Murder in the Air (31 page)

“We'd like a table by the windows,” said Mitzi Quinn, smiling pleasantly at the hostess. Making sure her daughter was safely in tow, she followed the woman through the room, pointing her daughter's attention to some of the more prominent features of the sleek, silvery, Art Deco interior.

The Fountain Grill, the Maxfield's famous second-floor cafe, was nearly empty tonight. Mitzi assumed that on Christmas eve most people probably had someplace to be, somewhere to go. As she sat down at the table and was handed a menu, she felt herself finally relax, knowing she'd made the right decision in not canceling her Christmas plans. Just last
night, she'd been on the verge of calling her daughter, but decided that spending the holidays alone was simply too horrible. It was a selfish decision, one she wasn't entirely proud of, but Mitzi was confident her daughter would understand. Once Christmas was over, she would have to leave, of course—instead of staying until New Year's as originally planned. But that was a small price to pay.

“This hotel is
gorgeous,”
said Cathy Quinn in her deep Texas drawl. “Far more beautiful than you told me on the phone. Why, a woman could really relax in a place like this. And all the time I thought you were
suffering.”
She squeezed her mother's hand and gave her an amused smile.

Mitzi beamed at her proudly. She hadn't seen her in four weeks, though it felt much longer. Catherine Lindsay Quinn, called Cathy by most everyone, was in her late thirties, a good-looking woman with a deep tan and dyed red hair. She was divorced, childless, and currently the director of an exclusive health spa in a ritzy section of Houston. Mitzi was proud of her daughter's good looks and impeccable taste, and especially of her success in the business world. In a way, Cathy was everything Mitzi had always wanted to be. Independent. Confident. Well educated. Well liked. Sought after by an endless stream of handsome, eligible men. And best of all, Cathy was a good girl. She respected her mother's wishes.

“Good evening, ladies,” said George Chambers, walking up to the table with a playful smile on his face.

Mitzi looked up. She didn't really want any company tonight, but it seemed awkward not to ask him to sit down. He was such a friendly, good-natured old guy. Everyone had grown terribly fond of him. “Evening, George. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

He patted his stomach. “Just finished. I'm on my way up to Heda's suite for a little Christmas cheer. Would you two lovely ladies like to join us later?”

“I should introduce you to my daughter,” said Mitzi, hugging the menu to her chest. “Cathy, this is George Chambers. He's the sound-effects technician for our radio serial.”

Cathy smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Chambers.”

George cocked his head. “You know, you look awfully familiar to me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes … come to think of it, you look a lot like—”

“I'm sure the two of you have never met,” said Mitzi, heading off any further conversation on the subject. “George, I hope you understand. I haven't seen my daughter in weeks. We've got sortie catching up to do, so I'm afraid we'll have to pass on your invitation.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Cathy. “Well, Merry Christmas to you both. See you at the station on Sunday night, Mitzi.”

“You will.” She waved as he walked away. Opening the menu, she adjusted her glasses to read the fine print at the bottom. “Are you hungry, honey?”

“Starved,” said Cathy, looking around for the waitress. “That guy was sure in a cheerful mood. If you ask me, he needs a good barber. I wonder what he'd look like without the beard and all the hair.”

“Probably just another old man,” said Mitzi absently.

Cathy had taken a taxi in from the airport. She'd arrived several hours earlier amid a veritable jungle of luggage and packages. Mitzi was waiting for her in the lobby with a bouquet of holly berries and a box of delicate ribbon candy. She always gave these to her daughter on Christmas eve. She couldn't even remember how the tradition got started. Probably a leftover from Cathy's childhood. In her ex-husband's family, it was traditional never to open presents until Christmas morning, so Mitzi was always looking for ways to make Christmas eve special for her only child.

“Let's order some wine,” said Mitzi as the waitress arrived. “How about a bottle of the Fetzer Chardonnay.” The waitress wrote it down and then left, returning a few minutes later with the wine steward. As he poured she took the orders.

Once the waitress had left, Cathy proposed a toast. “To our Christmas together in Minnesota. May it be everything we hope for.”

They touched glasses and then each took a sip. “What are you hoping for?” asked Mitzi.

“Well, I'd like to catch up on what you've been doing here. And then have a good time, I suppose. Oh, and I want to do some shopping at the Mall of America, of course.”

“Of course.” Cathy loved to shop. She was the original clotheshorse.

“And, oh, I don't know. Maybe see a play at the Guthrie or the Allen Grimby. I read about both while I was on the plane. I hear there's a lot of good theatre in the Twin Cities.”

“Actually, your stay is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure. I'm open to suggestions—as long as they don't interfere with my hearing your radio show on Sunday night.”

Mitzi had told her daughter nothing of what was really going on. To be honest,
she
didn't know what was going on. Like everyone else at the station, she had theories, but no facts. Yet unlike George Chambers and some of the rest of the cast, Mitzi felt constantly apprehensive and on edge. She'd even had a premonition a few days ago. She'd been standing at a railing overlooking an ice rink, watching a pair of ice-skaters dance and twirl on the ice. In one vivid flash, she saw it all. Something terrible was about to happen. Something hideous, dark, and bloody.

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, she took another sip of wine to fortify herself. Then another, this one more of a gulp.

“Hey, slow down, Mom. You're drinking that like it's grape juice.”

With an unsteady hand, Mitzi set the glass back on the table, noticing she'd spilled some on the tablecloth. “Cathy, I need to talk to you. You're not going to like this, but you
must
do as I say. I want you to leave on Sunday morning. I've already called the airline. There's a direct flight from here to Oklahoma City leaving at ten forty-five. And I've spoken to your father. He said he'd be thrilled to have you come visit him next week. He can show you around the hobby farm he just bought. He's got several new horses. We both know how much you love to ride. And he thought the two of you could drive out and see
Aunt Sal and Uncle Bill while you're in town. You haven't spent any time with them in years.”

Cathy held up her hand. “Wait just a doggone minute here, Mom. I just got here and you're already trying to get rid of me? What's going on?”

“Nothing, it's just—”

“Don't tell me nothing. I don't believe you. We haven't been apart at this time of year since I was born.”

Lifting the wineglass to her lips, Mitzi gave her daughter a defiant glance and then emptied the glass. She needed it. After pouring herself a second, she began again. “Look, Cathy, I never lied to you. You know Jim Quinn isn't your real father. And you know who is. I've tried to answer all your questions about Justin. I haven't kept anything back.”

“I know that. Where's all this coming from?”

Mitzi lowered her eyes. It was all so complex. “When I was offered the job to reprise my role in the old
Dallas Lane
radio series, I didn't tell you that Heda Bloom, Justin's mother, was the one behind it. She's staying here right now. She plans to remain in town for the six weeks the show is on the air.”

Cathy leaned into the table, folding her hands over her napkin. “Are you telling me that my grandmother is staying At the Maxfield?”

Mitzi tried to read her daughter's reaction, but it wasn't easy. Ever since she was a child, Cathy could absorb information, even upsetting information, without giving any of her feelings away. Mitzi found it infuriating, but there it was. “Yes, that's what I'm saying. Now, honey, you have to promise me that you'll stay away from her.”

Cathy seemed surprised, even a little indignant. “Of course I'll stay away from her, Mom. I've got nothing to say to that woman.”

“Good.”

“But that doesn't explain why I have to leave.”

Mitzi took several more sips of wine. She was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, and the mellow sensation was a welcome one. “I don't know how to say this.”

“Just spit it out. We've never kept secrets. Tell me what's got you so tied up in knots.”

What indeed? thought Mitzi. “Look, Cathy, something funny is going on here. Something to do with your real father.”

“Justin Bloom isn't my real father,” said Cathy indignantly. “Jim Quinn is my dad. Justin Bloom was just my bio-dad. He contributed a few sperm and a bunch of genes. That about covers it.”

Mitzi felt herself blush.

“Oh, come on, Mom. You were in love. He was a bastard. You'd broken up, but he couldn't leave it alone. He took advantage of you, plain and simple. You've always used the story as an example of how sleeping with a guy, even if it was only once, could mean pregnancy.”

Mitzi wasn't sure who'd taken advantage of whom anymore, but let it pass.

“I never gave that man a moment's thought. Certainly not when I had a fine man like Jim Quinn for my dad.”

Mitzi began to tear. “Yeah, old Jim wasn't much of a husband, but he always loved you, Cathy. You were the apple of his eye. And I've got to give him credit. Not every man would marry a woman knowing she was pregnant with another man's child. Jim adored you, honey. He still does. Would it be so bad to spend the rest of your Christmas vacation with him?”

“Of course not. But that's not the point. I always spend Thanksgiving with Dad, and Christmas with you. What's so different about
this
Christmas?”

“It's … it's just not safe here, honey.”

“Safe? Why not?” She looked around the room and shrugged. “This is a luxury hotel. We're in the middle of a big city.”

Mitzi grabbed her daughter's arm. “You don't understand. I'm … afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I'm not sure!”

Cathy's frustration turned to concern. “You're worrying me, Mom.”

“Just do what I ask, all right? Promise you'll leave on Sunday morning.”

“Well … sure, if that's what you really want, but—”

“It is.” She finished her second glass of wine. She felt much better now that everything was settled.

“It's just, if it's not safe here for me, it's not safe for you either. Why don't you fly home with me on Sunday morning?”

“I can't,” said Mitzi. “I signed a contract. I have to honor it.”

“But why? People break contracts all the time.”

“No,” said Mitzi, pouring herself a third glass of wine. Her hand was steady now. Steady and firm. “I have to see this through to the end.”

Cathy shook her head. “You sure are acting strange tonight, Mom. I've never seen you drink so much.”

“It's a celebration.” Mitzi raised her glass. “My daughter is with me and tomorrow is Christmas. What more can a mother ask?”

“Well,” said Cathy, placing hecnapkin in her lap, “as long as you're happy.”

“I am,” said Mitzi, gazing at her daughter with great affection. And she would remain happy. Until Sunday morning.

26

“Get away from that door,” called Bram. “I mean, really, Sophie. The owner of a hotel, listening at keyholes.”

“I'm not listening at keyholes,” she said, shushing him. “I'm merely standing in my own living room.”

“Right. With the door open, listening to a fight going on across the hall. It's a fine distinction, if you ask me.”

Bram busied himself putting the finishing touches on a present he was wrapping for Rudy. Hearing a particularly loud shout, he got up and stood behind his wife, placing a hand on her shoulder. “What are they arguing about?”

“I thought you weren't interested.”

“Humor me.”

“Well, I'm only catching bits and pieces, but it sounds like Dorothy's got some plans for later this evening. Heda doesn't want her to go out.”

“Maybe she doesn't want to be left alone on Christmas eve.”

“No, I don't think that's it. She's upset about some man Dorothy's been seeing. She insists that she stop.”

“Ah,” said Bram, bending down close to Sophie's ear. “The mystery man strikes again.”

Sophie screwed her head around and looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The gossip around the office says that Dorothy is currently ‘involved.’ She's had lunch twice this week with the same man.” He raised an eyebrow, then gave it a seductive flutter.

“I'd hardly call two lunches ‘involved.’ Who is he?”

He shrugged. “Nobody's absolutely sure, but I have heard one name being bandied about.”

“Bandy it in my direction, darling.”

He smirked. “Bud Manderbach.”

“No kidding. That guy's been married more times than centipedes have legs. She better watch her step.”

“I'm not worried. She can handle herself.” Bram walked back to the couch and picked up his empty coffee cup, carrying it into the kitchen. He returned a moment later waving two martini glasses.