The Darkness Knows (5 page)

It was still difficult for Vivian to think of this monstrosity as her home. They'd moved here from an only slightly less stylish neighborhood in Lincoln Park not long before her father's death seven years ago. He'd purchased the house from a former client who had hit hard times. A lot of people had hit hard times during the Depression, but her father, a prominent attorney, had flourished. Now that Vivian's younger brother, Everett, was at Northwestern, just she and her mother were rattling around this ridiculous old place.

“Pretty grand,” Mr. Haverman said simply.

“Yes, well, it's my mother's house,” she answered. “I'm only staying here until…until I can get a place of my own.” The stone lions stared reproachfully at her from their perches on both sides of the massive stone staircase leading to the double-hung front door.

“I see.”

“Well, thank you for the ride, Mr. Haverman.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. “I very much appreciate it.”

“I'll walk you to the door.”

“No need—” she began, but he'd sprung out of the car before she could finish.

They walked in silence, dry leaves crunching under their feet. The thunder seemed to be moving off into the distance, the promised rain skirting the city. The night had grown frosty, and Vivian pulled her flimsy jacket tighter around her shoulders, wishing she'd opted for something a little more substantial when she'd dressed that morning.

Mr. Haverman unhooked the wrought iron gate and swung it open. He paused briefly in front of one of the stone lions, hands in his pockets, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing as Vivian hurried up the stairs. She pulled the key from her handbag as she went to unlock the thick mahogany door with a quick flick of her wrist. She turned on the threshold, already fantasizing about soaking in a nice, hot bath. Mr. Haverman took the wide limestone steps two at a time.

“Again, thank you for the lift home. Maybe I'll see you around the station sometime?” Vivian tried to smile, but it was all she could do to keep her eyes from closing as she said her good-byes.

“Actually, I'd like to come in,” he said.

Vivian's mouth opened in reply, but words momentarily failed her. She searched her memory for anything she'd said during the drive that might have led Mr. Haverman to believe that she was anything but the most respectable of ladies.

“Perhaps we can have a nightcap some other night, Detective.” Her voice was tipped with ice. He was charming, but this was a bit too forward. She held his gaze for a long second and then began to close the door, but the detective stopped it with his hand.

“No, Miss Witchell,” he said. “I don't think you understand. You're in danger.”

“Mr. Hart wanted to keep this under wraps for as long as possible.” Mr. Haverman took off his dark gray fedora and placed it atop the coat-tree in the entry hall. “He doesn't want a lot of loose talk around the station.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Vivian said, even though she didn't. She strode straight through the entryway and into the den. “Would you like a drink?” she asked over her shoulder. She didn't wait for a response before opening the paneled oak doors of the extensive liquor cabinet and surveying the contents. “Scotch all right?” She named the first bottle she recognized that contained enough liquor for two.

“Sure.”

She poured the drinks with a shaking hand, the bottle bouncing against the lip of the glass. She handed Mr. Haverman his drink and took a mighty gulp of her own. She coughed and then sank into the armchair nearest the fireplace, wishing it had been lit. She was suddenly chilled to the bone.

“Okay,” she said, feeling the scotch slide down her throat, her strength artificially buoyed by the trail of warmth the alcohol left. She took a deep breath. “Let's have it.”

Mr. Haverman set his glass on the fireplace mantel and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He spoke as he slowly unfolded a plain piece of paper. “This isn't the original, of course, but I was able to jot down the contents of the letter that was found with Mrs. Fox's body before the police took it as evidence.”

Vivian took the paper from him and held it gingerly between the tips of her thumb and index finger. She looked up at Mr. Haverman, who nodded his encouragement, and began to read aloud.

Dearest Evelyn,

My heart leaped into my throat when I heard you say the secret words today. Our secret words. I like how you dropped them so smoothly into your speech about Bill missing football tryouts, clever girl. I'll come for you right away.

Vivian shot the detective a questioning glance, took another deep breath, and continued.

I'm not upset that you haven't answered any of my letters. I know you're busy, and I know you think of me as much as I think of you. I know Mr. Garrett will be angry when I take you away from him, but it has to be done. You belong here with me. Don't you see that ? He'll have to see that too. See you very, very soon, darling.

Your Walter

P.S. Tell Lorna that I'm waiting for her secret words too.

“I don't understand,” she said slowly, staring at the words written in the detective's large, looping script. “What does this mean? It's addressed to Evelyn and mentions Bill and Mr. Garrett from
The Golden Years
… This man, this Walter, thought Evelyn was real?”

“It appears so.”

“And he mentions Lorna… He thinks
Lorna
is real too?” She looked up at the detective, eyes wide.

“Which is why Mr. Hart has hired me to keep an eye on you.”

Vivian's eyebrows knit together with worry but then relaxed as a thought struck her. The whole thing was a mistake, of course. “But this Walter can't mean
me
,” she said. Her voice was strong, buoyed by her sudden certainty. “I just started as Lorna. He'd be after Edith Waters, the original Lorna.”

Charlie shook his head slowly. “I wouldn't be so sure. I think this Walter is after Lorna. Period. He thinks she's real, and as of last week,
you
are Lorna Lafferty.”

Vivian slowly slumped back into the chair.
Talk about bad timing
, she thought. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said under her breath. “Why would someone want to kill me?”

“Not you, Miss Witchell,” the detective corrected. “Lorna Lafferty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Well, if Lorna dies, then so do I.” Her attempt at a carefree laugh came out as a cough, and she stifled it with her hand.

Mr. Haverman paced silently in front of the mantel for a few moments before speaking again. He turned to Vivian, frowning. “I suspect that Mrs. Fox's death was an accident, or at least unplanned.”

“Why do you say that?” Her voice sounded flat and small in her ears.

“I think that this Walter is delusional. He may have come to see Evelyn—that is to say, Mrs. Fox—fully expecting her to go with him willingly, and when she resisted, he panicked and hit her with the first thing available.”

“The bottle of whiskey.” Vivian considered that information for a moment. She brought the glass to her lips, but there was no scotch left. She couldn't remember finishing it. “I know that's meant to be comforting in some way, but it's not.”

“You're sure you haven't received any letters?”

“Like this? I would have remembered.” She held the note in front of her and then placed it on the side table.

“You don't recognize the name Walter?”

She shook her head.

“Can you think of anything that you and Mrs. Fox might have had in common?”

Vivian shrugged. “We work with a lot of the same people—engineers, soundmen, writers, directors, actors, announcers, musicians. All the staff work on everything at the station. But as I told you earlier, Marjorie and I weren't the best of friends. We were barely even acquaintances.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. He stood deep in thought for a moment. “And I suppose you don't have any idea what the secret words might be?”

“I haven't a clue,” she said, defeated. She suddenly sat stiffly upright as a new and terrible thought struck her. “If I don't know what they are, how will I know if I've said them?” Her eyes darted over Mr. Haverman's face, searching for some tiny bit of reassurance, perhaps even an outright declaration that the secret words mentioned were just a bit of delusional nonsense.

The detective looked Vivian squarely in the eye. “You got me.”

At that moment, the front doorknob rattled. They could hear the muffled curses of someone trying to force a key into the lock. Charlie tensed and reached inside his jacket. “Expecting someone?”

Vivian glanced at the time on the grandfather clock, then relaxed back into the chair. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

“Just Mother,” she said with a sigh.

Vivian heard the front door open and shut again quickly, followed by the thump of the bolt being set into place. Her mother burst into the room soon after, pulling one long, white glove off as she walked. She was dressed to the nines, and Vivian recalled that her mother had planned to attend a benefit at the opera this evening. She had kept her active social and charity schedule after Vivian's father's death and was out at least four nights of every seven. Her mother had the same strawberry-blond hair as Vivian, except that hers was liberally streaked with gray and swept back into a classic chignon at the base of her neck. She was a bit plump—pleasantly, Vivian would say—but her eyes were bright, her skin was clear, and even Vivian had to admit that she looked like her older sister rather than her mother. Unfortunately for Vivian, her mother didn't act much like an older sister.

“Well, that was a disaster. Whoever planned that benefit had no idea—” Her mother stopped suddenly as her eyes fell upon Mr. Haverman. She pulled the second glove off with a flourish. “You have a gentleman caller at this time of night?” she asked smoothly, addressing Vivian as she appraised Mr. Haverman with a cool eye.

Vivian fought the urge to laugh at her mother's use of the antiquated phrase
gentleman caller
. “Mother, this is Charles Haverman.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Haverman. I'm Vivian's mother, Julia Witchell,” her mother said, holding out her ungloved hand. She took the detective's hand with only her fingers, made the briefest of downward motions with her wrist, and then immediately released it. She turned her attention back to Vivian, one eyebrow arched in expectation.

“Mr. Haverman is a private detective and a special consultant to
The Darkness Knows
,” Vivian explained. “He graciously offered me a ride home after the ten o'clock show tonight.”

“I see.” Her mother's eyes fell upon the bottle of scotch sitting on top of the open liquor cabinet. “Are you feeling all right, Vivian?”

Vivian paused as she considered how to answer the question. Where to begin? With her fingernail, she tapped the glass she was holding.

“There's been an incident at the station, Mrs. Witchell,” Mr. Haverman said.

“An incident? What kind of incident?”

“A murder,” Vivian clarified. “Marjorie Fox. She played Evelyn Garrett—”

“On
The Golden Years
,” her mother finished. “I listen to that every day!”

“You do?” Vivian asked, surprised.

Her mother waved the question away impatiently. “What on earth happened?” Her eyes darted from Vivian to the detective and back to Vivian, where they narrowed with suspicion. “You're not involved, are you, Vivian?”

“I may be,” Vivian said quietly. She stood, retrieved the letter from the side table, and handed it to her mother. “This was found with Marjorie's body. I'm mentioned. Well, Lorna is. I may be in danger if this Walter person was responsible for Marjorie's murder.”

Mr. Haverman and Vivian watched in silence as her mother read the letter.

“This is horrible,” her mother said in a low voice. “No, this is really horrible.” She looked up sharply, as if they were about to argue with her. “You have to go away.”

“Go away?”

“Your life is in danger, Vivian. You can't stay here.”

“Yes, I can. Mr. Haverman's going to look after me.” Vivian glanced at him. “Mr. Hart hired him to do just that.”

The detective slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced a calling card for each of them. Vivian glanced at it.

Charles Haverman Jr.

Private Inquiries

HAR–7998

“I'm sure Mr. Haverman is competent at whatever it is that he does,” Vivian's mother said, holding the card at arm's length and gazing doubtfully at it. “But I don't trust him with my daughter's life.”

The detective showed no sign of offense. Vivian had to admire his calm in the presence of the formidable Mrs. Witchell.

“You're going to have to, Mother, because I'm not leaving.” Vivian crossed her arms across her chest. “I have shows to do.”

“Oh, the shows…” Mrs. Witchell threw her hands out as if to push the idea away, the letter flapping in the space between mother and daughter. “You can do those shows when you come back safe and sound.”

“Mother, that's not how it works,” Vivian said.

“Posh on how it works. Mr. Hart will understand.”

“Of course he'll understand,” Vivian agreed. “And they'll find another girl to do all my parts while I'm away.”

“I don't really think that would be such a bad thing.”

“Oh, Mother, don't start.”

“You can go up to our cabin in Wisconsin for a few weeks,” her mother continued in a softer tone of voice. “Everett was just up there with some friends. I'm sure it's in fine condition.”

Vivian rolled her eyes at the idea. If Everett had been up there with his fraternity brothers, the cabin was sure to be in less than fine condition. “I'm not sitting alone in a freezing cabin for a few weeks while my radio career goes right down the toilet,” she said.

Her mother scowled at the inelegant phrasing. “I'm only thinking of your safety.”

“So it's fine if I freeze to death?”

“Don't be smart.”

Vivian turned to Mr. Haverman. “Mother would love me to drop all this radio nonsense, get married, and have babies. Right, Mother?”

“Now, Vivian. That's not fair.” Her mother added a glare that said,
And certainly not an appropriate conversation to have
in front of a guest.

Vivian grunted, amused at the barely noticeable blush on the previously unflappable detective's stubble-darkened cheeks.

Mrs. Witchell looked at the letter again and then turned to him. “So what do you suggest we do, Mr. Haverman?”

“I suggest that your daughter go about her daily routine as usual,” he said, pausing to assess Mrs. Witchell's reaction. She said nothing, so he continued. “I'll be with her at all times. She'll be as safe as a kitten.” He brushed his jacket back ever so slightly so that the butt end of a revolver was visible, tucked into a holster on his hip.

Vivian's mother's eyes widened, but she said nothing. The sight of the gun shocked Vivian—and thrilled her a little too.

“And I'm to be used as a sort of lure for this Walter?” Vivian asked suddenly.

The detective had no time to answer before Mrs. Witchell admonished her. “Vivian!”

“Well, how else do you think they're going to catch him, Mother? It's exciting, don't you think? I've read about things like this in
True Crime
magazine.”

Mrs. Witchell sighed. “Your father never should have let you read those silly rags. Giving you ridiculous ideas…” She rubbed her temples.

“I'm afraid it's far too late for that now, Mother.”

Mrs. Witchell glared as she finally removed her expensive-looking, black Persian lamb coat, laying it carefully over her arm. She moved back toward the entryway, Charlie and Vivian following behind. She paused at the base of the stairs and turned back to face them.

“Oh, I have a splitting headache,” she said. She sighed again, this time more dramatically. “You're staying, Mr. Haverman? I'll phone Mr. Hart right now to verify your story, of course. Assuming that you are who you say you are, I'd feel much safer with a detective in the house.” She didn't wait for his response before continuing. “The guest room is at the end of the hall upstairs. It should be ready for use.”

She started climbing, then stopped and turned back.

“Oh, and don't go near the room next to the stairs,” she said to Mr. Haverman. “That's the housekeeper's room. She keeps a baseball bat next to the bed, and she's likely to knock you out cold.”