Murder in the Air (25 page)

“What?” His news stopped her. She turned to face him. “Where?”

“About half a mile from the River Bend Casino. He's dead.”

She searched his face for an explanation. “How … why?”

“I don't know. But we're about to find out. Come on. They're waiting for us.”

She continued to scrutinize his face. “Have you told your mother?”

He nodded. “And several people who were standing next to her when I gave her the news. It's not a secret, Dorothy. She wants us both to go downstairs and talk to the cops right away. She doesn't feel up to it herself.”

Dorothy turned to Sophie. “Will you do me a favor? Tell everyone that as soon as we're done speaking with the police, we'll be back up to explain what we've learned.”

“Sure,” said Sophie.

Dorothy smiled gratefully. The smile evaporated as she followed Alfred down the hall and out the front door.

For the next half hour Sophie drifted from conversation to conversation. The news of Zolotow's death had spread
through the crowd like fire in a tinder-dry forest. Everyone had a different opinion about what had happened.

Around eleven, feeling the need for a respite from the endless speculation, Sophie sat down in a quiet corner next to Mitzi Quinn. Mitzi seemed to be the only one present not interested in talking nonstop about Valentine's untimely demise. Instead, she sat silently near the window, sipping her champagne and gazing down at the St. Paul skyline.

“What an evening,” said Sophie, discreetly kicking off one of her red satin shoes. It had been pinching her toes all evening.

Mitzi nodded somewhat formally, but offered no comment of her own.

“I wonder how long Dorothy and Alfred will be talking to the police?”

She gave an indifferent shrug. “It doesn't matter. We all know how he died.”

“We do?”

Mitzi nodded to the front door. Alfred had just entered the room, looking suitably grim. “Here comes the announcement.”

Holding his hands up for silence, Alfred moved through the crowd to where his mother was sitting. “Fm afraid I have some bad news,” he began, waiting until everyone had quieted down before continuing. “It seems Valentine Zolotow has been dead since sometime last week. His body was found earlier today in the woods near the River Bend Casino. He had a bruise on the back of his head, but death was due to exposure. An autopsy will be performed tomorrow. Right now the best guess is, he was hit over the head and left to die in the freezing cold.”

“It was murder?” came an incredulous voice from the crowd.

Alfred put his hand on his mother's shoulder and nodded gravely.

“He's here,” whispered Mitzi. She let her glass slide to the floor and then lurched uncertainly to her feet.

“Pardon me?” said Sophie, standing to help steady her. She was afraid she might fall over.

“I said
he's here”
Her words were slurred, but she said them more boldly this time. Several people turned to stare.

“Who's here?” asked Sophie. She had no idea what the woman was talking about.

“He
is,” she insisted. Weaving into the crowd, she said, “Are you all blind? Am I the only one around here who can see what's happening?”

“Please,” called Heda Bloom. “Someone help her into my bedroom. She's… upset. She needs to lie down.”

“I'm fine,” said Mitzi indignantly. She pushed her way toward the door. “This is a nightmare,” she mumbled. “Mv nightmare.”

“Help her,” said Heda, a frightened look on her face. She motioned to the bodyguard. “See that she gets to her room safely.”

“Leave me alone,” said Mitzi, shaking off the man's hands. “I can take care of myself.” With that, she stumbled out the door, leaving everyone inside, including Sophie, to wonder what she'd been talking about.

April 21, 1959

My dearest Justin:

I'm afraid I have some disturbing news to pass on to you today about Kay's roommate Sally Nash. Last week, Sally's body was found at the edge of a cornfield about forty miles north of the city. The man who owned the land was out looking at his fields when he discovered the body under a pile of wet leaves. Since it's been a late spring, the snows are just now starting to recede. Ididn't notify you right away because
I wanted to see what the medical examiner would say about the death. This morning, the story was in both papers. It appears that she died from a gunshot to her head. Her body was dumped in the field sometime last winter. The article said she d been dead close to four months, so that would put the date near the first of the year, right around the time Kay died. I don't believe in coincidences, son. In my mind, and in many others, there has to be a connection between the two.

As I expected, Kay's and Sally's deaths were linked in the newspaper stories, though the articles stopped short of saying you'd murdered them both. I guess I should be grateful for small favors. The police are investigating the matter. There's still no word about Jonnie Apfenford. If I were her mother, I'm afraid I'dfear the worst.

Justin, do you know anything about this? You must tell me the truth! You say these past few months have seemed like a bad dream to you, but you must understand, they seem that way to me, too
—
a dream that never seems to end. When I wake in the morning, I wonder what new horror awaits me. I know Cedric feels the same way, though he refuses to talk about your disappearance any longer. He read the papers today and then left for the station without saying so much as a word, not even goodbye. He wants to believe in you, but every day it gets harder and harder. His health is deteriorating because of the strain. This town has convicted you of one murder, and now with the discovery of Sally's body, your name will be smeared all over again. My son has been taken from me and my husband is withdrawing into silence and sickness. And what's perhaps worst of all is that here I am, going on and on about me and mine when two innocent young women have been murdered! Their lives have ended, Justin. What am I to think?

For months I've been desperate to have you come home, to see your face again, hold you in my arms. Now I realize that's impossible. All I can hope for is clarity. Write to me soon, son. Finish your story.

Love, Mom

21

“Damn it, you can't ignore me forever! Open this door!” When Bud got no response, he pounded harder. “I've had it, Greveen. You don't return calls, you won't even answer your goddamned phone. Who the hell do you think you are?” He knew he was losing control, but didn't care. He'd come to the end of his rope. With one mighty shove, he tried to smash the door down, but it stood solid.

“Hey, knock it off,” said a voice from the other end of the hall.

Bud looked over his shoulder and saw a middle-aged man in his drooping pajamas standing in one of the far doorways.

“It's after midnight, asshole. If you want to get tight and have a fight with your wife, do it somewhere else.”

“Shut up,” snarled Bud. He resumed his pounding.

Across from him, another door cracked open. “We're going to call hotel security if you don't stop.” It was an elderly woman's voice this time.

“You can call the National Guard for all I care.” He gave the door a loud whack with his foot. “Come on, Greveen. You can't pump slander like that over the airwaves and not expect me to react. I'll sue your ass for every dime it's worth. You picked the wrong guy to mess with.”

Both doors shut with a bang.

Earlier tonight, Bud had switched the radio broadcast on before getting into the tub to relax with a glass of Scotch. By the time the program was over, he was fully dressed and speeding toward the Maxfield in his Mercedes. He didn't
even see the jerk who slammed into the side of his car. Recalling it now, it was a blur. He wasn't hurt, but the police had arrived on the scene and asked a lot of inane questions. When he was done with them, he had to call a towing service to get his car out of the intersection, and then he'd spent the next two hours on the phone with his agent, trying to get all the particulars of his insurance straightened out. Finally, he'd taken a cab to a rental-car company and driven away— after another hour of haggling—in some crappy piece of tin that passed these days for a luxury sedan.

His hand was beginning to throb from all the pounding. Standing back, he looked both ways down the long hallway. He'd been on automatic since the broadcast earlier in the evening. Everything he'd done had one purpose: to get himself to the Maxfield and confront Wish Greveen. Now that his efforts had been thwarted, he wasn't sure what to do. Obviously, the weasel behind the door wasn't about to show his cowardly face. Bud would have to smoke him out, but that would take a plan, and right now he didn't have one.

“I'll be back, Greveen,” he called, giving the door one last whack. As he stepped resolutely over to the elevators it occurred to him that he didn't have a clue what the hell he felt so damn resolute about. He needed to do some serious thinking. And for that, he needed a drink.

Once downstairs, he headed straight for the bar. He'd always liked Scottie's. It was suitably dark and smoky, and with all the signed photos of long-dead actors and actresses who'd visited the place scattered here and there on the walls, it was even a little glamorous, a place where a guy could get his head together in comfort.

Easing onto one of the chrome bar stools, Bud caught the bartender's eye and ordered a double Manhattan on the rocks. As he waited for it to be mixed he glanced down the length of the glass-block counter and noticed a woman sitting alone near the other end. Maybe it was just his mood, but from this far away, she kind of reminded him of Barbara Stanwyck. It was probably the slightly curly bangs and the dark red lipstick. He'd always been partial to Barbara Stanwyck, even in her later
years. Right then and there he decided to put off his contemplation of Wish Greveen's fate, and instead spend a few minutes trying to drum up a little old-fashioned human attraction.

After he was served, he picked up his glass and sauntered to the other end of the room, where he sat down next to her. Since it was late, the bar was pretty empty. He knew some women found the direct approach too predatory. He had other options, of course. For instance, he could have used the bartender to pass along a message.
The man down at the other end would like to buy you a drink.
But Bud was a good judge of character—especially a woman's character. And he had a gut feeling this one would respond more positively if he simply sat down, flashed her a friendly smile, and introduced a subject.

The opening remark was crucial. “I've been coming to this bar since I was in my early twenties.”

The woman looked up from her drink and regarded him somewhat coolly. After several long seconds spent appraising every inch of his face, she said, “You must live in town, then. I'm just visiting.”

Bud was elated. His foot was in the door. “Really? Where are you from?”

She took a drag from her cigarette. “Florida.”

“You in town with your husband?”

“I'm a widow. And I'm here on business.”

He thrust out his hand. “The name's Manderbach. Bud Manderbach.”

“Dorothy Veneger.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She gave him another appraising look, this time checking out his clothes. Picking up her glass, she said, “Seems to me I bought something at a department store with that name.”

His smile broadened. “I'm the owner. Four stores locally, and two in Chicago.”

“Really.” She didn't sound overwhelmed. Tapping some ash onto a cheap glass ashtray, she returned her gaze to the ice in her glass.

“Pardon my saying something so personal, but you look like you've had a rough evening.”

“I have.”

“Care to talk about it? Fma good listener.” The dress she was wearing revealed a slender body, with some nice curves. She wasn't exactly young, but then neither was he. He'd been wrong before, but somehow he had the distinct impression that this particular lady could be much more to him than a one-night stand. He decided to play his cards very carefully. After all, Giselle wasn't as interesting these days as she used to be. He had to think of his future.

Dorothy emptied her drink. “I just spent the last hour at the morgue.”

That shocked him. “Why?”

“A man who works for me was found dead. I had to identify his body.”

“I'm really sorry, Dorothy. How did it happen?”

She stared off into space. “I don't know. A Native American kid found him about thirty yards in from a main road out near the River Bend Casino. It looks like he froze to death. The police think it may be alcohol-related. Maybe he walked away from the casino and didn't really understand how cold it was that night. He might have fallen, hit his head, and before he could wake up, he—” The sentence was left unfinished. Instead, she held up her glass, signaling the bartender for another.

“What was the man's name?” asked Bud, holding himself very still.

“Valentine Zolotow.”

“And … you say this man worked for you?”

She nodded. “You don't have another cigarette, do you?”

“Sorry.”