The Darkness Knows (20 page)

• • •

The cab ride home was silent. Both Vivian and Graham were reluctant to say much of anything in front of the driver besides, “Nice night.” When they arrived at her house, Graham helped Vivian out of the cab and then frowned at her as they stood facing each other on the sidewalk just below the front steps.

“I'm sorry I've been so cross this evening,” Graham said. “I guess it was all the talk of Marjorie. It put me in a foul mood.”

Vivian said nothing. “Cross” wasn't the half of it. His mood had turned on a dime when discussing Marjorie, and it had frightened her a bit in the moment, but even more so now that she'd had time to mull everything over. He'd dropped the Marjorie relationship on Vivian like a bomb and then vehemently denied killing the woman—before the thought had even entered Vivian's mind. And then there was the blackmail.

She suspected Graham hadn't told her the half of what had gone on between him and Marjorie. In fact, his whole explanation seemed like a carefully orchestrated story to establish his innocence—to get Vivian on his side before something slipped out in the course of the investigation. Maybe this whole evening had been a setup—and not just for the publicity. Maybe this confession was the only reason he'd asked her out at all. Graham Yarborough had more secrets. She was sure of it.

“We'll have to do this again,” Graham said. “When all of this has blown over.”

Vivian forced a smile. “Of course.”

She shivered in the frosty fall air, and Graham reached over to pull her mother's borrowed fur more tightly around her shoulders. His hands lingered, fingers brushing the side of her neck. She resisted the urge to flinch at his touch. His dark eyes met hers and held them.

“I guess this is good night,” she said.

Vivian watched icy tendrils of breath form at his lips, then disappear into the darkness.

“I guess it is.”

Graham looked at her, the smile slipping from his face. Then his hands moved from her shoulders up to her cheeks. He cupped her face in his hands for a moment before leaning in slowly, impossibly slowly, to touch his lips to hers. It was a brief kiss, over almost before it began. Vivian hadn't even time to properly close her eyes before he pulled away and they were illuminated by the headlights of the car pulling up to the house.

Graham stepped away from her. She glanced quickly at the car and wondered if Charlie had seen the kiss.

“I'll see you on Monday?” Graham asked, clasping her hands in his.

She nodded.

He squeezed them once and turned away. She held her smile for a minute as she watched him climb back into the waiting cab in case Graham turned again to look at her. He didn't, but she could hear him whistling very faintly before he closed the taxi door.

Vivian removed the ermine from her shoulders and held it up to the light of the foyer, admiring its perfect whiteness as she considered Graham's kiss. It had been nothing like the passionate, wild fumbling with Charlie in the closet. In fact, what Graham had done had barely registered as a kiss in the grand scheme of things. Now that Graham
had
finally kissed her, an event Vivian had been fantasizing about for weeks, she found herself trying to work up some enthusiasm for it. Frankly, it had left her flat, and not entirely because of all the horrible truths—or half-truths—Graham had let slip this evening.

Now that she knew more about the real Graham, his handsome face and charming manner no longer held much appeal. There was some relief in that. It would make it easier to work with him, for one thing. No more sweaty palms and missed lines. She shrugged before draping the fur carefully over one forearm, brushing it absently with her fingers. She'd have to sneak it back into her mother's closet before she noticed it was missing.

“Have a nice time tonight?” Charlie asked, banging into the foyer.

“Yes,” she said.

“It certainly looked like it.”

“Oh. Well, I…” she began, fumbling for a defense and not finding one.

He shook his head. “No need to make excuses. Yarborough's a charming guy.” His tone was flat, and he stared into her eyes for one long moment before breaking her gaze to toss his hat onto one of the arms of the coat-tree. “Care for a nightcap?”

Without waiting for her answer, Charlie swaggered into the den and opened the liquor cabinet. He pulled out the almost-empty decanter of scotch and filled two glasses to the brim. He took a swig from his own glass before holding the other out to Vivian. She took it after a slight hesitation. The last time they'd shared a drink like this, Charlie had been about to tell her that someone wanted to kill her. She shivered at the memory.

Charlie slumped into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and sighed. After a long moment he said, “Look, Viv, there's something you don't know about Yarborough. Something I think you're entitled to know.”

Vivian held her hand up to stop him. “I know about Graham and Marjorie,” she announced firmly. “He told me tonight.”

Charlie's brow wrinkled. He opened his mouth to speak, but Vivian cut him off.

“He said it was a long time ago—before they came to WCHI and before she really started drinking.” Vivian spoke rapidly. She was embarrassed at having to repeat Graham's flimsy excuse—embarrassed that it had been at all plausible to her when he'd told her. Graham had used Marjorie to improve his career, and it was very likely that's how he was using Vivian now. And what was worse, she was positive that Charlie already knew. He'd known it all along.

“He didn't mention any of that to the police.”

“No,” Vivian said. “He said he had never mentioned it to anybody…except me.”

Charlie squinted at her. “Why not?”

“I asked him that,” she said. She realized she was talking too fast. “I think it's embarrassing to him. It was long time ago. He didn't kill her, he said, so he didn't know why he should make a suspect of himself.”

Charlie shook his head slowly, considering. “Good point, because I'd say that's exactly what that makes him.”

Vivian swallowed hard. “And I think Marjorie was blackmailing Graham,” she said.

Her stomach contracted tightly at the idea. She recalled Graham's reaction at Chez Paree at the hint of blackmail. There had to be something behind that. Why would he jump to that conclusion if it hadn't been true? “But that's ridiculous,” she whispered almost to herself, part of her still not wanting to believe it.

Charlie shrugged. “Is it? Who better to blackmail than a former lover who's an up-and-coming star? It sounds like there's something in Yarborough's past he'd prefer to
keep in the past
.” He looked meaningfully at her.

Just yesterday, Vivian would have responded that Graham was an open book, but now she understood she knew very little about the man beyond his current career ambitions and that the direct gaze of his dark eyes had once turned her to jelly. Charlie opened his mouth to say something else, seemed to reconsider, and took another long gulp of scotch instead.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Vivian watched the liquor swirl in her glass and tried not to think about all of the holes in Graham's story, about the suspicions his behavior tonight had raised in her. The thought of Graham hiding something so huge made her uneasy. Even just sitting in the den again made her uneasy. She'd avoided it since the other night when Charlie'd let her know in no uncertain terms that she was mixed up in Marjorie's murder, whether she wanted to be or not. And now the person who wanted her dead might be Graham? She closed her eyes.

When she opened them, Charlie was studying her from across the room, his brow furrowed, his blue-green gaze level. He sat staring at her, unspeaking, long enough to make her uncomfortable.

“You know, I'm not sorry about what happened earlier today,” he finally said.

An involuntary thrill traveled up Vivian's spine like a mild electric shock. “Which part?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. “You know which part,” he said. “And I didn't like seeing you with Yarborough tonight,” he added in a low voice. He stood and walked slowly toward her. “In fact, I hated it.”

“Is that so?” Vivian's breath sped up.

“I didn't want you to go out with him at all,” he said. He stopped in front of her and looked directly down at her. “And it didn't really have much to do with your life being in danger, truth be told. But I didn't think there was any way I could stop you. You're so goddamned determined.”

Vivian narrowed her eyes at the detective. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“That's how I meant it,” he said, brushing his fingertips along her jaw. “And if could stop you from ever wanting to see Yarborough again, I would.”

Vivian felt herself go weak under the intensity of Charlie's gaze. “And just how would you do that, Detective?”

He leaned slowly down toward her, excruciatingly slowly, and kissed her. This was nothing like his chaste first kiss, or even the frantic scrabbling in Marjorie's closet. This time the kiss was slow, thorough, teasing… Vivian responded immediately but kept her hands at her sides, valiantly resisting the urge to wrap herself around him. He broke away after a few long, immensely satisfying minutes and straightened to his full height, raising his eyebrows.

“That's surely not
all
you would do…” she challenged, her voice husky.

He shook his head slightly in response and then bent and lifted Vivian off her feet, sweeping her up into his arms so quickly that she didn't have time to protest. One of her satin slippers fell to the floor with a clatter, and she managed a surprised squeak before struggling halfheartedly against his grip. She felt she ought to at least feign putting up a fight, for the sake of her dignity, though fighting was the last thing on her mind right now.

“Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?” she asked. She hit him in the chest with one ineffectual fist.

“The kind I like,” he answered, grabbing her fist. Then he kissed her again, hard, before wordlessly starting off in the direction of the staircase.

Vivian relaxed into his embrace for a moment and let her head loll against his shoulder, relishing the feel of his strong arms around her. Then she stiffened as the reality of the situation struck her. “No!” she cried.

Charlie stopped walking and looked down at her, the disappointment on his handsome face almost comical. “No?”

Vivian smiled and ran a hand up his chest to his neck. She brushed her fingers teasingly along one of his earlobes and looked him directly in the eyes. “I mean, no…” she said, her voice nearly a growl. “Take me up the
back
stairs, Detective.”

The next morning, Vivian found Charlie sitting in a chair in the den, intently reading the newspaper with a cup of steaming coffee near his elbow.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “You've eaten?”

“Hours ago,” he said, his eyes just visible for an instant over the front page of the
Tribune
.

She glanced at the grandfather clock and did a double take to confirm the time, almost not believing her eyes. It was nearly eleven.

“You needed to regain your strength, Detective?” she teased, coming up behind him and running her open palms down his chest as she leaned down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. She rubbed her face across his freshly shaven cheek and resisted the strong urge to nip him in that delicious spot where neck met earlobe. She smirked at the tiny mark in that precise spot already turning a bright purple. She'd done enough nipping last night. She kissed the bruise lightly instead, and Charlie made a noise low in his throat, tilting his head slightly toward her. “Anything new?” she asked, standing again.

Charlie lowered his paper and gestured to the newspapers strewn over the coffee table. He raised one golden eyebrow and said, “See for yourself.”

Vivian bit her lip and scanned the front page of the
Tribune
he was holding but saw nothing referencing her or Marjorie's murder.

She pulled the edge of the paper away from Charlie's face, a smile forming on her lips, sure that he was teasing her. “There's nothing—”

“Look again.”

She followed his eyes to this morning's edition of the
Patriot
lying on top of the pile on the coffee table.

A photo dominated the top half of the paper—it was Vivian and Graham at their table at Chez Paree. She was half standing, scowling angrily (but not unbecomingly, she noted) at the camera. Graham's hand was raised as if to ward off the photographers, but she noticed that both of their faces were conveniently left uncovered. Graham's face sported a mild half smile, one eyebrow raised. This must have been the last photo taken of them before she begged Graham to run the photographers off—the one taken after they'd asked her about Marjorie.

Then she read the headline above the photo. “I'm Not Afraid,” it trumpeted in bold, black type. She snatched the paper from the table with trembling fingers, feeling the heat rise to her face as she read the first paragraph.

Vivian Witchell danced the evening away at Chez Paree with her costar Graham Yarborough despite the peril of imminent death hanging over her head. She confirmed that she'd received a threatening letter just like the one received by the recently murdered Marjorie Fox, her costar at WCHI, but claimed with a defiant air that she was “not afraid of anything.” Miss Witchell was seen dancing and canoodling with Mr. Yarborough throughout the evening as if she hadn't a care in the world.

Vivian threw the newspaper down onto the coffee table. It struck a bowl of sugar cubes and sent it crashing to the tile floor.

“Canoodling?” she said aloud, feigning disbelief. Though she definitely had been canoodling at least in the beginning of the evening—and Charlie knew it as well as she did. “And I didn't say… I would never say…” She stopped suddenly, snapping her mouth shut, a fresh rush of heat rising to her cheeks. She
had
said those things, all of those things. She'd confirmed the second letter. She'd distinctly told the reporter that she wasn't afraid of anything. She hadn't realized the man was a reporter at that point, but she'd still done it. Her heart pounded with anxiety. If she'd seen this, then Mr. Hart had definitely seen it.

She squinted at the byline of the story—Mack Rippert—and snorted at the memory of the smarmy, bespectacled man who had begged a dance from her. Charlie had known, of course. He always knew. She owed Charlie an apology, but she had no idea how to begin. It wasn't like her to eat crow.

“Look,” she said, worrying the hem of her dress. “You were—”

Charlie held up one large hand, halting her attempt at an apology, letting the scowl etched on his face do all the talking for him.

Vivian waited a long moment before beginning again. “I'm sorry,” she said, not giving Charlie time to cut her off. She hitched in a deep breath. “I should have believed you about that reporter,” she continued. “He was a snake in the grass.” And she hadn't even gotten the two-page spread out of it, she thought with more than a little regret. Her eyes fell on the photo again. Graham looked handsome and something else… Satisfied? Pleased? She felt her anger rise again at the very idea. Graham had known about the photographers ahead of time, that much was certain.

“Any publicity is good publicity,” she said mockingly, staring down at Graham's smirking face.

“Isn't that your philosophy too?” Charlie asked.

Vivian didn't answer.
It is
, she thought.
Or at least it was
.

She felt the urge to rake her fingernails over the photo and scratch Graham's handsome face into oblivion. She felt her knees buckle, and she collapsed into the chair opposite Charlie. She closed her eyes, putting her fingertips gently to her temples. She took a breath and forced the exhalation through her nose. After a moment, she opened her eyes to find the detective staring at her.

“Where's Mother?” she asked, her voice dull.

“Church,” he said. “Then she mentioned something about surprising your brother at school. She took one of the policemen with her.”

Vivian snorted. A surprise visit from their mother on a Sunday afternoon—Everett would love that. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the quiet of the room. She snatched the newspaper and scanned the remaining contents of the article, unable to help herself. When she was finished, she sighed and tossed it back onto the table, flipping it over so that the photo didn't show.

“It's not so bad,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice. “I mean, it could be worse.”

Charlie only grunted in reply, his face again buried in the Sunday edition of the
Tribune
.

Vivian glared over at the detective. She didn't expect much, but she thought a smidgen of sympathy for the precarious position she was in was justified, especially after what had happened between them last night. She'd expected, at the very least, that after last night he'd be in a better mood, but he'd barely even looked at her. “What gives?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she had an abrupt realization about Charlie's uncharacteristically dark mood. He clearly regretted last night. That's what. What else could it be? What had so drastically changed in the past few hours, despite the fact that she'd taken him to her bed? He hadn't said ten words to her since she'd come downstairs. He could barely look her in the eye. He was going to put that paper down any moment now, fix his steely gaze on her, and tell her in so many words:
Viv, it was a mistake. It was unprofessional
. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

“Charlie,” she said before she could lose her nerve. She wanted to beat him to the punch, even though she didn't regret one thing about last night. But if she didn't say it, then he would. And she didn't think she could bear hearing it. “Last night was—”

The telephone rang and cut her off. They looked at each other while it trilled.
Last night was…wonderful, amazing, what you wanted too… Please don't say it wasn't
. She wanted to say all of those things, more, but nothing came out. Six rings in, she realized that no one else was there to answer the blasted thing. Charlie simply looked at her with those gorgeous blue-green eyes, his expression a strange mixture of curiosity and confusion. The ringing was insistent, rattling around inside her head so that she couldn't form a coherent thought. “Sorry,” she said, jumping from the chair and rushing into the foyer.

“Hello,” she said, clutching the receiver.

“Vivian, this is Mr. Hart.”

Her stomach dropped, and she thought she might be sick just from the sound of his voice.

“Mr. Hart,” she squeaked.

“Listen, Viv,” he said. “About that story in the
Patriot
this morning…”

“Yes.” She felt sweat break out along her hairline. “Let me explain about that.”

“There's no need,” he said.

Vivian felt a momentary rush of relief. Perhaps all of this would be swept under the rug. Perhaps it wasn't important after all.

Mr. Hart cleared his throat. “You can't be talking to reporters. We've discussed that.” The anger in his tone was unmistakable.

Vivian closed her eyes. “Yes, Mr. Hart. We did. But what happened was—”

“I don't give a damn about what happened. The problem is that you talked to a reporter after I explicitly told you not to, Viv. And now the papers are going to be all over us like flies on goose shit.”

Vivian tried to respond but her mouth felt sticky, glued shut.

“I'm afraid I have no recourse but to suspend you from all of your roles indefinitely,” he said.

Vivian blinked, uncomprehending. “Suspend me?” she echoed. “But—”

“But nothing,” he said. “You can and will be replaced.”

The words echoed in her head. Around and around they went:
Replaced, Replaced
. She would be replaced.

“I…I…” she stammered. “I understand.” The words seemed to be coming from someone else's mouth.

She heard the click as Mr. Hart hung up on her. Vivian rested her back against the wall and slid down the smooth oak paneling, coming to rest on the polished floorboards with a thump, the receiver still clutched in her hand.

Charlie poked his head into the hallway. His eyes widened with surprise and mild alarm at seeing her nearly supine on the floor of the entryway.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Vivian didn't move. She blinked slowly, then met the detective's eyes. “I think I've just been fired,” she said, her voice flat and disbelieving.

“Fired?”

“Mr. Hart is angry about the paper this morning. About what I said…”

Charlie furrowed his brow. “Can't say I blame him,” he said.

Vivian dropped her head into her hands.

“That's what he said? You're fired?” Charlie asked.

“Not exactly. He said I'm on an indefinite suspension from all of my roles at the station.” Vivian blinked, tears springing to her eyes. She was barely able to force the next sentence from her trembling lips. “I just know Frances is going to be taking over Lorna Lafferty.”

Charlie shook his head and offered a hand to help her up from the floor. She took it with reluctance, and he pulled her to her feet. He removed the receiver from her grasp and returned it gently to its cradle. Vivian stood unsteadily before him, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms, to have him hold her and make everything better. She opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie beat her to it.

“You know, Viv, you give Frances too much credit. It seems like you are your own worst enemy. You brought this on yourself,” he said.

Vivian wiped her eyes and met Charlie's gaze with her own fierce glare. “Where do you get off?” she asked, pushing his arms away.

“You talked to that reporter, Viv. You said those things.”

“Yes, but…” she sputtered, her mind grappling for an excuse that made sense. “I was tricked.”

Charlie shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But it's your bed…” He lifted both eyebrows and left it to her to fill in the rest of the phrase. She blushed furiously at the mention of her bed.

“You're supposed to be on my side,” she said, her voice dangerously low. She balled both hands into fists. She could feel the fingernails biting into the soft flesh below her thumbs, but she clenched them even harder. She glared at Charlie, who looked impassively back at her. He seemed almost amused by this horrible turn of events. As if he'd been wishing all along that she'd fail spectacularly. She was utterly humiliated—at being fired, yes, but mostly because of the callous way Charlie was treating her. They had been as close as two people could be, and now it was like last night had never happened.

“I
am
on your side,” he said. “But you need to hear the truth.”

She knew the truth. The truth was that the goal she'd been so doggedly pursuing for the past two years, the stardom that was almost within her grasp, had been wrenched away after a few ill-chosen words to the wrong person. The truth was that everything had come crashing down on her, and Charlie didn't care.

“Leave,” she said coldly.

“You know I can't,” he said. “It's my job to keep an eye on you.”

“I don't care.” She unclenched one fist and raised an index finger to point toward the front door. “I don't want your eye…or anything else of yours…anywhere near me!”

Charlie leaned back against the door frame, both arms crossed over his chest. “This isn't the end of the world, you know.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Damn him. She reached behind her, grabbed a vase of chrysanthemums off the end table, and hurled it at Charlie. He ducked smoothly, and the vase smashed into the wall just above his left ear, leaving a divot in the plaster. Charlie brushed a few glass shards off the shoulder of his gray serge suit. Then he lifted his head, his cold aqua eyes meeting her own.

“I think you need to practice your aim,” he said.

Vivian glared at the detective, too furious to speak.

Someone knocked on the front door directly behind her. Vivian sucked in her breath but waited for Charlie to look away before she jerked her head toward the entrance. It could only be more bad news. The round face and cap of one of the policemen popped into the window that ran alongside the door.

Charlie rushed past her to answer it.