams anymore."
I squeezed her hand. "I'm pleased to hear that. He is innocent of Suzie's murder. There are other people who wanted to see her dead."
Danielle looked around, then said, "Nobody liked Suzie, even Debbie Ann, who preaches that we should all be good to one another. I don't know how the police are going to figure out who killed her."
"Debbie Ann didn't like Suzie?" I asked, puzzled.
"No, and Suzie hated her. She told Debbie Ann to her face that her style of cooking would make people fat."
"Gosh, I'll bet Debbie Ann didn't take that well."
Danielle shook her head. "Debbie Ann told Suzie that she was so skinny, if she stood sideways and stuck out her tongue, she'd look like a zipper. They frequently exchanged insults."
"I didn't know any of this."
Danielle nodded. "They were downright mean to each other. You know Debbie Ann wants to know everything about everybody and doesn't hesitate to make her views known, even to Pierre."
"Pierre?"
Danielle chuckled. "He's a hotshot, but when he comes to Ryan, Debbie Ann finds out from her assistant and watches whatever shoot Pierre is doing. I'm telling you, Bebe, no one is spared from Debbie Ann's eagle eye. When she signed in today and saw me sitting here, she asked if I had brought my lunch. I always do pack my lunch, but the phone kept ringing, and I didn't have a chance to go back to my desk and get my brown bag. Debbie Ann went and got it for me. She's really concerned about everybody's personal life and diet, but lots of times she'll bake cookies and send them around."
"That's sweet of her. She's scolded me about eating hot dogs," I said, flipping through legitimate phone messages to see if there was anything urgent.
Danielle laughed. "Never let Debbie Ann know you eat hot dogs. She has a whole speech on what they're made of, and it's gross."
After today, I doubted I could eat another one. Too bad, since I could get them free for life!
"What do you know about Gloria?"
Danielle shrugged. "I haven't been around her, though I know who she is. . . . Oh, wait, I just remembered something. Gossip went around the typing pool about three months ago that Debbie Ann had given one of her lectures to Gloria about her weight. Gloria mouthed off to Debbie Ann, calling her a lonely old busybody with no life of her own. Word is Debbie Ann was hurt, maybe because it's kinda the truth. They're not friends."
"Interesting." Danielle and I switched places, and I thanked her again for helping me.
At a few minutes before five, Bradley's door remained closed. I knew I should stay late, but I thought it more important to go home and pack. I didn't see how on earth Bradley would be on that plane to the Virgin Islands tomorrow evening, unless he was keeping something to himself about Mr. Pickering. Maybe the lawyer would pull a rabbit out of a hat, the rabbit being Suzie's killer.
Wednesday morning, at precisely fifteen minutes before ten, I arrived at the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue. The day was overcast and windy. Dark clouds raced across the sky above the gothic exterior of the church.
Wearing my black suit, black gloves, and a black pillbox hat with netting over my face, I entered and found a seat near the back. That way I could see who was crying and who wasn't.
I overestimated my abilities. About eight hundred people had decided to attend Suzie's memorial service. More would be at the reception at the Legends Hotel. There, I told myself, I would have better luck at seeking people out.
To my surprise, four NYPD officers in dress uniform were positioned at the front, standing next to Detective Finelli.
Darlene was here somewhere with Cole.
Celebrities arrived at the last minute and were ushered to the roped-off section in the front pews. I had to hold back a gasp as Truman Capote, the author of Breakfast at Tiffany's, arrived.
Lola came in, followed by Edie Sedgwick—wearing a tiny black vinyl miniskirt—who made an entrance with Andy Warhol.
Bishop Donegan began the service promptly at eleven.
While he spoke of Suzie's humble beginnings, I noticed that Pierre had made good on his promise. The silver-framed photograph of Suzie had been placed on a high stand for everyone to see.
When the bishop finished speaking, Pierre took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends of Suzie, I am at a loss for words to describe my grief over the cruel way my fiancee has been ripped from my side," he began dramatically. Pierre had every ear in the church.
Into the silence, a man yelled, "No!"
A general gasp came from the people assembled, including me. Gloria had told me that Suzie had turned down Pierre's proposal. Suzie had been out with Bradley the very next night. Someone was lying.
Pierre carried on. "The night before her brutal murder, Suzie had agreed to become my wife."
The photographer droned on about the couple's love. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Whispers went around the church like the soft sound of a light breeze ruffling new leaves.
Pierre kept at it for thirty minutes, his words punctuated by bouts of sobs. Finally, overcome, he stumbled back to his seat.
A series of people took the microphone and briefly expressed their sentiments. One of them introduced himself as Scott Roberts. Suzie's first photographer was a slim man of medium height with very light blond hair.
"I suppose you could say that I'm the person responsible for Suzie's rise to stardom. She sent me candid shots—"
An older man in the first pew rose and shook his fist at Roberts. "Suzie would be alive today if you hadn't lured—"
He broke off when Bishop Donegan stepped to his side, speaking to him and guiding him gently back into his seat next to a gray-haired lady. The We
xfords.
Scott Roberts heaved a sigh, then surrendered the microphone to a husky man who promptly burst into noisy tears. Everyone waited.
"My name is Jeff Granford. I'm from Omaha. Suz and I were high school sweethearts, and she was engaged to me," he declared. In his early twenties, the ex-football quarterback still retained a muscular build and must have been over six feet tall.
He continued in a high voice that didn't match his beefed-up body. "We were homecoming king and queen. The two of us planned a wedding; then she sent those pictures to you, Mr. Roberts. You ruined our lives! I hate you and what you did to my Suz! I could punch your light out right here!" he yelled. "And wait until I get my hands on you, Bradley Williams!"
Police officers marched over and restrained Jeff Granford, taking him with them to the side of the church.
Bradley took the microphone. I held my breath, fearing a physical attack on him
Dressed in a sleek black suit, white shirt, and black tie, he did not introduce himself. "We at Ryan Modeling are in mourning for our star model. Miss Wexford was a consummate professional, a beauty and talent that come to light only once in a decade. We are grateful that she chose to shine her light through the assignments our agency easily obtained for her. To say that she will be missed would be an understatement. Thank you."
My gaze darted to the Wexfords for a reaction, but there was none, perhaps out of respect for the bishop.
Pierre, however, shouted, "Menteur!"
At that moment, the choir began singing "Amazing Grace," drowning out any further outbursts. I didn't understand what Pierre had said, but I could feel the anger behind the word.
I slipped out of the church and whistled for a cab. I wanted to get to the Legends and make sure everything was in order before the crowd arrived.
Thank goodness I had arranged for a dozen of the hotel's security staff to be on hand.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I rushed into the Grand Ballroom of the Legends Hotel. The hotel had a long, glamorous history, including famous star guests. The brown-and-gold decor was up-to-the minute in fashion, the hotel having been renovated the previous year.
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