The Darkness Knows (21 page)

“Message for you,” the policeman said gruffly, handing a folded piece of paper to Charlie. Charlie nodded and closed the door. He scanned the paper, a wrinkle appearing between his brows as he read.

“What is it?” Vivian asked, her hands ice cold.

“Looks like you're getting your wish after all,” he said.

“My wish?” she croaked.

“I'm leaving.”

“What do you mean
leaving
?” Vivian asked, panicked. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” He stepped over to the coat-tree and grabbed his worn wool overcoat.

“When will you be back?” she asked as she scurried after him.

He shrugged his coat on and grabbed his hat. “Later,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. He locked eyes briefly with her before saying, “The police guard is still outside. Stay here until I come back.” Then he stepped over the threshold, pulling the heavy mahogany door shut behind him with a soft click.

Vivian awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in the darkened room. The telephone was ringing, an insistent trill that had pushed its way into her fitful dream.

She registered the utter silence of the house and realized that neither her mother nor Charlie had returned. The grandfather clock was just readable in the fading light: 6:10. Despite everything that had happened, she'd managed to fall asleep on the sofa. Now she felt lethargic, yet panicked. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She stumbled to the front hall, each ring of the telephone filling her with fresh dread.

She went to pick up the receiver, but her fingers refused to grasp it, and she knocked it to the floor with a clumsy sweep of her hand. It clunked against the tiles, and a startled female voice was barely audible from the speaker.

“Hello? Viv? Viv?”

She clutched the receiver to her ear. “Imogene?”

“What's going on? Are you okay?”

Vivian sighed with relief at hearing her friend's voice, but that terrible feeling still churned her guts. “I…” She glanced at the window next to the front door. The policemen weren't visible. But they were there. Or had they gone too? “I don't know.”

“What's wrong?”

Vivian swallowed. “Everything.”

“Has something else happened? Are you okay? Viv, what's going on?”

“I'm sorry,” Vivian said, noting for the first time the alarm in her best friend's voice. “I'm okay. Physically at least.”

“Then what is it?”

Vivian felt the tears prick her eyes, and she bit her tongue to keep it together. “I think I've been fired.”

“Fired? What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Hart called earlier. He saw that article in the
Patriot
this morning. Oh, Genie, I've been so stupid.” She slumped against the wall and slid down, clutching the telephone cord to her chest.

“I'm sorry, Viv. But fired? I can't believe that. Maybe you misunderstood.”

Vivian shook her head, unable to speak.

“Well, we'll fix this, okay? We're going to fix this.”

Vivian felt a tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away and hitched in a breath. Imogene understood. Imogene always understood. This was the reaction she'd wanted from Charlie, and he'd given her the opposite. And then he'd just left. She couldn't bring herself to tell Imogene about what had happened with Charlie last night…today… It was all too embarrassing.

“I can't talk about this right now, Genie.”

“Sure. All right. I was just calling to tell you that I'm going down to the station. I'm going to look through those mailbags in the closet. Maybe I'll find something that will help—another letter maybe? It's a long shot, but I've been sitting here stewing about it all day, and I feel like I have to do something. I was going to see if you wanted to come along, but I suppose that's not the best idea right now.”

Vivian sighed. “I suppose not.”

“Would you rather I come to your place instead?”

“No, don't bother.”

“I'll call you later, okay?”

Vivian didn't answer.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Vivian said. “Thanks, Genie.”

She reached up and replaced the receiver on its cradle without moving from her seat on the floor. Her legs wouldn't work. All the energy seemed to have been leached from her body. She lowered her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes. Maybe she'd just go back to sleep, and when she woke up, all of this would have just been a bad dream.

Then the doorbell rang, and her head jerked back up.

A man's form was silhouetted in the window next to the front door. It looked like one of the policemen—Vivian could make out the sharp peak of his cap in shadow. She pulled herself to her feet and opened the door, keeping the chain latched.

“Yes?” she said.

The policeman touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Letter for you, miss,” he said. “Just delivered by messenger.”

“A letter?” she repeated.

He pushed the slim envelope toward her through the crack in the door. “Unless you want me to read it first?” he asked. “In case it's, you know, another threat?”

Vivian shook her head and snatched the envelope from his hand. “No,” she said. “That won't be necessary. Thank you.”

She shut the door and tore the envelope open right there in the foyer. It was a clipping from today's paper—the photo of her and Graham, with the bold “I'm Not Scared” headline centered over it. She studied it, confused. Was it from a fan? Something for her scrapbook? And then she noticed the circle penciled around a face just visible in the background of the photo. She held the clipping up, squinting in the dim lamplight that filtered in from the street. Charlie's face was circled. He glowered at Vivian and Graham from over Vivian's shoulder, just one of the crowd at Chez Paree.

She reached into the envelope and pulled out another sheet of paper, her heart hammering in her chest. She read the message quickly, each typed word filling her with slowly growing terror.

You should be scared, you fool. He lied to you. He knows what Marjorie was. And I know what he is. Get out while you still can.

It was unsigned. She flipped the paper over, but it was blank on the back. She brushed her fingers over the indentations left by the typewriter keys and flipped the paper back over. She glanced again at the message. The letters. They were off-kilter. Wonky. Just like the threatening letter that had been slipped into her script. The letters swam before her. She closed her eyes. Then she looked again at the circled face on that clipping. Not Graham's face, but Charlie's.

What he is.
What he is
. The phrase spun around and around in Vivian's head. What was this letter suggesting? What
is
Charlie?

In a daze, she found her way to the sitting room, turning on every lamp on her way, and snapped on the radio. The silence was suddenly too much. She was almost suffocating in her thoughts. The uproarious laughter of a live studio audience filled the air. It was the
Carlton Coffee Variety Hour
, live from WCHI. Vivian barely registered Sammy Evan's high-pitched voice. He was already hard at work in his new job. Things had turned out well for Sammy Evans, hadn't they? She snapped the radio off again, suddenly feeling sick.

Charlie had said he'd met Marjorie, but that he didn't know her. Had that been a lie? Had he been acquainted with Marjorie, as the note insinuated? Did he know what she was—whatever that meant? Had he
killed
her? Of course, that was ludicrous, Vivian thought. But Charlie had had the opportunity, hadn't he? He'd been a consultant on
The Darkness Knows
for months. He'd said he'd worked for Mr. Hart prior to that. He could walk into and out of that radio station whenever he pleased. And he could lie just like anyone else, couldn't he? Being a private detective didn't give him any sort of heightened moral compass. He could have been lying to her about all of it.

She didn't really know the man at all, did she? She'd met Charlie all of four days ago, and she'd already jumped into bed with him like a common hussy. That's what her mother would call her if she ever found out. And then he'd humiliated her and abandoned her without an explanation.
That's not something a man that cared for you would do
, she thought.
That's not something a man who cared about anybody but himself would do.

On impulse, she went to the telephone in the hall, intending to call…to call who? Charlie's office? The police? As she reached down, the telephone rang, loud and insistent, under her fingertips.

Vivian jumped back, her hand clutched to her chest as if she'd been shocked. The telephone rang twice more before she could summon the courage to answer it.

“Charlie?” she whispered, hoping despite everything that he was calling. She needed him to clear all of this up. She needed him to tell her that everything she'd just been thinking was wrong. She glanced into the dark entryway. She couldn't see the police guards from here, but she knew they were there.

“Viv?” a female voice asked tentatively.

“Yes.”

“It's Peggy Hart.”

Vivian's breath came out in a great whoosh of air.

“Viv, are you there?”

Viv felt the color flood back into her face, but she'd heard the note of panic in the girl's voice.

“Yes,” she said, her voice stronger. “I'm here. What is it, Peggy?”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was hoping you'd be around,” Peggy said. “Deena hasn't shown up yet. Joe was hoping you could come down to the station and fill in for her—”

“Which show?”

“
Murder & Mayhem
.”

Vivian glanced at the hall clock.
Murder & Mayhem
went live in little over an hour. Her immediate instinct was to respond that of course she would come down to the station, but she hesitated. Surely Peggy and Joe both knew that Mr. Hart had effectively fired her. Should she mention it or assume they already knew and were asking her anyway with his blessing?

“Peggy, I don't know…”

“You're our only hope, Viv,” Peggy said, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears. “There's no one else.”

Vivian bit her lip, thinking of Charlie's order that she stay home until he returned. She was suspended. She wasn't to come near the station. But if Vivian came in now and gave a professional, dependable performance on such short notice, maybe that would help change Mr. Hart's mind. She could prove to everyone that she was a professional and the actress they needed her to be. This was her chance to be a team player and to prove that she wasn't just a flighty chit who only looked out for herself.

“I'll be there,” she said, her stomach twisting at the idea. Charlie would be angry with her for leaving the house, but he was already angry with her. And who knew if he was even coming back? She'd thrown a vase at him. She'd told him to leave—and he had, even though that's precisely what he was not supposed to do. He'd left her alone. He'd let her down, hadn't he? Maybe that had been his plan all along, she thought, glancing down at the newspaper clipping still in her hand.

“Thank God! Get here as soon as you can.” Peggy hung up without saying good-bye.

Vivian thought of leaving a note for Charlie, but what on earth would she say? Instead, she wrote a few scant lines to her mother telling her where she'd gone. Her mother didn't know anything about the recent events, and she didn't need to know. Vivian took one last long look at the clipping and stuffed the envelope containing it and the warning message into her jacket pocket. She patted it, and another thought struck her. This could be another red herring, couldn't it? Someone who was just trying to keep her away from the station and Charlie?

But staying away was the last thing she'd do, Vivian decided. She would not be scared away. She may not know who was toying with her, but she refused to cower. She was going to go to that radio station and take matters into her own hands.

• • •

One of the policemen gave Vivian a ride to the station, and she walked through the empty lobby of the Grayson-Cole Building only twelve minutes after she'd hung up the phone with Peggy. She nodded to the nighttime security guard, who eyed her warily.

Angelo sprang from his stool in the corner of the elevator, his eyes wide.

“Miss Witchell,” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat. Was it possible that Angelo knew about her suspension too? “I'm filling in for Deena on
Murder & Mayhem
,” she said. “I need to hurry.”

Angelo clucked his tongue and shook his head, but he closed the elevator doors behind her without comment. Vivian watched the dial move from floor to floor in silence, her stomach twisting itself into knots.

Just before the car reached the eleventh floor, Angelo pulled the brake and brought the car to a sudden stop. Vivian had to grasp his arm to keep from falling.

“What happened?” she asked, breathless.

Angelo didn't answer, and he didn't turn to face her. Vivian felt the hairs on her arm stand at attention as the goose bumps raced down her arms. She stared intently at the back of Angelo's gray head, willing him to turn around and smile. Willing him to act normally.

“Angelo,” she said, fighting to quell the panic rising within her.

After a moment, he did turn, but his eyes were locked on the floor of the elevator car.

“Angelo,” she repeated, her voice rising. “What's going on?”

“I'm sorry,” he said, eyes still trained on the floor at his feet.

Vivian swallowed. “Sorry about what?”

Angelo's caramel-colored eyes flicked up to her face. “It was me,” he said, spreading his hands palms up before lacing his fingers together over his midriff as if in prayer.

Vivian tried to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed and tried again. “
What
was you?” she whispered. She desperately wished that she'd accepted Imogene's offer to lend Vivian her gun. She had no way to defend herself. She glanced down to the brake and the lever beside it. She'd wished she'd paid more attention to how the elevator actually operated. Could she make a lunge for the brake? Set the car lurching upward and put him off balance if she had to?

“Mrs. Fox…” he began.

Vivian's heart stopped in her chest.

“Mrs. Fox,” he repeated, shaking his head slowly, “was not a nice woman.” He glanced up at Vivian again, as if needing confirmation that he was not the only one who felt that way.

“No,” Vivian whispered. “She wasn't.”

She balled the fingers of her right hand into a fist but kept it hanging at her side. She'd never punched anyone before, but she was sure she could do it if she had to. And Angelo was small and slight, not much bigger than Vivian herself. She was sure that if she caught him off guard she could at least knock him off balance and make a break for it somehow. Make a break for it in an elevator, she thought with rising panic. How does one do that? She fought the giggle of hysteria that tried to force its way out of her mouth. This was no time to lose her mind.