Murder in the Air (7 page)

“I don't want to win, Mitzi.” Heda's expression had grown sad. “I just need for you to stand behind your commitment.”

Mitzi looked Heda square in the eyes. She could feel the old anger rising in her chest. “You know, if your son had done that, we all would have had much happier lives.” Her voice was icy with a rage that surprised even her.

Heda looked stricken. “I don't know what to say to you. I can't go back and change what my son did. You have to believe me. I'm so sorry, far sorrier than you'll ever know.”

Mitzi desperately wanted to tell Heda the truth—how she was sorry herself for
her
actions. But almost forty years after the fact? What was the point? Some secrets were best left in the past, buried under layers of time. At least there, they couldn't hurt the living.

January 24, 1959

Dear Mother:

I've moved again. I thought I'd managed to give my pursuers the slip, but I saw them outside my hotel, five nights ago. One guy
—
the tall, skinny one
—
was standing in a doorway. If he hadn't been smoking a cigarette, I never would have seen him. The other guy was sitting in a parked car half a block away. I'm not sure why they haven't arrested me yet. As far as I can tell, they've had plenty of opportunities. I managed to escape through a basement door that led to a parking garage. I had to leave most of the stuff I've accumulated since I left Minnesota in my room, though I did manage to take my backpack and a small suitcase with me. In the past few weeks I've learned to travel light. Material possessions don't matter as long as I've got my freedom.

I spent one night sleeping in a train station, the next in a bam. For the last few days I've been staying just outside Koblenz, but it's not safe here. I know now that I'm not safe anywhere as long as I remain in Europe. The problem is, I'm sure the train stations and airports are being watched. I've thought long and hard about this, Mom, and I finally came up with a plan. I've already dyed my hair black, and I'm in the process of growing a beard, which I'll also dye black. Today I was thinking it might be better
—
and faster— if I bought a fake beard somewhere. I can't tell you the rest of my plan just yet, but I'm going to be traveling for the next few weeks
—
possibly longer, so don't get upset if you don't
hear from me for a while. When you do, I'll be in a much better position to write more regularly, and, hopefully, to finally hear back from you.

Since Vve got about an hour to kill before I have to leave the hotel to meet a man in town, I thought this might be as good a time as any to resume my story. I feel pretty safe here for now, but I know it won't last. This time, I intend to get a jump on my pursuers before they can locate me. It's the only way I can give them the permanent slip.

Okay, to continue:

After that first night at the Westgate Country Club, I felt confident that the anonymous note I'd received was on the level. Sally Nash did know something about Olga Lan-dauefs death, I was sure of it. But how was I going to get her to talk?

Since I wasn't exactly sure how to proceed, I decided to tail her to see what I could learn. On Monday morning, I sat in my car outside her apartment and waited. I figured she'd come out sooner or later and I could follow her to work. Once I discovered where that was, I thought maybe I could get one of her coworkers to give me a lead
—
tell me what kind of girl she was, who she associated with, how she spent her time and money.

The only problem was, she never came out. By ten, I'd drunk an entire thermos of coffee, smoked my remaining five cigarettes, and eaten three jelly doughnuts. I figured it must be her day off. Since I had a meeting at eleven over at the paper, I'd have to resume my surveillance later in the afternoon.

I was about to pull away from the curb when I saw Kay come out of the building. She checked her watch and then proceeded quickly toward the bus stop. The funny thing was, in my mind I'd pegged her as the kind of person who probably lived in a Kenwood mansion. She was dressed so elegantly on Friday night and looked so regal, I assumed she was rich. As I sat in my car and watched her, I thought back to the names above Sally Nash's mail slot. I wished now that I'd taken better notice of them. Kay might very
well be one of her roommates. But any way you sliced it, Kay was a link to Sally. I decided to take a chance and follow her. My meeting could wait.

Fifteen minutes later she got off the bus on Eighth and Hennepin and walked several blocks to Marquette Avenue, where she entered Manderbach's downtown Minneapolis store. I parked across the street, fed some nickels into the meter, and headed inside myself I quickly spotted her stepping onto one of the elevators. I ran to catch up, but the doors closed in my face. Feeling incredibly frustrated, I got on the next available car and then got off on the third floor
—
women's clothing. I figured that was a good bet. I hurried through the various departments, but again struck out. After dashing around madly for the next half hour, I gave up and took the elevator back downstairs. I had nothing to show for the morning except an acid stomach and a bad case of caffeine jitters.

As I charged through the cosmetics department I stopped dead in my tracks. There she was, standing behind the counter, showing a fancy bottle of perfume to an elderly woman. I mean, I was floored. Kay Collins was a salesgirl? Again, this didn't fit my image of her. Right then and there I settled myself down. Romantic notions or no romantic notions, Kay was obviously nothing like the way I'd envisioned her. She lived in a modest apartment and she worked in a department store.

I waited until she was done with her sale and then walked up and pointed to a couple of the bottles. Actually, I'd been meaning to get Mitzi something for her birthday
—
which, of course, reminded me that I had no business being attracted to another woman. As you may or may not know, Mitzi and I, though not officially engaged, had talked about getting married. I assumed she'd filled you in on the big news because it seemed to me that at her birthday party in late September, you were just bursting with joy that your oldest son was about to tie the knot. I never confirmed or denied it, because by then I wasn't sure it was what I wanted. Unfortunately, I didn't tell Mitzi about Kay.

And, much to my later embarrassment, I didn't tell Kay about Mitzi.

That morning, standing in front of the perfume counter, I convinced myself that talking to Kay was simply part the research I needed to do on a potentially hot story.

Kay was polite and helpful. She found me just the right scent in a price I could afford. When she asked who it was for, I said it was for my mother. She smiled and told me I was a thoughtful son, though I'm not sure he entirely believed me. I tried as hard as I could to engage her in a conversation. I can be pretty charming when I want to be, and whatever I said, it must have worked. She agreed to have dinner with me the following evening.

When I came to pick her up, I found that she did indeed share an apartment with two other women. Both Sally and Jonnie were sitting on the couch when I arrived, but thank God, neither of them recognized me. I'd spoken to Jonnie on the phone, but it had been brief and I hadn't given her my real name. Sally, on the other hand, had seen me face-to-face at the Westgate, but since she'd been pretty smashed, she didn't connect the dots.

As you might imagine, I breathed a sigh of relief when Kay and I finally left. I wanted to get to know her better, pump her for information, but subtly. I figured that if Kay thought I was using her to get the lowdown on Sally, she d not only be angry, but she'd dump me without so much as a backward glance. Taking Kay out, showing her a good time, easing slowly into a friendship was simply good investigative journalism. I was protecting myself, and my story.

Three weeks later, after our tenth date, I knew better than to think our time together had anything to do with research. I was falling in love with her. Maybe I'm flattering myself, but I think she was falling in love with me, too.

She was incredible, Mom. Beautiful. Funny. Smart. She'd attended the university for a couple of years, but couldn't afford the tuition, so she'd taken a job at Manderbach's until she could save up enough money to go back. Her family was from a small town in Michigan, but Kay wanted
to be independent. She was starved for adventure in the big city. I guess, in a way, you could say we had a lot in common. She and Sally and Jonnie had all moved to Minneapolis together in the spring of '55. Sally and Kay were now twenty-three. Jonnie was twenty-six, exactly one month younger than me, and in graduate school over at the U. She wanted to be a psychologist. Sally was nowhere near as serious about life as Jonnie and Kay. Attending the U was just her excuse for getting away from home. She'd been the first one to quit her studies and apply for a job at Mander-bach's. Kay followed a year later.

As the weeks progressed I began to get a clearer picture of the kind of girl Sally was. She'd grown up poor and had to fight her brothers and sisters for everything she ever got. Basically, I guess you could say she liked men and liked money. In that order. Kay confided to me that it was Sally's dream to one day marry a rich man. Kay felt Sally could be disgustingly shallow at times. When I asked her if Sally had been dating anyone in particular recently, she explained that she'd dated a guy pretty steadily back in July and August, but had stopped seeing him during the first week in September. Interestingly enough, Kay said that a day or two after the breakup, Sally had quit her job at Manderbach's and signed up for driving lessons. One week later she passed her driving test and drove home in a new car. She started taking day trips all over southern Minnesota. Sally called it “seeing the countryside.”

Kay admitted she had no idea where Sally had gotten the money for the car or her new—far more affluent
—way
of life, but she seemed to have plenty of ready cash whenever she needed it. I smelled a rat. When I pressed Kay to tell me the identity of the man Sally'd been dating, she clammed up. My instincts told me I'd hit pay dirt. If I found out who this boyfriend was, I might also find the identity of the man who'd killed Olga Landauer.

Of course, my first thought regarding Landauer's death was that it might actually have been Sally herself driving the car the night of the hit-and-run. Yet if she didn't know
how to drive until the middle of September, that seemed to rule her out.

Funny, as I think about it now, it never occurred to me that either Kay or Jonnie might've had something to do with the Landauer hit-and-run. No, it was the boyfriend that sounded my journalistic alarm. The way I had it figured, Sally was being bought off, paid for her silence. I wanted to know who was behind it; I already had a good idea why.

More later, Mom.

My love always,
Justin

7

Shortly after eleven on Thursday morning, Bram was standing next to the second-floor reception desk at WTWN sifting through his mail when the elevator doors opened and out walked a massive, bearlike creature, undoubtedly human, but endowed with so much hair—or was it fur?—that Bram could barely make out a face. The man's wiry beard was dark brown. No mouth was visible. And although the hair on his head was reasonably short, it was so thick and unruly, it looked like a wig. Bram tried not to stare, but it was a struggle.

When the man opened his mouth and spoke to the receptionist, Bram did a startled double take. Whoever this guy was, he had a voice as deep and loud as Duluth's famous foghorn. Actually, he kind of reminded Bram of the cartoon likeness of Paul Bunyan, Minnesota's answer to Rip Van Winkle—or was it Arnold Schwarzenegger?

“Where is Heda Bloom's office?” demanded the bear, mashing a paw down on the desk.

“May I ask your name?” said the receptionist, attempting to be as polite as possible. Bram could see she was every bit as astonished as he was.

“Alfred Bloom,” boomed the voice. “Your new boss.”

“But—”

“But what?”

“Well, Ms. Bloom and Ms. Veneger said you wouldn't be coming to Minnesota.”

“I like surprises.”

Bram cleared his throat to draw Bloom's attention. “Mr. Bloom. I'm delighted to meet you.” He extended his hand. “My name's Bram Baldric. I do the afternoon show. And I'm also announcing WTWN's new radio mystery.”

Alfred Bloom looked like a man who'd just been severely annoyed by a buzzing gnat. Turning his dark brown eyes on Bram, he snapped, “What radio mystery? They went out with spats and zoot suits. I've seen the program roster. It's not on it.”

Bram lowered his hand to his side. So much for social niceties. “You haven't been told about the program change on Sunday night?”

“No. Where's my mother? We need to talk.”

“She's not in here, Mr. Bloom,” said the receptionist. “But Ms. Veneger is. Would you like me to buzz her and announce you?”