The Darkness Knows (11 page)

“I look ridiculous.”

Vivian eyed Charlie's reflection in the full-length mirror in her mother's study and suppressed a smile. “Well, I think you make a marvelous cowpoke,” she said. “Very Randolph Scott.” He cocked an eyebrow in surprise at the compliment until she added, “If I squint my eyes and cock my head to the right.”

“I knew there was a catch,” he said dryly. “Are you sure this getup is strictly necessary?” He pulled at a piece of the red fringe hanging from his sleeve.

Thanks to Imogene's tip and the key she kept in her desk, Vivian and Charlie had had their pick of
Chet Whibley's Country Cavalcade
outfits from the station's costume closet. Charlie sported a Chet Whibley special, most likely last used while the wearer crooned a mournful country ballad. The costume consisted of a cowhide vest over a white-collared shirt replete with delicately embroidered red carnations that ran up the entire length of the placket. Silky red fringe extended down the seam of both sleeves and swayed like prairie grass with the slightest movement. Cowhide chaps matched the vest, and the same fringe appeared on the seam from hip to ankle. Vivian considered the overall effect. Everything fit Charlie remarkably well. In fact, she didn't know why she'd tempered her earlier compliment with a slight dig. He
did
resemble Randolph Scott.

“Of course it's necessary. You can't go barging into a masquerade in a suit and tie,” she admonished. “You'd stick out like a sore thumb.”

Charlie made a face at himself in the mirror. “I still look ridiculous.”

“Yes, yes, but how do
I
look?” Vivian spun in a tight circle, allowing the fringe on her skirt to flare. Then she stopped and posed fetchingly, she hoped, with one hand on her hip. Her outfit matched Charlie's almost exactly, except that the hemline and neckline were both considerably more daring.

“I do declare, Miss Witchell,” he said, hitching one thumb on the side of his vest and pretending to chew on a piece of straw. “You sure do look purdy.”

“Oh, pshaw,” she said, fanning herself with one red cowhide glove.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance later?” he asked. He reached to tip the brim of his hat toward her, but his fingers touched only air.

“Your hat!” Vivian cried in alarm. “It's key to the ensemble.”

“No need to panic, missy,” he said, pointing.

Vivian turned and spied the Stetson sitting atop a pile of papers on her mother's desk. As she lifted it, something caught her eye in the pile below.

A sheet of paper with a tantalizingly familiar blue stripe across the top lay half-hidden among her mother's correspondence. Vivian handed the hat to Charlie without turning away from the desk and pulled the letter farther from the pile with her thumb and index finger. The letter was upside down, so she tilted her head to the side in an effort to glean its contents without disturbing its placement further. Her mother didn't like her things bothered.

Vivian let out a little yip of triumph and snatched the letter from its spot on the desk—Mother be damned. She whirled around and held the paper mere inches from Charlie's nose.

“This,” she said dramatically, shaking the piece of paper with excitement, “is what I saw Marjorie with just before she died.”

Charlie settled the cowboy hat atop his head, then squinted to read the letterhead.
Chicago Foundlings Home.

“My mother's on the board. Believe it or not, she has a soft spot for babies.” Vivian smiled ruefully at Charlie. “But why would
Marjorie
be getting mail from the foundling home?”

Charlie shrugged and turned back to the mirror. “You're sure that's the same letterhead?”

“Positive,” she said.

“Who knows?” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe she was on the board too.”

Vivian shook her head. “Boards are for rich swells.”

“Like your mother.”

Vivian felt the heat rise in her face but said nothing. She flipped the letter over and kept reading. “This is about an upcoming fund-raiser,” she said.

“Well, then Mrs. Fox was probably helping with fund-raising efforts,” Charlie said.

“Using her stature for charity work?” Vivian considered the idea for a moment. “I guess it's possible…”

“Right,” he said. “But Mrs. Fox wasn't the charity type?”

“And the letter seemed to upset her so much…”

Charlie wrinkled his brow and yanked the knot of his scarlet kerchief lose. He began to retie it just under his Adam's apple.

“Of course!” Vivian exclaimed, slapping her forehead lightly with the tips of her fingers. “It was right in front of me all the time… Rich swells…”

Charlie slowly turned on his heel so that he faced her again. He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“Mr. Hart is a board member too!” Vivian continued. “I used to type letters on this letterhead for him when I was his secretary. No wonder it looked so familiar. It would make sense for him to ask Marjorie to get involved, wouldn't it? The star of the biggest family serial in the country was at his disposal. Why wouldn't he take advantage of that to raise some money for his favorite charity?”

“Your mother is on the board of directors with Mr. Hart?”

Vivian nodded.

“Well, isn't that cozy,” he said.

“I know what you're thinking,” Vivian said. “But I didn't get my job as Mr. Hart's secretary through my mother's influence.” She declined to add that she'd gotten the job due more to her looks than her typing ability—although she'd never let Mr. Hart do anything but look, contrary to what Frances Barrow thought. She further declined to mention that her mother had abhorred her job as Mr. Hart's secretary only slightly less than she abhorred Vivian's current job as an actress.

“I was just teasing you,” he responded. “It does make sense that Mr. Hart would have asked Mrs. Fox for help with fund-raising efforts.” Charlie grimaced as the knot he'd spent the last few minutes carefully attempting came out decidedly lopsided. He yanked the kerchief free yet again and sighed. “I can ask him about it later. I need to update Mr. Hart on the recent developments anyway.”

“That the fan letters are a red herring?”

“
Suspected
red herring,” Charlie corrected.

“Of course.” Vivian rolled her eyes and stepped over to him, squeezing herself between Charlie and the mirror. She reached up and tied a perfect knot in the troublesome kerchief with one deft movement. She patted her handiwork lightly as she spoke, not quite meeting his eyes. “And while you're doing that, I'll question the more suspicious members of the station's staff.”

“Oh, no you won't.”

“I won't what?” she asked, looking up at him, her eyes widening.

“You're not questioning anyone.”

“Why not? Someone at the station has to know something about the letter from the foundling home—why Marjorie would have it and why someone would kill over it.”

Charlie nodded. “True, but you're an amateur, for one. And for two”—Charlie held up the first two fingers of his right hand and wiggled them in front of her nose—“your life seems to no longer be directly in danger.”

“So?”

“So I think you should just enjoy the party and keep yourself out of harm's way.”

Vivian stepped to the side and crossed her arms. “I want to help.”

“And I want you to keep that pretty little head of yours attached to your shoulders.”

Vivian blushed and looked away.

“Look, Viv,” he said, softening his tone. “It's likely that someone at the masquerade tonight is a murderer.”

The idea ignited a rash of goose bumps on her forearms.

“And murderers don't take kindly to being found out,” Charlie finished. “Why do you want to keep digging anyway? If the letters are indeed a red herring, then you aren't really involved in this. Why tempt fate?”

Vivian chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Because this is hanging over my head like a black cloud. Whether I'm really in danger or not, someone is watching me and making me feel threatened. I can't concentrate. I flubbed my lines in front of the most important woman in radio today, Charlie. If I do that again, I won't even have a career to worry about. Besides,” she added, “I thought it would be fun playing detective for a bit.”

“You have a strange idea of fun, doll.” Charlie smirked at her.

Vivian returned the smile. “You have no idea.”

Charlie tilted his head to the side. But before Vivian could elaborate, the study door opened behind them with a protracted creak of its hinges. They both turned toward it as they moved ever so slightly apart.

“What's going on in here?” Vivian's mother stuck her head through the door. Her eyes flicked back and forth between her daughter and Charlie, the bit of forehead between her eyes puckering disapprovingly. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Charlie flushed and eyed the floor as though he wanted to sink directly into it and disappear.

Vivian smiled sweetly at her mother and answered for both of them. “The station's Halloween masquerade, Mother. It's tonight.”

Mrs. Witchell's head bobbed slightly, her eyes squinting. “You're not going,” she said. “That's lunacy. With everything that's happened recently? I think it's in bad taste to even hold a party in such close proximity to a murder.” She uttered the word “murder” in a hoarse stage whisper.

“It's happening. They've sunk a lot of money into it.”

“That doesn't mean you should be attending, Vivian. Please, Mr. Haverman,
you
can see reason, can't you?”

“I can,” he agreed without looking up.

She stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then she said, “Thanks goodness for that,” in a low voice and ducked back out the door.

“Oh, Mother!” Vivian called.

Her mother's head reappeared, a scowl already on her face.

“Did you ever hear of Marjorie Fox having a connection to the foundling home?”

The scowl was replaced with a look of surprise.

“Marjorie Fox and the foundling home? No. Never.”

“She wasn't doing any fund-raising work or anything?”

“Not that I know of. I never met the woman.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Vivian returned her gaze to the mirror, inspecting the fringe hanging from one elbow-length glove.

“No masquerade,” her mother warned before closing the door.

Vivian met Charlie's eyes in the mirror.

“Well, that settles that. Marjorie wasn't doing anything for the foundling home,” she said, running the tip of an ungloved finger along her lower lip to smooth her lipstick. “Mother would know.”

Charlie shrugged. “Mr. Hart may not have mentioned it to the rest of the board yet.”

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. Vivian pulled on the remaining glove and watched Charlie out of the corner of her eye. He plucked the hat from his head, smoothed his hair to the side, and returned the hat, trying a more rakish angle. He frowned at his reflection, and her face broke into a grin despite her best efforts to remain solemn. “I can't take you seriously in that outfit.”

Charlie scowled, pulled the tin pistol from the holster slung around his hips, and aimed it at his reflection.

“Bang, bang,” he said.

Vivian had been to the Empire Room of the Palmer House a few times before. She and Graham had danced to Hal Kemp and His Orchestra just last week, gliding under the massive crystal chandelier that hung directly over the dance floor. It had been a magical evening—until they'd posed for a few photos and he'd put her in the waiting cab to send her home, that is.

Tonight the room buzzed with electricity. The band was already in full swing on the dais across the room. Couples bounced across the dance floor dressed as knights, harlequins, and Indian princesses, and though she couldn't be sure, Vivian thought she saw Queen Victoria jitterbugging with the Red Baron.

“It must have cost a pretty penny to rent this place for the night,” Charlie said, eyes running over the floor-to-ceiling gold brocade drapes.

“I imagine so.”

“Is the station doing that well?”

Vivian shrugged. “I'm no longer privy to the financials. Strike that,” she said after a moment. “I was
never
privy to the financials.”

Vivian felt the crowd push in to her left and then an elbow to her ribs. She heard “Oh, pardon me, miss” in an over-the-top Southern twang somewhere just above her left ear.

She half turned and caught a glimpse of cowhide and an elaborately embroidered yellow shirt. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She didn't have to look up at the face to recognize that Chet Whibley was standing before her.

“Hello, Chet!” she said, turning to face the man with a huge smile that she hoped conveyed nothing of the utter mortification she was feeling inside.

“Oh, Vivian,” he said gruffly. “I didn't even notice it was you.”

“It is…me,” she said, smile faltering. She noticed his eyes drawn to the white Stetson she wore. He regarded it for a moment but said nothing. Chet then turned his attention to Charlie, narrowing his eyes at the detective over Vivian's head.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Vivian said, flustered. “How rude of me not to introduce you. Chet Whibley, this is Charlie Haverman.”

Charlie held his hand out, but Chet ignored it. Instead, his eyes roamed slowly from the top of Charlie's Stetson, down his rawhide vest and matching chaps, all the way to the tips of his borrowed cowboy boots.

“Nice getup,” Chet drawled, each syllable drawn out until Vivian thought the words themselves would crack.

“Thank you,” Charlie answered.

“Seems a mite familiar,” Chet added. He lowered his chin and nearly closed his left eye as he sized Charlie up.

“Does it, now? I guess great minds think alike.” The words were casual, but the delivery was not.

The two men stared at each other, Charlie's right hand clenching and unclenching.

“Yes, you both look smashing,” Vivian said stupidly, trying to defuse the tension.

“Mmm,” Chet replied.

Chet's date joined them then, sidling up beside him and threading her arm through his. She was dressed as Cleopatra, a fake snake twisting its way through her jet-black wig.

“Chet, darling,” she murmured, eyeing both Vivian and Charlie with disdain. “You simply must meet Mimi O'Herlihy…” And without a parting word to either of them, the couple sauntered off, Chet's spurs jangling against the polished wood of the dance floor.

“What a piece of work,” Charlie mumbled, watching the radio cowboy walk away.

Vivian noticed that the flush blossoming from underneath Charlie's kerchief nearly matched the scarf's scarlet color. He was angry, and perhaps even worse, he was embarrassed.

“He's just a pretend cowboy, you know,” Vivian said, her voice overly bright. “Actually, I hear he's from Peoria, and his real name is Milton Bronstein.”

Charlie eyes slid sideways, regarding her skeptically.

“Cross my heart. You're more of a cowboy than Chet Whibley is, and you wear that ridiculous outfit far better than he could ever hope to.”

Charlie's lips twitched with the semblance of a smile, and he squinted off across the room. “Thank you, I guess.”

“It's also terribly gauche of him to wear his work attire to a masquerade. He could have at least put a bit of effort into his costume. Very poor taste, if you ask me.”

Their eyes met, and after a moment, they both laughed.

“Ah,
this
is not my element.” Charlie pulled on the knot in his kerchief uncomfortably as he surveyed the room.

Vivian's eyes roamed the room as well, taking in the opulence of it. The gold leaf on seemingly every surface glittered in the lights of the chandeliers. Even the chairs at the linen-draped tables gleamed gold in the mellow light. If you had to hold a masquerade, this was definitely the place to do it, she thought. And Mr. Hart didn't do anything by halves. The band ended the current song with a blare of trumpets, and the swirling couples on the dance floor broke apart as they erupted into applause.

Vivian's eyes traveled past the dance floor and landed on Frances. She stood near the refreshment table, dressed as Snow White, of course, and flirting outrageously with Mr. Langley, a squat, red-faced man dressed appropriately enough tonight in the regally flowing robes of Henry VIII. Frances rested one white-gloved hand on the poor man's shoulder and leaned daringly close to say something directly into his ear. Mr. Langley's face was so red with excitement that it looked like it might pop. Vivian turned away with a sigh.

“I appreciate you going along with this scatterbrained idea,” she said, looping her arm through Charlie's. “I owe you one.”

Vivian's attention shifted to a couple approaching from the dance floor, and her face broke into a wide grin.

“Well, if it isn't Maid Marian and her dashing Robin Hood!” she exclaimed. “You two look marvelous!”

Imogene beamed and curtsied to them, pulling out the sides of her skirt. She wore a fitted silver-white bodice attached to a full periwinkle-blue skirt with a sparkling silver overlay. A matching periwinkle headdress was held in place by a shimmery silver crown.

“I'm so glad you decided to come! Chet Whibley and his cavalcade never wore it better.” Imogene nodded approvingly at the matched pair of cowboys in front of her.

Vivian clasped Imogene's hands warmly in her own and turned to Imogene's boyfriend, George. “And my, if it isn't Errol Flynn himself!”

George's face blushed three shades of crimson. Even he knew nothing could be further from the truth. “Naw,” he sputtered. “
He
looks like Errol Flynn.” George cocked a thumb toward the edge of the dance floor, where Graham stood chatting up a small woman dressed as a nun. Graham happened to be wearing the same Robin Hood outfit as George, right down to the dusky-green tights and penciled-in mustache.

Imogene said in a dreamy voice, “More Robert Taylor than Errol Flynn, if you ask me.”

George shot her a withering look, and Imogene shrugged an apology.

“Well, I, for one, think you look dashing,” Vivian said quickly, tearing her eyes away from Graham with some effort. “Swashbuckling even.”

Charlie leaned down and whispered into her ear, “You're thinking of Captain Blood.”

Vivian followed Charlie's raised index finger to a man on the far side of the room dressed as a pirate, complete with over-the-knee boots and a paper sword drawn from its scabbard. It was Mr. Hart, and he was brandishing the sword in lazy circles as he spoke to a man Vivian didn't recognize.

“Posh,” Vivian said in exasperation. “I'm getting my Errol Flynns mixed up. Sorry, George—about your costume twin, I mean.”

“Don't worry about it, Viv. It's demoralizing, but I'll cope.” His expression turned sober. “Speaking of coping, how are you doing? I heard about the letter.”

“I'm fine,” she answered automatically. George touched her arm. “Really,” she said. “Completely fine. And I have Charlie here.” She patted Charlie's arm. “He's looking after me.”

“Ah, so
this
is Mr. Haverman,” George said with an exaggerated wink. “George Pfeffer,” he announced to Charlie, extending his hand.

Charlie shook it. “Charlie Haverman. I take it my reputation precedes me.”

“I've heard good things,” George said, nodding toward Imogene, who widened her eyes at them with feigned innocence. “Take care of my Viv, Mr. Haverman. She's one of a kind.”

Imogene slapped her boyfriend playfully on the shoulder.

“I mean, one of a kind after my Genie, of course.”

They all laughed, and George's face burned anew at his latest gaffe.

“Don't worry,” Charlie said. “She's in good hands.”

The orchestra launched into a lively version of “Bei Mir Bist du Schön,” and both Imogene and George turned their heads toward the dais.

“Ooh, I just love this song!” Imogene squealed.

“Go dance, you two,” Vivian said, laughing. “Don't let us hold you back.”

“If you're sure,” Imogene said over her shoulder as they hurried to find an empty spot on the crowded dance floor.

“I guess I didn't have to twist her arm.” Vivian turned to Charlie, but he wasn't listening. She followed his gaze and saw that Mr. Hart had resheathed his paper sword and ended his conversation. He was now leaning down to whisper into the ear of a Little Orphan Annie, who blushed brilliantly at his comment and gazed up at him in rapt attention. Vivian squinted at the girl. It was his secretary, she realized. And by the way she was smiling up at Mr. Hart, Vivian could see that
she
had not been one to turn down Mr. Hart's clumsy advances.

“You should go speak with him,” she said, nudging Charlie with her elbow.

Charlie's face was tense. “You're sure you'll be all right?”

“Safe as a kitten.”

“No questioning anyone while I'm gone,” he warned as he backed away from her, his index finger wagging. “Have a drink. Have a dance. Have a nice, bland chat with someone about the unseasonably warm weather.”

Vivian rolled her eyes and smiled. “I promise to behave, Marshal.”

Charlie ducked his head to glance at the tin badge pinned to his vest and then back up at Vivian, his finger still raised in admonition. He pointed it at her one last time, eyebrows raised, and warned in a low tone, “I'm serious.” Then Charlie turned on his heel, spurs jingling, and disappeared in the throng of costumed partygoers.