The Darkness Knows (14 page)

“I suppose,” she agreed with a sigh. She nodded toward Charlie's bare head. “You lost your hat,” she said.

Charlie's eyebrows came together over the bridge of his nose, and he frowned. “In the chase, I'm afraid. Come on, it's time to get you home,” he said.

“Home?”

“Where I can keep a close eye on you.”

Vivian sighed. Home was the last place she wanted to be right now. “I'd like to stay and have a dance,” she pleaded. “I haven't had one all night.” She gazed up at Charlie, but his face was set.

“We're going,” he said, taking her arm.

“Okay, okay, no need to manhandle me.”

He muttered a curse under his breath and steered her toward the door.

“Hey there!” one of the policemen shouted. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I'm taking Miss Witchell home where she belongs.” Charlie tossed the words over his shoulder without slowing his gait.

“Mr. Haverman, wait!” Mr. Hart shouted.

Charlie stopped in his tracks and turned toward the older man, face grim, head cocked toward Mr. Hart expectantly.

There was a pause before Mr. Hart said, “Let the police escort you.”

Charlie let his breath out in a long, slow hiss. “Come on then,” he said to the policemen. “I don't have all night.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Charlie and then back out the kitchen window. As she watched, one of the policemen assigned to guard the house came into view, tapping the bushes near the window with his nightstick. Forget her mother, she thought; the neighbors would have a field day with this. Armed policemen rustling through the bushes while trying to flush out any armed gunmen lying in wait?

“Mother's going to flip her wig when she sees those two,” she said, finding herself slightly pleased at the idea despite everything.

The officers had insisted on escorting her and Charlie out of the ballroom and all the way to Charlie's car. One good thing about attempted murder at a masquerade was that no one blinked at seeing three men dressed as police officers follow a couple of cowboys across the dance floor. Plus, the punch was flowing freely, and the crowd was in such high spirits by then that no one even batted an eyelash. Most likely not even the person who had attempted to kill her.

“Someone at that masquerade tonight wanted me dead,” Vivian said. Despite her best efforts to keep her voice steady, it quavered on the word “dead.”

“It would seem so,” Charlie agreed simply.

She let the curtain drop back into place and returned to her seat at the table. They'd come back with the police escort to find her house blessedly dark and silent, with both her mother and Mrs. Graves already in bed. The latter had left a freshly baked coffee cake on the kitchen table with a note that read
For all your hard work, Mr. Haverman.
Now Charlie sat tucking into a large piece of that cake with a napkin inserted into the collar of his embroidered cowboy shirt.

Vivian watched him shovel a forkful of cake into his mouth and sighed. She couldn't sit still. Her body thrummed with nervous energy. She wanted to talk about what had happened and, at the same time, wanted to pretend nothing had occurred. She jumped up to fill the kettle and light the stove, then stared at the blue gas flame for a long time, biting her lower lip.

Charlie broke the silence. “I still think you know something,” he said almost casually.

Vivian whirled to face him. “I swear I don't!” she protested. “I already told you I don't!”

Charlie's brow wrinkled at her sudden outburst of emotion. “I need you to stay calm and think now, Viv,” he said. “Really think. Anything you can remember helps, no matter how small or unimportant it may seem.”

“I can't think of anything,” Vivian insisted. “I can't think of anything I did, or anything I know, that would make someone want to kill me. Why don't you believe me?” She leaned back against the counter and hitched in a long, shaky breath, and then the torrent started, and she was helpless to stop it. She tried to weep quietly into her hands, but it was hopeless. Racking sobs overtook her, and all of the frustration and stress and pent-up emotion of the last two days was released despite her best intentions to keep a stiff upper lip.

After a moment, she felt Charlie's strong arms envelop her. He pushed her face to his chest and held it there, his hand resting lightly on the back of her head. He held her in silence until she'd stopped sobbing. When the tears had slowed to an inconsistent soft hiccup, he pushed her out to arm's length and bent down to look into her eyes.

“Come on now,” he said in a soft voice. “What's all this?”

Vivian let her breath out in a hiss. “I'm scared,” she said.

Charlie snorted softly and brushed the wet strands of hair from her cheeks. “Someone tried to kill you, Viv. You
should
be scared.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder,” she said. She felt her lower lip tremble as she fought back a fresh onslaught of tears. Despite his intentions, Charlie's concern was less than reassuring. Wasn't he supposed to be telling her there was nothing to worry about?

Charlie reached into the breast pocket of the flowery cowboy shirt and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at her tearstained cheeks before handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. She blew her nose and looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I just don't understand who would want to kill me. I mean, why me? What have I done?” She looked away, ashamed of the state she was in. She must look a mess—bloodshot eyes, puffy, pink tearstained cheeks…

Charlie turned her chin gently with his fingertips until she met his gaze again. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you,” he said in a low voice. “Ever. You understand that?”

She swallowed and nodded, unable to look away. His fingers slid up along her jawline to lightly stroke her cheek. Without his eyes ever leaving hers, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, but Vivian felt herself responding automatically, leaning into him. She slid her hands slowly up his broad chest, the silky fringe of his borrowed cowboy shirt tickling her palms. Charlie touched her hair, cupping the back of her head and pulling her deeper into the kiss. As her mouth opened against his, the kettle began to whistle directly behind her, and Vivian jerked away, startled out of the moment.

Charlie pulled back too, but only slightly. “I'm sorry,” he said, brushing his thumb across her chin as he let his hand fall back to his side. “That wasn't very professional of me.”

“You're right,” she said, sounding strangely prim. “It wasn't.” She met his eyes for an instant before looking away again. Every bit of her tingled, and she knew that despite what she'd just said, the only thing she wanted right now was to feel his arms around her again, to feel his lips on hers.

Instead, he stepped away and sat back down at the kitchen table, picking up his fork again. Vivian watched him for a moment as the kettle still whistled behind her. Irritated, she finally turned and twisted the gas knob to the off position.

“Who told you that Mrs. Fox was being blackmailed?” he asked casually, as if the last few minutes had never happened.

Vivian blinked and looked down at the handkerchief still clutched in her hands. Her knees were shaky, and she knew it wasn't because of the threat of imminent death. “Bill Purdy,” she said.

“Blackmailed,” Charlie said quietly to himself, absorbing the word. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “So what was our Mrs. Fox being blackmailed about?”

Vivian dabbed at her nose with a corner of the handkerchief and shrugged again. “All Bill said was that I should know because I was next.”

“Was Mr. Purdy threatening you with this information?”

“Threatening me? Bill?” Vivian smiled at the idea, but the smile slipped from her face as quickly as it had appeared. “No, he seemed frightened for me…and maybe himself.”

“How did he know Mrs. Fox was being blackmailed?”

“I don't know,” she said, crinkling her forehead. “He just said he knew.”

Charlie grunted. “Does anyone else know about the blackmail?”

Vivian shook head.

“Not even Imogene? Or Yarborough?”

Vivian turned her face away, embarrassed about Charlie bringing Graham's name up at a time like this. “I did not mention it to Graham,” she said curtly.

Vivian heard the chair scrape against the linoleum as Charlie pushed his chair back from the table. Instead of standing up as she expected, he leaned back precariously on the back two legs of the chair.

“Mrs. Graves will have your hide,” she said, pointing to the chair legs straining under the man's weight.

“I don't give one fig about Mrs. Graves right now,” Charlie answered coldly. “What did Sammy Evans have to say?”

“He said he just assumed Marjorie was murdered because she'd been horrible to someone she shouldn't have.”

“She'd been horrible to Sammy,” Charlie said thoughtfully.

Vivian shook her head at the idea. “Sammy had nothing to gain from killing Marjorie—or even blackmailing her, for that matter. He needed her to keep it together for the sake of the show.”

“True,” Charlie agreed, letting the front legs of the chair return to the floor with a thump. “And now that Mrs. Fox is dead, they've canceled
The Golden Years
?”

Vivian nodded, but then a new thought struck her. “But…” she began, then paused.

“But what?”

“Thanks to her death,” Vivian said slowly, the thought still forming in her head, “Sammy's got a new gig.”

“Right,” Charlie said, putting the last forkful of coffee cake into his mouth. “What kind of gig?”

“Recurring character on the
Carlton Coffee Variety Hour
,” she said, deep in thought.

“So he killed her to be able to move on.”

“No, killing Marjorie would have been a horrible gamble.” Vivian shook her head furiously. “He had no way of knowing it would work out in his best interest.”

“Plus, there's the physical aspect,” Charlie added almost as an afterthought.

“Physical aspect?”

“Mrs. Fox was a full foot taller than
little
Sammy Evans.” Charlie held one hand high over his head. “How could he strike her over the head with a whiskey bottle? Logistically, it doesn't work.”

“He could've stood on a chair,” Vivian said.

“Yes, but that takes both the passion and the element of surprise out of the whole thing, doesn't it?”

Vivian bit her lip, trying to imagine Sammy putting his murderous rage on pause long enough to drag a chair behind Marjorie Fox and clamber aboard, whiskey bottle in hand.

“I think you're right,” she admitted. “It doesn't work. Sammy certainly hasn't been the only one to seem unfazed by Marjorie's murder. It's been really difficult to find anyone who is even remorseful over her death. Most people treat it as either a juicy piece of gossip or a simple inconvenience.”

Vivian took the teakettle from the stove, filled both of their cups, and sat back down at the table.

“Charlie,” she began. “I've been thinking. Do you think it's possible that the shooter tonight only wanted to scare me?”

“I suppose.”

That was a relief, but a minor one.

“But who would want to scare you like that?”

“It's just that…what if I got so scared by all this murder business that I left? Went to that cabin in the woods that my mother's been harping about?”

“Who would profit from that?”

“Frances,” Vivian answered immediately. “She'd love me to just drop everything and leave.” The more she let the idea stew, the more plausible it seemed. “Yes, she'd do anything to get her mitts on Lorna Lafferty,” she said.

“Do you think Frances is capable of taking a shot at you?” he asked.

Vivian sat back in her chair. She thought of Frances's taunting smile over Graham's bowing form in the ballroom doorway. There had been jealousy in that smile, certainly, but had there been malice in it as well? But Frances would have only had a few minutes to leave the ballroom and set herself up in the alley below while Vivian spoke with Charlie. It was possible, but only just.

“I think she might be,” Vivian finally said. “What about Marjorie? Do you think Frances could have killed Marjorie?”

Charlie bit his lower lip, then released it with a sigh. “Would she have profited from Mrs. Fox's death?”

Vivian thought for a minute. “I can't see how she would have. They weren't exactly competing for the same parts. Getting Marjorie out of the way doesn't do much for Frances's career.”

“Are there any personal reasons Frances might want Mrs. Fox dead?”

Vivian shrugged. “I don't think so. I hadn't heard anything at the station about them quarreling.”

“Then we're looking at a more complicated scenario,” Charlie said. “The killer, and Frances piggybacking on top of that murder to scare you and get you out of the way.”

Vivian sighed. “I don't know,” she said. “It is awfully complicated. And I'm not sure that even Frances could be that conniving and underhanded. I mean,
shooting
at a person?”

“It's just a hunch,” Charlie said. He paused and continued, his voice soft, “And you recall where my last hunch got us.” He smiled weakly at Vivian. “You know, it's also still a possibility that there really is a lunatic named Walter.”

Vivian frowned at that idea but said nothing. She picked absently at the oilcloth covering the table. She'd worried a tiny hole in one of the strawberries in the pattern during the conversation, and she hoped Mrs. Graves wouldn't notice. “Charlie, what did you really talk about with Mr. Hart earlier this evening?” she asked, keeping her tone light and hoping to catch Charlie off guard.

“The case,” he said, carefully sweeping the crumbs from the table into his open palm. He turned to deposit the crumbs in the waste bin under the sink behind him.

“No, really,” she said to his back. “I know you weren't discussing Marjorie's murder.”

He turned slowly, looked at her through narrowed lids for a long moment, and then said, “It's been a long night, Viv. I think you need to get some sleep.”