The Darkness Knows (8 page)

Vivian rushed to the door before Frances could slip in the last word.

“Viv, wait!”

Vivian turned just outside the doorway to find Peggy bearing down on her.

“I needed to tell you that Daddy—Mr. Hart—wants to see you as soon as possible. I would have told you sooner, but I didn't want to interrupt you and Frances.” The girl glanced down shyly.

Vivian snorted through her nose. “I wish you would have,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “And on top of everything, Mrs. Gill-Davison…today of all days,” Vivian said under her breath and began walking.

“Oh yes,” Peggy said, falling into step beside her. “Your flub wasn't that terrible. In case that's what you're worried about.”

“Just one of the many things I'm worried about, Peggy,” Vivian said with a sigh.

Peggy shot Vivian a knowing look and then lowered her voice. “Mrs. Gill-Davison is really in a tizzy over losing Marjorie. I wonder what she'll do with
The Golden Years
?”

“End it, I suppose,” Vivian said. “How can they go on without the lead?”

“I haven't heard one way or the other yet,” Peggy said breathlessly. “Boy, I'm almost disappointed that I missed all the excitement last night.”

“Lucky you,” Vivian said ruefully. “I wish I could have missed all the
excitement
last night.”

Peggy's face flushed pink. “Sorry, it was a poor choice of words. I meant that I wish I could be around the studio more, but with school and Mother…”

“How's your mother doing?” Vivian asked in a quiet voice. Peggy's mother, Mr. Hart's wife, had been ill for some time, bedridden with a serious ailment that no one called by name but everyone knew was cancer.

Peggy's face clouded over. “She's doing okay,” she said. She looked up, tears glistening in her eyes. Vivian felt sorry for the girl, just a teenager and about to lose her mother.

“Give her my best, would you?” Vivian said.

Peggy nodded and hugged the papers she was holding tighter to her chest. “Hey, where's your shadow?”

It took Vivian a moment to realize Peggy was talking about Charlie. He'd hardly been her shadow at the station so far today. In fact, she wasn't sure where he was. “He's probably already upstairs with your father. Do you know Mr. Haverman?”

“We've met,” she said.

Vivian glanced down and realized she was still holding the script for today's
Love & Glory
, the edges tattered where she'd ripped the pages in nervous agitation. She thrust the crumpled stack of pages at Peggy. “Can you toss this for me?” she asked. Her mind was already upstairs in the executive suite. What could Mr. Hart have to tell her? Was there a development in the investigation?

Mr. Hart seemed to be taking Marjorie's death considerably harder than Vivian would have expected. Usually a dapper man who never left the house without looking every inch the gentleman, today a day's growth of salt-and-pepper stubble covered his cheeks, and he was wearing the same gray suit and shirt Vivian had seen him in the evening before. The dark circles under his eyes were on par with Vivian's own (prior to the two layers of pancake makeup she'd applied, that is).

He'd likely spent the night here in his office. She glanced at the sofa, but if the station head had slept there, it had been tidied since. His office smelled stale, of cigar smoke and sweat. The decanter of brandy that she'd sampled from the night before sat empty on the desktop, but the ashtray was now empty.

Mr. Hart hadn't spoken since Vivian had entered the room. He'd simply tapped the mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener against the side of his desk and stared at the rug, deep in thought. Sergeant Trask sat in a leather chair identical to the one Vivian had perched on and was equally silent. He was scratching notes on his ever-present notepad with the swift, even strokes of a sharpened pencil. Charlie stood at the window, his back to the room. He'd turned briefly when she entered, nodded his acknowledgment of her arrival, and then returned to his post without a word. Vivian was dying to break the silence, to say something, anything, but she didn't dare.

Instead, she watched the dust mites dancing in the shaft of late-morning sunlight that streamed from the window and tried not to let her mind wander back to this morning's rehearsal.

Vivian sighed. The real problem was that she'd let Frances get to her. Vivian couldn't bear to think about that disapproving look on Mrs. Gill-Davison's face. She just hoped she'd recovered well enough during the live show and that the swirling drama of Marjorie's murder would push the disastrous rehearsal out of the woman's mind.

Mr. Hart's new secretary, a buxom young thing with a mass of fiery red hair, swept in with a tray of refreshments. She refilled his coffee cup without asking, stirring in a generous dollop of cream. He nodded his thanks and lifted the cup to his mouth with a trembling hand.

“Coffee? Tea?” she asked Vivian, dipping the tray toward her.

Vivian waved her off. Coffee or tea would only make her more agitated.

The secretary offered refreshments to Sergeant Trask and Charlie, both of whom refused, before turning and sashaying out the door. Mr. Hart waited until the door clicked shut behind her before speaking.

“I trust you know by now about the letter?” he asked Vivian solemnly. His voice was raspy. There was a sadness etched into the deep lines around his mouth, and Vivian began to wonder just how well Mr. Hart had known Marjorie. Perhaps better than she'd suspected.

“Yes,” she answered. “Mr. Haverman has explained everything to me.”

Charlie shifted when he heard his name mentioned, but made no move to join the conversation.

“Good, good…” Mr. Hart looked like he was about to say something else, but he lost his grip on his letter opener, and it clattered to the desktop.

Vivian jumped, and a self-conscious giggle escaped her lips.

“Miss Witchell,” Sergeant Trask began, leaning forward in his chair and narrowing his pale eyes at her. “Anything to report since we spoke last night?”

Vivian felt her palms start to sweat. “About what exactly?” she asked.

“Any more letters? Anything suspicious happen?”

“Oh, nothing like that, no,” Vivian said. “Charlie stayed over, of course.” She heard the way that sounded and felt her face burn with embarrassment. “I mean… Well, I mean…for my protection…as Mr. Hart hired him to do.”

The sergeant only nodded and made a note on his pad. “That's good. Of course, I—we—want you to be on your guard, but there's no real cause for concern at this point.”

Vivian blinked and leaned toward the policeman.

“No real cause for concern?” she asked, incredulous. “Someone wants to kill me.”

“Now, Vivian,” Mr. Hart interjected, waving his hands impatiently. “We don't know that.”

Vivian opened her mouth to protest, but the policeman spoke first.

“Mr. Hart is right,” he said. “We have no evidence at this point that the letter found with Mrs. Fox was related to her death.”

Vivian's head jerked from Mr. Hart to Sargent Trask and back again.

“Not related?” She wasn't sure she'd heard that correctly. “Not related? Someone threatened Marjorie's life in that letter, and then she ended up dead. Explain to me how that's not related.”

“I don't recall there being any threats on Marjorie's life in that letter,” Mr. Hart said. His tone was patronizing, but, Vivian acknowledged reluctantly, he was technically correct. The letter had made her skin crawl, but this Walter person hadn't specifically mentioned anything about wanting Marjorie dead. Vivian sighed heavily.

“Would you like me to read the letter again?” the policeman asked. “I have it right here.” His hand started toward the breast pocket of his uniform, but Vivian held up one hand to stop him.

“No,” she said, her stomach doing a sickening flip-flop at the thought. “That won't be necessary.”

“We're following a number of leads right now, Miss Witchell,” Sergeant Trask said.

She looked pointedly at the policeman. “But particularly related to this letter?”

“Of course,” he said, briefly meeting her gaze. “There's no need to worry.”

No other phrase could have possibly made her worry more.

“I have every confidence that Mr. Haverman will keep you out of any danger until everything gets straightened out,” Mr. Hart added.

Straightened out
, she thought. Mr. Hart made Marjorie's murder sound like a bookkeeping error. Vivian looked to Charlie, who shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Everything's been satisfactory with the arrangement so far, hasn't it?” Mr. Hart continued, glancing from Vivian to Charlie and back again. “I assume that Mr. Haverman has been both professional and courteous?”

“Well, yes,” Vivian responded. He had, of course, but that wasn't the point. She was opening her mouth to say that when Mr. Hart stood up abruptly.

“Good. Then if you'll excuse me, I have some very important meetings to attend. There is much to be discussed involving the station and recent incidents. I'm sure you understand.”

Vivian understood all right. She was getting the brush-off.

She turned to the policeman who was also standing in preparation to leave. “Sergeant Trask,” she said. “You'll let me know if there are any developments in the investigation, won't you?” She smiled sweetly at him, but he remained stone-faced.

“Of course, Miss Witchell. You'll be the first to know.”

“It's imperative that you not worry, Vivian,” Mr. Hart said, looking like that was exactly what he'd spent all night doing. “It's also imperative that the existence of this letter not be leaked to anyone outside this room.” He pointed a finger at each of them in turn, including Sergeant Trask.

Vivian studied her shoes to avoid meeting Mr. Hart's gaze.
Imogene doesn't count
, she thought. Because Imogene had already known.

“Vivian.”

She looked up to Mr. Hart staring at her. He knew her too well. “Yes, Mr. Hart,” she said obediently. She resisted the urge to cross her fingers. “No one outside this room.”

“And especially no talking to the press,” he said sternly. “We don't need anything else about this leaking to the papers.”

Vivian nodded and watched Mr. Hart and Sergeant Trask walk briskly from the room. They had nothing. The police had nothing, and now they were trying to convince her that she wasn't in danger. But the persistent gnawing in the pit of her stomach told her otherwise. Someone had threatened Marjorie in the letter, then followed through on that threat. And that same someone had threatened Vivian. Someone was out to get her. But who?

The atmosphere of the neighborhood changed abruptly just south and west of the Loop. It was run-down and slightly seedy, not the Chicago of postcards and travel brochures. Vivian wouldn't have come here alone, but it was broad daylight and Charlie seemed unfazed. So Vivian clutched his arm tighter and glanced surreptitiously up at the art deco–style marquee of the burlesque house they were passing. The Gem stated proudly that inside you could find “Live Girls Onstage and On-Screen.” And it was all just a few blocks from where little old ladies sipped tea in their Sunday best, Vivian thought with a delicious little thrill.

Charlie had promised to take her to lunch somewhere they could talk in private. Apparently the somewhere he had in mind was a tiny cubbyhole nearly hidden down a short flight of stairs sandwiched between a liquor store and a tobacco shop in a long row of dilapidated buildings. There was no sign out front. Perhaps the place had no name. A simple, handwritten placard propped in the grime-covered front window advertised the specials: ham sandwich, fried chicken, twenty-five cents. It certainly wasn't Henrici's. It wasn't even the Tip Top Café, but it would have to do. At least Vivian could take comfort in the fact that no one she knew would see her in a place like this, and maybe that was the whole point.

The interior did nothing to improve her overall impression of the place. It was dark and cramped and clouded with cigarette smoke. The dark-stained wooden paneling lent a particular air of claustrophobia to the atmosphere—not an easy feat on an otherwise bright, sunny day. Vivian and Charlie found a table as far from the crowded counter as they could get and ordered two egg-salad sandwiches with coffee.

“I don't think the police are taking the threat against me seriously,” Vivian said in a low voice as soon as the waitress left with their order. “Telling me not to worry,” she huffed. “And that no evidence connects the letter to Marjorie's murder. I don't think they know the first thing about who killed her.”

“Unfortunately, I think you may be right,” Charlie answered.

The waitress returned with the coffeepot and filled both of their cups to the brim. Vivian frowned and dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, watching it dissolve into the blackness. “What did Mr. Hart have to say before I arrived?”

“Not a lot, actually. He wanted to make sure you were being looked after. He was very concerned about the effect Mrs. Fox's murder will have on the station—financially, of course. He was nervous, jittery, altogether a mess, I would say.”

“He looked awful,” Vivian whispered. “I don't think he went home last night, and I'm certain he didn't get any sleep.” Vivian thought of the empty brandy decanter.

Charlie eyed her suspiciously.

“He was chummy with Mrs. Fox then?”

“Chummy?” Vivian snorted softly. “I can't imagine Marjorie being
chummy
with anyone. Say, I guess you've been around the station awhile,” she said. “Hadn't you run into her once or twice and experienced her particular brand of charm for yourself?”

“Me?” Charlie looked surprised.

“Everyone runs…ran…into Marjorie at some point. She was hard to miss.”

“I'd met her, but just in passing. I heard she was difficult.”

“Difficult,” Vivian repeated with a wry smile. “That's a nice way of phrasing it.” She leaned in toward the detective. “None of her costars on
The Golden Years
could stand her. She liked to be the one and only star and caused a big ruckus if anyone else got a bigger story line in an episode.”

“A real prima donna, eh?” he said.

“I'd heard Marjorie had the biggest problem with little Sammy Evans. He played her son on the show.”

“A little boy?” Charlie asked, incredulous.

Vivian laughed. “Little Sammy Evans is forty years old. The ‘little' in his name is literal.”

Charlie looked at her in confusion.

“He's a midget,” Vivian said.

One of Charlie's thick golden eyebrows arched. “A midget?”

“It's pretty common in the radio industry to have a midget play a child's role,” she explained. “Midgets have high-pitched voices like children, but they're far more experienced and reliable. Hit their cues perfectly, things like that.”

Charlie shook his head slightly in amused disbelief. “So what was Marjorie's problem with little Sammy Evans?” he asked.

“He was becoming a fan favorite and getting plum story lines. You know, playing the precocious little kid. The audience just eats up that kind of thing.”

“Her worst nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

The waitress hurried to the table and dumped their sandwiches in front of them with a clatter.

“This is quite the popular place,” Vivian said, looking around. All of the clientele, excluding herself, were male. And males of the extremely hardworking—or perhaps not working—variety. She met the gaze of a particularly large and unwashed man at the counter and immediately looked away, but she felt his eyes linger on her.

“I come here a lot when I'm working,” Charlie said, looking around as if he'd never really studied the place before. “It's open all night.”

“You do a lot of your work at night?”

He nodded. Vivian tried to picture this Charlie, the charming Charlie, lurking in dark alleys and mixing with shady characters, but she just couldn't. There must be another side of him that she hadn't seen yet. He sat chewing his egg-salad sandwich with a thoughtful expression for a few minutes before speaking again.

“I assume by the ‘Mrs.' that there was a Mr. Fox in Marjorie's life at some time,” Charlie said.

Vivian shrugged. “I assumed so too, but I'd never heard anything about her being or having been married.”

“What about children?”

“Search me.” Vivian stared down at the egg salad and tried to muster an appetite. All of this talk of Marjorie had squashed it. She looked back up at the detective and watched him chew his sandwich with gusto. His eyes caught hers, and his mouth curled in something like a smile. He was a terribly attractive man, Vivian thought, especially when he really played up being a hard-nosed detective. “So let's hear your story for another time,” she said.

Charlie's brow furrowed. “My what?” He shoved the last bit of sandwich into his mouth.

“When I asked you last night how you became a detective, you told me it was a story for another time,” Vivian said.

“And now is that time?” Charlie looked less than thrilled at the prospect.

“Well, we seem to have exhausted my firsthand knowledge of Marjorie Fox.” Vivian took a sip of her coffee.

“Okay, well, where do I begin? My father, the senior Mr. Haverman, is a private detective, as I believe I mentioned. He started out as a track detective at Hawthorne Race Course. But then he branched into other areas as sort of a hobby. He also owns a furniture store.”

“And how did you get into the business?”

“I was always helping him out, even when I was a little kid, but I never wanted to be a private eye myself. I wanted to be a cop. I started at the police academy, and I got a few months in, and then my mom got sick. Dad couldn't handle everything on his own, so I dropped out to help. Then after she died, I stayed on with Dad. That's about it.” His eyes flicked off to concentrate on something over her shoulder when he mentioned his mother's death, but then they returned to Vivian's face.

“How did you get involved with
The Darkness Knows
?”

“Mr. Hart had hired me for a few jobs in the past year or so—just some small things, checking out business associates and the like. And when the show came up, he asked me if I could assist Mr. Yarborough with some of the finer points of being a PI, help him flesh out his character or something like that.” Charlie smiled.

“Help him with his arc,” Vivian said, nodding.

“His arc?”

“Oh, nothing,” she mumbled. “So how is it? Working with Graham, I mean?”

Charlie leaned back in his chair, knitted his fingers across his abdomen, and smiled slightly. “Interesting,” he said.

“That's it? Just interesting?”

“Mr. Yarborough,” he said, “doesn't want to hear what my job is really like. He wants pulp novel plots about smugglers and white slavers.”

“And that's what you give him?” Vivian asked.

“I aim to please,” Charlie answered with a shrug. “But if he only knew he could subscribe to
Black Mask
magazine himself and cut out the middleman, I'd be out of a job.”

Vivian smiled at the idea: if Graham only knew, he'd be livid. “You don't like Graham very much, do you?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

Charlie shrugged again noncommittally.

“He's just very focused on his career,” Vivian said quickly as if that explained any of Graham's character flaws—his intense self-interest, for one. She narrowed her eyes at Charlie, considering. “You know, Mr. Hart must have hired you for those jobs shortly after I left my position as his secretary last spring. I'd have remembered you otherwise,” she said.

The detective's eyes opened comically wide. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows planted on the table on either side of his plate. “Wait a second. You were Mr. Hart's secretary?”

She nodded.

“You were,” he repeated, pointing one long finger at her.

“Yes,” she said, a little miffed that he hadn't already heard her story. Apparently, he didn't read “The Tattler” section of the
Radio Guide
magazine.

He seemed to consider this for a long moment. “So how on earth did you go from being Mr. Hart's secretary to the illustrious Lorna Lafferty?” he asked.

Vivian glanced down at her coffee cup, suddenly self-conscious. “I was in the right place at the right time,” she said. “I filled in for a screamer, and the acting bug bit me.” She looked back up at Charlie, whose brows had come together over the bridge of his nose.

“A screamer?” he asked.

Vivian smiled. “Someone who screams on the air for the lead actress so she doesn't ruin her voice,” she explained. “You'd be surprised how often they have women screaming in these shows. Lorna Lafferty screams at least once an episode, sometimes more.”

“Oh,” he said.

“There are women who specialize in crying like babies too,” she added. Charlie smirked, and Vivian added defensively, “It's a real talent.”

“I don't doubt it,” he said, sitting back in his chair again. He eyed her speculatively for a long moment. “So you went from being a screamer to a star just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

Vivian couldn't tell whether he was teasing her, whether he'd already heard the gossip at the station. Charlie looked at her expectantly. There didn't seem to be any malice in his expression. Perhaps he hadn't heard anything—or perhaps he was exceptionally good at not betraying anything he already knew. “Hardly.” Vivian picked at her egg salad. “It took a year of slogging through bit parts before I got my break. Edie eloping was a godsend for me. Right place at the right time.”

Charlie returned the smile with one of his own. “You still appear on shows besides
The Darkness Knows
though…like that sappy melodrama. What's it called?”

“
Love & Glory
,” she supplied. Then she shrugged. “I take whatever I can get. Usually just bit parts, but the role in
Love & Glory
is pretty plum. It's a daytime serial though. Those aren't nearly as high profile as the nighttime shows. Unless you're a huge star—Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen—you have to do more than one show to get by.”

“From the looks of the pile of bricks you live in, you don't need to just get by,” he said. His smile had turned into a knowing smirk.

Vivian pushed her plate away and sat for a moment with the palms of her hands resting on the table.

“That's my mother's house, my mother's money, Mr. Haverman,” she said slowly. “Not mine.” She knew her tone was too severe, but he'd struck a nerve.

Charlie smiled lazily and leaned toward her.

“I was only teasing you, Viv. No need to start calling me Mr. Haverman again.”

Vivian looked away. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just a sore subject for me. My career, my independence, is very important to me.”

Charlie held up both hands in mock surrender. “Understood,” he said seriously.

Vivian sighed, sorry she'd been so harsh. Her eyes flicked to the counter, and she made eye contact with the same large, threatening-looking man. He didn't turn away, but smiled at her in a menacing way and rubbed the steak knife next to his plate with this thumb and forefinger. Vivian dropped her head and shielded her face with her hand, and Charlie's head swiveled in the direction she'd been looking.

“That man,” Vivian said without moving her lips, “is staring at me.”

The man hadn't turned away even though Charlie had taken notice of him, and he hadn't averted his gaze. Before she could say another word, Charlie leaped out of his seat and sauntered toward the man, hands in his pockets.

“What's the idea, pal?” he asked. Suddenly, the room was quiet, no one actually watching the altercation, but everyone with an ear tuned.

“Whaddya mean?” The man snorted dismissively, still fingering the steak knife.

“I mean…” Charlie's hands tightened into fists, but his voice stayed level. “What's the idea makin' eyes at my girl like that?”

“Makin' eyes? Who's makin' eyes?”

“You are. You're making her uncomfortable.” Charlie pulled his right hand out of his jacket and rubbed the large ring situated there before he spoke again. “And you're making me angry.”

The man blinked and looked down at his plate for a moment. His eyes met Charlie's again, and he shrugged. “Sorry, mack. Just noticing a pretty girl, that's all. Last time I checked, that's not a crime.” He laughed nervously.