Chapter 4

Hilary had fainted; Mackie and Gertie were trying to revive her, and Mr. Eldridge. . .well, Mr. Eldridge was being himself. Scott picked up the yellow telegram that had fluttered to the floor and read through it. The others looked on as his expression changed from concentration to concern to, surprisingly, relief.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Scotty,” Maple implored. “What’s it say?”

Scott looked at the assembled group one by one and said slowly, “Jeff’s been injured, but he’s okay. In fact, they’re putting him on the first plane back to the States.”

The entire group let out the collective breath they’d unconsciously been holding.

“So when’s he coming back?” Maple asked, cutting off Mr. Foley, who looked mildly perturbed.

“It doesn’t say. . . .” Scott broke off, raising an eyebrow. “This telegram is dated over a week ago!”

Everyone turned to Gertie, who had a genuine look of shock on her face. “I just found that on my desk today.”

“Well, why don’t we get Hilary into the greenroom first, and then we can—“ Betty froze in mid-sentence. “If we’re out here, then who’s in the studio?”

Everyone stopped and stared blankly at one another. Then Betty, followed closely by Scott, Maple, and Mr. Foley, ran for Studio A. Betty came to a halt just outside the studio, her heels skidding slightly on the slick floor. She peered in to see Essie Mann at the microphone, accompanied by Eugenia on the Wurlitzer; C.J. was in the control room.

That crisis dealt with, Betty decided to retreat to the sanctuary of the writer’s room—as close to her own personal space as she had. She felt like the world was crashing down on her, and she needed a moment of peace. Between Scott and Jeff and everything that was going on, Betty didn’t have time to slow down enough to comprehend it all. She stopped at the door, and she could hear someone’s radio—it was tuned to WENN, and she heard Essie singing. It wasn’t a song she was familiar with, but she liked it anyway. . .it was melodic and had an almost eerie quality.

She went to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t turn. Confused, she tried again, but the door wouldn’t budge. There was no way Betty could have locked herself out. . .she’d never done that before. Perhaps someone else needed a little quiet and was in the writer’s room. She knocked on the door. But wasn’t everyone already accounted for?

“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone in there?” She knocked again. An idea hit her. “Jeff?” she asked hopefully.

The door swung open, but the room was engulfed in darkness. Betty couldn’t see a thing, but something. . .someone had to have opened the door. She stepped in the room and started to reach for the light switch.

The door closed swiftly and quietly; Betty hadn’t touched it. She started to scream, but a large, warm hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to struggle, though it had little effect. The lights came on, and Betty’s eyes, which had finally gotten used to the darkened room, protested against the assault of bright light. She blinked rapidly to make her eyes adjust and turned to get the second biggest shock of her life.

“Hello Betty.”

And for the second time that day, Betty fainted.

Chapter 5

Betty was dancing. . .waltzing around an ornate hall while wearing an equally extravagant gown. She was rather surprised she recalled how to waltz. Her partner was dressed in an immaculate white suit, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up at his face. Was she afraid to see who it was? Not that it entailed any sort of decisions, but. . . . Eight letters—there was something familiar about that. For some odd reason she knew whoever he was, there were eight letters in his last name. But where had this all come from?

“Betty?” a voice called in the distance.

“I’m coming,” came her weary, muted reply.

“Betty.” She could feel a presence near her, but her mind wasn’t clear enough to tell who it was. She mumbled something incoherent in response. She opened her heavy eyelids and blinked rapidly. . .the apparition in front of her didn’t disappear. For a moment, she thought someone had snuck something extra into the coffee.

“Scott, I think I’m hallucinating.”

She felt herself being gently shaken, cautiously, as if she might break. “Betty, wake up, please.” Her eyes focused, but she still couldn’t believe what she saw—who she saw standing before her. She jumped up and threw her arms around him, afraid he’d disappear at any moment, and to her surprise, tears began streaming down her cheeks.

Victor Comstock held her thin, trembling form tightly. “It’s all right, Betty; I’m not going to disappear. Not for a long time, I promise.”

“What—what do you mean?” she asked, barely daring to hope.

“Jonathan Arnold has outlived his usefulness; so he has become the late Jonathan Arnold.”

“And the late Victor Comstock. . .” Betty began.

“Has a little life left in him after all.”

Betty couldn’t stop herself from grinning. Victor was home at last! Then her Midwestern common sense kicked in. “How did you get in here?”

“The same way as before: through the air ducts above the storeroom. Not to mention I had a little help from a certain. . .telegram.”

Betty’s face fell. “You mean Jeff isn’t coming home?”

“He’s coming home, but a telegram just isn’t as efficient as it used to be.”

Betty was silent for a moment. “Victor, what are we going to tell the others? As far as they know, you’ve been dead for over a year. How are we going to explain that you’ve suddenly come back to Pittsburgh. . .and to life?”

“I thought you were the writer here Betty. How about a case of Brent Marlowe’s amnesia?”

“Well, in that case, maybe you should walk right in through the front door.”

“I’m serious, Betty.”

“So am I.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Betty Roberts, you are amazing.”

Betty merely smiled and said softly, “Welcome home, Victor.”

With Victor safely on his way to reprising his role as Victor Comstock, Betty took a small moment to collect her thoughts. What would she do when he reappeared? She had to act surprised; she didn’t want the others to know she’d lied to them all these months about Victor. And what would happen when Victor and Scott finally met? That was a confrontation she didn’t want to miss., but a light knocking at her door halted the scenario playing out in Betty’s mind.

“Come in.”

Essie poked her head in the room, her large, dark eyes taking it all in. “Betty, I was wondering if perhaps I could use your office to make a phone call. I’d like to call my family before it gets late.”

“Of course,” Betty replied, understanding completely.

“Thank you.”

Betty left Essie in the writer’s room and wandered leisurely down the hall to the greenroom. It was empty, as the others were in the studio. She then went to the switchboard, where she found Gertie intently eavesdropping on someone’s telephone conversation. “Betty!” Gertie cried in what amounted to a stage whisper. “I think I’ve found a spy!”

“Gertie, what are you talking about?”

“That Essie Mann. . .she’s a Nazi spy.”

“Gertie, that’s ridiculous. What makes you think that?”

Gertie motioned for her to come closer. “Listen.”

Betty did just that, and although the voices weren’t speaking English, she didn’t think it was German either.

“Gertie, believe me, she’s not a spy.”

“You’ve seen how she’s been poking her nose about the station, asking questions and all. She’s a regular Mata Hari.”

Betty held firm to her belief in Essie’s innocence.

“Betty, I am surprised,” Gertie sounded almost indignant. “We have people like Jeff risking their lives, and they think they can put their Nazi spies right under our noses. Well, I’m going to do something about it.” Before Betty could stop her, Gertie reached towards the switchboard and pulled out the plug.

“Gertie, you’re being paranoid. Yes, there was one occasion where a sponsor was a Nazi sympathizer, but you can’t start seeing spies everywhere.”

“She’s no better than Jonathan Arnold,” Gertie fumed. “And I bet her name isn’t even Essie Mann. There’s a nom de plume if ever I heard one.”

“You’re right.” Betty and Gertie turned to see Essie standing behind them. Scott, his curiosity piqued, stood a few yards back. “My name isn’t Essie Mann, it’s Odessa Maninov. And I’m not German, I am Russian.”

“A Russian spy!”

“Gertie!” Betty was appalled at her behavior.

They stood there, staring at each other. No one knew what to say. The door to WENN opened to admit two police officers, and Gertie didn’t seem the least surprised by their appearance.

“We’re looking for an Essie Mann,” the taller officer said gruffly.

“What’s going on here?” Betty asked.

Essie. . .or rather, Odessa, eyed her skeptically. “I know you are not that naive, Miss Roberts. This was bound to happen eventually. Russia may be an ally of the United States now, but many Americans are distrustful of Stalin’s communist regime. Others dislike immigrants all together,” she said acridly. “This is the paranoia that war brings to every nation. Everyone who isn’t a cookie-cutter ideal American must be an enemy spy.

“Lock me up,” she dared the police. “Take me away for being a foreign-born entertainer! This is the very reason I must pretend to be the all-American girl.”

Her features were controlled, but the bitterness and malice hovered just below the surface. “My family did well in Imperial Russia, but even then, life in our homeland was not perfect. My father was killed by the Bolsheviks in 1917. When the Czar abdicated, my family fled to Paris, taking whatever possessions they could. I was born in Paris, some five months after my father’s death and was named for our home on the Black Sea, Odessa. For five years we lived in Paris, my mother, brother, sisters, and I. We were poor as any Russian peasant.” She laughed bitterly. “My mother was. . .and still is the Countess Irina Nikolaievna, though that means nothing here. When the civil war ended, we had no hope of returning to Russia, so we left for the grand nation of opportunity—America.

“So you see, I am not a spy of any sort. This has been my home since I was a child. I’m as American as any of you except that I happen to speak Russian and French in addition to English.” With that, she stood her ground and stared directly at the officers who opposed her.

The two policemen looked at each other, speechless.

“I guess there must have been a misunderstanding, ma’am,” one of the officers replied. The hastily retreated out the door, away from the wrath of the Russian countess.

Scott looked at Betty and shrugged before returning to what he still liked to call his office. He gave a small cry of surprise followed by a much louder, “Who are you?”

Gertie jumped up and practically ran down the hall to the office, with Betty close behind.

“Oh my gosh,” Gertie gasped. “Victor!”

“Nah. Victor?” Scott asked skeptically, glancing from Gertie to the tall man seated at the desk. “But Victor’s dead.”

“Apparently not,” Victor replied dryly.

Scott, Victor, and Gertie turned to Betty, who had up to that point, said nothing.

“Gertie, why don’t you go tell the others the good news,” she suggested. With Gertie gone, she closed the office door. “I think the three of us need to talk.” She walked around the desk and stood next to Victor.

Scott started to look very anxious. “About what, Betty?”

“I’d like to find out once and for all just who is Scott Sherwood.”

“So this is the infamous Scott Sherwood,” Victor said.

“You’ve lost your cover, Scott. Now you may as well tell us the truth, if you can manage it,” Betty added coldly.

“But I told you the truth, Betty.”

“I want the real truth, Scott. You never knew Victor, so how did you get the book of limericks to forge Victor’s signature on the letter? Why did you ever come to WENN in the first place?”

Scott looked defeated. Coming to WENN was a scheme gone horribly wrong. “You really want to know Betty? Fine.” He looked right at Betty as he gave his confession. “I really was an out of work promoter in London, like I told you. I was looking everywhere for a bit of work just to get me some cash before my next big scheme.

“I ended up at the BBC for a short while, and I knew there was an American broadcaster working there by the name of Victor Comstock. They said he came from a little radio station in Pittsburgh, and the American media didn’t sound like a bad thing to me at the time. Another American at the BBC was going home, back to Chicago, in a few weeks, and he told me he was going to stop off in Pittsburgh to deliver this book at Comstock’s station. I convinced him that I’d take the book for him, as I was planning on returning to America, too—to Pittsburgh.

“The rest is just like I told you, Betty. I used the signature and names in the book to create the letter of reference. So you see, I’m not even some guy from a bar, I’m just a common con-man.”

Victor hadn’t interrupted him anywhere, so Betty presumed Scott had finally told her the truth. . .or close enough that Victor didn’t know the difference.

“Now Victor’s back home, and everyone can go on as if I was never here. I’m sure no one will notice,” he added flippantly. “Good-bye, Betty. I hope you’re happy.” He left, shutting the office door behind him.

Chapter 6

Betty flung open the door. “Scott, don’t say that,” she cried. “You’ve meant a lot to this station. . .to all of us.” She followed him out into the hall. “Scott!”

She felt a hand on her arm, holding her back. “Betty, what are you doing?” Victor asked.

“I—“

“Victor!” Mackie, Eugenia, Hilary, Mr. Eldridge, and Mr. Foley came running up to them, smiling and laughing once they got over their initial shock. It was the reunion Betty had been waiting so long for, but Scott’s leaving had dampened her joy.

Maple, in fact, was the first to notice his absence. “Where’s Scotty?” she asked, joining the group. Her gaze narrowed. “Betty?”

“He. . .left.”

“Left?” Eugenia asked. “Why did he do that?”

Why, indeed, Betty mused. Maybe because he’s a scheming con-man who’s lied to all of us since the first day he arrived at WENN. Maybe he thinks I’ll tell everyone else. Or maybe because of Victor, because he. . . .

“Betty.” She turned to see Hilary standing beside her. “Do you remember Gertie’s radio play?” she asked slowly.

“You mean ‘Rendezvous in Rabat’?”

Hilary nodded. “I think it’s time you told us what those eight letters spelled out.”

Betty panicked. “But I—I mean, I never actually spelled anything!”

“Then I think you’d better get a dictionary, hon’. And learn fast!” Maple commented. “I may never have met this Victor fella until now, but let me tell you, I know Scotty. And I know how he feels about you. . .and about his leaving.”

“But you don’t know all of it, Maple,” Betty sighed.

“But what if he doesn’t come back?” Maple asked softly.

“Of course he’ll come back,” Betty said, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. “He always seems to weasel his way back to WENN.”

Betty arrived at WENN the next day in a cheerful mood; she refused to admit to herself that part of that cheeriness was artificial. It was Christmas Eve, and Betty had gotten the best present she could possibly ask for—Victor was home and safe.

The previous night Betty and Victor held a homecoming dinner. She had enjoyed herself immensely, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It seemed like they’d changed over the last year and a half. Well of course we’ve changed, Betty reasoned with herself. But things just weren’t the same at all. She wasn’t as much in awe of Victor as she had once been, and Betty could stand up for herself now. The constant fear of Victor’s predicament had added a lot of excitement and intrigue.

“Betty, could I see you for a moment?” Victor was comfortably seated at his desk—Betty figured she had never really stopped thinking of the room as anyone’s office but Victor’s. It does seem almost like everything is back to how it was, she thought. And they say you can’t go back to the past. But it wasn’t really like going back; the memories of the time Scott had spent at WENN didn’t just magically disappear.

“This arrived for you earlier.” Victor handed her a sealed envelope.

Betty took it hesitantly. She carefully pried open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. Her heart pounded a little faster when she saw the signature at the end of the letter. She refolded it and placed it back in the envelope.

“Aren’t you going to read it, Betty?” Victor asked.

“I—um, would you please excuse me.” She started hastily toward the door.

“It’s from him, isn’t it?” She gave no response, and Victor eyed her curiously. “Would you at least join me for lunch later?”

“All right,” she replied absently before shutting the door. She clutched the letter tightly, like it was some great secret. In actuality, it rather frightened her. Scott was asking her to--

Her thoughts were cut off by the door banging open loudly, admitting a thin, dark-haired young man. “Where’s Odessa?” he demanded curtly, without introduction.

“In the greenroom,” Gertie answered, “but who are you?”

He ignored her question and started opening doors, looking for the greenroom, not knowing what it was.

“Alexei!” Essie cried, running to him and throwing her arms around him. They started conversing in rapid Russian, and no one else in the room even pretended to understand. Essie finally broke off the conversation and turned to address Betty, who had been standing off to the side, wrapped up in her thoughts.

“I am going home for Christmas after all,” she beamed, the usual sarcasm gone. “Thank you so much for making me welcome here. Perhaps I’ll see you all again.” She gathered her things as she and Alexei headed towards the door. “Merry Christmas, WENN.” Alexei took her by the arm and led her out, but at the last moment, she turned back. “Do svidanya!”

Betty had sat through her lunch with Victor very quietly, and he was becoming concerned by her uncharacteristic behavior. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get Betty to tell him what was causing her so much concern. She was so preoccupied, that she hardly noticed it seemed that Victor had something to tell her himself.

Back within the protecting confines of the writer’s room, Betty dared to reopen the letter. She read through it several times, just to make sure she wasn’t imagining the contents. He wanted her to choose between him and Victor. How ludicrous! she thought. Victor was home for good, so naturally. . .but she was having second thoughts. Be reasonable, she told herself. You’re only even considering Scott because he’s leaving. Remember when Victor died? She did remember the horrible heartbreak, but that was over a year ago.

She heard a knock and the door slowly swung open. “Am I interrupting?” Victor asked.

“Not at all. I. . .what’s this?” She stared at the tiny, wrapped box he placed in her hand.

“I believe it’s called a Christmas present.”

“But—“

“Just open it, Betty.” Victor seemed a little anxious.

She unwrapped the paper to reveal a black velvet box; the kind used for jewelry. And by the size, Betty judged it was for a. . .ring.

“I wish I had never left to go to London, Betty. I’m trying to make up now for what I should have done long ago.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Victor, what is this?”

She started to open the box slowly, light glinted and sparkled off the shining gem. Betty gasped in surprise. “Victor, I. . . .”

Chapter 7

Betty jumped up, startled. What was going on? Where had Victor gone? He was just there, standing beside her. Betty ran down the hall to find it vacant. When she reached the door, Eugenia entered, just arriving for another day.

“Eugenia, where’s Victor?”

Eugenia was befuddled, then she gave her a sympathetic look. “Victor is. . .dead, Betty. Don’t you remember?”

“What?” Betty felt disoriented; she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “Eugenia, I know this sounds strange, but what’s today’s date?”

“One day later than it was yesterday, Betty. It’s Saturday, December 13, 1941.” Eugenia looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

“December thirteenth?” Betty wondered aloud. “Excuse me.” She returned to the writer’s room and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that it was the thirteenth. She also realized the halls were no longer decorated. She sighed. So Victor was still somewhere off in Europe, Jeff was in London, and Scott was staying right there in Pittsburgh. Nothing had changed.

I guess no one’s going to be home for Christmas this year after all, she thought. Still, there were another twelve days until Christmas. . .anything could happen. Wasn’t that the magic of radio? Not to mention the factor that made life at WENN so hectic. Betty looked down at her clothes, rumpled from spending the night in a chair, and laughed aloud. “That must’ve been the longest dream sequence since The Wizard of Oz!”