B004183M70 EBOK
Authors: Rosemary Stevens
Praise for
It's a Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder
"Beehive hairdos, Jackie-O clothes, British rock stars .
. . and murder. What fun!"
—Kasey Michaels, author of High Heels and Homicide
"Toss a fresh-faced secretary-school graduate (and her
flight attendant roomie), a hip British-invasion band, and a hotel
room together in the blender that is 1960s New York City, and what do you get?
Murder (with the roommate a prime suspect)—and the ensuing undercover
investigation. That's what happens in Rosemary Martin's quirky novel. . .
."
—New York Post Required Reading section
"Bebe's charming naivete ... her gusto for the singles
life, and her considerable intellect make her an unusually appealing sleuth.
Add this to the plethora of sixties details, and the result is a clever
mystery that's also a trip back to a time when things were groovier."
—Publishers Weekly
"A fun read with a groovy and far-out
plethora of wonderfully defined characters and situations that will keep you
turning pages."
—Rendezvous
"How boss! Good girl Bebe Bennett dons her best Jackie
Kennedy suit as she tracks down a murderer— just a little detour as the naive
Virginia darling moves to Manhattan. Think sixties! Think bangs and a flip!
Think That Girl! meets Miss Marple and you'll have a ball." —Jerrilyn
Farmer, bestselling author of the Madeline Bean Mysteries
"A groovy trip back in time." —Romantic Times
"If you ever pictured That Girl hooking up with the
Rolling Stones, this is the book for you. It's a Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder has
romance, charm, originality, and plenty of Dippity-do." —Harley Jane
Kozak, Agatha Award-winning author of Dating Dead Men and Dating is Murder
"A groovy new series that cozy mystery lovers will fall
head over heels for."
—Susan McBride, author of The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club
A MURDER-A-GO-GO MYSTERY
©
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American
Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2006 10 987654321 Copyright © Rosemary
Stevens, 2006 All rights reserved
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control
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copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
A big thank-you to my agent, Harvey Klinger.
Thanks to WBP for the inspiration.
Thanks to Donna Andrews, author extraordinaire.
I couldn't possibly write without the support of my family:
Tommy, Rachel, and Alana. I love you all so very much.
TWIST AND SHOUT MURDER
New York City April 30, 1964
I closed the door to my apartment building on East
Sixty-fifth Street and zipped down the steps to the sidewalk. The glow I felt
because Bradley Williams, my dreamy boss, had given me a generous bonus to
follow him to his new assignment as head of Ryan Modeling Agency kept my
spirits high despite what I called my Problem with Bradley. I hoped that today
matters would improve. Otherwise, I might have to kill someone.
I'd saved some of my bonus money, but the
rest I'd given to Darlene, my stewardess roommate, to shop for me on her next
layover in swinging London. I had shortened all my Jackie Kennedy-style suits
two inches above my knees so Bradley could admire my legs. But fashions from
London! That would catch his eye.
Yesterday the box had arrived. Darlene had
shopped on Carnaby Street! She sent me short, mod dresses in vibrant colors and
some daring miniskirts. If Daddy saw me in them, he'd go ape and drag me back
home to Richmond, Virginia, even if I was twenty-two years old. But what was a
girl to do? I was proud of my legs, which made up for my 34-As and narrow hips.
To wear with the shorter skirts, there were
light tan "tights" that looked like stockings with underwear.
Darlene had pinned a note on these saying, No more girdles!
Giving me dictation was going to be a whole
new experience for Bradley.
At the bottom of the box, Darlene had
packed the most groovy item of all: a pair of white go-go boots! I loved those
boots! I tried them on and danced around in front of my full-length mirror,
feeling happy and a little naughty. If anyone had seen me, they'd have thought
I was nuts.
I might have to refrain from wearing the
boots to the office, though Ryan Modeling was cool. Maybe one day if I felt
particularly daring. . . .
"Hey, there, Miss Sweet Face, don't
you look . . . different this morning," called Harry, the wino who slept
across the street behind St. Vincent Ferrer Catholic High School. In the
almost two months I'd lived in New York City, I had never been able to figure
out why Harry didn't clean up and get a job and a decent place to live. But
Harry had proved himself a friend, and I dashed over to see him, digging in my
purse for quarters.
"Good morning, Harry. Do you like my
new look?" I twirled around for his inspection. I had on a double-knit,
A-line dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Diagonal hot-pink, white, and
black stripes made up the body of the dress, which ended about four inches
above my knees.
Harry scratched his gray hair. Then he
stroked his scraggly beard. "Kinda short, isn't it? I mean for a nice girl
like you."
I laughed and handed him two quarters.
"No, silly. This is the new look from London. You know, in England where
the Beatles come from."
"Bugs?" Harry said, looking
around, confusion making his wildly bristling eyebrows come together.
"Oh, Harry, you make me sad that you
don't even know who the Beatles are. They were on The Ed Sullivan Show in
February, singing and making every girl
fall in love with them. You should get into the world again.
I'll help you," I assured him.
He began to move away. "Bebe, I like
my world. Takes away the pain. Thanks for the dough."
I walked down to Lexington Avenue, putting
Harry's troubles aside for the time being. Now that I had finally mastered the
subway, I made my way to the nearest station and dashed down the steps. I smiled
as several people turned to look at me in my cool dress.
I rode the train down to 199 Lafayette
Street, where Ryan Modeling, second only to Ford Modeling, had offices on the
seventeenth floor. On the eighteenth floor we had a studio for photo shoots and
making commercials, and where we leased space for a live TV show.
Riding along with the occasional jolt, I
thought back over the past few days of my new job.
Bradley and I had taken a tour of our new
quarters. The agency's decor was the height of modern, even in the typing pool,
where brand-new Selectras were on every desk. The supervisor, Mrs. Seeds,
assured me that I could call her if I needed any help with typing or covering
the phones during lunch.
On the eighteenth floor, we looked at three
large shooting areas separated by steel walls; the makeup room; dressing areas;
and a holding area for clothing sent over from stores or clients. And then we
met Gina Simmons, the woman responsible for dealing directly with the models.
A former model herself, now a well-maintained woman in her forties, Gina looked
at us with hard eyes. She had portfolios spread out on her desk and replied to
Bradley's introduction with a chilly, "I look forward to working with
you."
We had moved over to the leased space.
Bradley said to me, "I've heard that
Debbie Ann's a perfectionist, gossipy, and a bit opinionated, but she's had a
rough life."
"Oh?"
"Her husband committed suicide,
leaving her with a boy just out of high school."
"How terrible," I said, shocked.
"It gets worse. Her son left her not
long after that to join the army and fight in Korea. Later, she learned he was
killed there," Bradley said.
"A double tragedy."
He nodded. "I'm only telling you this
so that you'll be patient with Debbie Ann."
"I promise I will. I watched her show
last Friday at four o'clock. I'm eager for an introduction."
Inspired by Julia Child's successful
program on cooking, Debbie Ann aired
Fun in the Kitchen with Debbie Ann
.
Debbie Ann Allard was a well-groomed woman
in her fifties with brown hair (dyed?) swept back from her forehead and ending
beneath her ears in rows of flipped-up tight curls. She wore a shirtwaist dress
and an apron with colorful flowers on it. With natural charm, a constant smile,
and nonstop chitchat (I didn't know how she managed all three), she
demonstrated how women could whip up easy, delicious meals that were much less
complicated than Julia Child's.
Advertised as "Every Homemaker's Friend",
Debbie Ann began each show promising that the viewer could follow along and
have a scrumptious meal waiting for her husband when he came home from work. A
grocery list for the following week's dishes was posted on Friday afternoons
before the show started, so that women could shop for upcoming recipes.
I was amazed seeing "the kitchen"
set.
Debbie Ann's set featured a modern kitchen
complete with a new Philco Galaxie range in turquoise. The "walls"
were covered in a cheerful wallpaper of turquoise and orange stripes with small
yellow flowers between the lines. A new Presto mixer, Deluxe toaster, a set of
orange Tupperware, and a copper planter with artificial buttercups gave the set
a homey feel.
It was about two in the afternoon, and
"Every Homemaker's Friend" scurried about, checking off items for the day's show on deviled chicken. A harried-looking girl I
thought must be her assistant helped.
Debbie Ann saw us and, as fast as a rocket,
she came shooting over, all smiles and charming greetings.
"Did I mention, Mr. Williams, that
Fun
in the Kitchen with Debbie Ann
has consistently drawn a wide audience since the
day we first went on air? I remember it well," Debbie Ann said in a
nostalgic, sweet voice, one hand over her pointy bosom, not giving Bradley a
second to speak. "I showed women how to make crabmeat Norfolk with
Harris's crabmeat. For only ten cents' postage and a label from any Harris can,
one could get an adorable reusable seashell for baking and serving crab dishes.
Women loved the idea!
"After that first show aired, I
received hundreds of grateful letters from housewives. In fact, while I don't
want to seem immodest, my fan mail has grown into the thousands. Today's busy
homemaker needs all the help she can get. I'm so proud to assist them,"
Debbie Ann finished, finally out of breath.