Murder in the Air (28 page)

“On my birthday,” he said, taking a hefty sip of Scotch. “July second. I think she was already dating Manderbach by then. But what's the difference? If she's that kind of girl, I say to hell with her.”

I could tell by the way he said the words that it still stung.

“And then,” he added, smiling again, “Manderbach goes and dumps her. According to Jonnie, Sally was footloose and fancy-free by the middle of September, and on the lookout for some new sap to draw into her web. I knew it wouldn't work between them, but hell, she wouldn't have believed me. She was so gaga over the jerk.” He
finished his drink. Drawing a bowl of peanuts in front of him, he asked, “So, how you doin' with your girlfriend?”

He meant Mitzi. “We broke up,” I said.

“Yeah. The course of true love's never easy.” Then he laughed again and ordered another drink.

I told him I had to get home.

“You datin' Kay now?”

I wasn't sure how he knew, but I told him I was.

“She's a real beauty. And a good girl. Nothing like Sally.”

I agreed with him, thanked him for the drink, and left. I'd gotten what I'd come for. More, in fact. I was hoping for a lead and I got the guy's name dropped right in my lap.

So, I thought as I drove away, the man in question was none other than one of St. Paul's best-known golden boys. Bud Manderbach had been the driver of the car that killed Olga Landauer. No wonder he was so hot to cover it up. If his father had found out he'd killed someone and then left the scene of the accident, he could kiss his fabulous future goodbye. That fateful night had ended his affair with Sally Nash. To buy her silence, he'd bought her a car, and no doubt given her money. But since she wasn't buying clothes and fancy knickknacks the way she had earlier in the fall, I figured that the money might be just about dried up. Now that I had specific information, I thought maybe I could use her lack of funds to my advantage.

But I needed a plan. If Bud Manderbach was really the hit-and-run driver, as I knew in my gut he was, I had to find proof. I had no idea then that Kay would turn out to be the key.

I better stop there.

Stay safe, Mom. Don't talk about me to anyone. Don't whisper my name or mourn my loss. If you forget about me, at least in every way that's visible, you'll live through this. All I can give you now is the chance to stay alive.

Much love,
Justin

23

“This radio show is really taking a toll on you, Heda,” said George Chambers. He was seated on the couch in her suite, his feet propped up on a heavy chrome-and-glass-block coffee table. “Are you still convinced it's worth it?”

Heda stood in front of her easel, putting the finishing touches on a painting she'd started weeks ago. The picture had become progressively more somber, filled with dark shadows and an almost palpable gloom. It was a depiction of her mood, rather than an accurate representation of the St. Paul skyline. “It had to be done.”

He nodded, puffing on his pipe.

“I'm just so glad you could be here. I don't know what I would have done without you these past few weeks.”

“Where else would I be? Besides, I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

Heda set the brush down and then eased back onto the stool with a weary sigh. “Alfred continues to be my biggest problem. He's made life horribly difficult for Dorothy. He insists on checking and rechecking every decision she makes.”

“Doesn't he trust her?”

“Of course he does. He knows she's a consummate professional. What he doesn't trust is
me.
He'll be damned if he lets anything slip past him again.”

“Can't you do something about it? I mean, he's harassing your assistant.”

She shrugged. “I suppose I could demand that he leave her alone, but I already feel like I've alienated him enough, buying the station the way I did—behind his back. And if he
doesn't harass Dorothy, he's going to be sitting in my living room, dumping his pent-up anger all over me.”

George removed the pipe from his mouth. “Well, all I can say is, plant your feet and take your punch. Isn't that what your father always said to do when faced with a problem?”

She smiled, remembering her dad's bulldog determination. “I guess it is.”

“And that's what we're doing. Alfred's just throwing his weight around because he wasn't consulted. He'll calm down.”

Heda knew George was right. And yet, if only her problems stopped there. She wished she could tell him about Dorothy—how unhappy she was with some of her recent behavior—and yet she knew it was impossible. It would only create new problems.

At the sound of a door being opened, both Heda and George turned. Alfred barged into the room. “Hello, Mother,” he said in his deep, ponderous voice.

Her smile dissolved as her eyes locked on the suitcase resting on the floor next to him. “What's going on?”

“I can't stay in Minnesota any longer. My wife and family want me home for Christmas. Christmas eve is only three days away, in case you haven't checked a calendar.”

“I know when Christmas eve is. I'm not senile.”

George got up. “I think maybe I should leave. You two need some privacy.” Nodding to Heda, he said, “I'll see you later tonight, all right? The memorial service for Valentine starts at eight. We should probably head over to the church by seven-thirty.”

“I'll be ready.” It would be the first time she'd left the hotel since she'd arrived. Even though she was nervous about it, she knew everyone from the station would be there, and she refused to be the only exception. Valentine deserved better than that.

As George moved past Alfred over to the door, he stopped, turned around, and stuck out his hand. “Good seeing you again, Alf.”

“Yeah. Good seeing you, too.”

George stared at him a moment longer, then shut the door on his way out.

Once he was gone, Alfred walked over to the windows and looked up at the darkening sky. “You two have sure been spending a lot of time together.”

“We're old friends.”

“How can you call someone you haven't seen in almost forty years a friend?”

“We may not have seen each other, but we've kept in contact. A letter here, a Christmas card there.”

He clearly wasn't satisfied, but let the subject drop. Clasping his hands behind his back, he moved around the easel to look at the painting. After studying it for a few moments, he said, “Come home with me, Mother. Surely this fiasco you've set in motion here can run its course without you.”

This was the last conversation she needed right now. “Look, Alfred, I understand why you want to leave. You know my feelings on the matter. You didn't need to come to Minnesota in the first place.”

“Forgive me if I had to make sure this investment was a sound one. I realize you wanted to play your little game in peace. I haven't interfered, have I?”

“Well… not exactly.”

“Not that you planned to let me in on your secret.”

“Of course I did. I told you the first week you were here.”

“Not
that
secret. Mother. The other one.”

She didn't know what he was talking about.

He sat down on the couch. “Two words. Wish Greveen.”

“What about him?”

“I'm not a complete idiot. I've always wondered if Justin was still alive. Now I know he is.”

“What?” she said, blinking back her surprise.

“Sure, that's why he keeps himself hidden. He'd be too recognizable, especially to his brother.”

“You think Wish Greveen is Justin?”

“Don't bother denying it.” His smile was more of a sneer.

“But that's ridiculous. Absolute nonsense.”

“Is it?” He placed both arms on the back of the couch and stared at her, the sneer turning to a scowl. “Oh, that's right, you maintain you've never met Wish Greveen.”

“I haven't.”

“Then how do you know he's not your son?”

“Justin is dead, Alfred. Dead and buried. I was there.” She looked away, first out the window at the fading twilight, then down at her hands. “He died in Italy.”

“Those trips you took to Europe in the late Sixties and early Seventies. You went to visit him, right?”

She squared her shoulders. “I did.”

“You lied about that, too. You told me you were visiting friends. You even gave me a bunch of bogus names.”

“You're smart enough to understand why I had to lie.”

“And you're lying now.”

“No!”

“I don't believe you,” he said flatly.

Her lips thinned in irritation, but she held her temper in check. “I'm sorry you don't,” she said finally, “because it's the truth. I swear that to you on my life, Alfred—Wish Greveen is not my son! He was simply hired to write the scripts. If he's a recluse, if he never wants to meet with me personally, that's his business. He's eminently qualified, as our ratings clearly show.”

Dorothy picked that moment to come home from work.

Heda was delighted with the interruption. She hoped it would put an end to Alfred's questions.

Dorothy set her briefcase on the table by the door. “I'm exhausted,” she said, taking off her heavy wool coat and hanging it in the front closet. Noticing the grim faces staring back at her, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

Heda felt this was a perfect opportunity to change the subject. She hoped Alfred would take the hint and leave. She had other matters that required her attention. “Where were you during lunch? I called, but your secretary said you were out.”

“I was,” said Dorothy, stepping over to the bar. She began to mix herself a drink. “I had an engagement.”

“With whom?”

Dorothy's eyes flicked to Heda, then back to the bottle of sweet vermouth. “Why, I don't think that's any of your business. Would anyone else like a drink before dinner?”

“Was it Bud Manderbach again?” demanded Heda. If Alfred's little tantrum hadn't caused her blood pressure to rise, Dorothy's behavior certainly would.

Dorothy took a taste of her drink before answering. “If you must know, yes, it was.” She reached underneath the bar and found a cocktail napkin, then walked over to a chair in a neutral corner and sat down. “What did I walk in on?” she asked, adjusting her skirt over her knees.

“Nothing,” said Heda sharply. She didn't know if she was more disgusted by Alfred's constant questions or Dorothy's refusal to listen to reason. Dorothy
had
to stop seeing that man. The fact that she'd even introduced herself to him was an obscenity.

“Well, we were talking about
something”
said Alfred. “I was wondering if Wish Greveen was really Justin Bloom, my half brother.”

Dorothy gazed at him for a moment, then started to laugh. “Who told you that?”

“No one. It's just a theory.”

Her attention switched to Heda. “Tell him. Justin's dead, right?”

“Pardon me if I don't believe that bit of family bullshit.”

“But it's true.” Again, Dorothy looked at Heda, this time with a bit more uncertainty. “Isn't it?”

“Of course it is,” said Heda firmly.

“Would you like to see a photo of Mr. Greveen?” asked Dorothy, lifting the glass to her lips. “I think I have one in the resume he sent me. That might set your mind at rest.”

Alfred's eyebrow raised. He seemed skeptical, but said, “Sure. Why not?”

Dorothy rose and walked into her bedroom, returning a few moments later with a file folder. “The picture is clipped inside the front cover.”

Alfred flipped it open and gazed at the photo. He stared at
it a long time. “There's some resemblance, I suppose. It's hard to tell. I haven't seen my brother since he was in his mid-twenties.”

“I've seen the photo
and
your brother,” said Heda. “And that's not Justin.”

He seemed to mull it over. “Well, of course there's always plastic surgery. You've certainly had your face tweaked and tucked a few times, Mother.”

“That's enough,” she snapped. She'd had about all she could take of this conversation—from both of them. Rising from her chair, she said, “Alfred, I hope you have a good flight back to Florida. Give my love to everyone. Now, Fm going to lie down before dinner.” She turned to Dorothy. “George Chambers is coming by at seven-thirty. We'll all ride over to the church together.”

Dorothy nodded. “Alf, are you going, too?”

“Thank God I have an excuse. I'll be winging my way back to Florida by then. I hate funerals.” He pushed out of his chair, gave his mother a peck on the cheek, and then grabbed his suitcase. “By the way, Mother, we'll continue this conversation later.”

After he'd bumped his way out the door, Dorothy looked at Heda with a pained but amused smile. “God, but he's an oaf.”

Heda glared at her. “That's not funny. None of this is funny!”

“No,” said Dorothy, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. “I suppose it isn't.”

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