Murder in the Air (21 page)

“Of course, Mr. Manderbach. If you have questions on any of that correspondence, just let me know.”

Ten minutes later a knock on his door interrupted his reading. Looking up from the stack of papers, he said, “Come in.”

Loretta popped her head inside the door. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but we've got a situation developing on the sixth floor. I think you should take care of it personally.”

“Why?”

“It's your sister, B.B. I'm afraid … she's about to be arrested for shoplifting.”

“What!” He shot out of his chair. “Call store security and tell them to meet me there right away.”

“Of course.”

Was that a smirk he saw on her face? “You think this is funny, Ms. Nallen?”

“No, of course not.”

He gave her a nasty look as he bumped past her.

When the elevator doors finally opened, Bud followed the commotion to the furniture department, where he found B.B. standing in between two beefy policemen, looking fearful and contrite. He knew for a fact that neither emotion came naturally to her. Heavy red lipstick was smeared across one puffy, powdered cheek, while her eye makeup, applied with
all the delicacy of a cement trowel, seemed to be dripping from the edges of her eyes. If she wasn't so overweight, she would have looked like a sad mime, all pathos and silence, dressed all in black—wool coat, tarn, dress, and suede boots. As it was, she just looked dreadful.

“What's going on here?” demanded Bud, pushing past the knot of people gathered to watch his sister's public humiliation.

“Mr. Manderbach,” said the floor manager, stepping forward out of the crowd. He appeared red-faced and nervous. “I just got here myself. It seems … actually, you see, Ms. Fill-more here”—he nodded to a young woman standing behind the cash register—”who is one of the new clerks we just hired for the Christmas rush—well, it appears she witnessed your sister take… I mean, ah,
remove
one of the smaller Swiss clocks from the store display and then hide it under her cloak. She thought, well, I mean, what
could
she think?” He tittered. When he saw that Bud wasn't smiling, his face lost all color. “It's just … somehow we must have failed to inform Ms. Fillmore about Ms. Manderbach's”—he cleared his throat, bent close to Bud, and whispered—”proclivities.”

Bud glared.

“So, you see. Officers,” continued the floor manager. He was beginning to sweat. “There's no problem. This was all a silly mistake.” When neither of the men made a move to go, he added, “We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you, but you can leave now. Please. We can handle it from here.”

The officers exchanged glances.

“Come on now, everyone. The show's over.” The floor manager's attempt at lightness died in his throat. Returning his attention to the policemen, he said, “I mean, how can Ms. Manderbach steal from this department store when she owns it? Anything Ms. Manderbach takes from the floor is automatically covered by Mr. Manderbach's personal account. So you see, nothing is amiss. We can all go about our business.”

“Shut up,” snarled Bud. He'd had enough. This guy was a sniveling mass of incompetence.

Part of the basic instruction for every new Manderbach employee was a warning. On peril of losing their jobs, employees were instructed to look the other way when B.B. took something from the showroom floor—as she had, several times a week, for the last thirty years. B.B. was, very simply, a thief. Shoplifting was part illness, part hobby.

After Bud had bailed her out of jail for the third time back in 1961, he insisted that from then on, she do her shoplifting only at Manderbach's. That way, she wouldn't end up in prison. Thankfully, B.B.'s addled brain was able to grasp the value in the arrangement. This was the first problem they'd had in years. As he watched her now, standing alone, wrapped in her black garb and her sullen pout, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She was his sister and his best friend, but she was damaged. He usually managed to protect her from the outside world. His responsibility to her, indeed his love
for
her, mandated that sort of brotherly protection. And now, thanks to this jerk of a floor manager, he'd failed her. Heads would roll, that was for
damn
sure.

“You're positive everything's all right?” asked one of the officers, resting his hand over his gun.

“We're fine,” said Bud. “We appreciate your time. If you'll pardon me now, I'm going to take my sister home.”

B.B. looked up at him with grateful eyes.

“Sure thing, Mr. Manderbach,” said the other policeman.

“Say, just for your trouble, go get yourselves a cup of Java and a slice of cake at the coffee bar downstairs. It's on the house.”

The officers tipped their caps and left.

As Bud took hold of his sister's arm, ready to lead her to the elevators, he whispered to the floor manager, “Sack Fillmore. Immediately.”

He swallowed hard. “Of course, Mr. Manderbach. Whatever you say.”

“By the way, what's your name?”

“Me? I'm Ted. Ted Anderson.”

“Well, Mr. Anderson, for the record, as soon as Ms. Fillmore
is out of here and you've found a suitable replacement, you can leave. Take the rest of the day off.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You've earned it.”

“Why … thanks, Mr. Manderbach. That's really kind of you.”

“No problem. Oh, and Ted, don't bother coming in tomorrow. Your services are no longer required.”

The man's mouth dropped open.

Bud left him standing in the aisle, stunned and shaken. Under the circumstances, it was the least he could do.

Bud drove B.B.'s Cadillac home. He left his own car parked in the department-store ramp, thinking that he'd come back downtown later in the evening to get it. It was a short drive to the house on Summit Avenue. B.B. sat silently in the front seat, solemnly contemplating the growing dusk. Bud could tell she was upset. He wished that she'd talk about her feelings now instead of waiting until the middle of the night when her depressions were the worst. His sister often crept into his room to talk out her troubles. None of his four wives had welcomed these nocturnal visitations, though Bud could hardly turn her away.

“Maybe we should break out the Christmas ornaments and buy a tree.” He hoped the idea would cheer her up. As he glanced at her, trying to gauge her response, he saw that amid the smear of her lipstick, the corners of her mouth had turned down. A single tear had escaped her left eye, rolling slowly over the rouge and the white powder. Up this close, B.B. looked like an embittered clown. A caricature. They were both caricatures, really. The clown and the aging pretty boy. Without the family largesse, they would have been a sorry pair. It was only the patina of wealth that kept the wolves at bay.

“Could we find a Norway pine?” mumbled B.B., sniffling into an Irish linen handkerchief.

“What?” The sound of her voice pulled him back from his reverie.

“You said we should get a tree. You know I only like Norway pines.”

“Oh, sure. Whatever you want.”

“Could we get it now?”

God, why had he suggested it? The thought of trimming a Christmas tree gave him a pain in the you-know-what. “I suppose.”

“You don't sound very eager.”

“It's been a bad day.”

“In other words, I humiliated you.”

“No, B.B., that's not what I meant.”

She removed her tarn and placed it in her lap. Keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead, she continued, “Why didn't you tell me you were going out last night?”

He waited a moment before answering. “How do you know I went out?”

“I came to your room. It was the middle of the night. You weren't there. You weren't anywhere. I even went out to look for you in the cook's cottage.”

“You know you're not supposed to go out there.” He was angry now. The cook's cottage, a small servants' residence behind the main house, was the only private spot he had in the world, the only place where he would brook no visitors, no interruptions to his solitude. A few years back he'd even removed the phone. Oh, every once in a while he'd take one of his girlfriends out there for a romantic evening, but whoever came inside did so by invitation only. B.B. wasn't allowed. Nor were the cats. The cook's cottage had been his retreat and his sanctuary ever since the last full-time servant had been let go, sometime during his first marriage. Bud still employed a cook and a housekeeper, but they didn't live in.

“You didn't answer my question,” said B.B., twisting the tarn around in her hand.

“I got a call from Giselle. I spent the night at her place.”

“But why didn't you let me know?”

“What do I always tell you, B.B.? We're both adults. My comings and goings are no one's business but my own.”

“But … I worry. Why don't you ever bring your girlfriends back to the house anymore?”

“Because you spy on us through the keyhole.”

“I do not.”

He put on his right-turn signal and turned the corner onto Summit Avenue, then looked over at his sister with an amused smile. “You haven't changed since you were ten years old.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

He laughed out loud. As he was about to flip on the radio, he saw her take a small clock out from under her cloak and begin to examine it. “We've switched to clocks now, have we?”

“Don't be patronizing.”

“What happens to your lamp collection now that your interests are elsewhere?”

“I've moved it all to the basement.”

He groaned.

“Don't worry. It's perfectly organized.”

“Of that I have little doubt.”

“I ordered a subscription to
Antique Clock Digest
a while back. Timepieces are so fascinating, Buddy. I'll read some of my articles to you when we get home.”

Oh, goody, he thought to himself. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind not to say the words out loud.

“Turn left up there.” She pointed to the next stoplight.

“Why?”

“There's a Christmas-tree lot near Grand and Selby. I'm sure we can find something nice. Now, let's see. I wonder where I packed all the ornaments. Won't Mom and Dad be surprised when they walk in tonight and see a tree.”

Sometimes B.B. got mixed up. Most of the time Bud just let it go. After all, at her age, what would be the point in sending her to a lot of doctors and therapists. She wasn't hurting anyone. And if she did occasionally forget what year it was, or who was alive and who was dead, what was the harm? Her consciousness, like her collecting instinct, was eclectic.

Bud felt B.B. lay her hand gently over his.

“I love you, Buddy. You're a dear brother. I'd do just about anything for you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, touched by her sweetness. “Very much. You're all the family I've got left.” He felt tears well up behind his eyes.

“Merry Christmas.” She smiled, holding the clock up to the fading light. “I think I'll put this under the tree when we get home.”

April 18, 1959

Dear Mother:

Hope you got yesterday's letter. I didn't mean to frighten you, but you've got to be careful Stay away from strangers. And let me know right away if you see that goon again.

Your letter of last week gave me a lot to think about. I was sorry to hear that Mitzi left town. I know she was hoping to make it big in radio.
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
was going to be her big break. I hope this cancellation hasn't wrecked her chances. In a way, I guess it's better that she left. The Twin Cities probably hold too many bad memories for her now. She's young. She should make a fresh start somewhere else.

I'm also glad to know that you've stored my belongings
—
that they weren't tossed out on the street. It just feels good to know that part of what was once my life still exists somewhere. I don't know when or if I'll ever return to the States, but it's just good to know my things are safe. I don't really think there's anything in my papers that would require special treatment, but since you have them at the house, they might as well stay there.

I've thought about my response to your letter and the only way I believe I can answer your questions is to go on with my story. That's exactly what I intend to do today.

After the night when I came clean and told Kay everything, we spent the next few days brainstorming, trying to come up with the best plan of action. As I said, Kay wanted to help me in my efforts to find out who was behind the Landauer hit-and-run, and offered to talk to Sally. You have to understand, Mom. Kay is
—
was
—
a very honest person. She thought the truth would be the most effective. She wanted to appeal to Sally's better self tell her about the note I'd received, everything.

Of course, Sally already knew I worked as a reporter on the St. Paul paper, but since she never read newspapers, she didn't know I'd covered the Landauer case. The problem was, I felt that if Kay talked to her openly, bluntly, that Sally would get spooked and clam up. She was being paid well for her silence. She might even fear that her silence made her an accomplice in the whole mess. And frankly, in the light of what I already knew about Sally, I wasn't sure there was a “better self” to be appealed to. Still, Sally's cooperation was crucial. This boyfriend of hers wasn't going to incriminate himself While somewhere down the line there might be some independent evidence that might establish his guilt, an eyewitness was the best means to put him behind bars. And, if I wasn't badly mistaken, Sally was that witness.

Kay and I dithered about it for days. Finally, J hit on an idea that I thought would work. I told her to make Sally swear to keep a secret, and then confide in her, woman-to-woman, that she, Kay, was attracted to a married man, someone she'd met recently. Sally knew that Kay and I were serious about each other, but she had a roving eye herself. She could easily understand an illicit sexual attraction. I thought that maybe the confession would get Sally to open up about the guy she'd been dating in July and August. Kay's theory, if you recall, was that this man
was married, and even if he wasn't, that kind of admission on Kay's part might lead to greater trust, and eventually, greater confidences. At least I felt it was worth a try.