Murder in the Air by Ellen Hart

removed immediately, before it ruptured.
    The first few days at the hospital are a complete blur to me now. I believe I was operated on late on a Wednesday afternoon. By the weekend I'd recovered sufficiently to call my friend in New York and ask him to wire me some money so that I could pay my bill. He, of course, had none to offer, and that's when I wrote to you. Your speedy reply saved my life, in more ways than one. It also told me you still care about your wayward son. I hold on to that thought, Mom, and hope that soon you can write to me here.
    But back to my most recent odyssey. I'd no sooner been given the okay to leave the hospital than I developed peritonitis. From what I was later told, I was in a coma for almost a week. I'm not sure I was expected to live.
    But I did live, though Vve lost a lot of weight and I'm very, very weak. The worst part for me now are the night sweats. I wake up soaking wet, disoriented, and jittery. Unfortunately, Vve used up just about even- dime you sent me, and I'm afraid I have no other choice but to ask you for more help. I hope someday to be able to pay you back. Right now could you see your way to wiring my New York friend another several hundred dollars? Whatever you can spare would be a lifeline for me until I can resume a more normal existence.
    Although I feel much safer here, I'm still concerned that you're being watched, and that your mail may be opened and read. That's why this letter has come to you in a different manner. My friend in New York is sending it to a friend of his in Minnesota, who will pass it on to you as discreetly as possible. I hope this doesn't present you with any problems. When Vve recovered a bit more, and continue to remain certain of my invisibility here, Vll give you my address and we can begin a real correspondence. Besure that you destroy my letters. If they fell into the wrong hands, both our lives would again be in great danger. I don't have the strength to run any longer, Mom. At least, not until my health improves.
    Next time I write, I hope to resume my story. I find myself dissecting the events of last fall almost continuously now. But thankfully, my more comforting thoughts of you, and of home, are never far from me.
    With much love,
Justin

11
    As soon as Bram arrived at the station on Monday morning, he was informed that Dorothy Veneger had summoned the cast and crew of
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
to discuss last night's premiere. Hurrying down the hall, he couldn't wait to hear the initial reports. Was it a hit? A miss?
    Heda Bloom hadn't shown up for any of the rehearsals and probably wouldn't make it to the meeting either. Everything had been left to Dorothy to arrange, and in Bram's humble opinion, she'd done a highly professional job. He liked Dorothy. She was smart and sensible, two qualities often lacking in management and creative types, as far as he was concerned. Yet nobody felt particularly at ease in Dorothy's presence. Not only was she always in a hurry, but she never engaged in small talk. Still, the success of the first episode had depended almost entirely on her unflagging energy. Dorothy brought a tremendous infusion of confidence to the proceedings, something everyone needed.
    As Bram entered the room he saw that most of the chairsaround the long conference table were already taken. Some people were laughing and talking as they sipped their morning coffee, while others nibbled a doughnut or a sweet roll, compliments of WTWN and its consistently blind eye toward nutrition.
    Bram took an empty chair near the door.
    A few moments later Valentine Zolotow ambled into the room, sliding his lanky frame into the seat next to Bram. He reeked of tobacco smoke. “God, I'd forgotten how cold it gets in Minnesota. I nearly froze to death walking from the cab into the building.” He chewed his gum with annoyance. “I don't know why on earth we have to get here this early. I just hope Dorothy makes it short today. I need a