Murder in the Air (37 page)

“Sure. Justin Bloom convinced my mother to sleep with him before they were married—or even engaged. From what I understand, he never intended to marry her, so I guess this comes under the heading of a quick roll in the hay.”

Heda blinked back her surprise, noticing that Dorothy's face betrayed a similar look of shock. As her heart began to pound, she looked at Cathy and said, “This … is true?”

“Of course it's true. My mother never lied to me about how I was conceived. She told me the whole story.” She paused, then pursed her lips. “I suppose you think I'm here because I want something. Well, you're right. I do.”

“And what would that be?” asked Dorothy.

Cathy's hands rose to her hips. “Look, Mrs. Bloom, my mother is scared to death. I've never seen her like this before. I advised her to tear up that contract and come home
with me to Houston, but she says she has to stay. I finally got her to open up about some of her fears last night, but only after she'd drunk half a bottle of brandy. It seems one of the actors in the cast was murdered. And nobody knows who did it. Why didn't you stop the production, Mrs. Bloom? Weren't you scared it could happen to someone else?”

“Well, I—”

“And another thing. She's got this weird idea that Justin Bloom is still alive. That he's here, in Minnesota, and that he's going to do something terrible.”

“Alive,” repeated Dorothy, her expression utterly serious. “I want to understand this, Cathy. I really do. I've heard the same rumor more than once and I'd like to know how it got started. Has your mother seen him?”

“No.”

“Talked to him?”

She shook her head.

“Then why does she think he's alive?”

“It's just a feeling she's got. You don't know Mama. When she gets one of her feelings, you can't shake her out of it.”

“Even if he were alive,” said Heda, picking up the conversation, “my son would never do anything terrible.”

“Are you kidding me? He murdered a woman. And he slept with my mother and then tossed her aside as if she meant nothing to him. The man was pond scum.”

“How can you say that about your father?” said Heda, struggling to her feet. Inside, she was beginning to quake.

“He wasn't my father. Jim Quinn is my father. Fathering is what someone
does,
not who someone
is.
I would think you've lived long enough to know that.”

Heda felt as if a door had just clanged shut, trapping her somewhere cold, empty, and foreign. How could she have a granddaughter and not even know about it? This had to be someone else's life. It couldn't be hers.

She finally recovered enough to go on. “I'm deeply sorry my son hurt you and your mother so badly. I had no idea he had a child. Believe me when I tell you, he didn't either. You're right. Justin behaved abominably toward your mother. If I could go
back and change things, I would. In my heart, I know if he were standing here right now, he'd tell you the same thing. But we both know that's not possible. Justin is dead, Cathy. If your mother thinks otherwise, she's wrong. Furthermore, the Justin I knew would never have harmed anyone, not intentionally. He was a good man caught in a terrible situation. If it's any consolation to you, before he died, he paid dearly for his mistakes.” She paused. Wiping a tear from her eye, she said, “What is it you want from me, Cathy? Whatever it is, it's yours.”

Cathy's anger seemed to dissipate somewhat as she pushed her hands into her back pockets. “I didn't come here to beat you up. Or maybe I did, I don't know. But what I really need is a promise. I want you to give me your word that my mother will be safe. Nothing will happen to her while she's here. And at the end of your six-week run, I want you to let her go home. No arguments. No wheedling. If you plan to extend the series another six weeks, find another actress.”

Very softly, Dorothy replied, “Nothing will happen to your mother, Cathy. You have my word—and Heda's.”

Cathy looked from face to face, her eyes finally settling on Heda. “I can't say it was a pleasure meeting you, but it's something I've wanted most of my life. Remember, I'll hold you to that promise.” She stared at Heda for several more seconds and then turned and left.

In her wake, the silence in the room nearly crushed the life out of Heda Bloom. She staggered toward the couch and sat down.

“God, I'm so sorry,” said Dorothy, helping her get comfortable.

There was another knock at the door.

Removing her glasses, Heda squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I can't talk to anyone right now. I'm going to my room to lie down. Whoever it is, get rid of them. When you're done, come in. I want to talk to you.”

“Of course,” said Dorothy.

Giving herself a few moments to compose herself, Dorothy stood in front of the door and closed her eyes. She
didn't feel like talking to anyone either. Whoever it was, she intended to make it short. When she finally drew back the door, she found a tall, middle-aged man standing outside.

“I'm looking for Dorothy Veneger.” He flashed her a badge.

Glancing at it, she asked, “Is this about Valentine Zolotow?”

“Are you Dorothy Veneger?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Detective Stine, St. Paul police. Can I come in? I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

She backed up a step. “What's this about?”

“Bud Manderbach.”

“Bud? What about him?”

“There were some … problems at his house last night. I understand you were there.”

She nodded.

“I'd like to talk to you about it.”

It took her a few seconds to change gears. “All right,” she said, pulling absently on one of her gold earrings. “We can sit in the living room. Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks.” He unzipped his coat and found a chair. He was a good-looking man. Dark hair, large dark eyes. Retrieving a notepad and a pen from the pocket of his suit, he waited until Dorothy had taken a seat across from him and then asked, “How long have you known Mr. Manderbach?”

She folded one leg over the other. “I met him at the Max-field's bar last Sunday night. We were both alone, so we struck up a conversation.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with him?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “We're … friends, Detective Stine.”

“Romantic friends?”

The edges of her mouth curled into a smile. “I suppose you could say that.”

“What were you doing at his house last night?”

“Bud invited me over for a glass of wine.”

“Were the two of you alone?”

“For the first half hour, yes. Around ten, a man named Greveen, a scriptwriter I employ at WTWN, stopped by.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Bud wanted to meet him. He was curious about the writing life, I think, and about the program Wish writes for.”

The detective jotted down some notes on his notepad. “What specifically did the two men talk about?”

“Well, actually, Wish had only been there for a few minutes when Bud asked me to leave.”

“Really? Why?”

“He wanted to talk to Wish alone.”

“Were you upset by that?”

“I wasn't happy. But I did as he asked. I left.”

The detective leaned back in his chair. “Were the two men on friendly terms when you left?”

Again, she shrugged. “Yes. I think so.”

“Did either of them seem upset about anything?”

The detective was looking at her with nothing more than polite attention, and yet she could feel him studying her, weighing each answer. “Well, Wish insisted that he'd never met Bud before, but I wasn't so sure.”

“Why was that?”

“At one point, Bud commented on a ring that Wish was wearing, as if he'd seen it before.” She stopped and thought a little before going on. “What's all this about, Detective Stine? What happened last night?”

“Have you talked to Mr. Greveen this morning?”

“No. I was going to call him in a few minutes to wish him a Merry Christmas.”

“I understand he's from Palm Beach.”

“That's right.”

“And he has a reputation for being somewhat of a recluse.”

She nodded. “All true.”

“Have you worked with him long?”

“Not really. I hired him to write the
Dallas Lane
scripts just last month. I have his resume here, if you'd care to see it.”

“I would. But first, tell me, did Mr. Greveen create the story all by himself?”

“No, Heda Bloom wrote a story-line synopsis, and he shaped it into a six-episode series—or I should say, he was in the process of doing that. Our fourth episode airs tomorrow night.”

“He hasn't finished writing it?”

“No. That's why he came to town. He likes to be near the action, but not a part of it. He works in his suite downstairs.”

“You didn't find that somewhat difficult? I mean, what if you didn't like the script?”

She shrugged. “It's never been a problem. I think he's amazingly talented. Have you caught any of the shows?”

“I don't know anyone who doesn't listen to your show, Ms. Veneger. It's created quite a stir.”

Dorothy smiled, then realized it wasn't meant as a compliment. “You're referring to the similarity between our radio show and that old murder case.”

“Is there any truth to the rumor that
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
is really Heda Bloom's attempt to set the record straight about her son?”

Dorothy looked away. “I didn't think so, at least at the beginning. But now, yes. I'm convinced that's exactly what it is. May I add that I think it was quite a brilliant stroke? I've often been in awe of her, never more than now.”

“The parallels seem rather obvious to me, too. I'm just curious. How long have you known Heda Bloom?”

“Let's see. Six years, I think. I was hired shortly after my husband died.”

“And in that time, has she ever discussed her son Justin with you?”

“Not until very recently.”

The detective made a few more notes. “Seems to me I've heard Bud Manderbach's name being put forward as one of the men who might've been involved in the Kay Collins murder.”

“Yes,” agreed Dorothy, “I've heard that, too.”

“But you don't believe it?”

She chose her words carefully. “I don't think Bud Manderbach
is a saint, Detective Stine, but at the same time, it's hard for me to picture him murdering someone in cold blood.”

“Then again, Ms. Veneger, you never know aboutpeople.” He turned to a clean page in his notebook. “Have you ever been in Mr. Manderbach's car?”

This new line of questioning threw her. “Sure. Several times.”

“How about the trunk. Did he ever open that while you were with him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what was in it?”

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the interior. “Nothing, really. He would put his briefcase inside because he was afraid that if he left it in the car, someone might steal it. But that's about it.”

“You're sure? You didn't see a gas can? A large one? Red and yellow, I believe.”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

“Tell me, when you were at the cottage last night, did you notice if Mr. Manderbach cut himself?”

“No.”

“What about you?”

“Look, Detective Stine, I don't want to seem uncooperative, but I don't think I'm going to answer any more of your questions until I know what this is all about.”

He finished writing a few more lines, then clicked his pen closed. “All right. Fair enough. We had a report of a fight at Mr. Manderbach's gatehouse last night. When our officers arrived at the scene, they found fresh blood outside the house near the front door, and also in the bedroom. We won't have any details on that blood for a few days, but we suspect that someone may have been hurt. Possibly Mr. Greveen.”

Dorothy sat up straight in her chair. “I'll call him right away.”

“That won't be necessary, Ms. Veneger. I've already checked his room. He's not there.”

“But… he has to be. He goes out at night sometimes, but hardly ever during the day.”

“The woman who owns the hotel let me into the room a few minutes ago. His bed hadn't been slept in. Actually, Ms Greenway gave me an interesting lead. She mentioned tha when Mr. Greveen checked into the hotel, he complainec that he wasn't feeling well. She suggested he go see her personal physician. His office is just up the street. Later, he apparently told her he'd scheduled a full physical for some time this past week. What that means, Ms. Veneger, is tha since Mr. Greveen seems to be missing, we may still be abk to get our hands on a sample of his blood. My question to you is, did you know he'd seen this doctor?”

Thinking she heard movement, Dorothy slowly shifted her eyes from the detective to Heda's bedroom door. The last thing she wanted was for Heda to join the conversation. “Yes, I knew he'd seen a doctor. When he arrived here from Florida, he thought he had the flu. As I said, I don't know him all that well, but I think he was a bit of a hypochondriac.” She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “I better get you his resume.”

“I'd also be interested in any recent photos.”

“All I have is a standard head shot,” she said, hurrying into her bedroom. She returned a moment later and handed the folder to the detective. “Is there any other way I can help you?” She remained standing, hoping he'd get the point and leave.

Rising from his chair, the detective flipped through the contents. “I'd like to take this with me, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.” She waited while he studied the photo, then accompanied him to the door.

“If I have any further questions, I'll be in touch. Oh, and one last thing. If Mr. Greveen should contact you, please inform me right away.” He handed Dorothy his card.

She glanced at it. “Do you think he's still alive?”

Leaning against the door frame, he said, “This is only my opinion, you understand, but if I were you, I'd start looking for a new writer. I think it's highly unlikely you'll ever see Wish Greveen again.”

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