Murder in the Air (12 page)

As Bram entered the room he saw that most of the chairs
around the long conference table were already taken. Some people were laughing and talking as they sipped their morning coffee, while others nibbled a doughnut or a sweet roll, compliments of WTWN and its consistently blind eye toward nutrition.

Bram took an empty chair near the door.

A few moments later Valentine Zolotow ambled into the room, sliding his lanky frame into the seat next to Bram. He reeked of tobacco smoke. “God, I'd forgotten how cold it gets in Minnesota. I nearly froze to death walking from the cab into the building.” He chewed his gum with annoyance. “I don't know why on earth we have to get here this early. I just hope Dorothy makes it short today. I need a smoke.”

Since the building was smoke-free, most people chewed gum as a way of assuaging their oral needs, a habit Valentine had obviously adopted.

“I got better stuff to do with my time,” he muttered.

It seemed inconceivable to Bram that such a weaselly-looking old guy could project the voice of the young and handsome, sexy and tough PI. Yet Valentine did it with ease. “Grab a doughnut and relax,” said Bram. He helped himself to some coffee.

Valentine snapped his gum. “Our fearless leader's probably checking her makeup in the ladies' room. Vanity, thy name is woman. Jeez, I wish she'd get a move on.”

“You could be trampled to death for a comment like that. Want some coffee?”

“Nah.” Again, he checked his watch.

By now, everyone had become well aware of what Valentine Zolotow's “better stuff was. Put simply, he gambled. So far he'd been late for two rehearsals because he “couldn't tear himself away from a previous engagement.” Everyone knew that the engagement was a casino. Last Thursday, in front of everyone, Dorothy had informed him that if he was late one more time, contract or no contract, he'd find himself out of a job. Whether he'd lost most of his ready cash at the tables or Dorothy had really put the fear of God into him, he hadn't been late since.

“When do we start work on the next episode?” asked Bram, waving the smell of Juicy Fruit away from his face.

“Whenever we get the next damn script,” replied Valentine.

Bram blew on his coffee. This guy was a real character. Yet in spite of his flaws, Bram admired him. Valentine Zolotow had seen and done just about everything in radio.

“You know,” continued Valentine with a sour look on his face, “I was hoping to talk to this Wish Greveen, but so far, I haven't caught up with him. Dorothy said he'd checked into the hotel, but he hasn't answered my phone messages, and when I knocked on his door earlier this morning, there was no answer.” He turned and looked Bram square in the eye. “I don't suppose you'd know where I could find him?”

Bram shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Well, I'll just have to take my chances.”

“With what?”

Valentine smiled. “Not with what, pal. With
who”

“Meaning?”

“Skip it.” He unwrapped another stick of gum and jammed it into his mouth. After a few seconds he seemed to reconsider. Leaning close to Bram, he whispered, “That first script. Did it remind you of anything?”

“You mean the Kay Collins murder?”

Valentine seemed startled. “Hey, kid, you're smarter than you look.” He grinned, revealing a set of badly nicotine-stained teeth.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Nan, I mean it.” He flicked the gum wrapper into the trash. “We've all been beating around the bush this past week, but I'll bet everyone feels the same way I do.”

“And how's that?”

“That, you know, this rebirth of the radio mystery is just a vehicle to vindicate Justin Bloom.”

Bingo. This was the first time Bram had heard anyone in the cast touch on his own suspicions. “And you think Wish Greveen is behind it?”

“Of course not, asshole. Use your brain.” He lowered his voice even further. “Heda's orchestrated the whole damn
thing, but nobody, including yours truly, is going to get a straight answer out of her. I thought maybe Wish and I could have a drink. You know, for old times' sake.”

“You know him?”

“Hell, yes.” Looking off into space, he added, “That is to say, Fm pretty sure we met back when I was in Hollywood. In any case, I know I could get the story out of him— man-to-man.”

“Man-to-man?” repeated Bram, raising an amused eyebrow.

Valentine gave a serious nod.

“But, how come you care? I mean, so what if the stories are similar?”

Valentine's smile grew sly. “You never know, kid. There may be someone out there who'd care. The way I figure it, if this story continues on the way I think it will, they might care a lot.”

“You sound like you know who that someone is.”

He glanced slowly around the room. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don't.”

“Not much of an answer.”

Valentine's smile was as thin as a razor, but he added nothing more. “Hey, this is bullshit. Look at the time.”

Boy, this guy really is hot to trot, thought Bram. It had only been five minutes since the last time he'd mentioned it.

Folding one thin leg over the other, Valentine continued in the same confidential tone, “You know, I thought when Alfred Bloom arrived, he'd take over the reins of the station. Mark my words, if he was in charge, this meeting would already be over and I'd be outta here. Funny thing is, I haven't seen him around.”

Come to think of it, Bram hadn't either. After his grand entrance on Wednesday afternoon, he'd seen him briefly at the hotel, but that was it. “Maybe he only stayed the weekend.”

“Maybe. But if I remember Alfred, he has to have his hand in everything. He's what they call a control freak.”

“Say, I suppose you knew him back in the Fifties when you worked at WPXL.”

“Everybody knew Alf Bloom. He was that kind of guy. Just itching to take over the business from his father.”

Bram was intrigued. “What'd you think of him? Personally, I mean.”

“Alf? Eh, you know. He was a hustler. Young and on the make. Then again, so was I, but I didn't have a rich daddy lookin' out for me. Just between us, I don't think it broke brother Alf s heart when his half brother took off for points unknown. There was no love lost between those two.”

This was news to Bram. “Why was that?”

“Well, this is just my opinion, you understand, but it always seemed to me that there was a rivalry between them. Justin was the oldest, but he had a different father. I think Alf was jealous that he had to share Cedric—and his potential inheritance—with anyone. Especially with Justin. They were so different.”

“In what way?”

“Every way. Alf was a climber—a real material guy, if you know what I mean. He wanted money, power. Justin was a do-gooder. A journalistic crusader. As far as I could see, he wanted no part of the radio empire Cedric Bloom was creating. Oh, he worked for a while on a couple of shows before he went into the army, but it didn't stick. He had his own career plans in mind. What he really wanted was to follow in his own father's footsteps. His dad was a newspaper reporter, you know.”

“I'd heard that.”

“Physically, they couldn't have been more different. Alfred was a giant. Dark hair, dark eyes. Looked a lot like Cedric. Justin, on the other hand, was thin, not terribly tall, and fair. No one would ever have taken them for brothers.”

“Have you talked to Alfred since he's been here?”

Valentine uncrossed his legs and sat forward in his chair. “Nah. I've been busy with other stuff.” Glancing at Bram out of the corner of his eye, he added, “But we'll talk. I have no doubt about that.”

Dorothy Veneger chose that moment to enter the room. She didn't seem merely happy, she looked positively triumphant.

Bram wanted to continue his conversation with Valentine, but it would have to wait.

Dorothy set a stack of papers down on the table. “Well, everyone,” she said, standing behind her chair, “the verdict is in.
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
is a winner!” Her smile lit up the room.

Everyone cheered and clapped.

“You all deserve this moment. Well done, everyone. Now, I have interviews scheduled for Valentine this afternoon with the feature editors of both local papers, and tomorrow, George and Mitzi, you've been invited to talk about your work on
Morning with Donna King.
It's the hottest locally produced TV show in town. Then, on Thursday, the two entertainment weeklies are going to be at the station for a photo shoot. They want some candid shots of the rehearsal, so everybody, make it good. Camp it up. I'm talking to a woman this afternoon who owns a vintage clothing store in downtown Minneapolis. You'll all be fitted with vintage Fifties suits and dresses for the occasion. I want this to look fabulous. Whatever it takes to grab the audience, we're going to do it.”

She continued by holding up a fistful of pink notes. “For your information, these are phone calls I haven't returned yet, all people wanting to talk to me about the new show. The
Star Tribune
is running a review in tomorrow morning's paper. In part it will say—” She adjusted her oversized, horn-rim glasses. “‘This is an idea whose time has come!
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
has all the wit and charm of the old radio serials, and a story that will intrigue even the most jaded TV viewer. Mark Sunday night down on your calendar as a time to turn
off
your TV and turn
on
your imagination!’”

Dorothy looked up, making sure she had everyone's attention. “Now, as you may have guessed, we've got our work cut out for us. We can't let the momentum drop. Before Christmas, I want every radio in this state tuned to WTWN on Sunday nights.”

It was curious, but as Bram listened he felt less and less like he was in a business meeting, and more like he'd become part
of a crusade. He raised his hand. “When do we get the next script?”

“Good question,” said Dorothy. She tapped the stack of papers in front of her. “They're right here. Everybody take one on your way out. Read it through several times today, and then tomorrow, I want you all back here bright and early. Eight
A.M
. sharp. We'll run through the initial reading to get our timing down. Any questions you have, bring them with you tomorrow. Valentine, be back to the Maxfield Plaza by three. Your first interview is with the
Star Tribune
reporter. He'll meet you in the lobby.”

Valentine lifted his finger. “I've got a question.”

“Yes?”

“What's the best way to get in touch with the scriptwriter?”

Dorothy's hands slid into the pockets of her blazer. “Mr. Greveen is staying at the hotel.”

“I know that, but he hasn't been around, at least not when I tried to contact him. Will he be at tomorrow morning's rehearsal?”

“I don't know. Is there something you'd like me to pass on to him?”

“You mean, I'm never going to get a chance to meet the guy face-to-face?”

“I didn't say that. But it's up to him whether or not he comes to the rehearsals.”

Valentine seemed annoyed by her answer. “Just forget it. I'll handle it myself.”

She pulled on one of her large gold earrings and then went on. “Now, if that's it, I believe we've all got work to do. See you tomorrow.”

Bram waited until she'd left the room and then grabbed his copy of the script. The only one who beat him to the stack was Valentine.

“Hey, let's have a cup of coffee after rehearsals tomorrow morning,” he called to Valentine's retreating back. He wanted to finish their conversation.

“I'll check my social calendar.” He waved over his shoulder
but kept right on walking. Catching the elevator just as the doors opened, he stepped on, pushed a button, and then gave Bram one last wave as the doors closed in front of him.

12

“Amazing,” whispered Valentine, flipping to the next page. He was sitting in a coffeehouse on St. Peter Avenue, sipping a latte and reading the script for the second episode of
Dallas Lane, Private Eye.
If this didn't convince those in the know that the story was genuinely about Justin Bloom and his ill-fated love affair with Kay Collins, nothing would. Not that Valentine was personally familiar with all the details, but he knew enough.

The episode started with Dallas doing some snooping at the apartment building where the fictitious Kay, called Darla in the radio script, had been living before her death. While exploring the basement, he ran into one of Darla's second-floor neighbors, an old woman who admitted that there had been plenty of shouting recently inside the girls' apartment. It had gotten so bad, the woman had considered moving. She said she was sorry about Darla's death, but was glad that the fighting had stopped and the apartment had returned to peace and quiet.

As Dallas was about to go the elderly woman put a hand on his arm and stopped him. There was something that had been bothering her, something she'd witnessed and couldn't make any sense of. Maybe Dallas would have an opinion.

Dallas said sure. If it had to do with the young woman who'd been murdered, he was all ears. He listened as the old woman told him a story.

Last summer, Peggy, Darla's roommate, had been dating
a man for several months. The neighbor insisted that she wasn't a snoop, but how could she miss what was happening right outside when her front windows looked directly down on the street? She'd never actually seen Peggy's new boyfriend because he always waited for her inside his large, very expensive Cadillac. Yet the neighbor always knew when he was outside the building. How? Because he honked. Three times. No more. No less.