Murder in the Air (4 page)

“You mean
they're
staying here, too?” said Bram. “The three people Heda told us about?”

Dorothy nodded. “I'll drop off your copy within the hour. You might want to look it over before tomorrow morning. Get a feel for the story line. By the way, Sophie, is there a copy center around here somewhere?”

“Just go down to the front desk. They'll make as many copies as you want.”

“I need them right away.”

“Not a problem.”

“Thanks.” This time, her smile was a bit more relaxed.

“You're sure you won't stay and have a drink with us?” asked Bram. His voice dripped charm as he held up the martini shaker.

“I'm sorry,” said Dorothy. “Perhaps another time.”

“We'd both like that,” replied Sophie. She bid Dorothy good night, then closed the door and leaned against it, eyeing her husband with amusement. “You like to play dangerous, don't you? What if she'd taken you up on that offer of a drink?”

“She didn't.”

“But what if she had?”

He patted the pocket of his shirt. “A powerful sedative, specifically designed for glamorous, middle-aged matrons.”

“Oh, please.”

“You don't believe me?” he said, moving slowly toward her, a seductive look in his eyes.

“What else have you got in that pocket—and up your sleeve?”

“Gee, Soph, I don't know. I guess you'll just have to take my shirt off to find out.”

4

Bud Manderbach sat behind the desk in his office, willing the phone to ring. He might own the most exclusive department store in the Midwest, but when it came to the opposite sex, his success had been something less than stellar. He was waiting for a call from Giselle Tannanger, his newest paramour. Giselle was angry at him for failing to keep their usual Tuesday-night dinner engagement. He was a bastard, no doubt about that, and to make it up to her, he was planning to take her on a shopping trip to New York over Christmas. He liked Giselle. Maybe even more than liked her, but he hated being tied down, always having to toe some imaginary line. The truth was, Bud had forgotten about the dinner date. The reason he'd forgotten was no one's business but his—and the young woman he'd met at a bar down on Wabasha.

After four marriages and countless affairs, Bud Manderbach remained a sucker for a pretty face and a sexy voice—at least that's what he told himself. Women were a necessary evil.

Three of his wives had demanded he get some therapy for his drinking. The last one insisted he was sexually addicted and that if he didn't get help, he'd end up dead of AIDS. But Bud knew how to take care of himself. He was sixty-eight years old and still kicking. He intended to stay the same fun-loving, randy bastard he'd always been until the day he checked out permanently. He'd inherited a department store from his father and turned it into a multimillion-dollar business. No doubt about it, he was a success. Except, well, for one small point: Bud Manderbach couldn't stand to be alone.

From the time he was a child, he'd lived in the family home
on Summit Avenue in St. Paul with his sister, B.B. His mother had died when he was seven, and his father when Bud was in his late twenties. B.B. was four years younger. While B.B. provided some companionship, it wasn't the kind he craved. Oh, he loved his sister, and was as protective of her as any good brother should be. She'd always been the “strange duck” in the family, as his first wife lovingly referred to her, and Bud had to admit, she'd gotten even stranger with the years. She drove him nuts with all her quirks. Two of his wives had actually blamed B.B. for breaking up their marriage. They'd refused to live any longer under the same roof with her. But since he couldn't exactly throw her out, and he wasn't about to move out of the family home himself, that was that. What was the old saying? Women were like buses. Another one would be along any minute.

Bud buzzed his secretary. “Have there been any calls for me?”

“No, Mr. Manderbach,” came the swift but polite reply. “But you did just get a fax. Would you like me to bring it in?”

“A fax, huh.” Giselle had never sent him one before, but there was always a first time. “Who's it from?”

“The name on the form is Wish Greveen. I don't have any other information. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“No,” said Bud gruffly. “Just bring it in.”

Damn. Giselle was playing with him, he could tell. She was going to make him squirm. He thought about it for another minute and then slammed his fist down on the desk. Why the hell didn't she call? He'd left several messages on the answering machine at her home, and a couple with her secretary at work. Maybe he should try again. He hated it when women reduced men to the emotional level of a teenager. He had better things to do with his time than worry about
Giselle's fee lings.
Nobody was worried about his.

A knock on the door announced the entrance of Bud's secretary, Loretta Nallen. She was a for tyish woman with dyed blonde hair and a school marmish voice. She approached the desk and handed him the envelope containing the fax. “Were
you expecting an important phone call?” she asked, straightening the papers in front of him.

“Yes. No. Never mind what I'm expecting.”

“Of course, Mr. Manderbach.”

Flicking his eyes to hers, he added, “I'm sorry if I snapped. This hasn't been a good day.”

“Maybe you should go home. Have a nice dinner. Watch a movie.”

Home, thought Bud sourly. What was there to go home
to?
No one was there except B.B., and she was probably engrossed in her newest collection of whatever trivia had currently caught her fancy: B.B.
always
collected. The house was stuffed to the rafters with her ridiculous “collections.” Bud wasn't sure, but he thought her newest passion was lamps. God, what was he going to do with fifty new lamps? B.B. never stopped at one, or ten, or fifteen of anything. She found seemingly endless joy and contentment in all her labeling and cataloguing and comparing. Without her shopping trips, she'd have nothing to do but watch TV.

Neither Bud nor B.B. was very good at maintaining friendships. Bud didn't have the time. He had a business to run, so his lack of interest was understandable. B.B., on the other hand, well … even he knew that it would be much easier if she didn't dress so outlandishly.

When B.B. Manderbach stood still in a department store, people always thought she was a mannequin, part of a store display. Over the years she'd become a curiosity, something grandly decadent and hopelessly outdated. With her heavy, ill-applied makeup and clothes that smelled of mothballs, B.B. looked a bit like Queen Victoria sweeping through the corridors of power. Bud had no idea where his sister found the ridiculous garments she wore, and he didn't want to know. B.B. was B.B., just like Bud was Bud. In a way, he respected her as a true iconoclast. His wives may have thought she was mentally ill, but Bud knew B.B.'s heart. She was a good person who had struggled hard against lifelong bouts of depression. Since money had never been an issue in their
family, Bud left his eccentric sister alone to pursue her interests. What was the harm?

“I'll go home later,” said Bud dismissively. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly seven. “How come you're still here?” He gave his tie a yank, leaned back in his chair, and watched Loretta adjust her pink cashmere sweater.

“Well, I thought I'd finish up a few projects and then go downstairs and do some Christmas shopping.”

Manderbach's corporate offices were located on the eighth floor of the downtown St. Paul store. Bud had moved the offices from the Minneapolis store in 1967. He often worked late himself and then had dinner at the Hunter's Grill, the ninth-floor restaurant. “Well, you better get moving. We're only open until nine.”

“Ten,” said Loretta, correcting him. “We're open an hour later until Christmas.”

“All this Christmas crap is enough to drive-a man to drink.” He hated all holidays, but Christmas was the worst.

“You sound like Ebenezer Scrooge.” Loretta smiled. “Maybe you need a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past.” The smile faded when she saw the startled look on Bud's face. “That was a joke, Mr. Manderbach.”

“Get out,” he snarled. “Leave me alone.”

“Of course.” She scurried to the door and closed it softly behind her.

Immediately, Bud opened his bottom desk drawer. He withdrew a fifth of Scotch and a paper cup. After swallowing several gulps, he sat back, waiting for the booze to take effect. He shouldn't let silly comments like that get to him. Christmas was something to survive. Surely he wasn't the only human being on earth who felt that way.

He gave himself another minute and then grabbed the envelope Loretta had given him. Opening the top flap, he withdrew a single sheet of paper. It was a typed note, signed in an unreadable scrawl by someone named Wish Greveen. He wouldn't have been able to read the signature except that the sender's name was typed at the top as part of the transmission record. Bud had an Uncle Wish, so the name wasn't
foreign to him, not that he knew how Uncle Wish came by it. His given name was Darby.

The note was simple and to the point.

Sincerely,
Wish Greveen

Bud read it through one more time and then tossed it aside. There were a lot of crackpots in this world. He had the distinct feeling he'd just heard from one of them. Pouring himself another inch of Scotch, he sat back and sipped it slowly.

The fax was obviously a joke. Commercially backed radio drama died years ago. Nobody in their right mind would fool around with it today—not with movies, video games, and the Internet to entertain the masses. Nah, someone was pulling his leg.

Still, maybe he'd ask Loretta to call WTWN next week and see if the information was accurate. Manderbach's regularly advertised on WTWN. Maybe the fax was some kind of veiled pitch to get him to sponsor the show. If it was, he might have to listen—or have Loretta listen—just to see what it was all about. Not that he was interested. On the other hand, if some poor son-of-a-bitch really wanted a piece of helpful criticism from a man who prided himself on his business acumen, who was Bud Manderbach to deny this guy a bit of hard-won wisdom?

January 13, 1959

Dear Mother:

1959 arrived without so much as a handful of confetti or a glass of champagne. I spent New Year's Eve alone in a crummy hotel room in Eindhoven. I felt more cut off from the world in those few hours than Eve ever felt before in my entire life. If Ed picked up a gun and blown my brains out, no one would've cared or, for that matter, even noticed. The streets were full of revelers, but I was afraid to go out.

That was almost two weeks ago. East weekend I found another hotel, in a safer part of town. I still don't go out much. It's just better that way. I had such hopes for the new year, Mom, and for what it would bring. I never dreamed Ed be in Europe, away from home. Depressed. Alone. I know you're not much for reading the Bible. Em not either, though I did pick up a used King James version in London before I left and read it on the boat coming over.

Do you remember this? “And the Lord said unto Cain
…
now art thou cursed … a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.”

I can't help but wonder if that's my fate. Eve done more thinking about my life in the past three weeks than at any other time in my life. It's funny, but before I left Minnesota, Ed convinced myself that all my actions were noble. I see now that I was kidding myself I thought I could control events, protect the innocent, punish the
guilty. I was on a mission, Mom, and in the bargain, my career would zoom into the stratosphere.

In the end, all I accomplished was saving my own hide while the woman I love is dead. I have no one to blame but myself I'm almost afraid to give you an address for fear of what you might say to me when you write. I know what the newspapers must be reporting. I promise, I'll tell you the entire story, but you have to be patient because it's complex. I need to take my time. It's the puzzle of my life that I want to piece together, Mom, as much for me as for you. In many ways, I suppose I was the victim of my own arrogance
—
that and the arrogance of another man, someone I'll tell you about in due course.

Let me continue with how I met Kay, how we both got mixed up in something neither of us recognized as dangerous.

Okay, in my last letter I began telling you about the night I first saw Kay. I was at the Westgate Country Club and I was therefor a very specific reason.

If you recall, in late August of last year, Olga Lan-dauer, the younger sister of Kurt Landauer, owner of Lan-dauer Construction, was killed in a hit-and-run accident outside her home on Fairmount Avenue in St. Paul. I covered the story for the paper. The police had some good leads early on, but none of them panned out.