B004183M70 EBOK (9 page)

I soon found myself at the Skyway exhibit.
The huge Aeroflyer, white with its signature large blue stripe going from nose
to tail, dwarfed the people standing around it. Beautiful women in bright
sky-blue suits with matching pillbox hats smiled and waved to the crowd with
white-gloved hands. Men ogled the women, as it was a well-known fact that every
guy wanted a stewardess on his arm. They were so glamorous, so
worldly, so sexy.

One stewardess who was not as tall as the
others, being only the required five feet three inches tall, shone among the
others: Darlene.

I spotted Cole in his Stetson watching her
with possessive eyes, but it took a moment longer to see Stu sulking with his
arms crossed over his chest. Uh-oh.

The area around the plane was roped off,
but Darlene let the cord fall near a sign that indicated tour times. I
scrambled to get a place in line, hoping for a word with her. With relief, I
noticed that neither Cole nor Stu intended to take the tour.

Darlene smiled at me, then began talking to
the crowd about the luxury and safety Skyway Airlines afforded its customers.
Men eyed her, rather than the plane, but being Darlene, she kept her wide Texas
smile in place, enjoying the attention.

"The Captain's Special offers a
seven-course meal served on china and includes caviar and hors d'oeuvres,"
she said. "We also offer Dover sole and prime rib prepared in our galley
ovens."

As potential passengers admired the
spotless galley, I caught up with Darlene. "You've got to talk to
me," I whispered. "What happened between you and Stu?"

She kept her enthusiastic expression, but
muttered under her breath, "I found out from one of the other girls that
he had a wild weekend of sex with a chief stewardess in Paris."

Darn! "Have you asked Stu about
it?"

"No, why should I? He's a free man,
able to do just as he pleases," she replied airily.

"But Stu loves you!"

Darlene kept tabs on the visitors.
"Ssshhh, Bebe. He's never said so. It just seemed like fate had taken a
hand when I met Cole. He's so comfortable to be around."

"Since when have you liked being
comfortable?" I asked.

Darlene went on with her spiel, her
audience hanging on her every word. "Let's go down into the belly of the
plane, shall we, ladies and gentlemen? This spiral staircase leads to a plush
sit-down bar. . . ."

Frustrated, I turned against the tide of
the crowd and made my way out of the plane. Cole was there, waiting for his
"lambkin," and I was forced to nod at him. He tipped his hat at me,
but I kept walking. Stu was leaving the exhibit, and I hurried after him.

"Stu!" I called, out of breath.

He turned and gave me a lazy smile. Tall,
with dark hair, he was handsome and rich. While I could see other women would
flock to him, I didn't for a moment believe Stu wasn't devoted to Darlene,
even if he did have a penchant for stewardesses in general.

"How are you, Bebe? You're looking
good in that boss dress."

"Thanks." Now that I had Stu's
attention, I was suddenly at a loss for words. Then I thought of Cole Woodruff.
"Stu, I know it's none of my business, and just stop me if I'm really out
of line, but I'm worried about you and Darlene."

His shoulders slumped. "Hey, she has
someone new and looks happy."

"Stu," I said gently, touching
his arm, "was there a misunderstanding between you two? One that could
easily be cleared up with a frank talk? You see, I like you both, and you
seemed so right for each other."

He looked off into the distance, and I
feared I'd gone too far. Then he turned to me and gazed directly into my eyes.
"Bebe, sometimes Darlene gets an idea in her head and nothing can dislodge
it. There's a lot of competition among the stews, and someone wanted Darlene to
get bent out of shape."

"So what she's, er, been told about,
um, Paris, is not true?"

"Absolutely not. There's no other gal
for me but Darlene. Sure, I like looking at stewardesses, but Darlene's my
doll. I tried to tell her that Peggy—she's the one who says she slept with me—was making things up because I
hadn't accepted what she offered me."

"A woman scorned," I said.

"I'm afraid so. Thing is, I thought
there was some trust between me and Darlene, but she wouldn't even listen to me
and went ahead and believed the lies. Now she's with that Stetson-wearing
lecher."

"I don't like him either," I
added quickly. "There's something about him that's not right."

"Yeah, what's not right is that he's
got my girl. I'm gonna split now, Bebe. I just came to see her, that's all.
You're sweet for trying to help."

He moved away before I could say anything
else, leaving me more determined than ever to pin Darlene Roland down on our
pink sectional and make her talk to me.

I wandered around the fair for a while
longer, but began to feel tired from the exercise, the heat, and the crowds.
Gloria, Suzie, and Bradley were all gone when I returned to the Mustang
exhibit. I must have lost track of time, and felt bad about not seeing Gloria.
I wanted to tell her about my upcoming date with Louis.

I waited in long lines for both the bus and
then the subway—there were thousands of tourists to contend with—and it was
after ten in the evening when I let myself into my apartment.

No sign of Darlene.

I put on a pair of blue nylon pajamas,
washed off my makeup, and went into the kitchen for a glass of milk. I was so
beat, I couldn't even bring myself to think about Bradley being out with Suzie.

Finishing my milk, I yawned, then lay down
on my bed to read the rest of the latest issue of Look magazine.

Bradley sat in the seat next to me on the
Skyway plane. We were holding hands, and he leaned over to kiss my temple. His
full lips felt warm against my skin.

A big Tiffany's diamond solitaire with a matching platinum
band on my left ring finger sparkled like the ocean below. Darlene carved prime
rib for us. I smiled, but something began pulling me away, while I groaned in
protest. The scene evaporated, and I opened my eyes with a start, squinting at
the light I'd left on the night before.

The phone. The phone screamed at me from the kitchen.

I scrambled out of bed, slipped on the magazine that had
fallen during the night, and barely caught myself by gripping the side of the
bed before my nose hit the floor.

Trying to get my bearings, I saw that the clock read twenty
after five! The phone demanded my attention, and I stubbed my toe on the bottom
of my dresser before making it into the kitchen and grabbing the receiver. This
had better be good.

"Hello?"

"Miss Bennett?"

"Yes."

"Bradley Williams here."

"Mr. Williams! Are you at the office at this hour?"

"Miss Bennett, I need you to get me a lawyer."

"A lawyer? You mean Ryan's corporate lawyer?"

"No, a criminal lawyer."

"Cri— Where are you?"

"In jail, Miss Bennett."

"What! Why on earth—"

"Suzie Wexford was murdered last night, strangled with
the Pucci scarf I gave her. I found her body, and the police think I did
it."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wide-awake without benefit of coffee, I took a five-minute
shower with my hair in a plastic cap, put on my makeup in record time, and
threw on a bright yellow Jackie Kennedy suit.

I had trouble remembering numbers in general, so I resorted
to the worn notebook I kept in my purse to retrieve Stu's phone number. I
couldn't spare a thought for what he might think about my calling him. Stu was
the most powerful man I knew—next to Bradley—in New York City. He would know
the best criminal lawyer, and he would keep quiet about what I told him.

Stu picked up on the seventh ring. "Hello," he said
groggily.

"Stu, this is Bebe Bennett. I'm awfully sorry to wake
you, but this is an emergency."

"Is it Darlene?" he asked, alarmed.

"No, Stu, she's fine; I didn't mean to scare you that
way. It's my boss, Mr. Williams. He's in trouble, and I need you—well, not you
exactly, but your connections, and I have to have them fast."

"Bebe, Bebe, slow down; you're not making any
sense."

Tears burned at the backs of my eyes. I took a deep breath.
"Mr. Williams called me from jail. The model he's been dating, Suzie
Wexford—"

"Yeah, I know who she is. What happened?"

"Someone murdered her last night with a scarf that Brad—I mean, Mr. Williams—had given her, and he was the one
who found the body. The fuzz think he did it." My voice rose on the last
few words.

Stu let out a low whistle. "How can I
help?"

"I need you to get in touch with the
best criminal lawyer in New York City and get him down to the jail and
straighten out this mess!"

"Calm down, Bebe, okay? I'm going to
help you. What precinct has Bradley been taken to?"

Oh, God, my trouble with numbers! Bradley
had told me, but I forgot. But wait, he'd said he'd seen my "friend,"
Detective Finelli. "Stu, I don't know the number, but it's the one where
Detective Finelli—you remember him—works."

"Yeah, I sure do remember him, after
what he put Darlene through a few weeks ago. I know just the lawyer to call,
but before I get him, I want you to promise me to try to calm down. I'm sure
there's an easy explanation as to how Bradley came to be found with the
body."

My empty stomach lurched. "Hurry, Stu.
I'm going down there now to see what I can do."

"Bebe, no—"

I hung up, grabbed my purse and gloves, and
raced out of the apartment and down the stairs. I tripped on a child's red
truck on a step and almost fell headlong to the ground. Telling myself I had
no time to break my neck right now, I grabbed the rail, righted myself, and
continued down.

Outside, the morning chill hit me, and a
quick glance at my watch underneath the building's light said it was five
forty-five. The streets were dark, and I imagined Harry asleep behind the
Catholic high school across the way. A couple of young men stood loitering at
the corner I had to pass.

I didn't care. I had to get to Bradley.

As I walked briskly over to Lexington,
catcalls greeted me, but I kept going at a no-nonsense pace. I paused long
enough to hail a taxi, opting not to take the subway, and slid into the
backseat.

"I don't know the exact street and
number," I told the taxi driver, wishing I'd remembered to get them from
Stu, "but I'll guide you there."

"Okay, lady. It's your dime."

We sped off, with the Four Seasons singing
"Big Girls Don't Cry" on the cab's radio. By the time I arrived at
the police station, dawn had turned the city sky a pale lavender. Trucks were
delivering goods to stores and restaurants, garbage trucks noisily took care of
the city's trash, and lights dotted the windows of apartment buildings.

I ran up the steps and entered the police
station.

The uniformed desk clerk, a balding,
paunchy man in his forties, eyed me suspiciously. "Help you?"

I clunked my purse down on the desk.
"Yes, please. You see, my boss, Mr. Williams, has been arrested, and I'm
here to get him out of jail, because it's all simply a terrible
misunderstanding. If you would show me to where he's being held, we can be on
our way."

"You his lawyer?" he asked with
heavy sarcasm, bushy eyebrows raised.

"Well, no, but I'm his executive
secretary!"

He riffled through some papers, then looked
at me with total unconcern, head cocked. "Nobody but his lawyer's allowed
to see the Williams guy."

Anger rose up in me for this man who
obviously cared nothing about Bradley. I read his name tag and said,
"Listen, Mr. Lonegan—"

"That's Officer John Lonegan," he
interrupted.

"Very well, Officer Lonegan, Mr.
Williams is a very important man. He runs a company! His uncle owns a
conglomeration of entities across the United States. Mr. Williams doesn't
belong here in this rather unclean building."

"Does if he strangled a broad and left
her naked except for a fur coat, like this report says he did."

Naked? My voice rose. "Mr. Williams
did not kill anyone! I give you my word on that."

Officer Lonegan had the nerve to chuckle.
"Your word? Tell it to the judge."

My temper snapped. "Don't you dare
treat me in such a condescending manner, mister. I'm here to see Mr. Williams,
and I will see Mr. Williams, and I want you to take me to him right this minute
and stop wasting my time and his, or I'll report you to Detective
Finelli!" I yelled, pounding my fist on the desk for emphasis.

The officer narrowed his eyes at me and
began to walk around the desk. "Lady, maybe you need to be clapped in the
slammer for being insolent to a policeman."