The Darkness Knows (13 page)

“Stay where you are!” Charlie hissed.

“What's going on?” she repeated as she lowered herself back to the floor. In her peripheral vision she could see hundreds of tiny pottery shards scattered across the balcony floor, the remains of the potted fern that had been sitting on the railing next to her.

“Someone's taken a shot at you,” he said. “Now stay down!” Then he sprang from his crouched position and sprinted off through the doorway back into the ballroom.

Vivian gaped after him, openmouthed. She turned to stare at the remains of the pot and realized, with embarrassing clarity, how right Dave Chapman had been. She'd been a fool for coming here tonight. Someone really did want her dead.

Vivian felt like Charlie had left her alone in a heap on the balcony floor only seconds before, but already he was back. Flushed from exertion, he helped her to her feet. When she tried to speak, he silently put a finger to her lips. Then he grabbed her roughly by both shoulders and steered her back through the melee of the ballroom, deftly dodging swirling couples, and into a small room just to the right of the bandstand. The music and laughter must have drowned out the echoing bang of the gunshot, because the party was continuing as if nothing had happened. Charlie shut the door quickly behind them. When he finally spoke, his voice was urgent.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The band struck up again: “Begin the Beguine.” Instead of answering, Vivian looked wistfully at the closed door, picturing the carefree time being had beyond. She found herself deeply regretting her refusal of Graham's earlier offer of a dance. This wouldn't have happened if she'd just danced with him.

Charlie placed his knuckles under her chin and tilted her face back toward him. His own eyes were hard and narrowed, his features now pale. He searched her face for a moment before his eyes shifted down to the front of her costume. His gaze focused sharply, and his eyes widened with alarm.

“You're hurt!” he said.

Vivian shook her head, but before she could explain, Charlie had swept her up into his arms and carried her to an armchair in the middle of the room. He lowered her gently into it and fell to his knees in front of her, his hands passing lightly over her midriff, poking here, prodding there, concentrating on the task at hand. Vivian could only watch, her mouth agape. It was only when Charlie began to unbutton her blouse from the bottom up, fingers sliding under the fabric to inspect her “wound” further, that she finally regained her senses and smacked his curious hands.

Charlie looked up, confused, his hands still hovering over her stomach.

“It's just punch,” she said wearily, rubbing her stinging palm.

“Punch?”

“You know,” she answered, her voice flat. “The drink in the big bowl out there?”

Charlie's face was blank. “You're not bleeding?”

“No.”

He pulled his hands away from her and rocked back on his heels. The color rushed back into his face in an instant, and he muttered his apologies. He straightened to his full height. “What happened?” he asked.

“Morty,” she said, glancing down at the stain, which had dried to an unsightly maroon.

Charlie looked at her and blinked several times. “Morty threw a drink on you?”

Vivian would've laughed if the situation hadn't been so dire. Instead, she exhaled slowly through her nose. “I ran into him. Literally. And the punch he'd been carrying spilled on me.” She smiled then, mouth tightly closed, but the smile faded when she recalled the conversation she'd had with the engineer afterward. “He knows I told Sergeant Trask about his strange behavior yesterday,” she said.

Charlie scowled at the information. “And?”

“And he was very adamant about me rectifying the situation with the police.”

“Was he angry?”

“Angry enough to shoot me, you mean?” As Vivian considered the idea, she raised her hand to brush an errant wisp of hair from her forehead. She sat mesmerized by the trembling of her fingers for a few seconds before finally answering “I don't know” and letting her hand fall back onto her lap.

Charlie grunted thoughtfully.

The door flew open, emitting a blast of sound from the orchestra. Mr. Hart strode in, the heels of his pirate boots clacking on the wooden floor. He looked so livid that Vivian thought he might draw his paper sword from its scabbard and threaten to flay both of them.

“What happened?” he shouted over the din. His eyes darted wildly back and forth between Vivian and Charlie, then were drawn like a magnet to the stain on the front of Vivian's costume. “Oh my God!” he cried, taking a stride toward her.

Vivian held up both hands palms flat out to stop Mr. Hart from advancing on her further in a panic. “I'm fine,” she said firmly. “Really.”

Mr. Hart's eyes darted warily from the stain to Charlie, who nodded to confirm that Vivian was unharmed. Then he nodded toward the open door, and Mr. Hart rushed to close it.

Charlie moved behind Vivian and rested his hands on the back of her chair. Vivian felt him clutch the upholstered chair back, then release several times. He waited until the door was securely latched, then said in a clear voice, “We were standing on the balcony a few minutes ago, and someone shot at Miss Witchell from the alley below.”

“Shot at her?” Mr. Hart's expression remained calm, but a telltale redness crept out from under his pirate's cravat.

Neither Charlie nor Vivian responded.

“Well, did you see who it was?” Mr. Hart asked.

“No,” Charlie answered. “I gave chase, but the alley was empty when I reached it.”

“You informed the police?” Mr. Hart asked.

Charlie nodded. “Sergeant Trask is on his way here now.”

“The papers will have a field day,” Mr. Hart growled. He looked down at the floor, deep in thought.

“I don't understand any of this,” Vivian said, holding Charlie's gaze. “The letters were supposed to be a red herring.”

Mr. Hart looked up sharply. “Red herring?” he asked.

Vivian narrowed her eyes at Charlie. “You didn't tell him?”

Charlie shook his head and looked away.

“What's all this about red herrings?” Mr. Hart asked, his voice rising in irritation.

Charlie glanced down at Vivian, his jaw clenched, and addressed Mr. Hart. “I had thought that the letters to Mrs. Fox and Miss Witchell were fabricated to send the police down the wrong path.”

“
Had
thought,” Mr. Hart repeated. He glared at Charlie. Vivian thought he seemed much angrier than the situation warranted. He wasn't just alarmed that an attempt had been made on her life. He was angry at Charlie for not seeing it coming, and perhaps for something more.

“Until someone took a shot at Miss Witchell, yes.” Charlie briefly met Vivian's eyes before he looked away again.

“What made you think a fool thing like that?” Mr. Hart asked. The anger in his voice was unmistakable.

Vivian rose from her chair, stepping between the two men. She said to Mr. Hart, “I had seen Marjorie with a letter from the foundling home earlier in the evening, and then her body was found with that fan letter. The letter from the foundling home was missing.
We
assumed,” she said, locking eyes with Charlie, “that the killer had switched the letters after Marjorie was dead.”

Mr. Hart's face blanched.

“Was Marjorie doing something for the foundling home?” Vivian asked. She watched unreadable emotions pass over the older man's face. When he didn't respond, she added in a tentative voice, “Fund-raising perhaps?”

Mr. Hart continued to gaze at something on the far side of the room for a few seconds after the question had left her lips. After a moment, his eyes focused on Vivian, and he smiled weakly. “I was trying to talk her into doing some fund-raising, yes,” he admitted.

“She didn't want to?” Charlie asked.

Mr. Hart shook his head. “She was a stubborn woman,” he said. “We argued.”

A puzzle piece clicked into place in Vivian's mind.

“You argued with her outside the ladies' washroom on the twelfth floor just before she was killed,” she said.

Mr. Hart turned his head sharply in Vivian's direction. Something flickered behind his eyes and then was gone.

“Yes,” he said in a faltering voice. He sat down heavily in the chair Vivian had vacated. “Of course, you know about her drinking? Everyone did,” he added, quietly answering his own question. He looked from Charlie to Vivian and back to Charlie. Some of the color was returning to his face. “Well, it was really starting to come to a head, and that was part of it: a large part.”

“Her drinking,” Charlie confirmed.

Mr. Hart sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “Yes. She was making a shambles of things. I tried to talk her into getting some help.”

“But she disagreed,” Charlie said, starting to pace at the back of the room, distancing himself from Mr. Hart and Vivian.

“Of course she did.” Mr. Hart's mouth turned down at the corners, and he seemed to be lost briefly in some internal reverie. Then he said, “I was too soft on her, I know. I wish I could've helped her.” He glanced over the back of the chair at Charlie and offered a small shrug of his shoulders.

“Did you know that Marjorie was being blackmailed?” Vivian asked before she could lose her nerve.

Both Mr. Hart's and Charlie's heads snapped toward her.

“Where did you hear that?” Charlie asked, his tone accusing.

Vivian shrugged, “Gossip,” she said. “You can't stop people from talking.” She focused her attention back on Mr. Hart. “Did you know she was being blackmailed?” she repeated.

Mr. Hart looked down at his hands, which were clasped tightly in front of him. “No,” he said in a flat voice without looking up.

The door opened behind Vivian, admitting Sergeant Trask, two more police officers, and another blast of dance music. The two officers headed toward Mr. Hart while Sergeant Trask strode straight toward Vivian. The whole maneuver seemed strangely choreographed, like they were all playing parts in a well-rehearsed drama.

Sergeant Trask stopped abruptly in front of Vivian and said rather than asked, “Miss Witchell, you're unhurt.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Just shaken up a bit.”

“Glad to hear it,” the policeman said, glancing briefly at the punch stain and then back up at her face. “I need to talk to both of you,” he announced, addressing Charlie over Vivian's head. “What can you tell me about what just happened?”

“Not much,” Vivian said. She recounted the events of their last few minutes on the balcony.

Sergeant Trask made a few quick notes as she spoke. Then he turned his attention to the detective who'd moved to stand protectively at her side.

“Anything to add?” he asked, glancing at Charlie.

“I didn't see much either,” Charlie answered. “I noticed some movement in the alley below as Miss Witchell and I were talking. I was just suspicious enough to pull her out of the way before the shot was fired. By the time I'd made my way down to the alley, the shooter was long gone.”

“Sounds like you're a lucky woman, Miss Witchell,” Sergeant Trask said drily.

“Don't I know it.” Vivian shot a meaningful look at Charlie and mouthed the word “Thanks.”

Charlie nodded quickly at her, then said to them, “I need to go speak with Mr. Hart. Please excuse me.”

Sergeant Trask finished his notes with a few quick flicks of his pencil. Then he snapped his notebook shut and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

“I'm sorry I can't be of more help,” Vivian said with an apologetic lift of her shoulders. Her head was suddenly muddled, her thoughts foggy.

The policeman nodded, then studied her in silence. “You got here quickly,” she observed, more to cover the awkward silence than to make an actual point. Silence was a tactic she'd heard policemen and therapists used to get people so nervous that they spilled their guts. Unfortunately for Sergeant Trask, she had nothing to spill.

The policeman nodded again, a quick up-and-down jerk of his jaw. “We were in the building. We're keeping a close eye,” he said.

“On…?”

“On everyone.”

She glanced at the group of men on the other side of the room. Charlie had joined them, and they were deep in conference. Then she turned back to focus on Sergeant Trask's round, earnest face. “You have someone in particular in mind,” she said.

“I wish,” he answered. “But we have nothing concrete to go on yet. It's just likely that the killer was someone from the station.”

“If you're keeping such a close eye,” she said in a whisper, “you must have seen something outside, something of the person who took a shot at me.”

Sergeant Trask's lips pursed. “We didn't, I'm afraid,” he said.

Vivian felt the blood rush to her face. “I was nearly killed!” she blurted out. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She glanced back over at the group of men, but none of them turned in her direction.

Sergeant Trask's eyes widened a bit, but otherwise, his face registered no surprise at her outburst. “We're doing our best, Miss Witchell,” he said.

She stared into his pale blue eyes, looking for some sign of sympathy. He'd offered no explanation, no theories. The police either had no new information, or they didn't want to share what they had discovered.

Then the policeman leaned in toward her and said in a low voice, “Try to keep your head, Miss Witchell. You're in good hands.” He looked over at the quorum of men and then winked at her.

Vivian narrowed her eyes. He was patronizing her. She'd run across this attitude before; she was a woman and therefore a simpleton. She forced a smile to her lips. Keep her head indeed. Despite the sergeant's attitude, this was not a game, and she was not a damsel in distress.

“I'll keep—” the policeman began.

“Me informed,” Vivian finished for him. “Yes, I know.”

Then Sergeant Trask excused himself to join the group of men on the other side of the room.

“I'm not a fan of your friend,” she said to Charlie as he approached.

“My friend?”

“The diminutive Sergeant Trask,” she said, her voice full of venom. She eyed the policemen from across the room as she spoke.

“What makes you think he's my friend?” Charlie asked.

Vivian shrugged. “You seemed friendly, that's all.”

Charlie regarded her for a moment, his expression remote. “I'm friendly with everyone, Viv. It helps in my line of work.”