The Darkness Knows (6 page)

“Thanks for the warning.” The detective caught Vivian's eye and smirked.

“Good night, Mother,” Vivian called sweetly. She watched her mother disappear up the front stairs, then returned to the open bottle of scotch and refilled her glass. “I'd forgotten all about Mrs. Graves and her bat. She's always saying that three women living alone together need to be able to take care of themselves.”

“I agree completely.”

“And we don't often have strange, gun-toting men in the house… Once or twice a week at most.”

“This isn't a laughing matter, Miss Witchell,” the detective said in a low voice.

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know,” she said with a sigh. She turned to face him but continued staring down at her drink as she spoke. “All that silliness with Mother was an act so she wouldn't worry.” She swished the amber liquid around in her glass. Then she looked up at the detective, the false bravado wiped from her face.

“I assure you, Mr. Haverman, I'm terrified.”

Marjorie's murder had pushed Hitler below the fold of the morning papers. Vivian's mother held up that morning's copy of the
Tribune
wordlessly as Vivian entered the dining room. A photo of a much younger Marjorie graced a full one-third of the front page. It appeared to be a publicity photo taken when
The Golden Years
was first catching on. She'd been quite a striking woman before the booze really took hold, Vivian thought. Amazing what it could do in only half a dozen years. Vivian took the paper and quickly scanned the story.

The article held scant detail about the murder itself, and Vivian was not mentioned at all. The contents of the mysterious fan letter still seemed to be under wraps. Mr. Hart had no doubt worked his magic, or more likely his muscle, with the staffs of the city's major newspapers.

The
Chicago Patriot
had identical information, but also ran a side story trumpeting access to Marjorie's secret diaries, which would be published in tomorrow's edition. Giving them enough time to be fabricated, Vivian mused. Secret diaries were a staple of the
Patriot
. There was little cause to think that anything they published would be the remotest neighbor to the truth. Marjorie didn't seem like the type to keep a secret diary.

“You're not mentioned in either paper, Vivian,” her mother said. “Thank goodness.”

“The
Patriot
, Mother?” Vivian raised an eyebrow. She buttered a slice of toast and applied a hefty dollop of strawberry jam. Unfortunately, being in mortal danger had done nothing to quell her appetite.

Her mother sniffed as she glanced at the tabloid.

“Yes, well, I had to see what the papers were saying… All the papers.”

“Mmm,” Vivian mumbled, her mouth full of toast. She didn't want a rehash of last night. She wasn't going to spend a few weeks in that dreary cabin in the Wisconsin wilderness, and that was final.

Mrs. Witchell appraised her only daughter. “Vivian, darling, you look awful.”

“Why, thank you, Mother.”

“Such dark circles under your eyes…” She tut-tutted.

“I didn't sleep very well last night, as you can imagine.”

“I
can
imagine,” her mother said. “With this mess you've gotten yourself into.”

Vivian glared at her. “Gotten myself into? I did absolutely nothing wrong, I'll have you know, besides walk into the station lounge at the wrong time.”

Her mother sighed heavily. She didn't have to say another word. Vivian knew the lines of this particular argument by heart: Julia Witchell didn't think Vivian should be walking around the halls of WCHI at all, let alone at night. She shouldn't be messing around with radio. She shouldn't pursue this silly acting business. She shouldn't have a job at all. She shouldn't. She shouldn't. She shouldn't.

Vivian fumed silently. She was determined not to let her mother get her goat this morning, even though preventing that would take something akin to a Herculean effort. She knew better than to think she could have a rational conversation about something like this with her mother. What she needed was to talk this through with someone who was on her side, someone who was always on her side—someone like her best friend, Imogene Crook.

She wasn't supposed to tell anyone about the letter, but Vivian had picked up the telephone several times during the course of her sleepless night. She'd never completed the call. Not because she didn't trust her best friend to keep a secret, but because it had been too late to give her a ring. She didn't want to wake Genie and get her stewing about something she couldn't do anything about. Besides, she'd see her at the station today. Genie was the station program manager's secretary.

“Nothing new with the investigation,” Mr. Haverman said, entering the room oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “Good morning, Miss Witchell.”

“Good morning,” Vivian said. She didn't look up from the grapefruit she was studiously dissecting on the plate before her, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her newly acquired dark circles.

“So what's the schedule for the day?” he asked, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm.

Vivian jumped a little at the noise. She paused to recover her nerve before speaking. No doubt she was on edge.

“Well, I should be at the station by at least 10:30,” Vivian began. “There's a rehearsal for
Love & Glory
at 11:00, and then we go live from 11:30 to 11:45. I have another rehearsal after lunch. Another live show from 2:00 to 2:15. And there's some publicity to do in there somewhere…”

“That's quite a schedule.”

“Welcome to the world of an up-and-coming radio star,” she said with a tight smile.

“You aren't going anywhere today, Vivian,” her mother said, setting her spoon down with sharp finality next to the grapefruit half on the plate.

“I have to. I have two shows and a photo shoot for—”

“I don't care what you have,” her mother interrupted. “When I spoke with Mr. Hart last evening, he advised very strongly that you stay at home where we can all keep an eye on you.”

“Mr. Hart advised, did he?” Vivian looked to the detective for confirmation.

Mr. Haverman nodded. “He did. But—”

“But nothing.” Mrs. Witchell's gaze at the detective was cold.

“But the threat against Vivian is not verified,” he continued, returning her cold gaze completely unfazed, “and I see nothing wrong with Miss Witchell going about her normal routine.”

There was a tense silence while Vivian's mother considered his statement. She seemed to be taking stock of the detective. She held his gaze for a few seconds, and Vivian noted with satisfaction that her mother was the first to look away.

“You'll be with my daughter the entire time, Mr. Haverman?” Mrs. Witchell asked finally.

“I won't let her out of my sight.”

“Don't you have other cases?” Vivian asked. She found herself inordinately pleased to be the focus of so much special attention.

“I do,” he said. “But Mr. Hart has made it worth my while to put those on hold for the time being.”

“All for me?”

“All for the
station
,” he corrected.

Mr. Haverman's car was even less impressive in the full light of day. It was an unremarkable Packard sedan, black, with some rust spots beginning to form near the wheel wells. It was clean inside and out, but the cloth upholstery was shabby and had certainly seen better days. Vivian began to wonder how well his business was doing and, consequently, just how good a detective he truly was. But Mr. Hart seemed to trust him, and Mr. Hart didn't trust just anyone.

They drove south down Michigan Avenue toward WCHI. It was a rare treat for Vivian to be driven anywhere. She usually walked or took the streetcar. She didn't have a driver's license, and her mother had been nearly shocked to apoplexy a few years back when Vivian suggested she wanted to study for one. A woman of means didn't drive themselves anywhere, her mother had told her. But she had adamantly refused to use her mother's chauffeur at any time. It was a small act of defiance, but it pleased Vivian to shock her mother by bucking social convention. When Vivian had argued that she was an independent working woman who needed a car, the mere idea had sent her mother into a fit and ended the conversation.

Vivian rested her head against the seat back in Mr. Haverman's car and smiled at the memory. “I want to thank you for helping me out with my mother,” she said. “I was afraid I was going to have to shimmy down the drainpipe or something.” Vivian glanced sidelong at the detective. She noted his rueful smile and added, “I've done it before.”

Mr. Haverman raised his eyebrows at the thought and said, “I have no doubt, Miss Witchell.” Then he added, “But I don't blame her. She's worried about you.”

“Worried about me,” Vivian repeated with a scowl. “Worried about my reputation, you mean. And hers.” Vivian affected the boarding-school-polished, mid-Atlantic tones of her mother and added, “Murder is so working class.”

“Hey, you sounded just like her.” He slapped the steering wheel in surprise.

“Ah, she's easy,” Vivian said, waving her hand in dismissal. “You should hear my Mae West.”

“You're a pretty good actress, you know,” he said, his smile fading slightly.

“Thank you,” she replied. Her brow wrinkled. “But you've only seen me perform one
Darkness Knows
episode.”

“I mean that, sure. You're certainly better than the previous Lorna. She couldn't act her way out of a paper bag… But I also mean the act with your mother and with me. The stiff-upper-lip charade.”

Vivian laughed nervously. “Oh yes, well, if I act devil-may-care, I may start to believe I actually am.”

“Is it working?” The detective glanced over at her, then back to the road.

“Not so far,” Vivian admitted. She absently fingered a worn spot in the upholstery of her seat, scraping her nail against the individual threads.

“You know, I don't think anyone would question you taking some time off right now,” he said.

Vivian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If this is some sort of reverse psychology, Mr. Haverman, it won't work. I was serious about what I told my mother last night,” she said. “If I bow out of anything now, I'll be a has-been before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.'”

“And then you'll have no choice but to get married and have babies.”

Vivian's brow furrowed, then she smirked when she realized he was teasing. “Exactly,” she agreed.

They stopped at a red light next to the stone column of the historic Water Tower, and Vivian watched the commotion of early morning commuters rushing past her window. People scurried to and fro on the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue. The men were a blur of gray flannel, the women clad in smart fall dresses with matching hats and gloves. It was a gorgeous, crisp October morning. They were in the middle of a true Indian summer, the days warm and sunny. Vivian had always thought Indian summers were a cruel trick. They gave everyone false hope that winter might not come. But winter always came to Chicago.

“I'm going to be a star, Mr. Haverman,” she said firmly. “I'll do whatever it takes.”

The detective narrowed his eyes. “Whatever it takes?”

Vivian didn't like his tone: teasing, sarcastic, implying something devious in her ambition. She opened her mouth to unleash a scathing retort when her eyes fell on the newsstand on the corner. Marjorie's face stared back at her from the front page of every paper, dozens of them lined up for sale. “Radioland Murder!” the handwritten advertisements screamed.

Vivian shuddered and closed her eyes, opening them only when the car started moving again and they were past the newspaper stand. “So what
are
we going to do about finding this Walter?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean, how do we find this awful person before he comes after me too?”

“I have no plans to find any Walter,” Mr. Haverman said.

“But you're a private detective—”

“Who is being paid simply to keep one client from harm. Mr. Hart didn't hire me to find a killer. The police are handling that.”

“Posh,” Vivian said. “It's part of your job, the way I see it. Find the killer and you don't have to protect me anymore. It's two birds with one stone, really.”

“Very sensible.”

“I'm nothing if not sensible,” she replied, inspecting her manicure before primly placing her hands on her lap.

The detective smirked and said nothing.

Luckily, the Michigan Avenue Bridge was down, the flags lining both sides flapping in the breeze blowing in off the lake. If the drawbridge had been up, as it often was, they would have to wait at least ten minutes before they could cross. Vivian gazed out at the river and the buildings rising on either side to create an artificial canyon of steel and stone. The morning sunlight sparkled off the water. Vivian spotted another newsstand on the south side of the bridge, and she closed her eyes until they'd passed it.

“If it's about money,” she began, tentatively opening her eyes again, “I'll be more than happy to pay for your services.”

Mr. Haverman glanced sidelong at her, a lazy grin sliding onto his face. “Well, why didn't you say so?”

“So that's it? You'll do it?” Vivian asked, incredulous. She hadn't expected his motives to be that transparent.

“For the right price.”

“A little money can persuade you that easily?”

“I hope we're talking more than a little…”

Vivian dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. Money could be discussed later, she thought. At the moment, she was just thrilled at the prospect of being able to do something productive about her situation.

“So where should we start with the investigation?” she asked.

“Now wait a second,” the detective said, holding up one large hand. “There's no
we
about it.”

Vivian frowned and pursed her lips. “I just want to ask some questions around the station. That wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?” She turned to the detective, lowered her chin, and peered up at him through carefully mascaraed lashes.

The detective's eyes remained on the road. “I'll handle all the questioning, Miss Witchell.”

Vivian let her breath out through her nose and narrowed her eyes in irritation. “Well, I'm not just going to sit around and wait for someone to smack me on the side of the head with a liquor bottle,” she said.

Mr. Haverman took his eyes from the road only briefly to glance at her, one eyebrow arched. “I wouldn't recommend that, no,” he said.

Vivian glared at the man's sharp profile for a few seconds, then sat back in her seat. “Well, I'm going to ask some questions,” she said quietly. “And you can't stop me.” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, conscious that the man's eyes were on her again.

He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice was serious. “And just where would you start with your
questioning
?”

Vivian ignored his condescending tone and answered with confidence. “Marjorie's costars on
The Golden Years
. I think they'd know her better than anyone.”

“Good a place as any, I suppose.”

Vivian scowled. “You're just humoring me.”

He continued to steer the car down Michigan Avenue, the fading green of Grant Park flashing briefly to their left. He made a right onto Madison, and when they passed under the El, a train overhead rendered any conversation fruitless for a few seconds. Vivian eyed the fall hat display in the front window of Mandel Brothers Department Store as they paused at the corner of State and Madison.

“I don't care if you are,” she said with a wave of her hand. “As long as you help, I think you'll find that I'm not quite the flibbertigibbet you think I am.”

“Oh, I think you're an immense flibbertigibbet,” Mr. Haverman said, pulling smoothly into an empty parking space in front of the Grayson-Cole Building. He put the Packard in park and turned to face her with a smile. “But it suits you,” he said. He held her gaze for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.

Vivian turned back to the window and exhaled through her nose. Suits her indeed, she thought, as if that were some kind of compliment.

“This is a real stroke of luck,” the detective said, opening his door. “There are never any spaces right out front.”

He jogged around the back of the car and opened the passenger door with a flourish. He held out his hand to help her. “Miss Witchell…”

She glared at him for a moment before taking his hand.

“Oh, enough with this Miss Witchell business,” she said, stepping from the car. “It's driving me batty hearing that every other sentence. You can call me Vivian like everyone else.”

“Okay, Vivian.”

“Actually, I prefer Viv,” she said, straightening her hat—a black, schoolgirl-style beret with a green velvet ribbon band.

“Okay, Viv,” he said seriously. “And I'm just Charlie, please.”

“Not Chick? Graham will be crushed.”

“He'll get over it.”

Vivian smoothed the skirt of her suit and turned to face the building. She groaned at the sight. At least a dozen reporters milled around the entrance, firing questions at anyone who approached. She watched them follow one unsuspecting man to the entrance, swarming around him like flies and dispersing when he escaped inside. Then they backed away to stand together in small groups, chatting among themselves until the next poor person moved toward the entrance where the whole scene would replay itself.

“I can't do this,” she said.

“Having second thoughts about going back to the station?”

“No, it's not that,” Vivian said impatiently. She glared at the reporters. “I just don't want to walk through all of those vultures.” Usually, the idea of photographers hanging around to take her picture would be a dream come true, but those reporters were here because of Marjorie, not her.

“I'll protect you.” Charlie moved to put his arm around her shoulders, but she sidestepped it.

“Actually, I have a much better idea,” she said. “Follow me.”

Vivian led him in a long loop around the block to the alley directly behind the building. She smiled as the grungy, deserted back entrance came into view. Stepping over puddles of God knows what, she held her nose against the stench. At the entrance, Vivian pulled the handle, and the heavy metal door swung open with a screech.

“I guess luck really is on our side today. I wasn't sure the door would even be open. This staircase goes all the way up to the top floor,” she said, craning her neck to look up into the darkness. “But there's also an entrance to the lobby through the door at the other end of this hall.”

“Smart girl,” Charlie said.

“I wasn't born yesterday. The elevators went on the fritz once, and I had to climb down all twelve flights.”

“You weren't wearing ridiculous heels like these, were you?” Charlie nodded toward Vivian's formidable footwear.

“I always wear ridiculous heels like this,” she said and smiled. “Come on.”

She hadn't walked but a few steps toward the stairs when she slipped, her feet flying out in front of her. Charlie caught her just before she landed on her bottom and set her back upright, holding on to her until he was sure she was steady.

“Maybe you should rethink the heels.”

“Pfft,” she said, dismissing the idea. “I just slipped on something.” Vivian scanned the floor until she spotted the small black-and-gold object that had rolled to the far corner of the stairwell. She picked it up and examined it, holding it out on her outstretched palm.

“A cuff link,” he said.

Vivian wrinkled her brow. “It looks like ones I've seen Graham wear.”

“Maybe he had the same idea about avoiding the press this morning.”

“Maybe…” Vivian put the cuff link in the pocket of her jacket, but something about the idea of Graham avoiding the press didn't sit quite right. Graham never avoided reporters.