Murder in the Air (5 page)

Kurt Landauer happens to be a good friend of Martin Donovan, the publisher of the
St. Paul Daily News & Examiner.
Through him, Landauer was able to keep the heat on the police by making sure the paper continued to report the story. With Olga Landauer's name appearing on the front page several times a week, the public couldnt' exactly forget what happened. People were demanding answers. Yet by late summer, all the leads were cold. I was eventually pulled off the story and assigned to something else.

On the morning of September 15, I received an anonymous note. There was no return address on the envelope, and the message inside was typed. It said something like, “If you want to know who killed Olga Landauer, talk to
Sally Nash. She lives in an apartment on Bryant Avenue in south Minneapolis.” It was signed, simply, “A Friend.”

I decided to check on it myself before I informed anyone at the paper. You remember that old newspaper maxim Dad used to quote? “If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out.” I figured that if it was a prank, as I suspected it was, the note would go in the trash with every-thing else I'd written that day.

I found Sally Nash's number in the telephone directory and phoned, but no one was home. I decided to take a short drive. I stopped at Porky's Drive-in first to wolf down a couple of hamburgers, and then arrived at the Bryant Avenue apartment around two. I buzzed number 213, but just like before, no one answered. By the looks of the names above the mail slot, Sally lived with two other girls. At the time I didn't take much note of the other names.

Later that afternoon, back at the paper, I tried calling again. This time I reached a woman named Jonnie Apfen-ford, one of her roommates. She informed me that Sally wasn't in and probably wouldn't be around much for the next couple of days. She asked if there was a message. I gave her a fake name and said that it was urgent. I wanted to make it sound important so that she wouldn't forget to give Sally the message. She inquired what it was about. I told her it was personal. She tried to worm it out of me, but I just kept asking when and where I could reach Sally. So finally she said something like, “Well, if you're really that interested, Sally usually spends her weekend evenings over at the Westgate Country Club. That's the only place I can guarantee you'll find her because I know she's got a date this Friday night.”

I thanked her and said goodbye. That was Wednesday. Two nights later I drove to the country club. The place was a little rich and formal for my tastes, but I managed to find the bar and order a beer. I waited there a good hour before I saw Kay come in
—
as I said, on the arm of a guy I didn't know. I thought she was lovely. More than
lovely. I had to meet her, but knew my other business had to come first.

I studied her from a distance for a few minutes and then caught the bartender's eye and ordered another beer. While he was pouring I asked if he knew a woman named Sally Nash. Sure, he said. She was sitting right over there. He pointed to the table Kay was at. Sally and her date had apparently arrived while my back was turned.

Sally Nash was pretty, but nothing like Kay. She had platinum-blonde hair
—
kind of a poodle cut
—
a loud laugh, and from the looks of her, a little too much to drink. Since her date seemed to be hanging on her every word, I wasn't sure how I should make my approach. A frontal attack seemed out of the question.

For the next forty-five minutes I watched Sally drink Manhattans. Her boyfriend tried to get her to stop, but she just kept ordering them. Finally, the music started. People began to gather on the dance floor. I waited and watched as Sally finished her drink and then got up. Mr. Muscles might have been great on the football field, but he wasn't exactly light on his feet. He obviously felt uncomfortable and after the first number pulled her back toward the table. Sally resisted. She wanted to keep dancing. I saw my chance and moved in.

As Muscles sulked off I asked Sally to dance. She was a real flirt and also very drunk. When the next slow song came on, I asked her a couple of innocent general questions just to get the ball rolling. She cuddled up, and I let her.

Somewhere along the line I let it slip that I'd heard she had the real dope on the Landauer murder. She stiffened and drew away. She knew something all right, but she wasn't about to tell me. As she stumbled off she turned and for one brief moment stared me straight in the eye. “I don'n, know who you are, but stay away from me.” She spoke precisely, the way people do when they're afraid they might slur their words, but I still couldn't miss the fear. I should have taken the warning to heart, but I was much too intrigued.

I knew I wasn't going to get any more out of her that night, so I paid my bar tab and left. On the way home, I considered my options. Sally and Kay were obviously friends. That fact alone would have compelled me to continue my search for answers from Sally Nash, even if I wasn't already fascinated by the entire situation. In retrospect, I see that I approached this almost as a game. And that was the biggest mistake of my life.

It's nearly eleven, Mom. I need to breathe some fresh air. I like to go out after dark. The countryside isn't far, and I can lean against a tree and look up at the stars. I have to put my life in some kind of perspective before I can go on. I've got plenty of money, so don't worry about that. I haven't seen anyone following me since I left Amsterdam. I'll pick up some bread and cheese, maybe some wine on the way back to the hotel.

Just remember
—
if, for some reason, you don't hear from me again, know that you're in my thoughts. Always.

Justin

5

George Chambers nursed a brandy and watched the after-theatre crowd filter into the Maxfield's bar. It was late Friday evening. After the long plane ride from Arizona, he was tired, but not tired enough to go to bed. As he watched the bartender mix one drink after another, his thoughts turned to the radio show he would be working on starting tomorrow morning.

George remembered fondly the good old days of radio. Before he'd entered the army and been shipped off to Korea,
he recalled one particular show where he'd spent hours working in frenzied conditions, always pushing a deadline. Rehearsals often took place in absolute chaos, and yet it was gloriously energizing. Back then, he'd spent days trying to replicate certain sounds. The lonely wind on the moor, a dog's plaintive howl, creaking carriage wheels as horses charged into the night. The sounds of terror and the screeches of simple city traffic. The microphone had its own distinctive ear. It wasn't an easy taskmaster, but the truth was, he'd loved every minute of it. He'd helped to project larger-than-life images onto the listeners' mental screens, plundering the audience's own memories to tell the tale. An extraordinary body.of work had been created for the radio, and yet most of it was lost as the new medium of television trampled everything in its path.

George freely admitted to himself that he still missed the excitement of his radio days. And yet he wasn't a fool. He knew that not everything about the good old days had been good.

Looking up from his drink, he noticed an old acquaintance amble into the bar. “Hey, Zolotow,” he called, waving the man over. He stood and then stuck out his hand. “I thought I might run into you if I waited in the bar long enough.”

Valentine Zolotow walked up, but gazed at George uncertainly. “Have we met?”

“Don't you remember me? George Chambers?”

“Hey, sure.” He cocked his head. “God, but you've changed.”

“Have I?”

He stared at the long white ponytail and full white beard. “You trying for a Santa Claus gig somewhere?”

George laughed. “Not really, although every year I do play Santa for one of the local department stores in Phoenix. I'll miss it this year since I won't be around.”

Valentine scratched his chin. “Well, hell, what am I talking about? We've both changed. Look at me.” He stroked his balding crown, then snorted. “This is
some
hotel, huh, George? Did you ever think an old junk heap like the
Maxfield Plaza would look like this? I mean—” He straightened his garish plaid sport coat and eyed two young women at the next table. “This must be a four-star joint now. It could even be a 1930s movie set. I worked in Hollywood for a while, in case you didn't hear, so I know about these things.” He lowered his voice to a more confidential tone. “I don't suppose you caught me in that movie with Clint Eastwood? Most of my scenes ended up on the cutting-room floor. Schmucks. I coulda won an Oscar for best supporting actor if they'd listened to me instead of the assistant director. But, yeah, I feel expansive in a place like this. It's got glamour. Old-fashioned class. Hey, isn't that Joan Crawford up at the bar?” He elbowed George in the ribs and let out a belly laugh that was half laugh, half deep, wheezing cough.

As they sat down George saw that Valentine had a thick envelope tucked into his sport-coat pocket. If he wasn't mistaken, he knew what it was.

“Look at you, Georgie. You must be what—seventy?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“Gee, I thought you were older than me. Well, at least you've got some hair. Other than the beard, you look fabulous. I suppose you're still a lady-killer.”

George bristled. “I was never a lady-killer, Valentine.”

“Sure, George, sure. So, how've you been? I heard via the grapevine that you were coming.” He motioned to the waitress to come take his drink order. “My plane was delayed because of bad weather. I should've been in around six. Actually, I've been upstairs for the last hour unpacking and reading this goddamned script.” He yanked it out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. “It was shoved under my door when I arrived. You gotta have eyes like a ten-year-old to read such small print. And tell me something else. Who the hell is Wish Greveen?”

George shrugged. “I've never heard of him.”

“Yeah, but… the name kind of rings a bell, doesn't it? I think maybe he and I might've worked together on a project
some buddies of mine were putting together for Disney a few years back. Bad writer. No talent at all.”

Same old Zolotow, thought George. Loud clothes and tall tales. Except that now the clothes looked old and frayed, and the tales sounded like what they were—bluster and braggadocio. The years had obviously manhandled him. He was as thin as a reed, and his skin color betrayed a man whose health was failing. “Where are you living these days?” asked George, sipping his brandy.

Valentine ordered a whiskey sour and then sat back and lit a cigarette. “Here and there.” He flipped the top of his lighter closed.

George remembered now that Zolotow never could hang on to a job—or a dime. “So,” he continued, “did you read the script?”

“Well, I read some of it.” His eyes shifted to the bar entrance and then back to the tip of his cigarette. “But not much. I'll read it later. I got lotsa time before tomorrow morning.”

“I read it. The whole thing.” He couldn't help but notice that the topic seemed to cause Zolotow some discomfort.

Picking a piece of tobacco out of his teeth, Valentine leaned into the table. “Say, George, I'm curious about something. How did you get involved in this revival?”

“Heda Bloom's assistant called me with the invitation. I believe her name was Dorothy.”

“Right. Me, too.” He stroked his receding chin with a hand liberally peppered with age spots. “She offer to pay you?”

George nodded.

“A lot?”

“Enough.”

“I told her I wasn't interested.” He tapped his forehead. “Always thinking, pal, always thinking. I know how to play these games. We talked for a while and finally I told her I wouldn't do it for less than three thousand dollars an episode.”

“Really?” That surprised George. “You got more than me.”

“Damn straight I did,” snapped Valentine, giving the waitress a seductive wink as she set his drink down in front of him.

“I
am
the voice of Dallas Lane after all. They couldn't exactly do it without me. I figured I had them over a barrel.”

“I suppose you did.”

“Even got a written contract. Did you?”

George nodded.

“Well, good. But I'll bet they don't have to pay you if you get sick. I insisted on that clause. The old ticker isn't what it used to be.” He tapped his heart. “Not that I'll
get
sick. Valentine Zolotow never disappoints his audience.”

“I remember that.” What George actually remembered was a young man with immense talent, but terrible work habits. Valentine rarely ever made it to appointments on time. When he did show up, he often railed at the text and cursed the writers. Yet to be fair, much of the show's success depended on Zolotow's perfectionism. If the camera is said to love certain actors, the microphone positively adored Valentine Zolotow. He was a master of pitch, accent, rhythm, and character. Radio suited him down to the ground. Yet like so many other radio stars, Zolotow's leading-man voice was packed into an unattractive, Ichabod Crane body.