Dig Deep My Grave

by Cheryl Honigford

  “Oh, please, it’s Stu.” He winked again, and his gaze traveled down the length of her body and back up again. She held her smile and tried not to let any disgust at his presumption show in her expression. Whether she liked it or not, Three-Martini Stu held her future in his hands. His gaze shifted to Graham. “Say, I haven’t seen you two in the papers lately. How’s my favorite couple doing?”

  Graham’s eyes flicked nervously to Vivian. He cleared his throat. Panic fluttered in Vivian’s chest. Mr. Marshfield knew they were officially no longer an item. Surely, if he hadn’t seen the press release, then he’d been informed of the development. Sultan’s Gold was his most important client, and Vivian and Graham had just starred in a very successful magazine ad campaign for that client.

  “Well, that’s because Viv and I are no longer a couple off-air,” Graham said, lifting his chin slightly. He looked to Vivian like a Christian about to stare down a lion in the Colosseum.

  Mr. Marshfield lifted his cigarette and took a long, thoughtful drag. Then he contemplated both of them through the haze of his exhaled smoke. “I heard that, yes,” he said, flicking ash into the tray at his elbow.

  “It was amicable,” Vivian said. “The split.” She looked to Graham and smiled broadly.

  “We’re still the best of friends,” he added. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You know how these things are, Stu. Actors are like hothouse flowers. You put two of them together and, well, the egos collide something fierce. Forced to stay together, they both wilt.”

  Vivian shot Graham a glance that said Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t we?

  But Graham knew his audience. The ad man smiled at the imagery that Graham had invoked. He’d worked with his share of delicate actors and could no doubt relate story upon story about their fragile egos.

  “So you’re separated at the moment,” he said as if he didn’t quite believe it. “And that might imply a reconciliation at some point?”

  “No,” Vivian and Graham said in unison.

  But Mr. Marshfield was staring off through the control-room window into the activity in the studio. “We might want to give that a rethink at prime ratings time,” he said without looking at them.

  Vivian felt her mouth turn down at the corners. Now that she was out of that sham relationship, there would be no reconciliation. Not even to boost ratings. Not for a thousand national ad campaigns. Charlie would never stand for it, for one thing. Her heart clenched at the thought of Charlie. Had he been released like Bernard promised?

  Joe McGreevey, the director, stepped up to the group, nodding his hello at each. A man trailed behind him, and Vivian’s stomach sank when he pulled the boxy black camera with the large silver flash disk from behind his back.

  “This is Mr. Billings,” Joe said, nodding toward the man. “He’s going to be taking some candids before rehearsal for the next Radio Guide. Langley wants to keep interest in the program up over the hiatus.” He leaned in toward Vivian and Graham and pitched his voice lower. “And Langley wants you two to play it up for the cameras. You know, act congenial.”

  Congenial. Vivian glanced at Graham, and he shrugged unhelpfully in response. After all, what did he care? Being congenial only helped his fictional ladies’ man reputation, didn’t it?

  Then Joe pointed to the large clock over the window. “Time’s a-wasting,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we, folks?”

  Chapter Eight

  They were reading a new script of The Darkness Knows written especially for this recording. It dealt with dirty dealings at a racetrack. The location was a fictional racetrack, of course, but the idea hit a little too close to home for Vivian’s liking. Charlie’s father, Cal, had been a track detective at Hawthorne Race Course in the twenties in the near-western suburbs. Not six months ago, he’d told her he’d once seen her father, “Easy Artie” Witchell, at Hawthorne with his pal Al Capone. Vivian couldn’t think of a racetrack or anything tangentially related to horse racing without thinking of that moment in Charlie’s run-down South Loop office when his father had sat calmly across from her and shattered her memories of her gentle, kindhearted father into a million pieces.

  No matter how many times the knowledge tried to lodge itself into her consciousness, it didn’t just jibe. The man Cal had known, who had willingly plotted murders with the notorious gangster, would never match the man she’d known as her father. But she couldn’t dwell on any of that now.

  “How about you two together squeeze together, share a microphone.”

  The photographer’s voice broke into Vivian’s thoughts. She sighed and inched toward Graham.

  “A little closer now,” Mr. Billings said, looking through the viewfinder of his camera.

  Vivian leaned over until her shoulder was pressed against Graham’s arm. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “It’ll be over in a minute.”

  The flashbulb popped.

  “Okay, good,” the photographer said. “How about you share a script? You know, get cozy.”

  Vivian dropped her script to the floor, and Graham held his out so they could share.

  The flashbulb popped again.

  “Good, but how about you shoot old lover boy a loving glance, eh, sweetheart?”

  Lover boy? Sweetheart? Who did he think he was, Jimmy Cagney? Vivian opened her mouth to say just that, but then her eyes strayed to the control room. Mr. Marshfield was watching from behind the glass, and Mr. Langley had joined him. So she took a deep breath and then counted to ten. She couldn’t afford to let her tongue slip. Not today.

  She turned and smiled up at Graham, giving him the daffy, batty-eyelashed girl-in-love look that she imagined Lorna would give Harvey if they were real people.

  The flashbulb popped again.

  “Good! I got it.”

  “Thank God,” Vivian said under her breath.

  Graham retrieved her script from the floor and handed it to her. She smiled her thanks, adding what she hoped was an “I’m annoyed by the situation, not you” look.

  He winked back at her and pointed to his script. They had a job to do.

  Detective Harvey Diamond had been called to investigate at the behest of local tycoon Aloysius Quint. He’d been threatened, told in no uncertain terms that his prize thoroughbred Kickapoo Lou would lose the sweepstakes—and lose big. Of course, Harvey had brought along his sidekick, Lorna Lafferty. She screamed somewhere in the first two minutes of the program. Lorna screamed at least once in each script. It was her trademark, and Vivian was darn good at it. But Vivian was pleased to see that she also had some substantial dialogue in this script—not just “Oh, Harveys” and near-fainting spells.

  They ran through the full script twice before beginning the transcription. Joe nodded to Morty in the control room, and he put the needle to the blank disk to begin the recording. Then Joe pointed to the organist. She pounded the keys with fervor, and as the dramatic minor chords of the intro music faded away, Bill Purdy, the show’s announcer, stepped to the microphone, script in hand.

  “And now it’s time for another episode of that tantalizing tale of detective muscle The Darkness Knows,” he said. “Sponsored by Sultan’s Gold, the cigarette that’s truly mellow. Today, we open at the Blue Valley Racetrack. Detective Harvey Diamond is in the paddock with his right-hand gal, Lorna Lafferty, inspecting a particular bay gelding owned by tycoon Aloysius Quint.” Bill nodded to Graham.

  “Mr. Quint is sure to lose a fortune on this race, but I just can’t figure how,” Graham said.

  “Well, Kickapoo Lou isn’t Kickapoo Lou, for starters,” Vivian said.

  “What do you mean, doll? This horse has the same bay coloring, same star-shaped white mark on the forehead…”

  “Look again.”

  “Well, I’ll say. The star’s been painted on.”

  “The old switcheroo.”

  There
was a pause as Harvey Diamond considered the information. “A look-alike swapped for the thoroughbred,” he said thoughtfully.

  “That’s right. We’ve been had, Harvey. Someone wants Mr. Quint to lose this sweepstakes…and lose big. But who?”

  “Gotta be the syndicate. They run the rackets in these parts.”

  “Oh, Harvey, how can we fight that?”

  “Leave it to me, sweetheart. I’ll find a way.”

  There was a dramatic pause before the organ swept in again and the three girl singers started in on the Sultan’s Gold jingle.

  The episode was recorded without incident, and everyone erupted into spontaneous applause when Joe got the signal from Morty that the transcription was a success. Joe announced into the studio speakers, “That’s a wrap, folks.” Vivian smiled at everyone in the studio, but she was in no mood to celebrate. She hurried out the door.

  “Viv, wait!” she heard Graham call after her, but she didn’t stop. She felt claustrophobic. She needed air.

  • • •

  Vivian’s best friend, Imogene Crook, was standing in the hallway just outside, a stack of scripts clutched to her chest. Imogene was the secretary to Mr. Langley, the head of the station. She smiled as she spotted Vivian rush out of the studio.

  “There you are. How did the recording go?”

  “Peachy, Genie.” Vivian smiled, using every bit of her acting talent to make the expression seem genuine.

  Imogene’s dark brows drew together, and she studied Vivian’s face. “Oh really?”

  “Really.”

  “I was hoping to make it down there to see it in action, but Langley had me running all over the place delivering memos. You weren’t going to come up and see me before you left?”

  Vivian started walking toward the elevator, and Imogene automatically kept pace.

  “I’m sorry,” Vivian said. “I have a lot on my mind. I haven’t packed, and the train leaves in three hours.”

  “Yes, the trip. I’m so jealous! I heard the Super Chief is the tops in luxury. Write me when you make it to Los Angeles and tell me every single detail.”

  “Of course.”

  “Speaking of details, how was the big to-do at the lake yesterday?”

  Vivian’s shoulders slumped. She’d been expecting the question, and yet found she wasn’t quite ready for it when it came. It was innocent enough. After all, Vivian had made a big deal about how thrilled she was to be visiting Oakhaven and seeing her cousins after such a long time. Had it really only been two days ago that she’d been discussing that excitement with Imogene?

  “It was fine,” Vivian said.

  “Just fine? You’d made it sound like the most amazing place.”

  “Not just fine,” Vivian said. Her voice sounded mechanical to her own ears. “Oakhaven was magnificent, of course. It was great seeing my family again.”

  And Hap, she thought. She’d seen Hap again after all this time. It hadn’t exactly been great to see him again. What it had done was stir up a lot of long-buried feelings that she was now forced to bury again. And now he was gone. Forever. That knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone. Vivian stopped walking abruptly. Everything had gone still around her. She heard the same faint buzzing in her ears as when Hap had collapsed in front of her and she’d seen the blood on Charlie’s hands.

  “Viv, what’s wrong?” Imogene placed a hand firmly on Vivian’s shoulder.

  “Everything,” Vivian whispered. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Who’s dead?”

  “Hap,” she said, her voice a rusty croak.

  “Who’s Hap?” Imogene looked around and then pulled Vivian forward a few paces into the actors’ lounge. Vivian’s insides clenched. This was where she’d found Marjorie Fox’s lifeless body just before Halloween. She generally tried to avoid coming in here. She shivered, looking down at her shoes and shaking her head.

  “An old friend,” she said. “I can’t explain everything now, Genie. But Charlie didn’t kill anyone. He can’t have. It’s all been a complete misunderstanding.”

  As she spoke, Graham’s dark head poked around the corner, his eyes wide with alarm. Immediately, Vivian knew he’d overheard. He rushed into the room, his voice a hiss. “What’s this? Chick’s killed someone?”

  Oh God. This just got worse and worse.

  “Shh!” Imogene hissed at Graham as she pulled Vivian into a wordless hug.

  “Charlie didn’t kill anyone,” Vivian repeated. Her voice cracked, and she knew that she was within a hairbreadth of tears.

  Imogene stroked her hair.

  “And you’re still going to California?” Graham said.

  Vivian nodded.

  “How?” Graham said. “I don’t know any of the details, but I don’t know how you can go across the country if Chick’s in that kind of trouble.”

  Yes, how could she?

  “If I know Charlie, he probably pushed you out the door and gave you swift kick on the behind for good measure,” Imogene said.

  Vivian smiled slightly. “You do, and he did.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m fine. Really. Everything’s going to be fine. He’s going to call the station any minute and tell me so.” She had to admit she sounded convincing. She almost believed it herself.

  But she looked away from Imogene and Graham. If she admitted her fear to anyone, even her best friend, that would make this absurd situation real. Someone was dead, and Charlie might have killed him.

  Chapter Nine

  Vivian hurried down the length of Track Five. Engines thrummed, and compressed air hissed out of the trains lined up for departure. The porter in his crisp, dark uniform hurried along beside her, taking one long stride for every two of hers. He carried her matching valise, hatbox, and toiletry case. She glanced up at the large clock at the end of Dearborn Station and found she wasn’t running as late as she’d feared. The Super Chief left at precisely seven fifteen. She had a full ten minutes to spare. Still, she did not slow her pace. Her nerves refused to be soothed. Her gloved hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She was wound like a spring. And it was no secret why.

  Vivian had had no news of Charlie all day. She had hurried home after the transcription session at the station but hadn’t been able to reach anyone by telephone. She’d left messages with Freddy, Cal, and several at Oakhaven, but none had been returned by the time she had to leave for the train station. Vivian had thrown items into her open suitcases in a haze as unease settled over her like a suffocating blanket. Uncle Bernard had promised to go to the police this morning and sort everything out, hadn’t he? But the morning had ended hours ago. She’d expected to hear from someone by now about any developments. In fact, she’d expected to hear from Charlie himself that he’d been freed of all suspicion and was coming home to her.

  She reminded herself of the old adage “No news is good news.” But still, she couldn’t help but think that something was wrong. In fact, she could feel it in her bones. The unease prickled over her skin like a thousand tiny pins.

  The train stretched down the length of Track Five like a sleek, stainless-steel serpent. The lights of the station flickered off its polished metal surface. Vivian and the porter approached the rounded tail of the observation car, the circular glass Super Chief logo lit up in purple under the rear window. A goatskin-shaded lamp glowed warmly in the window above them, and as they passed, Vivian could see several men milling about inside with drinks already in hand.

  It was an impressive machine, she thought. All fluted, smooth steel and rounded corners. The very height of stylishness. Despite everything, she still felt a little thrill that she would be boarding this famous train in a few minutes.

  The Train of the Stars would soon be speeding her across quiet, green Illinois prairies toward Hollywood. Stars of stage and screen and radio making the circuit from New York to Los Angeles
were forced to endure an almost ten-hour layover in Chicago at the halfway point to change trains. That made Dearborn Station prime hunting grounds for the entertainment reporters of the major newspapers. Every major star had had their photo taken with the Super Chief at Dearborn Station at some point: Bing Crosby, Carole Lombard, Eddie Cantor, and of course Jack Benny. So Vivian wasn’t surprised to see a huddle of reporters and photographers halfway up the platform. And she had no problem spotting Graham holding court among them. Graham and a dark-haired woman. Oh no, she thought. It was Frances Barrow.

  Frances had been Vivian’s rival at the station from the first. She was beautiful, with luscious raven hair and blue eyes. Vivian would also concede that Frances was moderately talented. They had fought for the same parts, especially when they were both starting out, and Frances had almost turned that competition into open warfare when Vivian had won the plum role of Lorna Lafferty on The Darkness Knows about nine months ago. Since then, Frances had taken the opportunity to undermine Vivian at every turn.

  It was obvious what Frances was doing here. She was angling to become Graham’s next public smoke screen—even if Frances didn’t quite understand that a smoke screen was all she would be to him. Vivian watched Frances fawn over Graham for the cameras, her delicate kid-gloved fingers sliding down Graham’s cheek as she leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Vivian decided that no, Frances didn’t fully understand what taking on someone like Graham Yarborough meant.

  She unceremoniously pulled her suitcase from the surprised porter’s grip and marched forward, pushing her way through the pack of reporters and sliding smoothly between Graham and Frances. Releasing her grip on the handle of her suitcase, Vivian let it fall heavily on Frances’s toe. Frances gasped and stepped away, and Vivian didn’t bother to hide the pleased smile that sprang to her lips.

  “Hello, darling,” Vivian said, turning to Graham and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Viv, you made it,” he said. He smiled and returned her kiss, but his dark eyes were concerned. “Is everything all right?” he whispered into her ear.