Murder in the Air (44 page)

33

Dorothy hid behind a pillar near the front of the church as Bud Manderbach entered through the vestibule. She watched in silence as he proceeded cautiously into the
sanctuary, his agitation apparent from the nervous, furtive way his eyes jumped around the room. When she was certain he was alone, she moved out from the shadows and hurried down the aisle toward him. Holding a finger to her lips, she pushed him into one of the pews.

“Shhh,” she said. She waited, listening to the stillness. “Are you sure you weren't followed?”

“Positive.” He matched her whisper.

She sat for a moment, her eyes drifting through the empty interior. Thick white tapers in tall wrought-iron candle holders burned all around them. The flames danced and flickered, making the darkness seem alive with shadows.

“I can't wait any longer,” said Bud. “Tell me what you know!”

She nodded, moving closer. “Just like I said to you on the phone, Wish Greveen isn't dead. I saw him.”

He looked around suspiciously. “Are you sure no one can eavesdrop on our conversation?”

“There's no one in the church but us. Even the minister is gone tonight.”

“How did you manage that?”

“It's a long story. Do you want to hear about the minister, or Greveen?”

“Greveen, of course. Where did you see him? And when?”

“Last night. I was walking back to the hotel after dinner. It was dark, but I was sure it was him.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes, thank God. He was on the other side of the street. Look, Bud, everyone thinks you murdered him. It's not fair. I couldn't just let him get away.”

“Good girl,” he said eagerly. “Then what?”

“Well, he entered the lobby of a hotel. The Ardmore, I think. By the time I got inside, he was standing at the reception desk talking to a clerk. They only spoke for a few seconds. The clerk handed him a piece of paper, he read it, and then he got on an elevator. Once the doors were closed and I
knew he was on his way upstairs, I walked up to the clerk, made some lame excuse about thinking I knew the man with the wavy white hair, and asked what his name was. She very curtly replied that the hotel didn't give out that sort of information. After I slipped her a fifty, she had a sudden change of heart. His name was Tony Clifton. I asked how long he'd been a guest. She said a couple of weeks. His room number was 357.”

“We've got him!” Bud cackled, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“But… which is his real name?” asked Dorothy.

“Neither. “ Again, Bud lowered his voice. “That man is none other than Justin Bloom.”

She stared at him blankly. “But… he's dead.”

“I wish he were.”

Dorothy took off her gloves, laid them in her lap, and then rested an elbow on the pew. “You can't just let him get away.”

“I have to think this through very carefully. Very carefully indeed. But you did the right thing when you called. I'll never forget your … say—” His eyes dropped to the ring on her left hand. “Where did you get that?”

“What? The ring? My mother gave it to me.”

“Your mother?” His eyes rose to hers. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

Dorothy's voice dropped an octave. “What do you think, Bud? Take a wild guess.”

A door slammed. Bud twisted around and looked back toward the vestibule just in time to see Wish Greveen walk slowly into the sanctuary. In his right hand, he held a gun.

“Greveen!” said Bud, jumping to his feet.

“Sit down!” ordered Dorothy in her new, deeper register. “We're going to have a little talk, you and me.”

Bud was dumbstruck. His mouth dropped open.

“Oh, and for future reference, that man back there is a longtime friend. He helped me funnel letters to my mother
when I couldn't use the U.S. mail. I spent a good part of my life abroad, you know.”

Bud was so stunned, his expression didn't change for almost a minute. Finally, shutting his mouth, he sat back down. This time, he made sure there was plenty of space between them. “I don't believe … this.”

“That I'm Justin Bloom? Better get used to it.”

“But… I thought—”

“That my friend was Justin?” Dorothy shrugged. “Must be a case of mistaken identity.”

Bud swallowed hard. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, first I think I'll remove these earrings. I never could get used to them. Women lead very uncomfortable lives, Bud. Did you know that? Most men don't.”

Bud sat transfixed as he watched them come off. “This is impossible.” His eyes returned to the ring. After a few seconds a look of revulsion passed over his face. “But I … we … kissed.”

“Yeah, but then you know what they say. You gotta kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince. By the way, you were definitely one of the frogs. You can't kiss for shit.”

Bud seemed dazed. “Are you … gay?”

“Me? No. Are you?”

“No!” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat forming on his forehead. “God … that's disgusting. How could you … we—”

“Come on, Bud. It was only twice. And it's the Nineties. What's a kiss or two between pals. Besides, self-preservation causes a man to do a lot of strange things—as I'm sure you'd agree. Actually, I've been impersonating a woman for so long now, it almost feels natural. Let's see.” He tapped his chin in thought. “It first started in 1962 when my mother came to Rome for a visit. We hadn't seen each other since I left the States. I knew she'd be watched carefully, either by government authorities or by one of your hirelings. Every man she met would be scrutinized. So, thinking it was my only chance to meet with her openly, to squire her around the city I'd come to love, I became a woman. Amazingly enough,
it worked. After a while I became the old friend she always stayed with. I learned my craft well, don't you agree? Did you ever see the movie
Tootsie?”

“What? No. Of course not. What's that got to do with anything?”

“You should rent it sometime. You might learn a few modern attitudes. For instance, don't call women girls. You're liable to get hit with an ashtray. I had to resist the urge several times myself.” He opened his purse and tossed his earrings inside. “But… to get back to my story. When I returned to the States in 1987, I lived for a while in Connecticut. It didn't suit me. I wanted to be closer to my mother. After all, thanks to you, she was the only family I had left, and human attachment is still occasionally important to me. So, once again, I donned my disguise. Dorothy is as far removed from Justin Bloom as I could get. In a way, I found it oddly relaxing. From the moment I became my mother's assistant, I insisted she think of me as Dorothy, that she
call
me Dorothy, and that together, we never drop the act, not even in private. That was crucial. My life depended on how successfully we both could maintain the lie.”

“This is repellent. Disgusting. I suppose now you're going to pull off the wig and show me what you really look like.”

Justin yanked at his hair. “Sorry. It doesn't come off. I think I make a rather attractive older woman, don't you? I believe you called me lovely, so I assume you agree—unless you were lying.” His expression turned wistful. “Actually, I've always liked the name Dorothy, ever since I saw
The Wizard of Oz
when I was a kid. Think about it for a second, Bud. It's the story of a young woman whose life is turned upside down when she finds herself lost in a faraway land. Oh, she eventually makes new friends, but it's not the same as home.”

Bud glared.

Justin shut his eyes. Clicking his heels together, he repeated the words, “There's no place like home. There's no place like home.” Opening them, he grinned. “I guess it works, because … here I am.”

From the confused look on Bud's face, Justin could tell he didn't know whether to react angrily or cautiously. Caution eventually got the better of him. “Get to the point.”

His grin evaporated. “All right, but first, let's go back to the movie. Dorothy finally wakes up and discovers that her sojourn in Oz was all a Technicolor dream. In my case, it was more of a noir nightmare—one I'll never wake up from.”

“Why do you keep making all these movie references? You're not making any sense!”

“Oh, didn't I tell you? I owned a movie house in Rome for many years. I had to make a living somehow. And, actually, it suited me—or what was left of me. I developed quite a fondness for foreign films, although I still like the Hollywood classics the best. But come on now, Bud, you're getting me off the subject. You of all people should see the irony in choosing the name Dorothy. If I recall correctly, you like irony.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Again, he mopped his forehead.

“I've had a lot of time to think. I assume you have, too. I used to be a very earnest young man, always in a hurry, but I'm far more patient now. Age has taught me a great deal. I've learned to take my time and get it right. I laugh a lot more, too.”

“Spare me your insights on aging.”

Justin glanced at his ring, twisting it on his finger. “You're right, I'm circling the point. But you have to understand, I've rehearsed this conversation in my mind millions of times. This is the denouement, Bud. The final scene. We can't just rush through it.” Giving him a long, measuring look, he continued, “I'm going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer.”

Bud's eyes shot around the room. “You're taping this, right?”

“Taping it? Why would I do that?”

“I'm not stupid. I see what you're doing. You get me to
say something incriminating, and then you hand the tape over to the police.”

Justin laughed. “I don't trust the legal system in this country, Bud. Do you? If I taped your confession, I'd have no guarantee that justice would be done.
I'm
the one who's in charge of your fate now. Not the police. Not the courts. Not God or the devil. Just
me!”

He spoke the last word with such force that it echoed through the empty sanctuary.

“Now,” he continued, returning to his more reasoned tones, “here's the question. The night you had Kay killed, why didn't you kill me, too? You could have. You probably wanted to. What stopped your hired thug from turning the gun on me?” Seeing a look of intransigence on Bud's face, he added, “The fact is, you won't leave this church alive unless you give me an answer.”

“You
are
going to kill me!”

“Answer me!” Justin lunged at him. grabbed him by the lapels, and slammed him back against the pew. “That question has eaten away at me for years. Why did you let me go?
I should be dead, too!”

Bud turned his head away, holding up his arms to ward off a blow. “You were no good to me dead. I needed you alive— but discredited. What better way than to make it look like you'd killed your girlfriend after a lovers' quarrel.”

“How did you get the gun?”

“I paid Zolotow to steal it from your father's office. You obligingly covered it with your fingerprints. You even left your bloody clothes at your apartment for the police to find. But the worst thing you did was to get on that plane. It was the act of a guilty man. I never thought you'd take the bait, but you did! You took it and you ran like the coward you are.” He ducked his head, expecting a blow.

“And
why
did you need to discredit me?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me!”

Bud lowered his arms, but only slightly. “I couldn't be sure you hadn't made copies of the photos—that other
people didn't know the truth about the hit-and-run. Since you were the man leading the attack, if I destroyed your reputation, I also destroyed your credibility. Then, if somewhere along the line, the photos surfaced, I would simply say that Kay and I had been dating, and that she planned to dump you and marry me. You were jealous. You took out your anger by trumping up some wild story about my involvement in the Landauer hit-and-run. By smearing my name, you hoped Kay would change her mind. When you saw she wasn't buying it, you killed her in a jealous rage. Don't you get it? Once people thought you'd murdered Kay and then skipped the country, they'd dismiss the hit-and-run charge as a vendetta, as a jilted lover's sick revenge.”

Justin let him go, but he couldn't just sit back down—not now. They were finally getting somewhere. Stepping into the aisle, he said, “But there's more, isn't there? You had another reason for wanting me alive.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

He nodded to the man in the back.

Bud whirled around at the sound of a metallic tick. His eyes opened wide when he realized it was a hammer cocking.

“Figure it out, Bud. You've got ten seconds to come up with an answer.”

Again, he wiped his face. “Well, sure. I saw the irony. It even appealed to me. You planned to send me to jail, to take away my freedom, so I took away yours. There are many different kinds of prisons. I wanted you to be alive so you could reflect on yours—on what you'd lost.”

“It was your loss, too.”

He shook his head. “No, Kay meant nothing to me. For a short time I thought I loved her. She was … unique. But I saw through the act eventually. She betrayed my love, just like every other woman has. I could read the writing on the wall. I wasn't pure enough for her. Not worthy enough. But Justin was. Justin Bloom, the great journalist, the mighty righter of wrongs. She met with you that night so she could give you the photos. She had them in her purse. What more
proof did I need? The idea that the two of you would marry and live happily ever after, while I rotted in jail—it was impossible! Repulsive! Unthinkable!”