The Darkness Knows (18 page)

Charlie eyed her, his face expressionless. “I think that may be
exactly
what she was doing.”

Vivian furrowed her brow. “But I thought Marjorie was the one being blackmailed. That's what Bill Purdy said last night anyway.”

“Maybe he got things confused,” Charlie said. “Or maybe he was intentionally misleading you.”

“Misleading me? Why would he do that?”

Charlie shrugged. “To throw you off the scent if he was somehow involved,” he said. “This is quite a turn of events. Any ideas who Mrs. Fox would be blackmailing?” He riffled through the rest of the issue as he spoke, noting the two other pages with missing letters.

“I haven't a clue,” Vivian said. “Do you think the police missed this?” She smiled, pleased with herself. She'd found something important. She
had
been helpful after all—even Charlie had to recognize that.

“I think they did,” he said. Then he rolled the magazine into a tight cylinder and tucked it inside his suit jacket.

“You're taking it?”

“Of course,” he answered.

“But that's evidence,” she said. “Shouldn't we give it to the police?”

“So you're a Goody Two-Shoes all of a sudden?” Charlie raised his eyebrows at her.

“I'm getting nervous about being in here,” Vivian said, rubbing the goose bumps on her forearms. Charlie remained still, deep in thought. “Charlie,” she tried again. “I think—”

“You're right,” he said suddenly, head snapping up. “Let's go.”

“Really?” she said, relieved. She hadn't expected him to give in so easily.

“I think we found what we needed,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He stepped out into the apartment's hallway, and she heard his footfalls heading toward the front door. Instead of following, Vivian hurried to the bedside table and snatched up the little black book Charlie had been so engrossed in when she entered the room. She considered it for a moment and felt the unexpected heft of it in her hands.

It was a pocket-sized Bible—the kind little girls get at their first communion. She had just stuffed it safely into her jacket pocket when she heard Charlie's steps grow louder again. He was coming back into the bedroom—and quickly. He rushed in, stopping just inside the doorway. His eyes darted around until they lit on the closet in the far corner.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand and jerking her along with him.

“What's going on?” She tried to yank her hand free, but Charlie held it fast.

Without answering, he disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom closet and pulled Vivian in behind him. He pulled the door almost completely shut, leaving only a crack of gray light.

“Someone's coming, but Trask said there wouldn't be police here for an hour,” he said, his voice low.

“Trask?” she repeated, but Charlie just widened his eyes and held a finger to his lips. The closet was tiny, the air stifling. Vivian found herself pressed against Charlie, his holster pressing uncomfortably into her arm. She tried to shift her stance, but that only brought them closer together.

“What do you mean Trask told you the police wouldn't be here?” she whispered into his chest. “What's going on?”

Then Vivian heard the
click-thump
of the front door unlocking and felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Someone
was
coming. The front door swung open with an ominous creak. Vivian sucked in her breath and held it. She heard nothing for a long moment except the pounding of blood in her ears, then the floor creaking under shuffling footsteps. Someone lingered just inside the front door. Her mind flitted over what Charlie had just said. The police weren't due for an hour. So if they weren't in the front room, who was?

Her mind ticked over the short list of possibilities and settled on the most unwelcome. Who else but the murderer who'd tried to kill her at the masquerade the evening before? Bile rose in her throat. Oh God, it was Walter. Walter was real. Walter was here. Walter would find them in this closet, and it would be curtains for both of them—like shooting fish in a barrel. She pressed her cheek into Charlie's chest and shut her eyes. If she had to die, she didn't want to see it coming.

Then there was another set of footsteps—these quicker and lighter. Two other people were in the apartment now. Walter had a friend? Could there be a pair of murderers?

The intruders didn't speak, but Vivian heard the floorboards creak under their weight as they moved about the front room, and then the sound of one body falling heavily into the stiff chair near the radio. Vivian waited, anxiety twisting her guts, for them to notice that someone had been in the apartment. Then with something akin to horror, Vivian remembered the magazine she'd dropped next to the magazine rack. Panicked, she looked up. “I left—”

Charlie placed his free hand over her open mouth. Vivian's eyes had yet to adjust to the dim light of the closet. She tried to glare at him, but he was just a featureless shape in the darkness, even at this close range. How dare he shush her like a child? She placed her palms on his chest to push him away. But then a floorboard creaked in protest near the bedroom door, and they both froze, listening.

There was a long, agonizing silence. Vivian's back was to the closet door, but she could tell from Charlie's pinched expression that he could see the man in the bedroom doorway. There was another creak, and then the footfalls receded toward the sitting room.

“What did Trask want us to pick up again?” The man's voice was slightly muffled as he moved away from them.

Trask? Had she heard right? Vivian sighed in relief against Charlie's palm still clamped over her mouth. She and Charlie were not about to be murdered. Arrested for breaking and entering possibly, but not murdered.

Vivian heard the click of the radio's power knob. The muffled roar of a crowd floated toward them as the announcer welcomed them to a live broadcast of the football game between Northwestern and Minnesota.

“Some letters or something,” the other man replied.

“Shouldn't we get to it? Probably just in the bedroom back there.”

Vivian felt Charlie's body tense under her palms.

“What's your hurry? We don't need to be back for a couple hours. We could listen to the whole first half.”

There was a pause and then the scraping of wood on wood as the formerly reluctant policeman pulled another chair up to the radio.

“What do ya think Northwestern's chances are?” one of the policemen asked the other.

Charlie gave Vivian a warning look and took his hand away from her face. She hitched in a great gulp of air, immediately regretting it as she gagged on the thick scent of mothballs. Her hands still rested on Charlie's broad chest, but she didn't move away. There was nowhere to go inside the tiny closet. Besides, his solid nearness was comforting.

Vivian glanced up, but Charlie's eyes were still trained on the crack in the doorway. Her eyes traveled down to stop almost involuntarily on his lips. That kiss—she'd been thinking about it all day, despite her every resolve not to. But now, being in such close quarters, she couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to pop up on her toes right now and repeat it. She was acutely aware that there wasn't an inch of her body not in contact with his.

She shifted uncomfortably and realized she could feel the solid lump of the little Bible in her front jacket pocket pressing against Charlie's hip. She moved again before he had a chance to notice it too. He looked down on her with a frown of disapproval, and she scowled back. A fur coat tickled the back of her neck, and she brushed it away with an irritated flick of her hand.

Vivian raised her eyebrows at Charlie in a question:
So what now?
They were stuck. Trapped in a dead woman's closet by a pair of policemen.

Charlie sighed. He glanced at the door and then back to her. Vivian's eyes had adjusted now, and she could see the reality of the situation dawn on him as well. He raised one eyebrow in response, his shoulders rising in a halfhearted shrug. She clenched her fists against his chest in frustration. Charlie's eyes narrowed. He glanced down at her hands, and then his eyes slid slowly back up, pausing at her mouth before locking with hers again. One corner of his mouth quirked up as his hand brushed down her side, his palm coming to rest on her hip.

It was a subtle move, but its effect was immediate on Vivian. She melted into him and lowered her forehead to his chest. She hitched in a breath, taking in the smell of him—a hint of spearmint chewing gum under the musky citrus of his aftershave. She slipped her hands higher over the woolen lapels of his jacket, her head still bowed. Then she brushed the tip of one index finger lightly against the side of his neck. He started slightly at her touch, as if it had surprised him, and then she felt his other hand glide around her waist to rest at the small of her back.

Vivian didn't move, didn't breathe. She was almost glad for this ridiculous predicament, because it meant she couldn't talk. And if she couldn't talk, she couldn't say anything to ruin the moment. His warm breath ruffled the hair at the top of her head, and she shivered—all of her nerves on fire. His hands moved lower to cup her bottom, pressing her into him. She lifted her head at the urgency in his touch to find Charlie's face, his mouth, was inches from hers.

She slid both hands up to clasp together at the base of his neck and held his gaze, stroking his neck with her thumbs until his mouth twitched into a smile. There was a clank from the hall, and Charlie's head jerked toward the sound. He tensed, automatically alert. His grasp tightened, his fingertips digging into Vivian's flesh. They stood silently, not breathing for a long moment, listening for any sign that they were about to be discovered.

Vivian waited for the closet door to be flung open behind her, for the policemen to be standing there, guns drawn. But there was nothing except the announcer barking excitedly from the radio: “Wildcats recover the fumble!” The crowd roared, and the policemen grunted approval. The radiator in the hall clanged fully into life with a screech, and Vivian let her breath out in a long exhale of relief. She smiled and used her fingertips to gently nudge Charlie's chin back in her direction. She raised her eyebrows again in a silent question:
Well?

Charlie's half-closed eyes flicked down to her mouth again, the smirk returning to his lips. He leaned down until his forehead touched hers and rested it there a moment. Then he inched forward and nudged her nose with his. Vivian lifted her chin and nuzzled into him, the sandpaper of his cheek stinging her lips. She stood on tiptoe to reach the soft spot where his neck met his ear and breathed him in again. Now she smelled the soapy clean scent of the pomade in his hair. Her lips wandered and found his earlobe. Impulsively, she pulled it quickly into her mouth and released it. He sucked in his breath sharply in a mixture of surprise and pleasure. She dragged her lips back down his cheek and then finally, decisively, caught his mouth with hers.

They fumbled silently in the darkness of the closet, mouths hungrily searching, hands roaming. Then Charlie lifted her up, and Vivian squeaked in surprise as her feet lost contact with the floor. She leaned too hard against him, making both of them lose their balance. They stumbled, and Charlie's back hit the wall of the closet with a thump. He dropped Vivian to the floor, and she had to grasp a handful of mink coat to stay upright. Charlie held one finger to his lips and cocked his head to listen. Vivian held her breath, heart pounding.

But there was no sound from the other room except the roaring crowd from the radio speakers. The policemen hadn't heard anything. Thank God for ninety-yard touchdown runs, Vivian thought.

Charlie blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. He leaned down again, grim-faced and businesslike this time, positioning his lips next to her ear. He whispered so quietly that she almost couldn't make out the words: “We have to get out of here.”

Vivian paused, panting slightly and trying to put the words into a context that she felt fit the moment, but they didn't jibe with the butterflies still swirling in her stomach. “Now?” she whispered.

He nodded and, without giving her a chance to protest, pushed the closet door open slowly with his fingertips. Charlie glanced out into the room and then back at her as he stepped through the door into the bedroom.

He held out his hand to help her out of the closet. She took it and very carefully stepped over the threshold. The floor creaked under her weight, and they both froze. Again, the policemen seemed oblivious to their presence. A roar from the cheering crowd miles to the north had masked the sound.

“How?” she mouthed, cocking a thumb toward the living room, but then she followed Charlie's gaze to the window.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I'm not climbing out of any windows.”

“I thought you were a fan of shimmying down drainpipes,” he hissed.

Vivian glared at him.

“Well, that's the way I'm going,” he said. “Follow me or spend the evening among the mothballs.” He dropped her hand and pulled away.

Vivian waited only a split second before following him.

Charlie turned to her from the window, hands resting on the sill. “We're in luck,” he said. “There's a fire escape.”

Despite Vivian's protestations that she needed to arrive at Chez Paree no earlier than fifteen minutes late for her date with Graham, Charlie had deposited her in the elaborately decorated lobby-cum-lounge at precisely 7:50 p.m. He then took his leave of her to “make his rounds” of the establishment, making sure no assassins were lurking among the potted plants, Vivian supposed. She stood awkwardly against the wall and tried to look discreet and completely unconcerned with her solitude.

She tried not to meet the questioning gazes of the couples sauntering past—all of whom she imagined pitied her for her lack of an escort. She glanced at the coat check and ran one freshly manicured hand down the soft ermine of the coat she'd borrowed from her mother's closet. She was overly warm in the crowded room, but if she checked the coat before Graham arrived, he wouldn't see it. And Graham seeing it—and being impressed by it—was precisely why she'd snuck it out of her mother's closet in the first place.

She'd been trying not to think of the passionate scrabbling in Marjorie's closet earlier in the day, but her mind kept returning to it over and over. She felt Charlie's palms on the small of her back and running over her hips, his lips hungrily parting hers, and she smiled involuntarily. The man certainly knew his way around a kiss. But the incident had gone unmentioned in the hours since.

On the drive here, Vivian had felt Charlie stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and she had done the same when he hadn't been looking at her. What was it about that detective that got under her skin? He was handsome and charming, but he was also a man who earned his living by skulking in alleyways and taking photos of illicit lovers outside hotel rooms—hardly respectable. But her life was certainly more exciting with him around, and damn if that didn't make her pulse quicken.

• • •

The nightclub lobby was made to look like a Parisian street scene, complete with black, wrought iron accents, like those that might be found at an outdoor café, and a small Eiffel Tower painted on the back wall. Tiny lightbulbs were strung along the midnight-blue plaster walls. As Vivian watched, they all came alight, and she gasped at the simple beauty of it.

“Pretty swanky place, right?” a voice whispered close to Vivian's right ear.

She jerked her head around in surprise to find Morty Nickerson smiling shyly down at her, hands rooted deeply in the pockets of his trousers.

“Morty,” she said, letting her breath out in a rush. “You're always lurking around.”

Morty's blue eyes grew wide at the accusation. “I'm sorry,” he said, immediately on the defensive. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

Vivian pressed a hand to her chest, her heart still hammering from the sudden shock. She waved her other hand dismissively. “It's all right,” she said in a lighter tone. “What are you doing here?”

Morty smiled, a small dimple appearing in his freckled right cheek. He might be attractive with a few more years—and a few more pounds—on him, Vivian thought. “I'm working,” he said with no small amount of pride. He cocked a thumb toward the open door to the ballroom. “Live remote for Abe Lyman tonight.”

“Oh,” Vivian answered, relieved. Abe Lyman was one of the top bandleaders in the country, and Morty was here to set up the remote equipment that enabled the band's set to be broadcast live over WCHI. That was a perfectly reasonable reason for his presence here. Vivian was almost embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that she'd suspected Morty had come to Chez Paree specifically for her, that he'd been following her.

“You look nice,” he said, gaze traveling down from her face to her soft silk dress. “All in white. Like an angel.”

Vivian registered the earnestness in the boy's eyes and glanced quickly away, studying the nearest illuminated yellow bulb.

“Say,” he began in a small, timid voice. “Do you think… I mean, would you mind…”

Vivian's eyes swiveled back to meet Morty's, and his gaze immediately shifted to the floor. “Yes?” she asked impatiently. She glanced down at her wristwatch. Graham was now officially late.

She saw a flush of embarrassment work its way up under his collar to his cheeks. “Would you mind saving a dance for me?”

Vivian sighed. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she would answer until she heard it herself. Just then she saw someone approach in her peripheral vision—someone tall and dark. Vivian sighed audibly with relief.

“Graham!” she said, her voice overly bright. “You're here!” She smiled at him so hard that her cheeks strained from the effort.

“Of course I'm here,” Graham said. His eyebrows lifted, and Vivian watched his appraising gaze travel from her hair to her shoes in one long, slow movement. Then he smiled at her and pronounced, “You look wonderful.”

Vivian felt her smile grow wider. “You really think so?” she asked.

Graham winked at her and leaned in ever so slightly. “Don't pretend you don't know it,” he said with a smirk.

Vivian laughed.

“Shall we?” Graham asked, offering one arm.

“Good luck with the remote,” she said, smiling at Morty.

Graham glanced over and exclaimed, “Well now, Morty! I didn't see you there!”

Morty's face was a mottled reddish purple. “Graham,” he said in a strangled voice, with a stiff nod of acknowledgment.

“Working tonight, eh?”

Morty nodded.

“Poor sap,” Graham responded happily and led Vivian into the waiting ballroom.

They had a fantastic table, so near the bandstand that Vivian thought she might be able to reach out and play the piano herself if she wanted. The musicians hadn't arrived, but the buzz in the room was growing, the excitement palpable.

Each woman who passed was more glamorous than the last. Sequin-covered dresses, some daringly backless. Red lips, rouged cheeks, every other coiffure dyed a platinum blond. Vivian felt that her appearance paled in comparison. She glanced self-consciously down at her own gown, which had a daringly low neckline but fully covered every other inch of her. She regretted checking the white ermine coat she'd worn to the club. It lent her an air of sophistication that she felt she sorely lacked on her own. She looked up at Graham and caught his eyes on her.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “You do look fantastic, Viv. That dress really suits you.”

As if on cue, a swarm of photographers descended on the table, their voices a jumble of compliments and questions. Graham leaned into Vivian and snaked an arm around her shoulder. She'd expected photographers, of course. What was a date with Graham without them? Still, she found it hard to muster a smile. It all seemed so manufactured, so forced.

“Closer!” One photographer shouted. Graham's chest pressed roughly into Vivian's shoulder as he squeezed in toward her.

“Give us a smile, doll,” another said.

Vivian obliged. She'd been to Chez Paree before, of course. It was the hottest nightclub in town. But no one had clamored for her photo then. Now she was with Graham, and the photographers couldn't get enough of her—or rather, of them together. She was somebody now—because of the
The Darkness Knows
, because of Graham.

The flashes popped in rapid succession until Vivian's world was a blur of white.

“How do you feel about Marjorie Fox's murder? Are you next?” the photographers shouted.

She had been expecting those questions. Still, she rose halfway from her chair and gave the reporter a dark look. A flash from one of the cameras blinded her again, and she turned back toward Graham, who had risen from his seat after her. “That's enough,” Vivian said. She closed her eyes and burrowed her face into Graham's expansive shoulder. She saw nothing but the mottled green-and-yellow remains of the flashbulbs behind her eyes.

She felt Graham's arm around her, pushing her gently back down into her seat. “No comment,” he said to the photographers as he flicked his fingers at two burly men watching the action from the entrance. The men glanced at each other and moved toward their table.

“Sorry about that,” Graham said, watching the reporters and photographers being led away by nightclub security. She noticed with disappointment that they weren't escorted off the premises, just to the opposite end of the room where they descended on another table like a ravenous flock of vultures.

“It's not your fault,” she said automatically, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she started to wonder. This had happened every time she'd been out with Graham—reporters showing up, taking photographs. Tonight was supposed to be different, a real date. She didn't like being made a fool of. “Graham, were those photographers tipped off that we'd be here tonight?” she asked.

“There are always photographers in a place like this,” Graham said dismissively. “A lot of famous faces around. Look, there's Gabby Hartnett from the Cubs right there.” Graham lifted his chin at a man at a table across the dance floor. “Too bad they got swept in the Series,” Graham said with a shake of his head. “I really thought they'd get the Yanks this time around. He seems to be holding up though.”

What was it with men and baseball? She turned and glanced at the smiling man across the room who was flanked on all sides by beautiful women. She recognized him. He'd been in all the papers—the hero that led them to the Series, in fact. He'd hit a home run to get them there that the papers liked to call the “Homer in the Gloamin',” whatever that meant. She turned and scanned the crowd for Charlie. And there he was, not far away, watching her with Graham. She smiled slightly at him and quickly returned her attention to Graham.

“Is this a setup?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“A setup?”

She took a deep breath, speaking slowly and clearly so there could be no mistaking her intent. She thought of Graham's face as he'd looked down at Frances the evening before. She wasn't jealous, not exactly, but if all of this was just part of some attention grab, she wanted to know. “Is this just another date for publicity?”

Graham eyed her for a long moment.

“Of course not, Viv,” he said finally. He leaned toward her, and the intensity in his dark eyes made her a little uncomfortable. “I asked you to have dinner with me because I like you.” He held her gaze until Vivian turned away to look out over the dance floor. She gathered her courage and turned to face him again.

“It's just that this has happened so many times before…” she said, her voice getting lost in the buzz of the voices in the room.

Graham nodded, then said, “But
I
asked you this time. This was not set up by publicity.”

Vivian shrugged noncommittally.

Graham sighed. “Look, I hate it as much as you do. I don't have any control over the guys in the publicity department. They dictate what they think is good for the show and the station. They seem to think we're good together.” He tapped the cigarettes on the table and tore the box open. Another brand of cigarettes was concealed within the distinctive Sultan's Gold box. Graham even let the station control the illusion of which cigarettes he preferred. “And I'm inclined to agree,” he finished, glancing at her as he fished a cigarette from the pack.

“You do?” she asked quietly.

“Of course I do,” he answered firmly, slipping the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He tipped the box toward Vivian and raised his eyebrows. She waved it away. “Speaking of setups,” Graham continued, “I assume your shadow is lurking around here somewhere?”

“Charlie?”

“Oh,” Graham said, eyebrows raised. “It's
Charlie
now, is it?” His voice was cool, detached. He plucked one of the matchbooks out of the ashtray on the table, pulled a match from the row, and lit it in one fluid motion. He touched the flame to his cigarette and puffed slowly, eyeing her over the smoke curling out of his nostrils.

Vivian's eyes strayed over toward the control table, where she caught a glimpse of Charlie's dark blond head. He seemed to be in earnest discussion with Morty. It made her feel better, more relaxed, to have spotted him, to know he was keeping watch.

“He's being paid by
Mr. Hart
to keep an eye on me, as you know,” Vivian said. “I've been threatened.”

“So I've heard,” Graham answered with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“You don't believe me?”

“Of course I believe you, Viv.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair in resignation. “You know, this date isn't going at all like I'd hoped it would.”

“I know,” Vivian agreed. “I think we're both on edge.”

Graham squinted at the stage, where the musicians were taking their places, and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“So he
is
here somewhere?” he asked with his exhale.

“Of course.”

Graham nodded. “As much as I hate the idea of Chick hanging around you all the time, it does make me feel better to know you're being looked after—especially after what I read in the papers.” His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Speaking of, why didn't you tell me all that when I phoned you this morning?”

“I didn't want to worry you,” she lied.

“So I have to read that your life's been threatened over my morning coffee?” he asked. “You didn't think I would worry about that?”

“Mr. Hart told me not to tell anyone,” she said.

“Mr. Hart doesn't know—” Graham began and then abruptly snapped his mouth shut, as if he had thought better of what he was about to say.

The waiter appeared at their table with their drinks. Vivian took a small sip of her sidecar, licking the sugar that had transferred from the rim of the glass off her lips, then placed the glass gingerly on the table.