A Cozy Beatles Mystery: Larceny in Liverpool (A Cozy Beatles Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  "I Want To Hold Your Hand was a hit then?"

  "This was before."

  "Before She Loves You?"

  He was trying to impress me with his basic knowledge. It was admirable but this was before even those songs. I crossed my arms.

  He let out a self-deprecating laugh, then shrugged. "So, then what happened?"

  "Brian Epstein went and saw them play. The Cavern Club was only a short walk. He liked them. A while later at work he asked me about other bands and I shared my knowledge of Elvis, and Gene Vincent. Frankie Avalon, the Everly Brothers, Paul Anka and Ricky Nelson all had hit records we stocked. He asked me about local bands: Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits and, of course Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. I didn’t know about them yet as they played in clubs and I had never been. I only knew the recordings."

  There was no recognition on his face.

  I quickly surmised I was going to be alone in my memories. Perhaps this really was a social call? Perhaps not. Keep your guard up, Helen. You remember how things can turn quickly against you.

  "I recited their top songs and their band members to him. I recall he grimaced and then held his face expressionless and in general was non-committal while I was speaking. I could not read him."

  "He appreciated your knowledge, didn't he?"

  "The opposite. I expect I came off as an arrogant know-it-all." Perhaps I should have been thinking about keeping my mouth shut? Probably. Then he walked off without saying goodbye or thank you. "In the week afterwards, I saw him only at odds and ends, across the floor. There was no acknowledgement of our conversation."

  "Did you ever get called to his office for more information?"

  "Once." Much later, and it was a doozy of a meeting where my future work was in the balance.

  "So, you didn’t get the job? I thought you did?"

  "Not at that time. It was many months later. You see, in the winter he had begun representing the Beatles. And then in the autumn of 1962 out of the blue he asked if I would be interested in clerking for him. Helping out. With his new role as manager representing a band."

  "Oh, that must have been so exciting! How did you feel?"

  "A band. Really? Me?"

  "Do you want to know which band?"

  I was too excited to speak. Calm yourself, Helen. Don’t look like an amateur. "Yes, of course. Which?"

  "Your smug face makes it look like you already know. Do you?"

  "I do?"

  Brian had said, his words still lingering now, "You’re a poor liar."

  "Of course, I felt my face grow hot, blushing. I was ecstatic for the offer, and I think what helped along with my memory and eye for detail and knowledge of bands was that I wasn’t anything to write home about."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Look at me, Inspector. At the time I was five foot three and one hundred thirty some pounds. I was a plain and average teenager. That day I was wearing black shoes and a gray skirt. Even my clothes were drab and boring."

  He gave a quick smile, changing the subject, "Do you have photos from that time?"

  Oh, yes, I did. And everyone else everywhere in the world has them too. "Not to brag," I said, suddenly feeling more confident, "But you’ve probably seen photos of me your entire life. I’m in the background of hundreds, only so unremarkable you wouldn’t notice me in a police lineup. It seems that’s my special skill, along with a natural ability to recall facts. I think that is part of what appealed to Mr. Epstein."

  "So that’s what clinched it."

  "I think it was something more basic. He told me I wouldn't threaten any of the other girls away. The fan girls. I was just glad for the job."

  "Your parents must have been overjoyed. Yes?"

  "Mixed. Mother didn’t understand. It was painful even trying explaining it. She asked a lot of questions. My father was proud I, at least, continued to have work; he always took pride in preparing me for a job. I never really belonged to anything. Like a lot of kids, I just wanted to belong. My father told me to be good at my work, then they can’t fire you. At least for that. My mum expected me to be home soon and settle down to have babies. I wasn’t ready for her plans."

  "Were your friends jealous?"

  "I didn’t have many friends."

  Awkwardness made him stare down at his hands.

  I went ahead and continued, opening all the way up despite my inner reservations, "I always felt strangely adrift. Like I was treading water in the middle of an ocean. Then the NEMS job became a piece of driftwood I latched onto in hopes of staying afloat until a boat would come by to swoop me up. To my mother, her thought was the boat would be a man. Rescued by a man from a life adrift. That’s how alone I felt. No peer group, no sense of belonging. But the boat was much more than I ever hoped as it turned out.

  "It was the Beatles?"

  I nodded, adding, "Started as a boat. Turned into a ship. Then a whole navy."

  Brian had said, "Then go around and introduce yourself to Freda Kelly. She’s asked me for help with the mail."

  "So, the next day I went to Freda’s office."

  "When did you meet my father?"

  Enough about me. On to the reason for visiting the old lady.

  "It wasn't much longer afterward the robbery took place. And your father came to ask questions." I drew in a measured breath, "And later to point his finger at me. Picked me up in his police car, even." I crossed my arms again.

  "At you?"

  "Yes. That’s the story you want to hear. Am I right?"

  "It seems so." He leaned forward, his face level with mine. "You were alone in this?"

  I reflected for a moment, weighing my memories on the scales of life-justice seventy-five or so years imbues in one. It was both a simple and deep question. In the adventure I had, for all of its pain and anguish and hardship, the joys and sorrows, the pulse pounding, adrenaline fueled days and nights, and the sinking dread and triumphant crescendos, I ended up feeling I was the luckiest person alive, and honestly never felt less alone in my life once it all became clear after my accusation and fighting against the authorities and the criminals to rectify my innocence.

  I damn sure wasn’t going to let junior Inspector Tuffle re-try me today. My innocence was hard fought. The boys, and Brian and Freda, saw to that, whether they knew it or not.

  "Never for a moment, no matter how much I first felt that way."

  It was game-on with the present Inspector. I steeled myself for his challenge. His social call was a ruse. I could smell it. At least I didn't feel like I was going to fall over again. But I couldn't rule it out, not yet. Things like that happened to me sometimes.

  CHAPTER 3: LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND, FALL, 1962

  I bit my lip, pink with lipstick, then cleared my throat. I had so much trepidation at pushing my way through the door and meeting Freda Kelly at the office at NEMS. She was immediately very warm, her brown hair parted in the middle, and the most disarming smile.

  I stood awkwardly in the doorway. There were papers everywhere, she was practically buried in it. Littering the desks, and the floor were piles and piles, looking like a glob of snow had fallen.

  "You’re here to help me, yes?"

  "Yes," I stammered. Though we were the same age she seemed so much more confident than I felt.

  "Brian sent you over?"

  "Yes."

  Maybe all I was going to give was one-word answers in this job.

  "Well, very good." Her Irish brogue was so comforting for a girl from Liverpool. She reached out her hand and I stepped forward eagerly to grasp it and then lost my step, tripping over a buried pouch of mail and fell face forward, crumpling into her lap.

  She said, "Oh!"

  Mortified, I pushed myself off of her lap and sat back on my bottom. I was wearing a skirt and thankfully it was mid-calf length because it had pulled up to my knees. My god, how awfully embarrassed I felt. So much for making a good first impression. "I am so sorry!"

  She re-set the mood,
consoling me while my face burned hot and I’m sure very red, "These mail pouches certainly get in the way. We’ll have to take that off of the floor and put it on the desk's top."

  "Oh, yes, yes." It was so hot in here.

  I went to pick up the mail pouch and it spilled across the floor. This was getting worse by the minute. I hurriedly picked papers up from the floor, not sure if it spilled out from this particular bag or not. I stuffed envelopes back into the pouch while she watched me with a bemused expression.

  "We do get a lot of letters here. It is just picking up now and I'm frightfully behind in processing it. Please, stop for a moment, and have a seat." She pointed and added, "You’ll need to move some letters."

  I pushed a pouch off of a chair onto the floor and then recognized it would just trip me on my way out. I picked it up and piled it in my lap as a heap. I saw brown out of the corner of my eye and pushed a lock of my hair back into place with a shake of my head. It didn’t stay, and I lifted a hand gingerly to keep the papers balanced on my lap, while putting the lock behind my ear, feeling dreadfully clumsy.

  Freda had to be pretending she didn’t see. She took a deep breath, taking care that I watched her being calm. I did the same and felt she was a good leader.

  She started, "Now we have some rules here and I should straighten you away by taking us through them at the outset."

  "I would appreciate that, thank you." Yay! My first full sentence.

  "First of all, my name is Freda. And your name is?"

  "Helen. Helen Spencer." I reached out my hand and envelopes fell to the floor while Freda’s grasp was warm.

  "Helen, that’s a nice name. In some cases, you may need to be like Helen of Troy and use your...inner beauty. However, for Mr. Epstein, whom we always call Mr. Epstein when he’s here, there are a few ground rules."

  I moved the remainders of the mail and pouch off of my lap and picked up a pen and a piece of paper, a stray on the desk, checking it out on both sides before beginning to write. It was a wrinkled flyer for a show at the Cavern Club from September past. Two months ago.

  "Rule number one: be discreet, be helpful. That means we don’t talk about the Beatles. Their job is to do the shows and to try and be celebrities. Our job is to do everything we can to help them to be comfortable, to stay happy, and not to talk about their lives to others. Our job is to grow a fan club. The Beatles fan club."

  "Got it." I finished printing my sentence in block letters. How exciting, the fan club!

  "I’m going to skip straight to rule number three because it just happened. Rule number three: never be seen on the street with any of them. This is because there are lots of girls taking notice, and we don’t want any rumors going around that they are taken or unavailable."

  "Never on the street. Got it."

  "Now back to rule number two: do whatever they need quickly and efficiently. This is Mr. Epstein’s rule for us."

  "Quickly and efficiently." Shifting my writing to cursive I scratched it out quickly and was having trouble reading my own handwriting. What did I just write?

  "Rule number four: help me to answer this mail and also to put out a magazine."

  "A magazine, too?"

  "Yes, when we can get around to it. The fans love it."

  I pointed with the pen, sweeping across the small room, "Where does all of this mail come from?"

  She picked up a bag and dumped it out on her desk, quickly responding. Letters splayed out some falling on the floor. It didn’t matter in this unkempt inside of a postbox.

  "This one is from Surrey. This one is from Kent. This one is from Birmingham. This one is from Liverpool," she smiled. "What do you know, a home towner."

  "I have an idea...perhaps we should have a mail room."

  Eyebrows raised, she responded with an upturned palm, "Well, this is the mail room. This is the everything room. Since they were on telly once and recorded with EMI in the summer it’s gone bonkers who knows about them."

  I nodded, understanding this was it...our place.

  Just then a man burst through the door entering our small office. He was smiling broadly and looked like he was walking on air.

  Freda set down the post and addressed him. "Hello, Paul."

  CHAPTER 4: THE BOYS

  "Hullo, Freda."

  I had never seen him before in real life. Paul McCartney. Really, I hadn’t seen any of them except for on their concert promotion flyers. He was wearing a black jacket with a white tee shirt beneath, and so handsome. His hair was in thick brown locks like a floor mop. I was mesmerized, not able to take my eyes away and off him.

  Immediately behind Paul another man poked his head in, same haircut, looked around, and then turned to behind and said, "He’s not in there."

  From outside, sight unseen, I heard an older one say, "Well then he must be down on the NEMS floor or home. Unless he’s skiving off."

  Paul said, "Have you seen Brian?" He only looked at Freda. I felt invisible.

  "He’s having a meeting in the next building over. Should be back in the next thirty minutes or so. Would you like a cup of coffee or some tea?"

  "No, thanks. Full up."

  From outside I heard a heavier nasally voice say, "I could stand a cup."

  Freda said to be heard outside the door, "Coming up, Ritchie."

  Paul said over his shoulder, "He’s soft, George. Tell him."

  The young one, George, teased, "You don’t want coffee."

  Ritchie, surprised said, "I don’t? I would know."

  George said, "Maybe when you were with Rory you drank coffee. We drink harder stuff."

  "It’s 10 o’clock in the morning. Bit early."

  An older one said, "We’ll toughen you up."

  Paul turned and looked back at them at the door, passing his eyes over me warmly on their way to his friends. He handed her an envelope. "This is important. Needs to get to Brian."

  Young George in the door said, "It’s from John. Looks like it will be lucky not to be lost in all of this to-do."

  From outside, "See him at the lunch show. If he’s not skiving."

  Freda accepted, asking, "What is it?"

  He drug his hand through his untamed mane, "Rewritten lyrics for Please Please Me. We’re to record it again next week."

  "Why does Brian need to see them?"

  "So, the censors can chop it up. They thought our last recording was too suggestive."

  "Really. You guys?" Freda ran her hand through her own hair, mirroring Paul.

  "Oh, ha, ha. Some girls think so." He glanced at me.

  Looking back to Freda, Paul rolled his eyes and pushed away, proceeded out the door, jostling his way through. I heard them joking around as the clop of their footsteps trailed away. It was over so quickly.

  Freda watched the door close and then turned to me, "Are you ready to begin?"

  "Who is who?"

  She looked at me blankly, then a wave of recognition crossed her face, "Oh! I didn’t introduce you. I lost myself." She seemed surprised I didn’t already know them. "Sorry. Next time." She smiled sincerely, like a helpful schoolteacher. "You saw Paul. Ritchie was the one wanting coffee. He’s the new drummer since summertime, called Ringo...his stage name," she winked. "George was the one poking his head in and noticing how messy it is in here. John was the one talking about Mr. Epstein skiving off."

  "George looked like he is young."

  "He is, but two years older than me. Nineteen."

  That made him the same difference to me. I probably wouldn’t remember the five names being used among the four Beatles. I would try. I suddenly felt it had become hard to concentrate.

  Back in focus, she pointed, "Start with that pouch right there."

  She pulled out her own mail bag and opened an envelope at the same time as I did.

  My letter was written in looping blue ink and breathlessly described, through waves of perfume, how excited she, the sender, was to write this letter to the Beatles...her favorite was John but
she loved them all...she knew they were going to be famous and she would buy all of their records her whole life...all she asked for in return was one of them would know she wrote to them as a devoted fan. And for a photo of the four of them.

  I mentioned it to Freda.

  She smiled, "I have the same letter written in black ink, from a totally different girl in another part of the country. And another letter just like that one written in pencil. It’s the television I tell you."

  "What do we write back?"

  "Well, we separate them into piles based on who the letter is addressed to and then we share them to the boys. In some cases, fans may ask for something. We try to fill those requests."

  "What kind of things?"

  "You will see. Nothing so crazy, these are mostly teenaged girls just like us. Photos for their wall usually do the trick. And they’re so in love, they will like anything sent back."

  "Is there this much mail every day?"

  "Yes, and I’m glad it comes here to the office."

  "Why? Where else would it go?"

  "Well, at first I made the mistake of listing my home address as that of the fan club. It was a blunder I learned very clearly the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. My house looked like this does, only my parents weren’t so happy to help."

  I tried imagining what my father would think if I had hundreds of letters delivered to the house every day. He might think it was something good, at least at the start. My mother probably would look through the letters to see if anyone was looking for her daughter to date. Maybe not. It was just as likely she would wonder why a young girl would be so infatuated with boys who played music. Still, having a mailroom where the Beatles dropped by was really something fantastic. Inside I felt a need to pinch myself that I had actually seen them and within my first hour of starting work. Two of them. Really, I admitted, it was just one and a head of another, and two more voices from outside. That none of them had spoken directly to me was a small matter. I was used to fading into the background. And I didn’t seem to threaten Freda. I liked her immediately, and I hope she liked me too. Despite my falling upon her in my grand entrance today.