Murder in the Air (23 page)

“What about food? Can you eat normally when you go home?”

“That's the dreary part. I'm being put on a bland diet for a while. Spices don't cause ulcers, I guess, but they can irritate
the stomach. Lucky me. Just in time for the holidays.” He made a sour face.

But it wasn't the end of the world, thought Sophie. Bland didn't have to mean boring. What bothered her most was that he was so thin. Rudy had always been slender, but now, after not eating for nearly a week, he was skin and bones. She'd need to check with the doctor first about all the particulars, but she had to do something to fatten him up.

“What?” he said, giving her a suspicious look. “What's cookin' inside that devious mind of yours?”

“Perfect metaphor. How does homemade bread pudding with caramel sauce sound?”

He thought it over. “Is it bland?”

“Absolutely. And delicious.”

“What are my other options?”

“Custard. You always liked custard when you were a kid. Have you ever had homemade custard pie?”

He shook his head.

“And your grandma's famous chicken stew with dumplings.”

“Stop, you're making me hungry.”

“Good. Then I'm doing my job.” It was going to be so great to have him out of the hospital and on the mend. “When do you leave here tomorrow?”

“I'm being released before lunch. John doesn't work on Saturdays, so he'll come get me.”

“All right. But leave dinner to me.”

“You're going to bring something over?”

“Rudy,” she said, giving him her most pregnant-with-meaning smile, “I'm going to stuff you with marvelous, rapturous, scrupulously bland food until it's coming out your ears.”

Her words elicited a wide grin. “That's the kind of pain I can stand. You're the greatest, Mom.” He reached for her hand, “I'm a very lucky guy, and I know it.”

The sound of the door being opened interrupted them. The same cleaning woman Sophie had seen on the first night poked her head inside the room.

“Hey, Molly.” Rudy smiled. “I wondered if you weren't on tonight. How's it going?”

She opened the door farther. “Same old same old,” she said, tossing back her long frizz of red-gray hair. “I thought maybe you were alone and might like some company.”

“Come in and meet my mother.”

“We've already met,” said Molly with a mischievous grin. “Sort of. Hey, I hear you're gettin' sprung tomorrow.”

“That's what they tell me.”

“Congratulations. Say, not to change the subject, but your father isn't around, is he? I thought maybe I'd get his autograph for my girlfriend.”

Rudy looked confused. “My father?” He cocked his head. “Oh, you must mean Bram.”

“Baldric isn't your dad?”

“Sorry. He's my mom's second husband.” He glanced at Sophie. “Is he coming by this evening?”

She shook her head. “He's got a rehearsal.”

“Say,” said the woman, leaning casually against the doorway. “I hear he's taken over for Valentine Zolotow.”

“That's right. You must follow the radio program.”

“Now and then.”

Sophie knew her demeanor had grown unusually formal, but there was something about this woman she didn't like— or more specifically, something she didn't trust.

“Well,” said Molly, lifting a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, “I guess I'll go take my break somewhere else. Catch you later, Red.” She gave him a wink and then backed away from the door, letting it swing shut.

“Red?” repeated Sophie.

He shrugged, pointing to his hair. “Hey, you didn't tell me Bram was going on Sunday night for sure.”

“How well do you know that woman?”

“You mean Molly? Not well. She usually comes in to say hi if she's on duty. She cleaned my room the second day I was here. We kinda struck up a conversation. I like her, Mom. She's funny.”

“Who is she?”

“Why the third degree?”

“Just answer the question.”

He gave another shrug. “She likes boxcar racing and owns a Harley. Other than that, I know nothing about her. Jeez, lighten up, will you? You'd think she was trying to poison my food.”

“Has she ever been near your food?”

He shot her a disgusted look.

“It's a reasonable question.”

“No, it's not. Besides, until this afternoon, I haven't eaten any food, remember? I've been on IVs.”

She knew that. She'd just forgotten.

“Do you realize how silly you sound?”

“All right, all right.” She got up to check the plants. They were probably dry as dust. To be honest, she did feel a little embarrassed that she'd reacted so excessively. With her back to Rudy, she decided to introduce a new subject. “The police now consider Valentine Zolotow officially missing.”

He whistled. “No kidding. I wonder what happened to the old guy? Do you think he took off, ran away for some reason?”

“I wish I knew. The police came to the hotel this afternoon with a warrant. They searched his room.”

“And?” He sat up eagerly.

“It looks like everything was still there. If a guy was going to skip town, you'd think he'd at least pack a suitcase.”

“So, do the police think something bad happened to him?”

“One of the officers told me that they interviewed a cab-driver who waits outside the Maxfield for fares. He told the police that he dropped a man fitting Valentine's description off at the River Bend Casino late Monday afternoon. It sounds plausible because Valentine spent most of his free time gambling. At least, it's their best lead so far.”

“And what about Bram? Is he prepared to go on the air in Valentine's place?”

Sophie carried two plants over to the sink. As she watered them she said, “He's nervous, and he's milking everyone's sympathy for all it's worth.”

“Yeah.” Rudy grinned. “That sounds like him.”

“But honestly, I think he's in seventh heaven with all the new attention he's receiving. You know how Bram loves the spotlight.' She turned around and held up the plants. “These should now survive the night.”

“Thanks.”

After placing them back on the window ledge, she opened the Scrabble board and set it on the table. “So, let's quit stalling and get down to business.”

“You want a chance to redeem yourself after last night's ignominious defeat.”

“Pride goeth before a fall, son.”

“We'll see.”

Around midnight, Rudy woke suddenly from a deep sleep. The lights were off in the room and the door was closed, but a tiny covered bulb next to the bed gave off enough light for him to see. As he raised his head to look around he was startled to find a woman sitting in the chair next to him. It was Molly. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Thinking,” she replied softly.

He rubbed his eyes awake and then pressed a button, raising the back of the bed. Looking at her now, he could tell she was upset. “Is something wrong?”

She watched him, then looked away.

“You … want to talk about it?”

“I don't know.”

“Sometimes it helps.”

“Sometimes it doesn't.”

She'd changed out of her uniform into street clothes. A hooded winter coat rested on her lap. On top was a purse.

“How come you came in here?”

She shrugged. “It was quiet. You were sleeping. I figured I couldn't disturb you.”

“I see.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No, it's just… I thought we were getting to be friends.”

Her eyes flicked to him and then away. “Is that what you thought?”

“Yeah.” He waited, sensing that she might tell him more if he didn't push.

Looking down at her hands, she said, “I've got a hard decision to make. One that involves a relative of mine. See, I… have some information that would shed some light on a crime. A bad crime.”

“Then you should tell what you know.”

“It's not that simple,” she said sharply. “If I do tell, I'm putting my life in danger.”

That stopped him. “Danger, like in—”

“I could get killed. I'm not joking.”

“I didn't think you were.”

A frown carved a deep furrow between her eyes. “My conscience tells me to do one thing, my fear, another.”

“Is there any way you could provide this information anonymously?”

“I'm not sure. I have a letter, one that no one's ever seen before, but it would need to be verified. At least, I think it would. I'm the best person to do it, maybe the only person who could.”

“Why?”

She didn't answer immediately, but seemed to be weighing something in her mind. Finally, she said, “It was written to me. By my grandfather. He's been dead a long time.”

“You couldn't, like, verify it over the phone.”

His comment caused her to smile. “Rudy, if the letter surfaces, I'm a dead woman.”

“I guess you do have a problem.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Rudy said, “Maybe you should just forget about it. Put the letter away and get on with your life.”

“I tried that. It didn't work. See, I've had the letter since I was twenty-three. My grandfather told me to burn it when I was done reading it. If I'd followed his advice, I wouldn't have this dilemma.”

“But you kept it.”

“I had to.”

Very softly, he replied, “Maybe that's your answer.”

She looked up at him, but didn't respond.

“Listen, Molly, I'm probably not the one you should be talking to. I'm sure there's someone else out there who could give you much better advice than me.”

She thought about it for a moment, then said, “You better get some sleep, kid.”

“Will you be all right?”

She got up, moving her bulky frame closer to the bed. “We redheads gotta stick together.”

“I wish you'd let me know how this all comes out.”

She said nothing. Instead, she, picked up her coat and purse and crossed to the door. Before she left, she turned to take one last look at him. “You'll probably read about it in the obituaries. So long, kid. Take my advice. Stay out of hospitals. They're bad for your health.”

20

“A toast to our leading man, Bram Baldric!” Heda's voice rose over the din of laughter and conversations. “Here's to many more successful episodes.”

For the past few minutes Sophie had been standing next to the bar in Heda and Dorothy's suite, talking to Mitzi Quinn. When she heard her husband's name being called, she quickly joined everyone by the fireplace for a round of enthusiastic applause. Bram and Heda stood in front of the mantelpiece, both looking flushed by champagne and a third successful broadcast.

After thanking Heda for the opportunity to try his hand at
radio drama, Bram took a rather silly bow and then blew Sophie a kiss. God, but she loved him. At times like this, he was irresistible.

Since Sophie hadn't eaten any dinner, all this toasting and celebration was beginning to make her feel light-headed. This was Heda's sixth toast, all preceded by waiters moving about the crowd, refilling everyone's champagne flutes. It was a lovely party. In lieu of a tree, Heda had decorated the mantelpiece with pine bows, red and gold ribbons, and delicate glass ornaments. Candles burned in every corner of the living room. And the food table looked fabulous. Except, ever since she and Bram had arrived, she'd been so busy talking she hadn't managed to make her way over to it.

Sophie had spent the afternoon at Rudy's apartment preparing him a pot of homemade chicken soup and fresh-baked Swedish
lirnpa,
his favorite bread. John was working the afternoon and early-evening shift over at the brewery and wouldn't be home until ten. Rudy had been out of the hospital now for one full week. He was still tired and depressed, especially since he'd had to take incompletes in most of his classes. Sophie tried as often as she could to spend time with him. She'd cut back on her hours at the hotel, and yet with the added responsibility of a sick son, she wasn't finding many hours to sleep. She applied more makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes, but she wasn't fooling anyone, especially her husband.

While Rudy ate his dinner they'd switched on the radio and listened to the third episode of
Dallas Lane, Private Eye.
It was Bram's second time in the lead role, and even though Sophie knew her husband had lots of vocal and dramatic talent, she was amazed at how easily he'd moved into the part, making it his own.

The episode began with Dallas limping into DuFour's Bar, where Lucy, his girlfriend, patched up his cuts and bruises. He'd been beaten badly by several thugs in the previous episode, but not enough to scare him off the case. After a couple of belts of bourbon, he called Irene Hewitt, the woman who'd hired him, demanding that she contact her son right away. Dallas wanted to meet with the infamous Judson Hewitt
and ask him a couple of leading questions. He knew Judson had refused to talk to the police or his lawyer about the murder of his girlfriend, Darla, but at this point, Dallas was sick of getting the runaround. If Mrs. Hewitt couldn't convince her son to talk, Dallas was off the case. He thought it would get a rise out of the old gal, and it did.

Several hours later Dallas was shown into Judson Hewitt's jail cell. After some verbal sparring, Judson broke down and admitted that he was scared. He knew it looked bad for him. Little by little, Dallas pulled the story out of him.