Murder in the Air (34 page)

The living room was small. On one end was a short hall leading to a kitchen, on the other were French doors that opened onto a bedroom. The house was comfortably furnished, yet not extravagantly so. That surprised her. She expected extravagance from a multimillionaire. Another unusual omission was the lack of Christmas decorations. Not one ornament, colored light, or pine bough was anywhere in evidence.

Yet the most striking aspect of the room wasn't something she could easily quantify. While none of the 1950s furnishings were the least bit worn or threadbare, everything looked tired and saggy, an unfortunate ambience for a bachelor pad
in her estimation. No wonder he had such rotten luck with women. As Bud helped her off with her coat her feeling of discomfort grew. It struck her now that she was standing in a museum—or perhaps more specifically, a shrine to Bud Manderbach's lost youth.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, closing the closet door.

“I had a glass of eggnog with Heda before I drove over. That's about it.”

“Good.” He smiled. Stepping over to the stereo, he switched on the turntable and then set the needle down carefully at the beginning of a track. “I've got appetizers and champagne for us in the kitchen. Give me a minute and I'll set it up out here.”

As Bud busied himself elsewhere Dorothy's attention was drawn to his rather extensive record collection. It ran the length of two bookshelves. She glanced at the first dozen or so titles and saw that most of them were jazz classics and old standards. Since the album he'd chosen to put on tonight was already on the turntable, she wondered if he hadn't been listening to it earlier. The first song was Tony Bennett's version of “I'll Be Seeing You.” She knew the recording, and found it heartbreakingly sad. Was it an indication of his mood?

Bud returned to the room a few minutes later carrying a round silver tray. After arranging everything on the coffee table in front of the couch, he poured them each a glass of champagne. “To us,” he said, touching his glass to hers.

Dorothy took a sip. “Mmm, this is good.”

“I thought you'd like it.” He moved in, his eyes rising to the ceiling above their heads.

Dorothy looked up to see what had caught his attention. “Mistletoe,” she observed, her voice full of annoyed good humor.

“It's my one sop to the Christmas tradition. Do you … object?”

“Of course not.”

He set down his drink and then took her in his arms and kissed her. Easing back just a little, he touched her hair, then traced the line of her jaw. “You're a beautiful woman.”

She half closed her eyes, like a cat receiving a caress. “And you're a terrible liar.”

He kissed her again. “Does that seem like Fnvlying?”

“No,” she admitted, adjusting the gold necklace around her pink cashmere sweater. “Perhaps I should have said ‘a good
actor?’
”

He smiled, then shook his head in exasperation.

She couldn't help but notice that the smile never quite settled on his lips. “Merry Christmas,” she said, moving away from him. They needed some distance if they were going to talk.

“Thanks.” He took another swallow of champagne.

“You don't have any decorations.”

He shrugged. “Christmas eve was never my night.”

“No?” She walked over to the front windows. Parting the heavy brown drapes, she looked outside. Deep snow covered a backyard garden. She could also see the rear part of the main house. “Where's your sister tonight?”

“B.B.? Oh, she's probably watching TV.”

“She doesn't mind being alone?”

“After all these years she's used to it.” He squeezed the back of his neck and Jaughed. “In case you think I'm a total Scrooge, I let her talk me into getting a huge tree this year. We even decorated it together. And we always have brunch on Christmas day. Well, that is, if I'm in town.”

Dorothy turned to look at him. “She must have a lonely life.”

“There are lots of ways to be lonely, Dorothy. I was never lonelier than when I was married.”

“Maybe you never found the right woman.”

He acknowledged this with a slight lift of his eyebrows, then slowly shifted his attention to some indeterminate point in space.

“You seem so … distant tonight.”

“Do I?” He tried another smile. “I'm sorry. It's just… I have a lot on my mind right now. Business problems.”

“Believe me, if it's business, I understand.” She moved back
to the coffee table and withdrew a cigarette from a brass box. “Actually, I've got some news that may cheer you up.”

“Really? Let's hear it. I could use some good news.” On the end table next to him rested an antique silver dagger complete with jewel-encrusted hilt. He picked it up, flipped open the top jewel, and lit her cigarette. “It's one of B.B.'s,” he explained, shutting the top. “She collects cigarette lighters, among other things. I particularly liked this one, so I lifted it from her collection. Trust me. She'll never know it's gone.”

“Is it sharp?”

“No.” Easing an arm around her waist, he pulled her close again and said, “So tell me. What's your good news?” His gaze shifted to the bedroom and then back to her face.

“I'm not ready for that, Bud. You promised you wouldn't push.”

“But why not? We've both been around the block more than once. We like each other. We have fun together. What are we waiting for?”

She disentangled herself from his grip before replying, “When I met you, I didn't know your reputation.”

“For what?”

She couldn't help but smile. “Oh, Bud, please.”

His scowl slowly turned into a grin. “So what? I appreciate women. Where's the crime in that?”

“I just need … more time.” She could tell he'd heard that line a thousand times. His reaction almost caused her to laugh out loud, but she restrained herself. Tapping some ash into an ashtray, she said, “Bud, I'm old-fashioned. I need commitment. The possibility of marriage.”

“I'm not ruling that out, but… I understand. I'll leave it up to you. You tell me when you're ready.”

This change in tactics threw her. Tonight, when she'd first walked in the door, his intentions seemed crystal clear. The evening would follow a certain standard course, and eventually they'd end up in the bedroom. He'd push, she'd retreat. He'd push some more. They both knew how to play the game. But now, since he'd given up so easily, she was confused—relieved,
of course, that she wouldn't have to fight him off, but still confused.

Placing her cigarette on the ashtray, she spread some pate on a piece of French bread. “Let's get back to my good news. It's guaranteed to improve your mood.” She made herself comfortable on the couch and then patted the space next to her. She waited for him to sit down before continuing. “Now, just so that you understand. This is-my Christmas present to you. I hope you like it because it took some real effort to arrange.” She paused. “Remember how many times you've pressed me to set up a meeting between you and Wish Greveen?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “Why?”

“Well, I've set one up.”

“Dorothy, that's wonderful! Fabulous, as a matter of fact. Just give me the particulars and I'll be there with bells on.”

“That's just it. He's coming tonight. He should be here any minute.”

Bud seemed truly shaken. “He's coming to the house?”

“Well, not exactly. I told him we'd be in the small cottage behind the main house. He said not to worry. He'd find it. It was his idea, Bud. I didn't think you'd mind.”

Resting his fingers against his temples as if to calm a troublesome throbbing, he gazed intently into the fire.

“It's all right, isn't it? I thought this was the perfect opportunity.” When he didn't reply immediately, she added, “I mean, you seemed so eager. You talked about setting up a meeting with him every time we've been together.”

“No,” said Bud, holding up his hand. “It's … fine, Dorothy. I just have to think about all this for a minute. Get my bearings.”

She retrieved her cigarette, tapping the ash into an ashtray. “Bud … what's the problem? You can tell me.”

“There's no problem.” Again, he smiled at her. “You did just what I wanted you to. I'm very grateful.”

The doorbell rang.

Dorothy glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. “I suppose that must be him.”

Bud seemed frozen to his seat, unable to move.

“Do you want me to get it?”

“No.” He gave himself a couple more seconds and then pushed off the couch and hurried to the door.

Dorothy leaned back against the couch cushions and watched. At first, the two men just stared at each other. Each seemed to be taking the other man's measure. It was odd seeing them together, both from such different parts of her life.

Finally, Bud said, “Come in.”

Greveen stepped hesitantly inside. After taking a brief look around, he removed his coat and hat and set them on a chair. Underneath he was wearing a red wool cardigan over a black turtleneck, and a pair of dark wool trousers. Turning to Dorothy, he said, “Good evening.”

“I'm glad you found the place.” She stubbed out her cigarette.

“Your directions were letter-perfect.”

Bud moved to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantel. “Welcome to my home, Mr. Greveen.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you drive over?”

“I took a cab.”

Bud seemed transfixed. Finally, he shook his head and looked down. When he looked back up again he was laughing. “You have to admit, this is pretty amazing.”

“Life is full of twists and turns,” said Greveen. He didn't smile.

Dorothy picked up her champagne glass, holding it delicately between her thumb and forefinger. “You two fellows talk like you know each other.”

“We don't,” said Greveen coldly.

Bud pointed to the champagne. “Help yourself.”

“No thanks.”

“I'll have some more,” said Dorothy, filling her glass for the second time.

“I trust you've had a … profitable stay here in Minnesota,” continued Bud.

“I'm not sure I'd use that exact word. Let's just say that I remain confident that matters will turn out the way I planned.”

“It's not good to be overconfident, Mr. Greveen.”

He dipped a hand into the pocket of his sweater. “I assume you've listened to my radio show.”

“Your
radio show.” Again, Bud laughed. “Yes, I guess it is your show, come to think of it. It's been your show all along.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Dorothy, interrupting them. “We've all got a stake in it. Heda. Me. The actors.”

Bud ignored her. Instead, he examined Greveen from head to toe. “Funny how ghosts age.”

“Meaning what?”

“I never would have recognized you. That is, if it really is you. I suppose this could all be an act.”

“I would have recognized you anywhere.” Greveen moved toward the other end of the fireplace.

Dorothy thought they looked like two soldiers facing each other over the field of battle, ready to duel to the death.

As Greveen folded his arms over his chest Bud's eyes were drawn to the ring on his left hand. “Where did you get that?”

“Where do you think I got it? It's mine. My mother gave it to me many years ago.”

“But—”

“But what, Mr. Manderbach? Does it remind you of a ring you've seen before?”

“Say, you two
do
know each other,” said Dorothy. “I suspected as much. Why don't we all sit down. Enjoy some of this pat6.”

Bud stepped quickly away from the mantel. “Listen, Dorothy, Mr. Greveen and I have some important matters to discuss. We need some privacy. Would you mind terribly if I canceled our date tonight? Could you get home by yourself?”

She gave him a disgusted look. “I had no trouble getting here by myself. I'm sure I could get home.”

“Fine,” he said, retrieving her coat from the front closet.

She could tell he wasn't listening to her anymore. “Will I talk to you tomorrow?” she asked, yanking on her gloves.

“Sure.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I'll call you.”

Something had changed. She didn't need to ask what
it was. Bud had finally achieved his goal—a face-to-face meeting with Wish Greveen. His passionless pursuit of her was over. “No, you won't. It's finished between us, isn't it? Just tell me the truth.”

“Don't be silly,” he said, pushing her out the door. “We'll have dinner soon. Drive safely, Dorothy.” He slammed the door in her face.

At the stroke of midnight, B.B. switched off the TV set in her bedroom, threw on her black cape and her snowmobile boots, and snuck out the back door of the main house. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she crept soundlessly down the shoveled walk toward the cottage. Chimneys pumped steam, dark and menacing, into the frigid night air as she hurried along the cobblestones. The sky above was a canvas of cold, indiffererit stars.

Before she used her key on the front door—a key her brother had no idea she owned—she wiped some frost from a side window and peeked into the bedroom. The drapes were drawn, but she always made sure there was a crack through which she could view the show. By this time on any given evening, Bud usually had someone in bed. Sometimes she saw them doing it. Sometimes they were asleep. Tonight, however, while the room had obviously been used—the bedspread was half on the bed, half on the floor—no one was around. She could see that the lights were off in the living room. That usually meant Bud had left. Maybe he was taking his date home.

After checking the garage and discovering that her brother's car was indeed gone, she used her key and went in. Bud didn't allow her inside the cottage, but that's what made sneaking around all the more fun. It was like a secret expedition, or an archaeological dig. She loved to collect the evidence, the clues to her brother's life, at least the part to.which he denied her access.

B.B. was incredibly curious about sex. She'd never slept with a man, and frankly didn't really think she'd care to, but she was still intrigued by all the romantic machinations. The food and the wine. The choice of music. And fire. Always a fire. If not in the fireplace, then candles burning here and there
throughout the room. It fascinated her to think that Bud had so much energy for all these details. Over the years she'd determined that sex was terribly important to her brother. Since none of his wives or his girlfriends lasted very long, the women must be interchangeable. It didn't seem that way in the old movie classics she liked to watch on TV, but B.B. understood that movies and real life weren't always the same.