Murder in the Air (2 page)

“You can't be serious.”

“Completely.”

She hadn't taken his agitation seriously before, but she certainly did now. “Bram, you have a contract.”

“Contracts were made to be broken.” He rose and walked to the window overlooking the garden area between the two towers, where mounds of snow now covered the ground. As he pressed his hand to the cold glass, Sophie moved up behind him, rested her head against his back, and slipped her arms gently around his waist.

“They've already put up the Christmas lights in the garden,” he said, unable to keep the melancholy out of his voice.

“Every year. Right after Thanksgiving. It's tradition at the Maxfleld.”

He was quiet for several seconds. “They look … pretty.”

“Everything's going to be all right, sweetheart. She won't fire you. Your ratings are the highest in the Twin Cities.”

“You can't argue with a pink slip.”

“But you don't know for sure that's what the meeting's about. She never said anything to me about letting you go.”

He turned around. “I have to prepare myself for the worst,

Soph. New owners like to bring in new talent. The problem is, I'm not fit to do anything else. And, since you run this hotel now, it's not as if we can move to another city so that I can pursue my career elsewhere.”

That stung. In the eight years they'd been married, career conflict had never been an issue before. True, Sophie loved running the Maxfield—every bit as much as Bram loved his job. In September, she'd inherited the hotel from her parents. Henry and Pearl Tahtinen had announced their retirement at a birthday celebration, passed the reins—and the ownership—of the hotel on to Sophie the next day, and then immediately took off for Finland. Eager to leave a job that no longer held her interest, Sophie tendered her resignation at an arts magazine and, in early November, began her new career in the hospitality business.

“I wonder if I could learn to sell aluminum siding?” said Bram listlessly, his chin sinking to his chest.

Sometimes he was
such
a drama queen, thought Sophie. “Surely Heda Bloom wouldn't buy a station and then institute some hideous shake-up. She's a professional, sweetheart. She owns many other radio stations around the country.” Then again, what did Sophie know about the radio biz? ““If I don't get going I'll be late.”

“Will you come back as soon as you're done?”

“Sure.” He said the word a little too quickly.

The tension surrounding him unsettled her. She couldn't remember when he'd ever been this upset. After helping him on with his coat, she straightened his tie and then took hold of his lapels, drawing him close. “You're not going to be fired, sweetheart. Trust me. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

“Right.”

“You'll probably come back with a big fat raise.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Hold that thought.” Squaring his shoulders like a man readying himself for battle, he walked to the door and, with a less-than-enthusiastic wave, left without a backward glance.

2

Bram sat morosely next to the conference-room door, glaring at one of the morning producers who seemed completely unaffected by the tension in the air. Between loud slurps from his can of Coke, the man stuffed a turkey sandwich into his mouth. Bram found the man's appetite both difficult to fathom and obnoxious since his own stomach was doing flip-flops.

At exactly five
P.M
., a small, white-haired woman entered the room and, with the help of two silver-handled canes, took a seat at the head of the table. Bram wasn't surprised by Heda Bloom's advanced age. One of the assembled crowd had already mentioned that she was well into her eighties. She was still a handsome woman, with high, sculpted cheekbones and bright blue-green eyes. Bram assumed that in her youth she must have been a real knockout.

Placing a briefcase on the table in front of her, she turned her attention to her new employees. “I'm delighted so many of you could come.” There was no trace of age in her firm, clear voice. She folded somewhat arthritic-looking hands on the tabletop and looked down at them with an expression Bram could only read as resignation. Unhappy resignation.

Here it comes, he thought. The pink slips have already been signed, sealed, and are about to be delivered. He steeled himself for the worst.

As Heda looked up, a forced smile replaced the sadness. “By now,” she said, somewhat haltingly, “you all know that I've recently become the new owner of WTWN. My
assistant, Dorothy Veneger, will assume the role of interim general manager until a new general manager can be hired. That, by the way, is the only staff change I plan to make.”

The silence lasted for a few seconds as everyone digested the information. Finally, a woman near the back began to clap. The rest of the crowd followed with a burst of relieved cheers and applause.

Heda's smile broadened. She seemed pleased with the response. Her face lost some of its strain as she drew a file folder from the leather briefcase. “I bought this station because it was a good investment. I applaud you all on your consistently top ratings. My philosophy has always been a simple one: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.”

Bram eased back in his chair and tugged his French cuffs out from underneath his herringbone jacket. He'd dodged a bullet, that was for damn sure. Even so, he wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation. He'd been in radio for over twenty years and during that time he'd seen many stations change hands. Most often, personnel changes followed soon after, no matter how hard management tried to put everyone's mind at rest.

Sitting quietly, he listened as a barrage of questions was directed toward Heda.

“What about your son Alfred?” asked one of the production assistants. “We'd heard he might be our new boss.”

“Alfred is holding down the fort in Palm Beach. That's where our general offices are located.”

She seemed so lively and enthusiastic now, Bram couldn't imagine what that initial look of resignation had been about. Had he projected his own anxiety onto her? Sophie often said he didn't translate other people's emotions all that well. Well, blast. Intuitive genius or not, he'd bet an entire pitcher of martinis that she was worried about something—and that something had to do with the station. She'd come here specifically to make everyone feel at ease with the transition, and yet she obviously wasn't.

“There is one new programming addition I'd like to discuss with you,” continued Heda. Mustering up another strained
smile, she said, “You people are the first to hear this bit of good news and I hope you'll be as excited as I am. The fact is, we're about to make radio history. WTWN is going to bring back the half-hour serial on commercial radio.” She waited, allowing the import of her statement to sink in. “I'm fairly confident that there's still life in that dramatic format. I've been looking for just the right venue in which to test my theory, and I feel this market is just about perfect.”

“A radio serial?” repeated Bram's producer, Mary Landis. “You mean, like …
The Shadow!”

“I mean specifically,” said Heda Bloom, “the program my late husband created for WPXL.
Dallas Lane, Private Eye.”

“Hey, I remember that,” said Dorie Hennessy. Dorie's confident, deep tones had been the voice of WTWN local news for almost thirty years. He was a true radio buff, probably knew everything there was to know about the old-time serials. “I used to listen to that when I was in college. It was never syndicated, was it? Just a local Twin Cities show?”

“That's right,” said Heda. “As a matter of fact, I've even convinced three people from the original production to do the first six episodes. Valentine Zolotow, the voice of Dallas Lane, and Mitzi Quinn, the voice of Dallas's girlfriend, Lucy DuFour, are landing at the airport even as we speak. So is George Chambers, the man my husband considered the best live-sound-effects technician in the business.”

Bram sat up straight in his chair. “Pardon me, but you're not suggesting this broadcast will be live, are you?”

With a twinkle in her eye, Heda said, “Live radio is always the best. You of all people should know that.”

“Well, sure, I agree, but—”

“I want you to be the announcer for the new show, Bram. It will be broadcast from this very studio every Sunday evening from six-thirty to seven
P.M
.”

“But… what about my sports talk hour?” demanded Larry Blodnik in his trademark whiny, nasal, heavily supercilious voice. He was an airline executive who moonlighted as a talk-show host. An angry vein throbbed in his thick
neck. “May I remind you we're in the midst of football season. The Vikes are six and three.”

“As of next Sunday, your show will be cut to one half hour. There's too much emphasis on sports in this country already, Larry, don't you agree? The arts deserve far more attention.” She looked innocently around the room for support.

Bram couldn't help but laugh. The lady had balls. Anybody who'd challenge even a small part of America's sports monolith was okay by him. He glanced over at Larry, who looked as if he was about to chew off the end of his tie. Too bad, thought Bram acidly. Perhaps with his time off, old Larry could get some professional voice training so that he wouldn't sound so much like a rusty door hinge every time he opened his mouth. His opinions, on the other hand, weren't so easily fixed. As far as Bram knew, there was no professional remedy for arrogance.

“We begin work on the first episode bright and early tomorrow morning,” continued Heda. “Bram, I'd like you to be here at nine
A.M
sharp. George, Valentine, and Mitzi will also be here. The timing needs to be worked out as soon as possible. We have the half-hour newsbreak to think about, as well as commercials.”

Since Bram's talk show had been switched to afternoon, his mornings were usually spent in bed reading the local newspapers,
The New York Times,
and the
Chicago Tribune.
Living in a four-star hotel was a terrific arrangement as far as he was concerned. Not only had he escaped the drudgery of mowing grass and shoveling snow, but he never had any handyman chores waiting to destroy his weekends. Even better, he had room service available to him at any given hour of the day or night. The idea of spending a Saturday morning in Heda's office didn't exactly appeal, though he had to admit he was intrigued by her desire to bring back the radio mystery. “Do you already have the story?” he asked.

“Not to worry,” said Heda. “I've got some heavy talent working on that one. We'll have the first half-hour script in front of us by tomorrow morning.”

“May I ask who will be producing this new show?” Bram
knew that no one currently employed at the radio station had any experience with radio drama.

“My assistant, Dorothy Veneger, will,” said Heda. “You'll all get a chance to meet her tomorrow.”

Heda cut off any further questions by pushing abruptly away from the table. Standing with the help of her canes, she said, “Let me just say by way of parting that I look forward to working with all of you. And although I'll miss my home in Florida, I intend to remain in the Twin Cities, living at the Max field Plaza, for the next six weeks.” Glancing from face to face with a warm, exuberant smile, she added, “It's my fondest hope that our new association will be a profitable one for each and every one of us. And now I bid you all a good evening.”

Since Bram was seated right next to the door, he was the only one able to see her face as she walked out of the room. Consequently, he was the only witness to a curious transformation. As soon as the elderly woman's back was turned to the crowd, her cheerful enthusiasm evaporated. In its place, Bram now saw an entirely different Heda Bloom. This one looked tired, drawn, and much to his surprise, even a little frightened.

December 29, 1958

Dear Mother:

Sorry it's taken me so long to write. I've spent the last four days traveling
—
running as fast and as far as I could on the money I was given. Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my grip on reality. I feel as if I'm being watched constantly. This morning I was at a train station just outside London. I'm pretty sure two men were following me.

I lost them by ducking into an alley, but then I'm almost positive I saw them again in a cafe near my hotel. I couldn't go back there, I knew that much. So I'm sitting on a park bench right now, wondering what to do next
—
until my boat leaves, that is. I'll be in Amsterdam tomorrow night. After that, I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. My life has taken on the quality of a dream. Nothing seems real, nothing, that is, except the growing fear that III be caught and brought back to stand trial. As traveling companions go, terror is a hell of a mate. But I have my freedom. For now, until I get my bearings, until I figure out what to do next, that has to be enough.

I took a chance sending you that first letter, Mom, but I can't do it anymore. I'm afraid my whereabouts could be traced if your mail is being watched. That's why this letter's been forwarded to you
—
under a different cover
—
from a friend in New York. Do you remember him? I brought him home with me for Christmas several times. Once, we got drunk at a bar downtown, and when we got back to the house, he threw up in the clothes hamper. To make up for it, he bought you that beautiful green scarf, the one you always wear with your cashmere coat. I realize that by not giving you his name, I sound completely paranoid. Perhaps my precautions aren't necessary, but for now you'll have to bear with me.