Murder in the Air (3 page)

Anyway, this old friend of mine is the only one I can trust. I phoned him the other night, explained everything. I almost cried when he said he believed me and that he'd help me any way he could. He sounded so normal, so
—
regular. It made me realize how much I've lost. Anyway, from now on, I'm going to mail all my letters to him, and he'll pass them on to you without a return address. At some point, I hope I can remain somewhere long enough so that you can write me back. Right now I feel pretty safe sitting here on this park bench, but I know it's only temporary.

I need to get my mind on something else for a while, Mom, so I thought I'd spend some time today telling you about Kay
—
what she meant to me, how we got involved.

In the past few days I've come to see that my feelings for her were all bound up with my desire to succeed at the paper. I guess it's fair to say that I wanted to be the best reporter St. Paul has ever seen, to follow in Dad's footsteps and do some good in the world. And I was on my way, too. Late last summer I got wind of a story that was going to knock the socks off of every guy on the city desk. Kay became part of it
—
the key, so to speak. It's just
—/
never counted on falling in love with her.

I'll never forget the night I first laid eyes on her. It was at the Westgate Country Club out near Lake Minnetonka. A late-summer evening. I was sitting at the bar having a quiet drink when she came in on the arm of some guy. Maybe I'm just being a romantic sap, but there was a kind of a hush while every head in the place turned to watch. She was stunning, Mom. Tall. Regal. Dark gold hair. I asked the fellow sitting next to me what her name was. He said it was Kay Collins. He said it with a kind of reverence. All I could do was stare.

—
I'm hurrying now. There's a man sitting across the park on a far bench reading the paper. He's
—/
can't tell, but I think he's watching me. I'm probably hallucinating, but I figure the authorities back in the States are passing my picture around to people over here. Everyone looks suspicious.

I love you, Mom.

Don't forget me. And don't judge me, at least not yet.

Justin

3

Sophie switched off her computer monitor, took off her glasses, and rubbed her sore eyes. As the new owner of the Maxfield Plaza, she had much to learn about the running of a large metropolitan hotel. She'd been working late for so many weeks now that spending the evening in her office almost felt normal. Bram was generally being a good sport about it, and yet she could tell that her constant absence was creating a strain in her marriage.

The problem was, Sophie was in way over her head, and everyone on her staff knew it. The only solution was to work extra hours—to sit up nights reading reports, digesting information, to get to work early and stay late. It wouldn't be like this forever, but for now, it was the way it had to be. She had ideas for the Maxfield—new ways of dealing with old problems. She wanted to make her father proud of her. He'd been right when he'd said that the Maxfield Plaza was in her blood. She loved every inch of the old place, but sometimes she felt like a drowning woman desperately treading water. There simply weren't enough hours in the day.

Checking her watch, she saw that it was after seven. She'd been on pins and needles waiting to hear how Bram's meeting had gone at the radio station. She couldn't imagine why he hadn't called. Making a quick decision, she turned off her desk light and headed out the door.

Riding the elevator up to the sixteenth floor, she entered her apartment, glad to be anywhere but her office for a few minutes. She flipped quickly through a stack of mail on
the table next to the door. As she did so she noticed that Ethel, the ancient black mutt who spent most of her days guarding a bevy of devious green tennis balls, had fallen into exhausted slumber under the dining-room table. When it came to energy, Ethel had never been a ball of fire, but her age was slowly creeping up on her.

Last week, in an effort to give the poor thing a break from constant tennis-ball surveillance, Sophie had gathered up the balls and put them in a box in the closet. Instead of breathing a sigh of relief, Ethel had slipped into a depressed funk, refusing even to take pleasure in having her ears scratched. She'd emerged from her melancholy only when the tennis balls miraculously reappeared. Sophie had come to the conclusion that everyone needed a reason for living. Remaining vigilant in the face of sneaky tennis balls was Ethel's.

Rounding the corner into the living room, she was surprised to find Bram seated on the couch, feet propped up on a footstool. The light from the Christmas tree in the corner suffused the room with a kind of mellow, peaceful glow. By the look on his face, he was deep in thought. She studied him for a moment, but saw no overt depression, only contemplation.

Placing the manila envelope she was carrying on a table just inside the arch, she cleared her throat. “Are you … still among the ranks of the employed?” she asked softly.

He looked up, his face inscrutable. “Would it really be so bad if you had to support me for the rest of my life?”

“What?” He'd caught her off guard. It wasn't the response she'd expected. “Well, I, ah—”

“If I told you I wanted to retire, spend my remaining years painting bleak but poignant seascapes, you wouldn't mind?”

“Where do you plan on finding a seascape in Minnesota?”

“Don't change the subject.”

“But… retire? You're only forty-eight.”

“Isn't that just like you?” He sniffed. “Dismissing my desire to become an artist by shifting the subject to my age.”

She caught his drift and smiled. Everything was all right, she could tell. “I don't like seascapes,” she said, sitting down
on the couch next to him. “How about clowns? Now, there's a subject no one's ever explored before.”

“You're mocking me.”

“No, dear, I'd be mocking you if I suggested you do Elvis portraits on black velvet.”

“Ah.” He pulled her close.

“So, give. What happened?”

“Well,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “I was wrong. Heda Bloom wasn't planning to fire everyone.”

“See! I told you.”

“She's happy with the current programs, but informed us that she does intend to add something new.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Starting tomorrow morning, we begin work on a new radio mystery theatre.”

“You mean like the old radio serials?
Mr. District Attorney? The Green Hornet? Mr. and Mrs. North?”

“For someone with such a youthful appearance, you're pretty knowledgeable.”

She knocked him on the arm. “I used to listen to radio shows when I was a kid. One was even produced here in the Twin Cities. I was probably seven or eight at the time. Let's see. What was that name?” She tapped the side of her face.

“Dallas Lane, Private Eye”

“Hey, that's it.” She raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Say, you're not from around these parts. How come you've heard of it? You're a Chicago boy, as you're always so quick to point out.”

“I'd never heard of it. Until this afternoon.” He rose and walked over to a glass cart near the dining-room arch. “Something to drink?” he asked, holding up a martini glass.

Since she planned on working late tonight, she probably shouldn't. And yet, now that she'd had a moment to relax, she realized how exhausted she really was. “Sure. Why not?” She watched him open a new bottle of gin. “Are you telling me WTWN is going to bring back that
specific
mystery series?”

“To quote that great Minnesota philosopher, Swen Swenson:
you betcha.
Starting next Sunday evening, we'll be up and running.
Live, as they say, from the beautiful downtown studios of WTWN.”

“What beautiful studios? It's a dump.”

“Okay, live from our crummy, dust-ridden suburban Rose-ville studios. Do you like that better?”

“Back up a minute. You're doing it
live?”

“We are.”

“What do you mean,
we?”
She narrowed one eye.

He turned and gave her a smirk. “You're looking at the new announcer for the program.”

“Bram, that's … that's wonderful!”

“Is it?” He kept his back to her as he loaded the martini shaker with ice.

“Of course it is.”

After shaking—not stirring—he strained the liquid intc two glasses and then returned to the couch and handed hei one. “A salute to the radio mystery. May we breathe some life back into its moribund form.”

They clinked glasses.

“There's only one problem,” he added, lifting his feel back up on the footstool.

“And that is?”

“Well, to be succinct, Heda wants this rushed into production by next weekend. I mean, we don't even have the scripl yet. I don't get it. Why don't we take our time, promote the hell out of it, and then begin the show right after the new year?”

Sophie could see his point.

“Giving us one week to prepare is like setting us up to fail. And when we do, she's going to have the perfect excuse tc fire everyone involved. I'm not out of the woods yet, honey. Mark my words.”

“Did Heda say why it was so important to get it on the aii by next weekend?”

“Not while I was in the room.” He took several sips of his drink. “She may think she has the best idea since Darwin invented corporate downsizing, but if she pushes too hard, the whole thing is going to fall flat on its face. In an anthropomorphic sort of way.”

Sophie glanced down at her drink. “You forgot the olive.”

“So sue me. The other thing is, she projected this sort of… confident well-being, but I saw right through it.”

“You're masterful when you're intuitive.”

“Thank you. Something's up with that woman, Soph. And I'd like to know what it is before I get mixed up in some new radio fiasco.”

“You mean … other than your
own
show.”

“Exactly.” He did a double take. “Hey.”

“Well, darling, all I can say is, give it your best shot.”

“Gee, dear, I'll have to commission someone to do a needlepoint of that so it can hang on my office wall.”

“If you're going to go to all that trouble, I'd prefer it went on a pillow for your couch.”

“What couch?” He grinned at her. Finishing his drink, he leaned close and nuzzled the side of her neck. “I love to play with you—verbally, and otherwise.”

“I know.” She nibbled his ear.

There was a loud rap on the door.

“Now what?” groaned Sophie, annoyed by the interruption.

“Why don't you find out who it is while I make us another drink.” He grabbed her empty glass.

“Fine. But this time, don't forget the olive.” As she stepped over to the door she whispered, “What would you think of doing some Christmas shopping tonight over at Manderbach's department store?”

“Oh, Soph, let's just stay home. We haven't spent a quiet evening together in ages.”

She could hardly argue the point. Swinging open the door, she found an attractive, middle-aged woman standing outside in the hall. “May I help you?” she asked. She'd never seen the woman before.

“I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Dorothy Veneger—Heda Bloom's personal assistant.” She brushed back her blonde hair and tugged somewhat nervously on a large, gold earring.

Sophie had never cared for curly bangs on women, especially older women, but on Dorothy, they seemed to fit. “Of
course. I'm Sophie Greenway. We just missed each other this morning. Won't you come in?” The words were a reflex, though by the tight way Bram now held his shoulders, she could tell the invitation had been a mistake.

“Thanks,” said Dorothy. The horn-rim glasses, tailored navy blazer, and beige slacks made her look a bit like a college professor, albeit a fairly glamorous one. Her manner was businesslike. She also appeared to be in a hurry.

“I believe you have a fax that belongs to me,” said Dorothy, standing just inside the door.

“Oh, that's right.” Sophie retrieved the manila envelope and handed it over. “I assume that means you got my message. The fax came through a few minutes ago. Since you're just across the hall, I thought I'd bring it up. Unfortunately, when I knocked, no one answered.”

“I was out grabbing a bite of dinner, and Heda was asleep. But I wonder where Gerald was.”

“Gerald?”

“Heda's bodyguard.” She noticed Bram standing next to the refreshment cart and gave him a pleasant if somewhat preoccupied nod.

“I'm sorry,” said Sophie. “This is my husband, Bram Baldric.”

“I assumed as much. It's nice to meet you. Actually, I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning at the station. We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to make next Sunday's schedule.”

“I thought you didn't have the script yet,” said Bram, his hands sliding casually into the pockets of his slacks.

“We do now,” said Dorothy. She held up the envelope. “This should be the entire first episode. Wish Greveen, the writer we've hired to do the first six episodes, promised he'd have it to me by dinnertime. It looks like he's a man of his word. Actually, I need to make several copies to pass out to the other cast members. They're no doubt in their rooms waiting for their first glimpse of the/script.”