Murder in the Air (32 page)

“Anybody would be a fool to get mixed up with that guy,” said Sophie, sitting down on a wing chair next to the Christmas tree. “Say, isn't he one of the names being discussed as the real murderer of Kay Collins?”

“If there's any truth to it.”

“Do you think there is?”

“I think,” he said, pouring several inches of gin into a shaker, “that I don't want to talk about Bud Manderbach, Justin Bloom, or Kay Collins tonight.”

“Really.”

“Yes really. As far as I'm concerned, it's been a bad week for me when it comes to that whole egregious conundrum.”

“You mean the murder of that poor woman at O'Dell's cabin.”

“Among other things, yes. All I know is, I'll never hear from Arn O'Dell's granddaughter again. The message was clear. Soph. I have every confidence she didn't miss the point. If she surfaces again with that letter, she's a dead woman.”

“Who's behind all this?” said Sophie, her voice full of exasperation.

Bram held a finger to his lips.

“Right. The moratorium on the subject begins now.”

After adding vermouth to the gin, Bram glanced over his shoulder and saw Ethel's ancient form lurch out of the bedroom. She stood in the darkened hallway for a moment, smacking her lips. Sensing a potential food opportunity in the living room, she dragged herself over to the coffee table, sniffed the air with a certain world-weary curiosity, and then gazed dolefully at a plate of Christmas cookies resting mere inches from her nose.

“Can't I give her one?” asked Bram. “After all, it
is
Christmas eve.”

“Well, I did get more of that special meat-flavored toothpaste yesterday, so I guess it would be all right. As long as one of us brushes her teeth before she goes to bed.”

“Sure, Soph. No problem.”

“Meaning, of course, that I should do it.”

“Aren't all women innate caregivers?”

Sophie gave him a half-lidded smile as he handed her the martini glass. “In certain circles, you could be shot for a remark like that. Just to make sure your heart's in the right place, I'll put her toothpaste next to yours tonight. You can do the honors.”

“What if I get them mixed up?”

She grinned at him over the rim of her glass. “Plan on sleeping someplace other than our bed.”

Bram laughed, then tossed Eithel her cookie. “God, it's so great to have the evening all to ourselves. I love Christmas. Say, what time are Rudy and John getting here tomorrow?”

“Around one. We'll eat at three.”

“He's feeling well enough to come?”

Sophie sighed. “He's still not a hundred percent, but he's so much better, and he really wants to come. I've got a big meal planned, so don't feast on too many of those Russian tea cakes.”

“Say, didn't you say you'd rented us a movie for tonight?” He snuck Ethel another cookie while Sophie got up to put on a CD. “Panis Angelicus,” sung by Jose Carreras, now wafted softly from the stereo speakers.

“That I did,” she said, turning around and eyeing Ethel suspiciously.

“And what did you get us?”

As Sophie sat back down in her chair she merely smiled.

“Oh, God, no. Not
Fargo
again. Since it came out, we've seen it five times. Minnesotans are supposed to hate that movie, Soph.”

She continued to smile. “Not me. But rest easy. I've selected an oldie for our viewing enjoyment. Something nice and noir.”

“Like what?”

“Double Indemnity.”

“Great! Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck. Perfect. What are we waiting for?”

“Well, I want to take a shower first. Why don't you mix up another batch of martoonies and meet me in the bedroom. I've already got the tape in the VCR.”

As Sophie disappeared into the bedroom she called, “Check to make sure the front door's locked before you come in.”

“Will do, honey.”

After careful consideration, Bram decided to mix the drinks in the bedroom. That way, they would be properly chilled without being watered down. Assembling everything on a tray, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching and then
tossed Ethel one last cookie. “Merry Christmas, old girl.” He watched her make a mess of it on the Oriental.

As he was about to turn off the tree lights and pack it in for the night, the cordless telephone on the coffee table gave a sudden beep. “I'll get it,” he called, realizing as soon as he said the words that Sophie was in the shower.

“Hello,” he said, sitting down on the couch.

“Is this Bram Baldric?”

He recognized the voice immediately and his pulse quickened. “Yes, it is.”

“Do you know who this is?”

“I do. I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again.”

“Believe me, I thought long and hard about making this call.”

“Do you still want to meet?”

Silence. Then: “Someone's been watching my house.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them. For the last few nights I've watched the same white van drive back and forth down the street. Every time it comes past my front door, it slows. It's always late, usually around midnight. One time, the driver even got out. I couldn't see his face, but he was short, kind of stocky. I'd never seen him before. He came up to the door. Then walked around the side of the house looking at the windows.”

“You're not safe!”

“Do you think I don't know that?”

Bram could tell she was smoking. He could hear her exhale, then take another deep drag.

“Someone made a mistake the other night, Mr. Baldric. I was the one who should have been hanging from that pipe, not Betty Johanson. The guy in the van's just figuring out a way to finish the job.”

A shiver ran down his back, as if someone had just run the blade of a knife over his skin. “What are you going to do?”

“I have a gun. For now, it's enough.”

“But… why did you call this Betty Johanson in the first place?”

“I thought I was going to he late. My supervisor asked me
to put in some overtime that afternoon. I wheedled my way out of it, but by the time I got up there, she was already dead, thanks to you and that lawyer friend of yours. Did you have to announce our plans on the radio?”

He felt his stomach clench. “It was a mistake.”

“Sure.”

“It was! I tried to get the guy to stop talking, but he wouldn't. He overheard our conversation—I mean, he couldn't help but hear. He was sitting right next to me when you called.”

Silence.

“Look, this is awkward. I don't even know what to call you.”

“You think I'm going to give you my name? Not on your life. Oh, and it won't help you to look up O'Dell in the phone book either. I was married once for a couple of years. I don't have the same last name anymore.”

Bram already knew that. He'd called every O'Dell in the seven-county metro area looking for her, but had struck out. He hadn't even found a relative. Sensing her anger, and fearing that she might hang up, he said the first thing to pop into his head. “Where do you work?” It was meant to be conversational, but it sounded more like interrogation.

“It doesn't matter, Mr. Baldric. I quit my job.”

“But—” He struggled for the right words. “After I discovered Betty Johanson's body, I talked to the sheriff, a man named Henry Olson. He said they'd found some tire tracks in the snow about thirty yards back of the cabin. They're confident it will lead them to her murderer.”

The woman gave a bitter laugh. “So much for law enforcement. They were
my
tire tracks, Mr. Baldric. It may lead them to my door, but I didn't kill Betty.”

“But you know who did, don't you?” It was less a question than a statement of fact.

More silence. After several long, uncomfortable seconds she said, “I still need you to look at that letter. You've gotta help me. Mr. Baldric. I don't know if I'm comin' or goin' anymore, I just know this has got to get resolved.”

“Name the place.”

“Have you ever heard of the Antler Saloon? It's a bar and hamburger joint on Lyndale and Thirty-fourth.”

“No, but I can find it.”

“I'll meet you there tomorrow night. Nine sharp. And don't tell anyone this time.”

“Of course not. But … the bar, will it be open? Lots of places are closed on Christmas day.”

“It'll be open.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don't bring your wife.”

“How did you know—”

The line clicked. She'd hung up.

“Who was that?” asked Sophie, tying the cord on her bathrobe. She'd just come out of the bedroom.

Bram had to think fast. “Old Tony Thompson. He wanted to wish us both a merry Christmas.”

Leaning against the door frame, she scrutinized his face.

Bram could tell she didn't entirely believe him.

“The curtain goes up in five minutes. I believe I'm on the bill tonight as the selected short.”

An obvious reference to her diminutive height. Bram grinned and replied, “Give me one second to make a phone call and I'll be right in.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

“My, but we're in a good mood.”

“We're working on it.” She disappeared inside the room.

Quickly, Bram tapped in the home number of his friend Al Lundquist. It rang several times before a deep voice answered, “Hello?”

“Al?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Bram.”

“Hey, buddy.”

“I need a big favor.”

“So what else is new?”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

Al sighed. “What do you want?”

“I need to know if there's any way you could find out the name of Arn O'Dell's granddaughter.”

“O'Dell? You mean the police officer who ID'd Justin Bloom?”

“That's the one.”

“You're still beating a dead horse, huh?”

“Yeah, Al. Still flogging the hell out of it.”

He was silent for several seconds. “Well, as I think of it, there is one guy I could try. A retired cop. He'd be pretty old now, but I'm fairly certain he knew O'Dell. I think they were even partners for a while.”

“Great. Can you call him?”

“You mean tonight? On Christmas eve?”

“Yes, tonight. I've got to find the granddaughter right away.”

“Why?” Now he sounded suspicious.

“Look, Al, as soon as I know anything important, I'll tell you.”

“Sure. And elephants can fly.”

“Will you help me?”

More silence. Then: “Well, I was pretty bored by the TV tonight. When you're a single guy, all this touchy-feely Christmas crap can give you a bad case of indigestion. Sure, I'll give him a buzz. That is, if I can locate him. He could be dead for all I know.”

“Thanks, Al. You're a lifesaver.”

“What do you mean?” he said gruffly. “Someone's life is in danger?”

“Bad choice of words. Just call me as soon as you know anything. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever.”

“Have I ever told you you're a putz?”

“Frequently. Oh—wait! I think Santa's about to come down our chimney, Al. I gotta run get his milk and cookies.”

“Asshole.”

“Night, pal.”

May 10, 1959

Dear Mother:

My friend in the States, the man who has been helping me get my letters to you safely, sent me some recent newspapers from the city where he lives. They arrived in the mail shortly after lunch. I sat down to read them and didn't finish until well into the evening. If s funny, but the advertisements seemed especially strange to me, almost like I was reading science fiction. None of it has any meaning to my life now. I guess that's the point, right? Life goes on. Just because mine ended last Christmas eve doesn't mean that other lives have stopped.

I did, however, take note of one news story, something I hadn't heard about before. I don't know if you know Buddy Holly, Mom, but I read that he died in a plane crash in February. Both Kay and I really liked his songs. I think she even had one of his albums. It seemed intensely sad to me to think of a young man being cut down in the prime of his life. His career was just catching fire. He had everything to live for. And then it hit me. Buddy Holly and I have much in common. I'm still walking the earth, while he's perhaps walking some other plane of existence, but we're both dead men.

You know, reading that story made me feel less alone. It even picked me up a little, though I should probably explain what I mean by that. It reminded me of one time when I was a boy. Remember the piano lessons you insisted I take? I hated them with the kind of passion only a kid often could muster. One afternoon, while I was sitting
in Mrs. Gruning's living room waiting for her to be done with the girl who had the lesson before me, I picked up a copy of Look or
The Saturday Evening Post,
or some such magazine. I started reading an article about a famous man, an actor I think, who'd been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Well, I thought to myself with my ten-year-old brain, I guess there are worse things than having to cool my heels in Mrs. Gruning's living room. And I used that poor man's tragedy over and over again, even went back to it years later when I'd have to take a test I knew I wasn't prepared for. Just like Buddy Holly's death, it made me feel less singled put, less alone. The fact that there was no real comparison between the two never entered my mind. I immersed myself in that poor actor's agony and mine seemed less by comparison
—
although only slightly less, you understand. I was, after all, a child. Maybe it's a flaw in my character that I'm still doing it. I have many flaws, Mom, and won't argue the point.

All right, back to my story.

It became increasingly difficult for Kay to always meet Bud Manderbach at a drugstore or a restaurant when they went out on a date. I let her borrow my car, but it was still awkward. The solution turned out to be simple. We'd allow him to pick Kay up at “her” place, but we gave him my address, not hers. She'd meet him outside the front door of my apartment, and then, when they returned, she wouldn't let him come inside. Anything to thwart that creep and his lecherous intentions was all right by me. Besides, I could keep better track of what was happening that way. Kay and I could talk before and after each “date.” I'd get her firsthand reactions. And also, I finally had use of my car to follow them if I felt even the least bit nervous.