Free Murder in the Air by Ellen Hart Page B

wanted man, right? And if he was discovered, he'd still have to stand trial.”
    “What's your point?”
    “Just that the state might have a hard time proving its case against him. I mean, it's been so many years.”
    “True. It has been a long time. But the facts seem fairly incontrovertible.”
    “Is the cop still alive? The one who was the eyewitness?”
    “He died years ago. But he left behind a sworn statement naming Bloom as the shooter.”
    Sophie agreed. It did seem pretty cut-and-dried. “But—”
    “But what?” Bram was almost done with his salad. Sophie had barely touched hers.
    “There's something that doesn't fit. Why would a man who'd professed his love for a woman shoot her in the head? The stomach, maybe. The chest, the leg, the heart, but not the head. That's so disfiguring. So brutal.”
    “Maybe that's the kind of guy he was.”
    “Maybe,” said Sophie. “Except, I remember that he had a reputation as an honest reporter and a decent man.”
    “Even decent men can go wrong.”
    She could hardly argue the point. “So what do you make of it?”
    “That Justin Bloom probably killed Kay Collins.
Why,
we may never know.”
    “But doesn't that lack of motive bother you?”
    “Sure. It's a huge hole, but not one we're likely to fill up at this late date.”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.” She had a feeling the newest edition of
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
might do just that. “So, is that it? That's all you found out?”
    “For now, yes. Actually, I accomplished exactly what I set out to do.”
    “Which was—”
    “I wanted to prepare myself to handle the calls that will undoubtedly deluge my show. This is going to be a hot topic for a while, Soph. At least now I've got some background.” He took a sip of his drink, his eyes straying to the front entrance. “Say, isn't that B. B. Manderbach over there?”
    Sophie looked around and saw a short, rotund woman dressed all in blacks and browns being shown to a table near the fire. She looked typically ridiculous in an old-fashioned hat with a veil that swept dramatically over her forehead and down over one eye.
    B. B. Manderbach was one of those characters common to every city and small town. Her claim to fame, other than her place in one of the oldest, richest, most successful business families in the Twin Cities, was her status as fashion nightmare. People pointed, whispered, even snickered, but most everyone left her alone. Normally, her clothing was eclectic, tending toward the Victorian. Tonight, however, she was dressed as a matronly 1940s woman-about-town. Instead of eyebrow pencil, her eyebrows looked as if they'd been painted on with black tempera. Her heavy makeup—especially the poorly applied red lipstick—made her look hard, and at the same time silly and rather sad.
    “Boy, she's a case,” said Bram, leaning back as he was served his stew.
    “You could say that,” said Sophie, delighted to see the food arrive. “You know, you should have her on your radio show.”
    “My producer tried. She doesn't give interviews.”
    Sophie watched her a moment longer and saw that underneath her coat, she was hiding a small table lamp. As she placed it on the opposite chair and then draped her coat over it, her eyes darted suspiciously around the room. “Strange,” said Sophie under her breath.
    “What's strange?” Bram's dinner now commanded his full attention.
    “B.B.'s got a lamp under her coat.”
    “Really. Well … maybe she's been out looking for an honest man.”
    Sophie stared at him over the rim of her wineglass. “At least I'm having dinner with a classically educated man.”
    “You are.”
    “Eat up, dear. I hate to be a broken record, but I have to get back to the hotel.”
    Bram's head popped up. “Does that mean we don't have time for dessert?”
    “You sound like you're four years old.”
    “I know.” He grabbed another roll. “That's what makes me such a hit on talk radio.”
    February?
    Dear Mother:
    I'm sorry if