Murder in the Air (45 page)

“So you had her killed.”

“Yes!” He held Justin's eyes. “It was her punishment. She hurt me like no other woman has. I still hate her!”

Justin had been waiting almost forty years to tell Mander-bach the truth. This was the moment. He allowed himself a small smile. “Except, you got part of it wrong.”

Bud pressed his lips together angrily. “Yeah, like what?”

“The part where Kay and I get married and ride off into the sunset. Before you had her killed, she gave me her decision. She'd picked you. She wanted to save you from yourself. She had the negatives and the photos in her purse because she intended to make you a present of them—to prove her love. She was going to meet you next, after she gave me back my ring. This ring!” He held up his hand. “You could have had it all, you son-of-a-bitch! Kay … your freedom … even a chance at happiness. And
that's
the message I came here tonight to give you. You killed the only woman who ever loved you! What do you think of your brilliant plan now?”

“You're lying!” Bud shouted. “You have to be! She wanted you, not me.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, not in so many words, but—” The light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, God,” he said, doubling over in pain. With both hands he grabbed onto the pew in front of him and started to rock. “No,” he repeated, over and over again. “You're wrong. You're making this up.”

Justin watched his agony. It was strange, but he'd lived for so many years with enormity and hyperbole that he found the man's pain curiously small. “You know, Bud, not that this will interest you, but I don't believe in hope anymore.”

Sitting down in one of the pews across the aisle, he picked up a hymnal and raised it to his lips. “I did believe in it, up until a few seconds ago. I'd hoped that my revenge would be sweet, something to sustain me when, years from tonight, I
wondered if my actions were truly worth it. But I know now that it's not enough. Nothing will ever bring back what I lost. I think I've lived too long and seen too much. We're just two … pathetic old men, Bud. Two has-beens. You get one chance in this life, and we both blew it. And yet … I can't stop what I've started. I wouldn't, even if I could.”

Running a shaky hand over his face, Bud looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose you do deserve an explanation, although I'm not sure why.” He touched the lipstick on his mouth, wishing he could wash it off. “After I came back to the States, I employed a series of private detectives in an effort to dig up something—anything—to put you behind bars. I thought for sure there was proof somewhere tying you to Olga Lan-dauer's death, or Kay's, or Sally's. Did so many people have to die? Did they?”

Bud closed his eyes.

“You'll be happy to know you're safe. There's no way on earth I could touch you—unless I murdered you myself, which—at the time—seemed like more trouble than it was worth. It took a while, but I came up with another plan. When an AM radio station hit the market in the Twin Cities, I convinced my mother to buy it. Together, we would put on a revival of
Dallas Lane, Private Eye,
except the story would be true. It would be our story, yours and mine—and Kay's. I'd invite the old cast to be a part of the production. Why? Because I needed to know who you'd bribed to steal that gun from my stepfather's drawer. You gave me my answer a few minutes ago, although I already suspected it was Valentine. The bottom line is, if I couldn't convict you in the courts, I'd convict you in the court of public opinion—just like you'd done to me. It's ironic, isn't it, how we constantly find ever new ways of being ironic together?”

Bud shot him a nasty look.

“You know the rest. My plan was working, but I knew from the beginning it wouldn't be enough to bring you down. The problem was, my mother would never have agreed to a murder—even a fake one, so I had to take matters
into my own hands. My friend back there is part of the medical profession, Bud. It was a simple matter for him to draw some of his blood. We waited until you were gone, and then entered the cottage. Thank God I still have my talent for picking locks. It only took a few minutes to set it up. And look what happened? Presto change-o, Bud Manderbach is now the talk of the town, suspected by millions of inquiring minds in the wrongful death of one Wish Greveen. If the police decide they have enough against you to try you for the man's ‘disappearance,’ then great. I hope you rot in jail. If they don't arrest you, your life has already been damaged— and it's my fondest hope that you won't soon recover. Remember, Bud, from now on, when people see you on the street, or watch you walk into a restaurant, they're going to point and whisper, snicker and sneer. There goes Bud Manderbach. He murdered Wish Greveen, maybe even Kay Collins, and just look at him. Slimy bastard. He's still a free man. Somebody should put a bullet in his back.”

“This is absurd!”

“Ah, I see you've completely recovered from your momentary bout with human emotion. Take my advice, you'd best keep emotion to a minimum for the next few months. I'll bet, even as we speak, some reporter is rifling through your medicine chest while upstairs, your sister blithely catalogues her collection of teapots.”

“Leave my sister out of this!”

“Gladly.” Justin got up and nodded to the man in the back. “Bring me the gun and then go get the car and bring it around front.”

“Why do you want the gun?” said Bud, gripping the back of the pew. His eyes dropped to the barrel as Justin pointed it at his chest. “What… what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“But… you said you weren't going to shoot.”

“Did I? Surely not in so many words. One last question, Bud. I should warn you. A great deal depends on your answer.” He paused, walking a few paces closer. “Are you sorry?”

Bud stared at the barrel. “Sure.”

He cocked the trigger. “Tell me the truth!”

Again, Bud closed his eyes. It took him almost a full minute to respond. When he did, he looked Justin square in the eye. “No. Fm not sorry. A man has to put his own interests first. That's the law of the jungle.”

As they stared at each other across the abyss of years, Justin felt his finger tense over the trigger. Bud Manderbach had been a bastard to the end. He was incapable of remorse. Why should he go on living?

“Don't shoot… please! I … I'm a rich man. I can give you anything you want.”

If only that were true, thought Justin.

When the horn finally honked, he released the hammer and lowered the gun to his side.

Bud wiped a hand over his brow. “What's to prevent me from telling the police the whole story—that you set everything up?”

“Well,” said Justin, scratching the bottom of his chin with the gun barrel, “if you can figure out a way to do it without incriminating yourself, go for it.”

“You'll be arrested!”

“Will I? First you'd have to convince the right people that the story is true, and second they'd have to find me. If I've learned anything in my life, it's how to disappear. I'm a phantom, a figment of your guilty imagination. Justin Bloom died in Europe, everyone knows that.” He leaned down close to Bud's face and whispered, “But you and I know the truth. I died on Christmas eve, 1958—the night my hope, and my youth, perished.”

34

Bram pulled the covers up over his head. “If it's for me, I'm in a meeting.”

“It's almost one-thirty in the morning,” grumbled Sophie, switching on the light next to the bed. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “How could you be in a meeting?”

“All right, I'm out to lunch—or at the dentist's.” He rolled over and buried his head under a pillow.

“You're out to lunch, all right.” She picked up the receiver. “Yes?” After listening for several seconds, she said, “No, this is
not
Bram Baldric. This is his wife.”

Snickers emanated from under the pillow. “No more cigars for you.”

She banged him on the arm. “Yes. he's here. And he's in rare form. Just a minute.” She dropped the receiver next to his hand. “From now on, tell your girlfriends to call during the day.” She eased back under the covers.

With his head still under the pillow, he held the receiver to his ear. “This is Bram Baldric. I can't be here to answer the phone right now, but if you'd like to leave a message—”

“Mr. Baldric? Is that you?”

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. “All right, speak.”

“I'm sorry to wake you, but I don't have much time. This is Arn O'Dell's granddaughter.”

“Molly!” he said, sitting up in bed. “How are you?
Where
are you?”

Silence. “You know my real name?”

“Look, I know you told me not to try and find you, but I was desperate. I had a friend of mine do some checking.”

“It's nice to learn my life is such an open book—not that it surprises me.”

Bram could hear an angry edge in her voice. “When you didn't show up at the bar, I drove over to your house.”

“Then you saw why I couldn't make it.”

“Yeah. I thought you'd died in the fire, Molly.”

“Well, I'm unlucky, but not as unlucky as the fella who did.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“Sure. It was the man who'd been watching my house— the one in the white van.”

“But… I don't understand.”

“Me neither, but I can tell you this much. I was across the street that night when I saw him approach my place on foot. A neighbor gave me the key to her house so I could feed her cat while she was away for the holidays. I watched him from her bedroom window. He was just walking around, looking in windows. I think he was trying to figure out if I was home or not. A couple minutes later an older man appeared from around the side of the house carrying something heavy. I couldn't make out what it was, but this time, I knew him.”

“Who was it?”

“Bud Manderbach. My grandfather told me to memorize his face—and stay away from him. Anyway, real quick like, the first guy gets inside. I figure he kicked in a basement window because two nights before, he'd been in the backyard examining one up real close. He lets Manderbach in through the side door. It didn't take long before I saw a flickering light in the living room. I knew right away they'd set a fire. I wanted to scream bloody murder—tell them to leave my goddamned house alone, but that would've been real smart, right? So instead, I called 911—disguised my voice. After I hung up, I ran back to the window. I must have sat there a good five minutes before Manderbach finally came out. The other guy never did. I figure Mr. Manderbach was
just covering his tracks. He doesn't like loose ends, and that's what the guy in the white van probably was. Do you see now why I'm so frightened?”

“I do, Molly. Believe me, I do. I'm so sorry about what happened. You must be devastated, and I can't help but feel partially responsible.”

“You are, Mr. Baldric. You turned my life into a toxic landfill when you announced the existence of my grandfather's letter on your talk show.”

Bram didn't know what to say. Nothing would be enough.

“Look, let's cut to the chase.”

“Sure. Where are you? Where've you been?”

“Driving. Thinking. The day after the house burned, I took off for Oregon. I didn't plan to come back—ever. But when I got out there, I changed my mind.”

“Why?” He could tell she was smoking.

“Well, see, when I left Minnesota, I was scared to death. I was in way over my head, and I knew it. If I didn't get lost— and fast—I wasn't going to live very long. But I just kept thinking about that house. I've rented it for years, ever since I got divorced. I loved that place, Mr. Baldric. It meant the world to me. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. I spent about a week in Oregon, staying with friends, and I finally made a decision.”

“To come home.”

“Yeah. I got back this afternoon. I'm leaving again at first light.”

“But… where are you going?”

“Away. That's all I'll say. And this time, I'm going to stay there.”

“But… I'd hoped we could get together and talk.”

“That's why I called. I want to meet.”

Hearing this, he was immensely relieved. “Great. Just tell me when.”

“Right now. As soon as you can get here. I'm staying at the Starlight Motel on Route 7, just west of Elk River. Do you need directions?”

“No, I can find it.” Bram motioned for Sophie to pass him a pad and pencil. “What's the room number?”

“Seven.” She took an audible drag from her cigarette.

“All right.” He wrote it down. “It depends on the roads, but I think I should be there in less than an hour. Do you still have your grandfather's letter?”

“What?” She exhaled, then continued. “Nah. It got burned in the fire. We'll talk more when you get here.”

“But, Molly, if you don't have the letter—”

“We're wasting time, Mr. Baldric. Remember, you owe me.”

He heard the line click.

“Did she hang up?” asked Sophie, leaning over to get a better look at his notes.

“She did.” He handed her the phone. “This is
so
frustrating. I've been trying for weeks to get my hands on that letter, and now it's gone. It got burned in the fire.”

“Sheesh.” She flopped back against her pillow. “What incredibly rotten luck.”