Murder in the Air (41 page)

“This should only take a minute,” he whispered. “Baldric here.”

“I haven't got much time.” It was Al Lundquist. “I got a fascinating little news flash for you, pal. Thought I'd pass on.”

“I'm all ears. Well, almost all ears.” He could feel his stomach growl.

“It's about the house that burned down last week—the one Molly Stanglund rented. It seems forensics finally got around to looking at her charred remains.”

“And?”

“Stanglund didn't die in the fire. Some guy did. So far, he's a John Doe.”

Bram was stunned. “Then … Molly is alive?”

“That would be my guess.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and explained to Sophie what had happened. “Listen, Al, do the police know the house was rented by Arn O'Dell's granddaughter?”

“They do now. I talked to the officer in charge of the case, gave him all the particulars. Looks like we may have another homicide on our hands. Nobody down here would be a bit surprised if the body turned out to belong to Wish Greveen.”

“Greveen?” Bram whistled. “That
would
be something. Will you keep me posted?”

“If I'm in the mood.”

“Thanks, pal. I owe you.”

After hanging up, Bram sat for a few moments in silence. He could tell Sophie was every bit as shocked as he was. And yet she seemed preoccupied by the papers in front of her. “What are you looking at?”

“It's a file on the Collins murder. I found it on your desk.”

“Oh, that's the one Al gave me a while back.”

“Well, look at this.” She tossed him a five-by-seven glossy.

It was a picture of Justin Bloom. “I'd say this was a press photo. Sure, someone's written the name of the paper and 1958 on the back. Man, look at those clothes. Straight out of
Dragnet.”

“Handsome guy, wasn't he?”

“I suppose.”

“Now notice the ring on his left hand.”

Bram glanced at it again. “So?”

“I've seen it before. Several times. The first time was when Wish Greveen checked into the hotel. He was wearing it.”

Bram folded his arms over his chest. “Sophie, there have to be lots of rings like that.”

“A square-cut tiger eye? Maybe. But look closer. There are two diamond baguettes on either side, where the band
attaches to the setting, and the gold spreads out around it like a cat's-paw.” She handed him a magnifying glass.

Holding it over the picture, he said, “Yeah, I see it.”

“So think about it, honey. Justin Bloom is wearing that ring. It's rare, probably one of a kind. The year was 1958— the same year he took off for points unknown. I think it's fair to assume he was wearing it when he left. Next, forty years later Wish Greveen shows up at the Maxfield wearing what looks like the exact same ring. He keeps a low profile. Few people see him. Then he disappears. Bud Manderbach, who may be implicated in the old murder, also appears to be implicated in the disappearance of Greveen. But who really disappeared, Bram? Who
was
Wish Greveen?”

“You're saying—”

“It's simple deduction. Wish Greveen and Justin Bloom are one and the same person.”

No matter how hard he tried to resist the notion, the logic was inescapable. “If it's true, do you realize what this means?”

“Justin Bloom didn't die in Europe. And for the last four weeks he was here in town, staying at the Maxfield.”

Bram shook his head, thinking it through. “Do you think Bud Manderbach knew Greveen was Bloom?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. But if he did, it sure explains a lot.”

His mind raced. If Molly was still alive, maybe there was an outside chance she'd try to contact him. He knew it was a long shot. If she was smart, she'd probably moved to the other side of the moon by now—and given no forwarding address.

“Bram?”

“Urn?”

“Can I tell you something else?” Sophie got up and walked around the front of the desk, sitting down on the edge.

He was almost afraid to ask what it was. “Sure. What?”

“Well, I started doodling with names when I was listening to your program earlier.”

“It's nice to know our topic kept you riveted to your seat.”

“I only doodled during the commercials, darling.”

“Good of you to clarify that,
dear.
Go on.”

“Well, you know how much I like puzzles. As I was playing around I discovered—” She handed him a scratch pad. “Do you realize that the name Greveen is an anagram for the word'vevenge'?”

He stared at the words. After a few seconds he looked up. His unblinking eyes held hers.

“I think Wish Greveen, otherwise known as Justin Bloom, has been behind everything. The radio show was his revenge against Bud Manderbach.”

“But, Sophie, to make such an elaborate plan work, he would've needed his mother's cooperation.”

“I'm sure he had it.”

He got up and sat down next to her on the desk. “Look, sweetheart, I may be wrong, but I really think Heda Bloom believes her son is dead.”

“She's acting. She has to be. He's a wanted man, Bram. If the police thought he was in town, he'd be arrested. That's why she never met with Greveen once while he was here. She used Dorothy as her go-between.”

“And kept Dorothy in the dark about the truth behind the radio show?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?”

He shook his head. “But Sophie, I've talked to Heda several times since Greveen's disappearance. She seemed perfectly normal—even happy. I'd even go so far as to say she's relieved that the show has been put on hold. If Greveen truly was her son, wouldn't his disappearance and possible death cause her—at the very least—some anxiety? Or more realistically, she'd be devastated.”

Sophie's enthusiasm for the conversation was starting to flag. “If you're right, we're still missing something.”

Bram put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Then he nibbled her ear. He was about to move on to her lips when she whispered, “You men. You're only interested in one thing.”

“You're right. And it's not Christopher Plummer.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Are we done with this discussion?”

“Of course not. But I need sustenance.”

“From the looks of your desk drawers, most of your sustenance comes from cookies.”

With his hand, he traced the line of her jaw. “I was thinking about a nice prime-rib dinner. Wine. Candlelight. Soft music.”

“You really don't want to go to the theatre tonight, do you?”

“Would it be terrible if we offered the tickets to Rudy and John?”

“I'm sure they'd be thrilled.”

“What about you?”

She entwined her fingers with his. “Let's order in.”

32

Bud burst into the kitchen. He slammed the door behind him, making sure it was locked and bolted, and then leaned against it and took a deep breath. “It's a madhouse out there,” he shouted, looking around for his sister. “B.B.! Where the hell are you?”

For days now B.B. had been standing in the north turret, tiptoeing from window to window, peeking at the sightseers as they drove their cars slowly past the house. It seemed that everyone in the Twin Cities wanted to get a firsthand look at the scene of the crime.

“I'm here, Buddy,” she called from somewhere inside the mansion's vast interior.

Bud set his briefcase down, tossed his coat over a kitchen chair, and went to find her. It had been a terrible morning.
There was no way he could get any work done at the office especially when magazine editors, newspaper reporters, representatives of the TV tabloids, and journalists from all over the country kept calling, tying up the phone and fax lines. They all wanted the same thing: an exclusive one-on-one interview. His lawyers had been right to suggest he stay home, avoid the press and the public as much as possible. But that was easier said than done, particularly when the press and the public were camping out in his front yard. Even the cold and the snow hadn't stopped them. Mad dogs and Minnesotans, he thought to himself sourly. The English might go out into the noonday sun, but they'd never willingly venture into this god-awful wilderness.

Bud had barely made it in the back door alive. He couldn't take much more of this media abuse, and yet he'd be damned if he'd let a pack of braying hyenas chase him inside his house and make him afraid to come out. So far, neither he nor his lawyers had been able to stem the tide of public interest. His personal life had been turned upside down and inside out for the general amusement, and what was even worse, not only was there no end in sight, but the ball seemed to be picking up speed. Even his ex-wives had gotten into the fray. Driving home from the store, he'd discovered one of them being interviewed on a local talk show. While she discussed the intimate details of their stormy marriage, people at home were probably munching their morning toast. It was obscene!

Bud finally found his sister in the sunroom. With some difficulty, B.B. tore her attention away from the window and smiled at him. Then she seemed to remember something, and the smile dimmed. “You're going to be angry with me, Buddy.”

“I hardly think that's likely. You're the only one in this town who's on my side.” He eased down onto a chair. Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Why am I going to be angry?”

She pressed her lips together to smooth out her red lipstick. She still had on her bathrobe and slippers. “I took the phone off the hook,” she said in a dejected whisper. “I couldn't stand the constant ringing. The answering machine
is full and … this is where you're going to be mad, Buddy. I forgot what you told me about putting in a new tape.”

He waved it away. “I don't give a damn about the phone calls.”

Her smile returned. “I'm glad.”

“I don't suppose you listened to any of them?”

“A few. A couple were personal. Some woman. I've forgotten her name.”

“It was probably Giselle Tannanger.” Giselle had hit the roof when he canceled their Christmas trip to New York. Since he was so busy on other fronts at the time, the fact that she'd broken off their affair in retaliation had barely registered. Now he missed her, but doubted she'd called to resume their relationship. She probably wanted to gloat.

B.B. stole one last peek out the window and then joined her brother, taking a seat on an antique fainting couch, her favorite place to nap in the afternoons. “How was work?” she said, sipping from her mug.

“What work? It's hopeless, B.B. I think I'm going to stay home until this all blows over.”

“When will that be?”

“Oh, probably sometime in the next century.” He grunted. “It's ridiculous, you know. I never laid a hand on that man.”

B.B. lowered her eyes. “Bud?”

“Hmm?”

“You trust me, don't you?”

“What a silly question.” He tipped his head back and gazed up at an oil portrait of his father. The artist had perfectly captured the little man's nastiness.

She waited, fingering the button on her nightie, then continued, “Buddy … you don't need to lie to me anymore. The night Wish Greveen died, I found the dagger lighter in your bedroom at the cottage. It had blood all over it, but I cleaned it off. Lucky I did, or the police would have found it. I put it back with the rest of my lighters. At first I thought you'd killed Sally all over again, but I was just mixed up.” She gave him a coy smile, one that quickly turned into a pout.
“At first I was … upset that you took it without asking. You shouldn't do that, Buddy. It's wrong. But I forgive you. You know me. I can never stay mad at you very long.”

Bud sat upright in his chair. In a voice he barely recognized as his own, he said, “The dagger lighter had blood on it?”

“That's right. Buddy, what's wrong? You seem … surprised.”

Damn right he was surprised. His eyes hardened. “What the hell is going on here?”

B.B. glanced around the room, taking his words literally. “I don't know. The cook hasn't arrived yet. I agree, that's kind of odd. Maybe she missed her bus.”

Realizing she'd misunderstood, he said, “I fired her. I caught her in my study last night, riffling through my personal papers. I'm sure she was going to sell them to a tabloid.”

“But, Bud? How will we eat?” She seemed truly alarmed.

“Don't change the subject.” Fixing her with a penetrating stare, he said, “You think finding that dagger means I killed Wish Greveen?”

“Didn't you?”

“No!”

Slowly, her heavy eyebrows lowered. “Then how
did
he die?”

“I don't know, but it wasn't by my hand.” He got up and crossed to the front windows, turning his back on his sister. Returning to that night for the millionth time in his mind, he said, “We talked privately for about twenty minutes. I asked him who he really was. Once Dorothy was gone, he freely admitted he was Justin Bloom.”

“He did?” said B.B., scrunching up her face in thought. “But… I don't understand.”

“I demanded to know what he was up to with that radio show, but he wouldn't give me a straight answer about anything. He just kept telling me to wait and see. I'm not a patient man, B.B. I had no patience with him that night. Sure we argued, but I didn't murder him! Not that I didn't think
about it. It would have been easy, but. not there. Not on my own property. I'd have to be an idiot!”