The Darkness Knows (19 page)

“I'm glad you asked me to come tonight,” she said, moving toward more neutral territory.

“I'm glad you accepted,” Graham replied, turning to her with a smile. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” she said, smoothing the tiny pleats of the gown over her thighs. “But you already told me that.”

“Well, it bears repeating.”

Vivian smiled and met his gaze only briefly before glancing away again. Her eyes landed on the production table. Charlie had his back to her now. She could just see the top of Morty's head over Charlie's left shoulder. He seemed agitated, even angry, as he spoke to Charlie, his head bobbing.

“Things have been crazy,” Graham continued with a sigh. “I can't believe what happened to Marjorie…but I can't say I didn't see something like that coming. Maybe not murder, but she'd been heading toward a bad end for some time.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Vivian answered, distracted by Charlie and Morty.

“…you know, a drunk,” Graham said, his voice nearly inaudible.

Vivian watched Morty for a few more seconds, then turned to Graham, confused.

“What was that?” she asked.

Graham gazed at her through a thin stream of cigarette smoke. “I just said that it's a shame about Marjorie, because she hadn't always been such a drunk.”

“You knew her…before?” Vivian asked.

Graham paused and looked over at the stage. “We had something of a history,” he said.

“What kind of a history?” Vivian lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip.

“Well…” He glanced down a bit sheepishly. “A romantic history.” He nearly swallowed the word “romantic,” as if the word itself were too much to say.

Vivian's eyes widened, and she somehow struggled not to choke on the mouthful of liquor.

“You and Marjorie?” she whispered. She couldn't hide the surprise in her voice. She tried to picture the two of them together, but it was impossible. Dried-up old Marjorie and Graham? It didn't make any sense.

“I didn't kill her, if that's what you're thinking,” Graham said. He glanced around them and leaned toward her, the cigarette balanced precariously between the first and second fingers of his right hand. “You know I didn't kill her, don't you?” His voice was panicked. “I was with you at the time, if you recall.”

“Of course I don't think you killed her,” Vivian answered. “For God's sake, Graham, would I be having dinner with you if I thought you killed someone?” Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. The truth was, she hadn't even considered the idea that Graham had killed Marjorie or had anything to do with Marjorie—until he brought it up himself. Graham made a shushing motion with his hand and glanced both right and left to make sure no one had overheard them. She glanced around at the other tables, but no one seemed interested in them or their conversation.

Then her eyes darted surreptitiously over Graham's shoulder to the control table, but it was empty. Both Charlie and Morty were gone. Vivian felt her stomach knot.

“I'm sorry, Viv.” Graham leaned back in his chair again.

Vivian watched the end of the cigarette flare orange as he inhaled. He blew the smoke out slowly as he composed himself. “Look, it's a bit of an embarrassing story for me.”

He paused, regarding her intently, as if looking for permission to continue.

Vivian said nothing, merely held his gaze and nodded.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It's not that there's anything disreputable in it,” he began. “Don't misunderstand me. I just don't like people to know because…well…because my star is on the rise…and Marjorie's…wasn't.” He paused again and tapped ash into the glass dish on the table. He stared abstractedly at the tablecloth for a moment, as if trying to conjure up a distant and long-buried memory.

“I was young,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “We suffered through a summer-stock production of
Hamlet
together. I was Hamlet; she was my mother. I know, I know, the cliché.” He looked at Vivian out of the corner of his eye and smiled ruefully. “She was older, more experienced, somewhat of a minor star in the theater world. So I hitched my wagon to her star. I used her, and I'm not proud of it, but she used me too. It was the right thing to do for both of our careers at the time.

“I gave her a certain…vitality…by being seen with her. Even then she was somewhat past her prime. She took me to Broadway briefly, and when she decided to move to radio, she took me to WCHI. And then, well…” Graham seemed momentarily at a loss for words. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out. “Once we were here, our lives started going down different paths. She started drinking more and more. She was an unpleasant drunk. We barely spoke toward the end. We were like strangers to each other.” He glanced at Vivian, then looked off wistfully into the middle distance.

Vivian realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it slowly. She tried to keep her face blank, but Graham wasn't looking at her. His mind was far away in another time with Marjorie Fox. Vivian took a swig of her drink and let the fiery liquid swish around in her mouth before swallowing.

“I never would have guessed that you had been
together
,” she finally said, feeling a little silly. She couldn't bring herself to say something as intimate as “lovers.” She felt her neck grow warm at the very idea.

“It was more of a business arrangement,” he said. “I did what I had to do to get ahead. I'm sure you can relate.” He fixed his deep brown eyes on her.

Vivian felt herself flush more deeply and glanced back down at her hands. Of course he would have heard the rumors about how she'd gotten the Lorna Lafferty part.

Graham continued with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Things fell apart for us pretty quickly after getting to Chicago. As I said, we didn't even talk anymore. Still, it was rough hearing that she'd been
murdered
.”

“I can imagine,” Vivian said. She looked up, scanning his strong-jawed profile as she mulled over his choice of phrasing. Rough, certainly, but was hearing that a former lover was murdered simply “rough”? It was nearly the same phrasing that Dave Chapman had used the day before to describe his own reaction to Marjorie's murder—more of a slight inconvenience than the tragic end to a person's life.

She felt the question form on her lips:
Am I just a business arrangement to you too?
But she didn't ask. It would hurt her pride too much to hear the truth. Instead, she swallowed, mimicking Graham's nonchalant attitude.

“Do the police know about this?” she asked. “You and Marjorie?”

Graham shook his head.

“You didn't tell them?” She blinked. “Why not?”

Graham looked sharply at her and narrowed his eyes. “Why should I? I didn't do it, and telling them of my past—
very
past—relationship with the deceased would have made me a suspect in her murder. I don't want to be a suspect,” he said.

Vivian ducked her head and leaned in closer to Graham. “But what if they find out some other way?” she said. “Won't you look more suspicious for not having told them in the first place?”

Graham leaned back in his chair, seeming to weigh what she'd said and considering his response. He finally leaned toward her, elbows on the table. “You're the only one who knows, Viv,” he said in a low voice. “Are you going to tell them?”

Vivian forced herself to meet his gaze. She searched his dark eyes for any sign that he might be joking and found only cold calculation. She swallowed the lump that had risen to her throat. Was this a threat? “No,” she said quietly. “I won't tell.”

Graham's smile was wide and immediate. “Good,” he said with a slight nod, and in an instant his entire demeanor changed. He was back to the affable Graham Yarborough she knew. Vivian blinked, almost wondering if the past few minutes had really happened or whether she'd imagined it all.

The band had taken the stage, and the musicians, in white dinner jackets and black ties, were rustling their music sheets and running scales on their instruments. They would begin playing soon, and then the chance for any serious discussion would be lost among the din.

“You're not angry with me for telling you about my
sordid
past?” Graham asked, running his fingers across the rim of his glass.

She shook her head.

“Mildly put off, perhaps?” he teased. He reached out and rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb. Then he smiled at her, a full-on, knee-buckling Graham Yarborough special. It was the same smile he'd been flashing at her—and every woman around the station, probably—for weeks, but this time its effect on Vivian was decidedly muted. There was no thrill down her spine, no fluttering in her stomach. She recognized that smile for what it was this time, maybe what it had always been: smoke and mirrors.

“Of course not,” she said. “We all have our secrets.”

Graham arched one dark eyebrow. “Do tell.”

She winked and gave his hand a playful squeeze in an attempt to deflect the question.

The orchestra launched into its first song. The tune was jumpy, a real dance number inviting everyone to get up from their seats and hit the floor.

“You know, I'll take a dance in lieu of secrets,” Graham said, lifting their clasped hands and gesturing to the dance floor.

“I'd love to,” Vivian said.

Graham was a good dancer, though he paid little actual attention to her on the floor. The room was crowded, and his hand rested lightly on the small of her back as they danced in place, making a tight circle to avoid bumping into any other couples. Vivian glanced up at his face every few seconds, hoping to think of a topic of conversation that might interest him. There was always Harvey Diamond, she thought ruefully, but she wasn't that desperate—not yet.

Her mind returned to the revelations Graham had let her in on just a few moments ago. He'd known Marjorie very well (just
how
well Vivian would rather not think about) and hadn't told the police about it. She thought of her and Charlie's trip to Marjorie's apartment and the missing letters from the magazine.

“Did you know that Marjorie was being blackmailed?” Vivian asked before she lost her nerve. She looked up quickly to catch Graham's expression.

Graham grimaced and pulled her a little closer.

“Yes, I knew that,” he said, his expression unreadable.

“About what? By whom?” she asked. She knew he hadn't said one word to the police about blackmail. But he only shook his head mournfully, and when he finally looked down at her, his deep brown eyes were filled with sadness.

“I don't know,” he said. “On either count. God only knows what she got up to when she was on the sauce,” he added.

“How did you know?”

Graham narrowed his eyes at her. “There's been talk.”

“Talk?” she repeated. Certainly if there had been talk at the station about Marjorie Fox being blackmailed, she would have heard it. Imogene hadn't mentioned a thing. Yet Bill Purdy had said the same thing at the masquerade the night before.

“So then you knew that Marjorie was dabbling in blackmail herself?” she asked.

Graham stopped dancing right there in the middle of the floor. A couple bumped into them, forcing Vivian to rock on her heels, and she tightened her grip on Graham's shoulder. Graham's face was pale, and he simply stared down at her for one long moment.

“I guess not,” Vivian said.

Graham studied her face as if trying to read the intent behind the question. “Well, it wasn't me that she was blackmailing, if that's what you're implying,” he said, a flush washing his cheeks.

“I'm not implying anything,” Vivian said. She hadn't mentioned anything about him, and she certainly hadn't implied anything either. She narrowed her eyes at him. To his credit, he seemed genuinely surprised and offended at the idea of him being blackmailed, but then again Graham was an actor. Maybe he had more than tough-talking Harvey Diamond in his repertoire after all. She had a feeling she'd hit a little too close to the truth. Maybe Marjorie
had
been blackmailing Graham. But why? What else was he hiding? Graham was silent for another long moment.

“I just don't like you acting like a detective, Viv,” he said suddenly. “I don't like the idea of you creeping around in dark alleys, digging into things that could get you in trouble…get you hurt.” Graham glanced meaningfully across the room to where Charlie and Morty were now standing by the control table. Graham looked down at Vivian, his jaw firmly set. The song ended with a crash of cymbals and a rattle of drums.

They stared at each other in the middle of the dance floor, applause erupting around them.

“Excuse me.”

They turned to find a thin, bespectacled man with a receding hairline looking earnestly at Graham. “Might I cut in?” the man asked. He looked at Vivian, and his lips curled upward.

Graham lowered his eyebrows in irritation but passed Vivian's hand to the newcomer and smiled coldly at them both.

“I have a telephone call to make. I'll be right back,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked off in the dimness toward the round, black lacquer deco bar.

Vivian glanced at her new dance partner's face, registering small, blinking eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a well-trimmed mustache under a prominent nose. She smiled weakly at him. She didn't really wanted to dance with this man, but she felt as though she couldn't refuse.

“You look familiar. Are you in the pictures or something?” the man asked as he led her deftly back into the dancing throng.

Vivian looked over her shoulder to see Graham's back receding into the crowd. He hadn't turned back to make sure she was all right or even give her a reassuring nod before he disappeared from sight.

“No,” she said.

“Well, you oughta be,” the man said earnestly. “You're gorgeous.” His breath ruffled her hair, and she cringed.

“Thank you,” she said tersely, unwillingly to give the man a larger opening to further conversation. She glanced up at his face and tried to gauge whether he was on the level.

“The name's Mack,” he said, smiling down at her. She noticed that the smile didn't touch his pale eyes.

“Mack,” she repeated.

He spun her suddenly in a quick turn, and Vivian gasped. Immediately, he righted them and continued dancing smoothly. He hadn't missed a step. Now they were in the thick of the dancing throng. Bodies pressed in on every side.

“And you're Vivian Witchell,” he said, his voice low.

Vivian tensed and her feet stopped moving, but Mack and the crowd on the floor propelled her forward. Her eyes darted to the side of the stage, but Charlie had disappeared again.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” the man continued. “I just recognized you from the paper. You
were
on the front page…”

“Oh,” she said quietly. There was something odd about this man. His manner, his tone. He was too knowing. She wasn't sure she believed him about recognizing her only from the newspaper.

“I'm surprised to see you here,” he continued. “You being marked for murder and everything…”

A tingle crawled up Vivian's spine at his slow, deliberate drawl. He'd stressed “marked for murder” like he was reading an announcer's script.

“You shouldn't believe everything you read, Mack,” she said, searching the crowd for Charlie.

“You mean there isn't a crazed fan after you?” he asked, feigning innocence.

Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat and didn't answer.

“Aren't you afraid to be out in public?” Mack persisted, his voice hard.

“I'm not afraid of anything,” Vivian blurted out. She winced at her trembling voice. She looked up at Mack, trying to keep her expression impassive. “Look, thank you for the dance, but Graham's going to back at any moment,” she said. “I'd like to sit down, please.”

“And
I'd
like to keep dancing,” he said, lips pursed into a thin white line. He pressed his fingers insistently into the soft flesh of her side.

Vivian swiveled her head to the place she'd last seen Charlie, but he still had not materialized.

“Looking for someone?” the man asked. His grip tightened, and Vivian found herself fighting panic.

Vivian's voice caught in her throat. Maybe this man was really Walter. Maybe he'd been following her all along, and now he'd seen his chance to make a move. She glanced up at the man's face, horrified at the idea. She found herself wondering if he would make his move right here on the dance floor. Would he press a knife to her side and force her out of the nightclub—make her disappear into the night? What would she do? What
could
she do?

“What do you want, Mack?” she asked finally.

“Just your story,” the man said. His sudden smile was brilliant, his large, even teeth glowing in the dim light.

“My story?” she repeated.

“I'll make it worth your while,” he said smoothly.

Vivian blinked, her mind whirling. She did a few revolutions around the floor in the stranger's arms: quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow. The white lights of the bandstand dazzled her. She caught part of the garbled conversation of a passing couple. “But, Janet, that's what they're for!” the man said in an irritated tone. Then it dawned on Vivian that this man spinning her menacingly around the dance floor was a reporter. He didn't want to stick a knife in her ribs. He wanted the scoop on Marjorie's murder.

She nearly laughed with relief. “My story,” she repeated, releasing her breath in a heavy sigh. “What paper are you with?” she asked.

“The
Patriot
.”

Vivian considered that for a moment. She'd have preferred the
Tribune
. It was more respectable. “And just what do you have to offer that would be worth my while?”

“Publicity,” he said, whirling her around in a tight spin. “All the publicity you can stand.”

Vivian smiled. She could stand a lot of publicity. “A feature story?” she asked.

The man nodded. “For starters.” He leaned toward her and added in a low, conspiratorial voice, “And how about a fashion spread in the Sunday supplement, huh?”

She could already see herself blazoned across the fold of the Sunday paper, looking stunning in an array of delicious outfits. “In color,” she said. It wasn't a request. It was a demand.

“I'll see what I can do. Now,” Mack said, “tell me about this letter you got.”

Vivian bit her lip. “My letter?” Her pulse quickened. “How do you know about that?”

“Everyone knows,” he said.

Vivian nodded, thinking. After all, information about the letter found with Marjorie's body had been in the papers this morning. She wrinkled her brow, trying to recall exactly what the articles had said. It was quite possible that the press knew about her own poison pen letter by now. But exactly how much did they know? She entertained the idea of how much she could tell this reporter without giving the game away and getting her into hot water with Mr. Hart. She shook her head and got ahold of herself. She wanted to be a star, but not this way.

Vivian frowned. “No deal.”

The reporter pulled back from her, incredulous. “You'd give up that kind of publicity? You don't have to tell me anything, doll. All you have to do is confirm the things I already know.”

She shook her head. If Mr. Hart caught her talking to the press, he would snuff out her fledgling career with the snap of his fingers.

Then their progress on the dance floor was met with an immovable object in the form of a large, unhappy detective standing stock still with hands on hips like the Colossus of Rhodes. She smiled hopefully at Charlie.

“What's the idea?” Mack said. He glared at Charlie, eyes small through the reverse magnification of his lenses.

“I'd like to cut in. If the lady doesn't mind,” Charlie said, not looking at Vivian. His eyes narrowed at the reporter, and he made a show of rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, highlighting his heavy gold signet ring by twisting it slowly around on his finger.

Mack paused for only the briefest of moments before unceremoniously dropping Vivian's hand and taking a large step backward.

Though he was several inches taller than Vivian, Mack was not a big man. He glanced from Charlie to Vivian, then shrugged his shoulders at her with regret. “She's all yours, pal,” he said over his shoulder as he retreated through the crowd.

Vivian watched him go, then turned back to Charlie, eyes flashing. “What's all this about?”

“Just saving you from the brink of disaster again.”

Vivian rolled her eyes. “That man was no crazed fan, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I wasn't worried for your safety.” He stared down at her, a deep vertical crease appearing at the bridge of his nose. “I was worried about your reputation.”

“My reputation?” She laughed. “That's rich.”

Charlie glanced in the direction of Mack's retreat. “That guy is a hack.”

Vivian crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the detective.

“Let me guess,” Charlie continued, unfazed. “He offered you a two-page spread if you just answered a few little questions about Mrs. Fox's murder.”

Vivian looked quickly. “So what if he did?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “You didn't tell him anything, did you?”

She shook her head.

“Thank God for small favors,” he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where is Yarborough?”

Vivian shrugged. “He said he had to make a phone call.”

“And he left you with some stranger? That weasel.” The band struck up again, this time with a Cole Porter tune that had Vivian's toes tapping despite her annoyance. Charlie held out his hand to Vivian and raised his eyebrows in invitation. When Vivian didn't respond, he said in a lighter, cajoling tone, “Well, we can't just stand here in everyone's way.” Just then, a man bumped sideways into Vivian, knocking her off balance. She grabbed Charlie's hand, and he pulled her in close. He was surprisingly light on his feet and steered her confidently around the floor in a quick fox-trot as the singers began, “And that's why birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it…”

“I said it was okay that Graham make his call, you know. I agreed to dance with that man,” she said, her hand clasped tightly in Charlie's.

“That doesn't make it all right for him to leave you alone with a perfect stranger,” he answered.

Vivian recalled the brief moment of terror she'd felt when she'd thought the reporter really was the Walter of the threatening letters. If Mack had been out to get her, she could have been in real trouble. She looked up at Charlie, towering above her.

“Well, what about you? Where were you while I was fox-trotting with oh-so-dangerous reporter types?” She thought about how helpless she'd felt without Charlie around, and she gripped his hand a little tighter.

“Following Morty Nickerson,” he said, his face serious.

Vivian glanced sharply up at him. “Morty? Why?”

“He was acting strangely.”

“Strangely how?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

“He was watching you and Graham a little…” Charlie paused, searching for the right word. “Intensely,” he finished.

“Watching us…” Vivian repeated quietly. She could feel the panic rising within her again.

“Yes, and after a few minutes he jumped up from his chair and hurried off. I had a bad feeling about it, so I followed him.” He paused before adding, “You were rather close with Yarborough at the time, mind you. I assumed you were reasonably safe for a few minutes.”

“Well?” she asked, impatient to hear the rest of the story.

Charlie frowned. “Well, nothing,” he said. “Morty'd forgotten a wire or something for the remote broadcast. He just ran off to get it.”

“That's it?” Vivian managed somehow to be both relieved and annoyed by the news at the same time.

“That's it,” he answered. A wry smile came to his lips. “I think he's just lovesick, poor guy. Can't say I blame him.”

Vivian met Charlie's eyes for an instant. Then she looked back down at their feet, still moving elegantly in synch over the parquet dance floor.

“But I tried to help him out,” Charlie continued. “Take his mind off you.” When Vivian glanced up at Charlie this time, he was smiling. Vivian followed Charlie's look over to the control table, confused that he could find anything funny in the situation.

Vivian couldn't help but smile herself when she caught sight of Morty, although it was difficult to recognize him since he was nearly obscured by the long, yellow and green feathers atop the enormous headpiece of one of Chez Paree Adorables, what the club called their showgirls. The lovely, limber brunette was perched on Morty's lap, her long legs curled effortlessly around him.

As Vivian watched, the showgirl ran one slim finger flirtatiously down Morty's cheek, then touched the tip of his nose. She laughed at his baffled response of wide-eyed shock. Morty looked simultaneously mortified and excited by this unexpected turn of events, his hands raised as if in surrender, seemingly terrified of touching the girl's bare flesh—of which there was plenty.

Vivian smiled in spite of herself. “Poor Morty,” she said in all sincerity. “He has no idea what to do with her.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet Charlie's. One corner of his mouth curled up in mild amusement, just barely cracking his tough-as-nails facade. Vivian had an intense flash of memory of what it had been like to be stuck in Marjorie's closet with him, his thigh pressed against hers. They were nearly that close now. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin satin of her gown, and her eyes were drawn to his mouth like a magnet.

He was no longer smiling, and his face once again held an expression of slight disapproval as he looked down on her. What about her made him scowl at her like that? She fought the insistent urge to rise on her toes and kiss that frown right off his face. With some effort she focused her gaze back up to meet his. She heard the elegant female singer coo the chorus for the last time, “Let's do it, let's fall in love.”

“I hate to interrupt such a cozy scene.”

Vivian started, pulling away from Charlie. She turned to find Graham, arms crossed over his immaculate white dinner jacket, irritation marking his handsome features. “You two seem to be having a wonderful time,” he said.

“Oh, Graham!” She dropped Charlie's hand.

“Your phone call go through all right?” Charlie asked, any remaining trace of good humor wiped from his face.

Graham furrowed his brow. “Yes,” he said. Then he held his bent arm out to Vivian and simply said, “Shall we?”

Vivian glanced at Charlie before taking Graham's arm. He met her eyes only briefly before looking away again. If there had been any disappointment in his stony expression at being interrupted, she hadn't seen it.