Murder in the Air

1

“She bought the damned radio station!” announced Bram, dumping himself into a chair on the other side of his wife's desk. It was nearly four-thirty in the afternoon, exactly four weeks before Christmas. After entering her office at the Maxfield Plaza, St. Paul's most famous downtown hotel, he'd tossed his camel wool coat on the sofa, but had forgotten to remove a red wool scarf. It was still wound snugly around his neck.

“I already know,” said Sophie, organizing some file folders into a lower drawer. She eyed her husband warily, knowing that the flush climbing his cheeks wasn't because the scarf was cutting off circulation.

“How could you possibly know the station had been bought? I just found out myself a couple of hours ago.”

Sophie could read the frustration in his voice. Bram had one of the most expressive radio voices in the country. That, and his freely expressed opinions, were all part of what made him such a great talk-show host. “Well, actually, dear, Heda Bloom checked into the hotel this afternoon—complete with a bodyguard, her personal secretary, and four trunks of clothes.”

“She's staying
here?”

“Afraid so. As a matter of fact, I gave her the executive suite directly across from our apartment. For the duration of her visit, we're going to be neighbors.”

Bram's expressive voice failed him. “Ugh,” was all he could squeeze out.

“I tried to call you with the news, but you weren't in your office. I didn't think I should leave a message. It's not
bad
news, is it? I mean, she's such a nice woman.”

“A nice woman,” he repeated, leaning forward and running his fingers absently through his graying temples. “I'll be sure to remember that when I'm standing in line at the unemployment office.”

Sophie assumed he was joking. “You know,” she continued, glancing at a newly framed snapshot of her mom and dad standing in front of the Eiffel Tower—they were currently on a round-the-world tour. “My parents knew the Blooms back in the Fifties, when they owned WPXL. That was before Dad bought the Maxfield.”

“Do tell.” Bram's interest wasn't overwhelming.

“I even met Justin Bloom once.”

“Who's Justin Bloom?”

Sophie was aghast. “You've never heard of the infamous Justin Bloom?”

“I grew up in Chicago, Soph. We thought of St. Paul as a suburb—and not a very interesting one at that.”

“You may be in a bad mood, dear, but you don't have to insult my hometown.” She fussed indignantly with her short, reddish gold hair.

“Just finish the story. If he's related to my new boss, I want to hear it.”

“Well,” said Sophie, folding her arms over her chest, “if I recall correctly, Justin Bloom killed a woman by the name of Kay Collins back in the late Fifties. It was a real
cause celebre
in the Twin Cities. He was engaged to someone else at the time, but the reports said the woman he murdered was his lover.”

“No kidding.” He stopped fidgeting with his tie clasp and gave her his full attention. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing. He fled the country. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember my parents talking about it. The police kept the heat on him all over Europe. Eventually, I suppose, it just got to be old news and we didn't hear about it anymore. But as far as I know, he was never caught.”

“Fascinating.” Bram scratched his chin. “How was he related to Heda Bloom?”

“He was her son. Seems to me there was another son, too. I don't recall the name. Her husband, Cedric, died about a year after Justin committed the murder. I remember my parents saying he probably died of shame.”

“That must have been rough.” Unwinding the scarf from around his neck, Bram added, “I wonder if he really did it.”

“Oh, he did it, all right. There was an eyewitness. A police officer.”

“I guess my new boss has a few skeletons in her closet.” His manner grew distracted as he glanced at his watch.

Sophie assumed that when he'd walked into her office, he was home for the night. “Do you have to get back to the station?”

“Afraid so. It's a command performance. Heda is going to meet with us at five and give us all our walking papers.”