Murder in the Air by Ellen Hart Page B

paw down on the desk.
    “May I ask your name?” said the receptionist, attempting to be as polite as possible. Bram could see she was every bit as astonished as he was.
    “Alfred Bloom,” boomed the voice. “Your new boss.”
    “But—”
    “But what?”
    “Well, Ms. Bloom and Ms. Veneger said you wouldn't be coming to Minnesota.”
    “I like surprises.”
    Bram cleared his throat to draw Bloom's attention. “Mr. Bloom. I'm delighted to meet you.” He extended his hand. “My name's Bram Baldric. I do the afternoon show. And I'm also announcing WTWN's new radio mystery.”
    Alfred Bloom looked like a man who'd just been severely annoyed by a buzzing gnat. Turning his dark brown eyes on Bram, he snapped, “What radio mystery? They went out with spats and zoot suits. I've seen the program roster. It's not on it.”
    Bram lowered his hand to his side. So much for social niceties. “You haven't been told about the program change on Sunday night?”
    “No. Where's my mother? We need to talk.”
    “She's not in here, Mr. Bloom,” said the receptionist. “But Ms. Veneger is. Would you like me to buzz her and announce you?”
    “No. I'll announce myself,” said Alfred curtly. “Just tell me where to go.” He returned his attention to Bram. “I've seen your ratings. They're good.”
    “Thanks.”
    “But you surprise me. You're the suave, sophisticated type. Nice, expensive threads.” He brushed a hairy paw across Bram's lapel. “Not what I expected.”
    “I prefer the term ‘gritty’ myself.”
    “I usually don't get along with suave types. Anybody ever tell you you look like Cary Grant?”
    “Just my mother.”
    The whiskers around Alfred's mouth moved. Bram couldn't tell if it was a smile or a snarl.
    Alfred returned his glare to the receptionist. “So which office is it?”
    “Right down the hall, Mr. Bloom. Third door on your left.”
    “Call me Alfred. And find me a bottle of Evian water. I'm thirsty.”
    “Of course, Mr. Bloo—I mean, Alfred.”
    Fascinating, thought Bram. He looked more like the type of bear that foraged for his food-and-beverage needs in garbage cans.
    As Alfred Bloom lumbered off down the hallway Bram turned to the receptionist, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “Remember. Only you can prevent forest fires.”
    By four-thirty, Bram had finished his program and was preparing to leave. As he stuffed a copy of the
Christian Science Monitor
into his briefcase, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called, quickly brushing the cookie crumbs off his desk. If Alfred Bloom was about to enter, he didn't want to damage his sophisticated image. Grabbing a pen, he pretended to be deep in thought as he pored over some important papers.
    The door opened.
    Bram lifted his head with great solemnity. “Oh hell, it's just you.” He tossed his pen down.
    “Not a very nice welcome,” said a police officer ambling into the room. “Cops usually command a little more respect.” The man lowered himself into a chair on the other side of the desk.
    “Sorry,” said Bram. “I was expecting someone else.”
    Al Lundquist was a sergeant with the St. Paul police. He and Bram had gone to high school together in Chicago, and had stayed friends ever since. Every now and then, Bram would pass him some tickets to a local sporting event in return for all it of inside police information.
    Glancing contemptuously around the messy office, Al cracked his knuckles and said, “This place is a firetrap. You got more books and magazines in here than most libraries.”
    “How long has it been since you were in a library?”
    “None of your damn business.”
    “Want a cookie?” Al was easily placated by food.
    “Don't mind if I do.”
    Bram lifted a sack from his top drawer and pushed it across.
    “Thanks. Hey, these look great. You always get the gourmet kind. I should swing by here more often. By the way, I got that stuff you asked for.”
    “Tell me the truth, Al,” said Bram, leaning