The Darkness Knows (12 page)

It took five full minutes for Vivian to make her way through the throng to the refreshment table. She walked with a slight smile on her face, nodding whenever she met someone's eyes. It was so hard to tell if she was supposed to recognize these people, especially the ones with face-covering masks or complete body-covering costumes like the man in the furry head-to-toe gorilla getup. At least, she assumed it was a man.

She finally made it to the table and was lifting a ladle of punch to her glass when a voice behind her announced, “The punch is spiked, I presume.”

Vivian half turned from the bowl, ladle in hand.

The Lone Ranger stood just behind her. His voice was distinct and decidedly familiar, but the mask threw her off, and the eyes peering out from underneath it were an unhelpful shade of nondescript gray. She watched them twinkle with amusement as she failed in her attempt to identify the speaker.

“I'm sorry…” she began, shrugging her shoulders in apology.

“Oh, Viv.” The man laughed. “It's me.” He flipped the mask up with two fingers and smiled at her.

Vivian smiled back at Bill Purdy, the announcer for
The Darkness Knows
and other shows too numerous to count.

“Great costume,” she said. She turned her wrist and watched the red liquid cascade into her waiting glass.

“Hi-yo, Silver!” he exclaimed in a perfect imitation of the Lone Ranger's signature call. “So is it? Spiked, I mean.”

Vivian brought the glass to her lips and sipped. “Appears so,” she said. “Wouldn't be a party without a little rum.”

Vivian stepped away from the punch bowl, and Bill slid into her place at the crowded table. He picked up the ladle.

“I'm actually surprised this party was still a go,” he said over his shoulder. “You know, with Marjorie and everything…” He raised his eyebrows significantly at her.

“And you're especially surprised to see me here?” Vivian asked, picking up on the implication.

“Well, yes.” He filled his own glass and turned back to face her. “I'm not sure I'd risk it if I were you.”

“Risk it?”

“Someone's out to get you, Viv,” he said.

“Oh, really? I'd forgotten.” She'd meant it to come out lighthearted, but instead, it sounded flat and mean.

Bill's face lost all traces of good humor under the black mask. His mouth drew into a tight line, the lips pinched almost white.

“Do the police have any leads?” he asked, his voice low.

Vivian shook her head.

“They think it's a crazed fan?”

Vivian nodded.

“I'm not surprised Marjorie ended up this way, you know.” Vivian was taken slightly aback by the abrupt proclamation. “You knew, didn't you?” he continued. His voice was so low that she could barely make it out over the din of the party. “About her drinking?”

“Yes, but if it was a crazed fan—”

“It wasn't,” Bill said, his melodious voice trembling ever so slightly.

Vivian felt the hairs on her arms bristle.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” he said vaguely. “She'd been getting letters for weeks. The ‘I know what you've done' kind.” He lowered his chin and looked directly into Vivian's eyes for a few long seconds.

“She was being blackmailed?”

He nodded.

“By whom? About what?”

Bill shrugged. “I would think you'd know that better than me. After all, you're next, aren't you?” he said ominously. He raised his glass to his lips and took a long swallow, wincing as the punch went down.

“Too strong for you, Purdy?” Superman—or rather, Dave Chapman dressed as Superman—pushed his way into their circle. He led with his own nearly empty glass, his face flushed, eyes watery. He stepped on the toe of Vivian's boot and muttered an apology before grabbing her arm to steady himself.

“It's seems like you've had plenty, Dave,” Vivian said, shaking his sweaty fingers off her forearm.

“Oh, just a few glasses,” he said. “Having a nice time, Viv?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You have a lot of gumption, showing up here,” Dave said. “Or maybe you're just rattlebrained.” He smiled too widely at his own joke, and she felt her stomach turn over.

Vivian glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar white Stetson near her in the crowd, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

“I don't know who'd want to do in a pretty thing like you…” Dave continued, eyes lingering over the beaded vest of her costume for a second too long. Vivian glared at him, and his hand flew to cover his open mouth. “I'm sorry, Viv,” he said through his fingers. “I guess I've had too much to drink.”

“I guess you have,” she replied coldly, pointedly eyeing the gold band on his left ring finger.

“Dave, tell me about that vacation you're taking with the family,” Bill interjected suddenly. “Planning to play much golf?”

In the pause that it took Dave to switch gears and come up with a reply, Vivian made her exit, shooting a grateful look at Bill's worried face as she slipped away.

So Marjorie was being blackmailed
, she thought.
About what? Her drinking? No, that's an open secret.
She scanned the crowd for Charlie, but she didn't see him. She did, however, catch sight of the unmistakable brown feather in Graham's Robin Hood cap bobbing above the throng ten feet in front of her. She attempted to push her way toward him but couldn't get through the crowd. Then she stumbled on something and heard a small
oomph
from somewhere below, followed by, “Hey, up there! Watch where you're walking!”

Vivian looked down to find Sammy Evans, dressed as a court jester, standing directly in front of her. Another step and they both would have gone tumbling to the floor in a heap.

“Hello, Sammy,” she said with a sigh. “Having a nice time?” She craned her neck in an attempt to see over the crowd. This was one time she didn't appreciate being so short. Then she glanced down at Sammy and realized it could be worse.

“I'm having a wonderful time. You?”

“I was,” she answered truthfully.

“Well, what happened?”

Charlie's warning voice echoed in her head.
Just chat about the weather
, she told herself.
It's unseasonably warm.

“It's not important,” she said, waving her hand.

Sammy watched the fringe on her glove sway. “I'm glad this little soiree wasn't canceled because of Marjorie. I'm having a wonderful time.” Sammy nodded his head vigorously, and the bells on his hat tinkled.

You already said that
, Vivian thought irritably.

He leaned in toward her. “Have you heard any more about what may have happened?”

Vivian shook her head.

“What was that letter all about then?” he asked.

Vivian shrugged, afraid that if she spoke, she'd say something she shouldn't.

“That woman had skeletons in her closet,” he said, shaking his head. A strange half smile formed on his lips. “I suppose I just assumed she'd been horrible to someone she shouldn't have and it came back to bite her. She was always being horrible to people,” he said cryptically. He gazed off into the crowd, his eyes glassy. Then his head snapped toward her again. “By the way, did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

Sammy's chest puffed inside the colorful jester's tunic. “You're looking at the new regularly appearing character on the
Carlton Coffee Variety Hour
!” He hoisted his glass and tipped it toward her in a toast to himself.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Does that mean
The Golden Years
is no more?”

Sammy nodded solemnly and leaned toward her, the back of his hand held to his mouth. “You know I shouldn't say it was a good thing that Marjorie was murdered,” he said in a hushed tone, “but I never would have gotten this role if she hadn't been.” He looked meaningfully into Vivian's eyes until she nodded uncomfortably.

“I've got to go, Sammy. Did you happen to see where Graham went?”

Sammy lifted his drink and pointed. Some of the punch sloshed over the side and splashed on the floor at his feet. He stifled a giggle with his free hand.

She scanned the crowed, but it was no good. Graham had slipped out of sight while she'd been talking to Sammy. She hurried off anyway before Sammy could attempt to drunkenly unburden his soul to her again. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him making his way unsteadily through the dancing throng. He'd be lucky to not be trampled by this lot.

She slid into a chair at an empty table near the dance floor. Couples floated past her in a blur as her mind raced. Who could have been blackmailing Marjorie, and about what? Her alcoholism was an open secret. Certainly, a threat to expose that would have gone over like a lead balloon. It had to be something else, she thought absently. Something in Marjorie's past…but what? Perhaps information about the illusive Mr. Fox? There had been speculation about him but no solid leads.

Who would benefit from Marjorie being gone? Certainly not Mr. Hart or Edith Gill-Davison or the sponsor of
The Golden Years
. Marjorie's death could only complicate all of their business ambitions. The only person so far who had truly benefited had been Sammy. But that didn't figure, because he'd been beside himself with worry because of her death only hours earlier, terrified that he was about to lose his job.

Vivian sat for a few minutes, watching the dancers and trying to sort everything out in her head. It was no use. Everyone was a suspect, and no one was. Vivian sighed in exasperation as a flash of red appeared to her right. She glanced over and smiled absently at Red Riding Hood, who'd just taken the seat next to her.

A female voice floated up from beneath the hood. “Hello, Viv.” Then two hands appeared from underneath the cape to pull the sides of the hood back.

“Oh, hi, Peggy,” Vivian said with a sigh.

“Something wrong?” Peggy asked.

“Just, well, you know…frayed nerves,” Vivian answered honestly.

“I can imagine,” the girl said. She stirred a swizzle stick around in her glass of punch. Then she lifted it to her mouth and took a tiny sip. “Do the police know any more about this mysterious Walter person?”

Vivian snorted. “The police don't know a thing.”

Peggy nodded.

Vivian glanced sidelong at the girl. “I'm sure you saw Marjorie quite a lot around the station,” she said.

Peggy sighed as if the topic of Marjorie bored her. “I rarely had anything to do with
The Golden Years
, but I saw her fairly often, yes.”

“What did you think of her?”

Peggy blinked. “Think of her?” she repeated, as if the answer were obvious. “She wasn't very nice.”

“Do you know of anyone at the station who had it in for her?”

Peggy smirked. “Who didn't?” The girl thought for a moment and then leaned toward Vivian conspiratorially, as if she were going to tell her a juicy bit of gossip. “Marjorie Fox clawed her way into the business tooth and nail,” she said. “I'm sure she did plenty of unsavory things on her way to the top.”

True
, Vivian thought, but hardly a revelation. There had been a strange lilt to Peggy's voice, as if she'd intended Vivian to take something she'd just said at more than face value. Vivian shook her head. She was probably just tired and imagining things. “Have you seen Charlie, by any chance?” she asked.

The girl shook her head.

“Well, how about Graham—have you seen him lately?”

“Yes,” Peggy answered, her expression turning quickly into one of disgust. She seemed to lose her train of thought for a moment, then said, “They looked like two bugs in a rug.”

“Who did?” Vivian asked. For some reason, she immediately thought of Mr. Hart and his secretary and scanned the ballroom for them. Had Peggy stumbled upon them somewhere? Did she know of her father's dalliances?

“Graham and Frances,” Peggy said quietly.

“Graham and Frances,” Vivian repeated. “Where?”

“Not that I hadn't heard the rumors,” Peggy continued, as if she hadn't heard Vivian's question. “But I didn't want to believe them.” She glanced sidelong at Vivian, eyes peeking out from beneath her large, red hood. The sour look on Peggy's face broadcast that Vivian was not the only one disappointed at this turn of events.

“Rumors,” Vivian repeated. Of course she'd heard them, but she wouldn't believe it until she saw it for herself. “Where were they?”

Peggy looked straight ahead, her face invisible behind the red curtain of her hood, and replied, “I just passed them in the coatroom—”

If there was more to Peggy's sentence, Vivian didn't hear it. She jumped from her chair and rushed off, pushing aside court jesters, dairy maids, and anyone else who dared to get in her way.

They were still there standing just inside the door to the coatroom. Frances's back was to Vivian, but she could see Graham's face clearly over the red velvet bow perched on the crown of Frances's head. He was smiling at Frances, the kind of knowing, flirtatious smile men flashed to women they knew very well, or wanted to know very well. Vivian watched as Frances placed her white-gloved hands on Graham's broad chest, and then he leaned down toward her, the brown feather in his cap bobbing jauntily.

Vivian whirled on her heel and hurried off, head down in embarrassment and indignation. She should have known. She'd heard the talk—everyone had. Of course, Frances would make a play for Graham. Why wouldn't she? Vivian's head was still down, her mind still swirling, when she smashed headlong into someone. She felt a stinging icy coldness dribble down her front and heard the distinct crash of glass hitting floor. Strong hands grabbed her forearms, fingers digging into her flesh to keep her from falling backward from the impact.

Morty's freckled face came into focus above her.

“Viv! What on earth?”

“I'm sorry,” she muttered, straightening and brushing Morty's hands away. “I'm just… I'm just…” She couldn't find any more words.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said angrily. The last thing she wanted right now was to be covered in punch and chatting with Morty Nickerson.

“You aren't leaving, are you?” Morty looked stricken at the thought.

“No,” she assured him. She resisted glancing behind her. Graham wouldn't be following. He hadn't seen her. And why would he come after her when he had Frances in his arms and at the ready?

“I'm sorry about…” Morty gestured helplessly to the bright red punch stain spreading across the front of her previously pristine costume.

Vivian waved his apology away.

“It's a really nice costume,” he said feebly. “Is it—”

“Ruined, yes,” she finished. “Don't worry about it. It's from the costume closet—
Country Cavalcade
.” She appraised his attire
.
“What are you dressed as?”

“Isn't it obvious?” he asked, straightening his spine and smoothing the blue velvet tunic over his chest. “I'm Prince Charming, of course,” he said seriously.

“Of course,” she replied without enthusiasm.

“Maybe I should go find Frances… You know, the Snow White to my Prince Charming.” He chuckled.

Vivian narrowed her eyes in irritation at hearing the woman's name.

Morty took a step toward her and leaned down to look directly into her face. “Look, Viv,” he began, his voice soft. “I want you to know that I don't blame you for putting the police on my trail.”

Vivian blinked. “What?”

“The police,” he repeated. “Sergeant Trask came at me with all sorts of questions this afternoon. I just want you to know that I don't blame you.”

Vivian's body went cold. A thousand questions formed in her mind, but her mouth couldn't grasp on to any of them.

“I… Well… I don't know how he got that impression,” she said stupidly.

“From you,” Morty answered simply. “I know you told Sergeant Trask that I asked you about your letter.”

“I… Well…”

“It's okay,” he said calmly. “Really. I would've done the same thing.” He leaned even closer to her, and Vivian shrank away from the smell of rum-laced punch on his breath and the manic look in his wide blue eyes. “But I want you to know that I didn't do it. Marjorie was a horrible person, but I didn't kill her.”

“Oh.”

“And I didn't send you any letter.”

Vivian didn't respond.

“Be sure to tell Sergeant Trask that,” he said, staring at her intently.

“I have to go, Morty,” she said, taking one wide step to the left.

“You'll tell him?”

“Of course.”

Vivian had no intention of telling Sergeant Trask anything. Everyone was the bogeyman, or so it seemed tonight. Any one of ten people could have killed Marjorie without batting an eye, and someone in this room most certainly had.

• • •

Vivian needed to find Charlie, but she couldn't see him anywhere. She scoured the dance floor, sifting through the musketeers and Cleopatras, bouncing on her toes in the middle of the throng in a vain attempt to see over plumed hats and powdered wigs. At the edge of the crowd, she did spot a familiar and welcome face—Imogene. Her friend's eyes widened as she approached.

“Have you seen Charlie?” Vivian asked, ignoring the distress on her friend's face.

Imogene shook her head, the glittery silver veil sending out sparks of light. She pointed to Vivian's chest. “What on earth happened to you?”

Vivian glanced down at the stain turning a nasty mottled brownish-red on the pristine white of the cowhide vest.

“Morty happened to me.”

“Please tell me that's not from the costume closet,” Imogene said.

“I'm sorry, Genie. It was an accident.” Vivian brushed at the stain. “It's fine. It'll come out with a little club soda.”

Imogene made a face. “Not likely.” She took a sip of her punch, regarding Vivian carefully over the lip of her glass. “What's wrong? You have that pinched look to your face that tells me things aren't going as planned.”

Vivian turned and glanced quickly around the room. She still didn't spot Charlie's white Stetson in the crowd. She looked at Imogene. “Frances,” she said in an exasperated exhale.

“What's she done now?”

“What she always does, I guess. Make trouble.” Vivian watched her fingers pull at the fringe on her vest as she spoke. “I just saw her with Graham in the coat closet. They were very close.” She looked up and locked eyes with her friend. “Very.”

Imogene shook her head in sympathy. “I hate to say it, but that's not really a surprise. I've been hearing for months that she wanted to get her hooks into him.”

“Well, it looked a few minutes ago like she got her wish.”

Imogene touched Vivian's arm lightly. “Are you going to call off your date tomorrow night?”

Vivian shrugged. She had no claim on Graham Yarborough. She'd be a fool to think that those thousand-watt smiles were reserved just for her. Graham was a flirt, and Frances was an attractive girl. It was just biology. Still, it hurt Vivian's pride to see them together like that—so cozy.

“I don't know,” Vivian said, distracted. She didn't have time for this drama right now. “I need to find Charlie.”

Imogene took another sip of her drink. “Is that really all that's bothering you?”

“Yes,” Vivian said. She'd turned and gazed over the dancing crowd so that she wouldn't have to look her best friend in the eye as she lied to her. She felt terrible, but she couldn't tell Imogene about the blackmail. She couldn't tell anyone but Charlie, and he was the only person she hadn't run into since she found out. She turned back to her friend. “Sorry, Genie. I've got to go.”

She could tell from the look on Imogene's face that she didn't believe her. Genie knew her too well for secrets. “Try the balcony,” she said. “Maybe he needed some air.”

Vivian nodded, turned on her heel, and headed toward the balcony on the opposite side of the room. She fought her way across the dance floor again, getting a painful shot to the ribs from an overzealous jitterbugger on the way. She was within steps of the doorway when a shout stopped her in her tracks.

“Viv!”

She turned to find Graham bearing down on her, his path appearing in the throng of bodies as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. He did make a terribly dashing Robin Hood, she thought, watching him approach. He might be the only man in the Western Hemisphere, besides Errol Flynn himself, who could pull off that ridiculous penciled-in mustache. He reached her and smiled. “There you are. I've been looking all over for you.”

“Have you?” Vivian asked, her face the picture of innocence.
Looking for me in the coat closet
, she thought,
as you pressed yourself against Frances Barrow?

Graham nodded and held his hand out to her, palm up. “How about a dance?”

“I'm afraid I'm not much in the mood for dancing.” She rubbed her sore ribs.

Graham's sparkling smile faded a bit. “A rain check then?”

Vivian nodded, her eyes darting over Graham's shoulder and around the room. Still no Charlie.

“Later it is, my lady.” Graham doffed his Robin Hood cap and bent at the waist with a flourish in an exaggerated impression of a courtly bow. As he did, Vivian's eyes wandered above him over the dance floor. Frances stood on the opposite side of the room directly in her line of vision. As their eyes met, Frances's lips curled into a syrupy, taunting smile.

• • •

Vivian watched Graham disappear into the crowd on the dance floor, then turned and stepped through the doorway and onto the balcony. She needed some air herself. The balcony was a long, thin strip running the length of the ballroom. It was unlit and quiet. The only noises were the sounds of traffic three stories below and the ever-present rumble of the El trains. She'd expected to come across at least a few amorous couples out here in the darkness, but she seemed to be alone. Maybe it was too early for those kinds of shenanigans. She walked to the edge of the balcony and placed her hands on the railing with a sigh.

She heard a rustling in the far corner, feet shifting on the concrete. She squinted into the shadows, her pulse quickening. “Who—” She'd meant to sound authoritative, but the word had come out in a whisper inaudible to anyone but herself.

Then a white Stetson became visible in the gloom.
Charlie, thank God.
She took a deep breath to slow her racing heart. He walked toward her, and she said, in what she hoped was a casual tone, “Oh, I didn't see you there.”

He smirked and turned away from her again, elbows on the balustrade. “So I gathered,” he said.

“Have you been enjoying the party?” Vivian asked.

“Not really,” he said, squinting into the alley below. “You?”

“I've had better evenings,” she answered. She walked over next to him and rested her hands on the railing.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“I don't know what you mean,” she answered, trying to keep her tone neutral. Vivian clutched the railing a little tighter and then released it. She tugged impatiently at the cuff of one glove.

“How long have you being seeing Yarborough?” Charlie asked, tilting his head toward the ballroom door. His tone was matter-of-fact, and Vivian couldn't tell if he was asking for personal reasons or if he was merely inquiring as part of his investigation.

“I'm not
seeing
him,” she said automatically. “Well, I mean…” She sighed. “I don't know what I mean…”

“You're going out with him tomorrow night.”

“How did—” She cut her question short. Charlie was a detective after all. It was his job to know things. “I'm not so sure about tomorrow night anymore.”
I'm not sure about Graham anymore
, she thought. She followed Charlie's gaze and squinted into the darkness of the alley below. She couldn't see anything except shades of gray and tiny pools of yellowed pavement where the lights of the streetlamps reached into the dark.

“Maybe that's for the best,” Charlie said.

Vivian glanced sharply at him. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“No one's above suspicion, you know.” He turned to favor her with a long, meaningful look.

“You can't be serious. Graham? He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

The detective just shrugged.

“That's ridiculous,” she said, a puff of impatient air exiting her nostrils. “Besides, Graham couldn't be the killer. He and I were together in the coffee shop when Marjorie was murdered. Dozens of people saw us there.”

“Of course,” he answered. “I'm just trying to impress upon you that you shouldn't trust anyone.” She could only see Charlie's profile in the light from the ballroom. He looked like the cover of a pulp comic, his expression cold, impassive.

“You think Graham used me as his alibi?”

“I'm saying it's possible, that's all.” He paused before adding, “Anything's possible.”

“So you've said,” she replied curtly. Vivian studied Charlie's profile for a moment longer. His mood had changed drastically since he'd gone to talk to Mr. Hart. “I don't know what's happened,” she began. “But this conversation is—”

Charlie's hand darted toward her, and he held one finger up to her lips, his eyes focused over her head. After a beat he pointed over her right shoulder toward the end of the alley.

Vivian twisted her upper body and squinted into the darkness but saw nothing. She turned back to Charlie, exasperated. “What's the meaning of all—”

In a flash, Charlie clamped one hand over her mouth and pulled her toward him with the other. He squeezed her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. He'd knocked the hat from her head as he pulled her to his chest; she could feel it hanging down the middle of her back, pulling at the strap around her neck. The smell of cowhide filled her nostrils, and one tip of Charlie's tin sheriff's badge scraped against her cheek. She struggled frantically, but he held her arms in a viselike grip.

Almost instantaneously, a bang and an explosion came from beyond her line of vision. Vivian let loose a scream, but the sound was muffled under Charlie's hand. She twisted to look up at him, panicked, but he was focused on something in the alley below. He tossed her roughly to the floor of the balcony and threw himself on top of her. “Don't move,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

“What's going on?” she asked, her voice squeaky with alarm. She squirmed, but he must have outweighed her by fifty pounds. After a moment, Charlie jumped up to crouch near the railing. He popped his head over the top and then quickly back down. She began to sit up with some difficulty.