Homicide for the Holidays

by Cheryl Honigford

  Vivian rolled her eyes. The annual Christmas party was their mother’s crowning achievement. The entire family should be present and accounted for at all times. They must put on a united front.

  “Come on,” Everett said, cocking his head toward the stairway with a smirk. He waggled his bronze eyebrows at her. “Mrs. Graves has whipped up a new batch of eggnog, and she’s been pretty heavy-handed with the bourbon.”

  • • •

  Vivian coughed as the liquor burned her throat. Heavy-handed was right, she thought, eyeing the elderly housekeeper across the crowded living room. Mrs. Graves was chatting with Oskar, her mother’s…well, her mother’s new friend. Oskar was on the far side of middle age, with a steel-gray handlebar mustache and a noticeable paunch. Her mother had spoken of him before, but this was the first time Vivian had been introduced. She hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than two words with him, but she knew he was some sort of financier from Switzerland.

  Mrs. Witchell beamed from her place at Oskar’s side, and Vivian felt a twinge of guilt at begrudging her mother a little happiness. Her mother hadn’t seen anyone romantically since her husband’s death, and almost eight years was a long time for anyone to go without a little companionship.

  Vivian gazed at the Saint Nicholas ornament now hanging on the towering, tinseled fir and frowned. She could feel the weight of the little key pressed firmly against the skin of her breast, the jagged edge making indentations in her soft flesh with every inhale of breath. This key, the money, the secrecy. What could it mean?

  “Uh-oh. I know that look.”

  Vivian turned to her best friend, Imogene, who had sidled up to her. Vivian forced a smile. “What look?”

  “The something’s in my way look.” Imogene stared at her, the corners of her mouth turned down.

  Vivian smiled and held her hands out to the crackling fire, even though the air in the crowded room was stifling. She glanced sidelong at Imogene and found her staring in expectation. Vivian sighed. Imogene was right. There was something in her way—a locked drawer full of cash and the sudden niggling suspicion that her father had been up to no good.

  “I can’t go into it here,” she whispered. “But I just found something strange in my father’s study.”

  “Stranger than this?” Imogene reached out and tugged on Saint Nicholas’s paper boot, releasing the pungent scent of the north woods from the branches of the tree. Vivian glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot.

  “Like a locked drawer full of cash strange.”

  “Locked?”

  “Eight years locked. We all thought the key had been lost.” They’d searched for weeks for that key, turning the house upside down. They’d finally given up, and Vivian had forgotten all about that locked desk drawer—until tonight.

  “And it’s full of cash?”

  Vivian nodded.

  Imogene narrowed her eyes. “Hmm… Sounds like the beginning of a Darkness Knows episode.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe you should call Harvey Diamond.”

  Vivian glanced over her shoulder at Graham Yarborough, who stood on the opposite side of the room chatting with one of her mother’s society friends. Harvey Diamond was Graham’s fictional alter ego on the radio program The Darkness Knows. He and Vivian starred in the popular program together—though Vivian’s character got to do little more than fall into trouble and scream for Harvey to save her.

  “Not that Harvey Diamond,” Imogene said. “The real one.”

  The real one, Vivian thought. Charlie Haverman’s smirking, angular face sprang to mind, and Viv’s stomach flip-flopped. Charlie’s real capers as a private detective had been the inspiration for Graham’s fictional ones. He’d even been a consultant to The Darkness Knows for a time. True, Charlie could help her get to the bottom of this—if it was anything at all. The problem was that she hadn’t heard from Charlie in almost two months, not since they had investigated Marjorie Fox’s murder at the station, not since they… Vivian flushed thinking about the night she and Charlie had spent together.

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  Vivian turned to find Graham smiling down at her, his deep-brown eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, nothing,” Imogene said, shooting a glance at Vivian. “Christmas memories.”

  Vivian cleared her throat. “Speaking of Christmas past, isn’t the Carol on?” Listening to the dramatization of A Christmas Carol starring Lionel Barrymore had become a tradition for people all over the country during the past few years.

  Graham said, “Yes, but they have Reginald Owen doing it this year instead of Barrymore. Your mother’s got some choir from Lincoln Center on anyway.” He jerked a thumb toward the tall radio cabinet standing on the far side of the den and mimed a yawn.

  Imogene’s eyes fell onto the mantel clock and widened. “Oh shoot, that is the time, isn’t it? I have to go. I’m headed to a late dinner with George’s family, and I have to change my dress…fix my hair… Oof.” She patted the perfectly set dark wave over her ear. “Sorry, Viv.” She leaned over and gave Vivian a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How about you meet me for some last-minute shopping tomorrow?” she said sotto voce. “You can fill me in on everything then, and tell me about any detectives you may or may not have contacted.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes and turned to watch Imogene go. A whirlwind in a skirt, she thought with a smirk.

  Graham cocked his head to one side. “Say, you play the piano, don’t you? We could get some caroling started—liven this place up a little.”

  “Oh no.” Vivian shook her head. “I never got past the scales. I have horrible memories of having my knuckles rapped by old Mrs. Crenshaw when I deigned to hit the wrong key.”

  “Poor girl.” Graham’s dark eyes sparkled as his face lit with a grin. A lock of his thick, black hair fell over his forehead, and Vivian resisted the sudden impulse to brush it back with her fingers. He was matinee-idol handsome, the chiseled planes of his face dark perfection. Graham Yarborough is any woman’s dream, Vivian thought absently. Any woman but me. Even so, when he teased her in that husky baritone as he just did, Vivian felt an echo of the attraction she’d once felt for him, and she almost forgot they were only playing at being sweethearts.

  “Maybe we can persuade Everett,” she said. “He was always so much better with his lessons. Longer fingers…” she said, holding her own hands out and wiggling her small digits.

  They both looked toward the divan where Everett was cozying up to his new girlfriend. He’d mentioned her, but Vivian couldn’t recall the girl’s name. She was another student at Northwestern, and likely the reason Everett had been so busy and away from home so often since the term started.

  “Actually, I don’t think we’re going to be able to pry him away from that warm embrace anytime soon,” Vivian said, sighing. “How about I put on a record?”

  “And how about I bring you a refill?”

  She’d drained the glass of eggnog without realizing it. So it wasn’t only the questions about her father that had her head spinning, she thought. But Graham seemed not to notice. He winked, took her empty glass, and headed in the direction of the punch bowl.

  Vivian turned to the extensive record collection housed in a glass-enclosed bookcase. Her mother’s taste in music was decidedly more staid than her own. Vivian flipped through various renditions of chorale ensembles, searching for something, anything, recorded in the past ten years. She’d nearly given up hope when she spied Guy Lombardo’s version of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” That would do for a start.

  She pulled the shellac disc from its paper sleeve, held the edges with the tips of her fingers, and blew any dust off the platter before placing it atop the spindle on the record player. She dropped the needle and smiled with satisfaction as the jaunty sounds of Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians po
ured through the horn-shaped speaker.

  She crossed her arms and listened, letting her eyes range over the Christmas cards displayed on the mantel above the crackling fire. She opened one idyllic country snow scene to find Freddy and Pauline scrawled inside in a tight, neat hand—most likely bought, signed, and sent by Freddy’s loyal secretary, Della. Uncle Freddy, as Vivian had called him almost her entire life, had shared an office with her father in the Rookery downtown for nearly fifteen years. She wrinkled her brow as she placed the card back on the mantel. Surely Freddy Endicott had been invited to the party tonight. He was always invited, but she hadn’t yet heard his booming laugh ring out from the crowd.

  “I’m a big fan.”

  Vivian jumped and turned to find Everett’s girlfriend hovering near the phonograph. Someone had broken that warm embrace after all.

  The girl continued in a breathless undertone. “I know Everett wouldn’t want me to say anything like that. It would embarrass him no end to have me fawning all over you, but I wanted to tell you that…I truly admire your work.” The girl stuttered to a stop and looked at Vivian with wide blue eyes.

  “Well, thank you,” Vivian said, searching her memory desperately for the girl’s name. She lowered her chin and added, “And don’t worry. I won’t tell Everett.”

  The girl laughed and touched her fingertips to the hollow below her throat. Vivian took in the delicate orchid charm dangling from a dainty gold chain a few inches above the neckline of the girl’s dress. “Everett’s Christmas gift,” the girl said before Vivian could ask. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Vivian nodded. “Lovely,” she agreed. Where had Everett found the money…and the taste? He’d never had much of either, in her experience.

  “You know, he told me he had an older sister named Vivian, but I guess I didn’t make the connection to The Darkness Knows before tonight, when I heard your voice. Isn’t that silly?”

  “Mmm-hmm…silly.” Vivian glanced over the girl’s head. Where was Everett?

  “Everett also didn’t tell me Graham Yarborough would be here,” the girl continued. “I’d read you two were an item, of course. Who hasn’t? But I guess I hadn’t expected it to be real, you know.”

  Vivian bristled at the word real. She narrowed her eyes at the girl and her open, guileless face. Then she glanced at Graham and found him engaged in animated conversation with Everett next to the punch bowl, waving her fresh glass of eggnog around enthusiastically as he spoke.

  The truth, known by very few, was that Vivian and Graham’s high-profile romance was most definitely not real. It had been cooked up by the station’s publicity department when Vivian had started on the show two months ago, and the fans had gone gaga for the idea of the stars of their favorite detective serial becoming a couple in real life. Oh, Vivian had been attracted to Graham at first, but that was before she really knew him, before Marjorie Fox was murdered, and before Vivian suspected Graham of killing her.

  Graham hadn’t killed Marjorie, of course. But there was something about the way he’d reacted to the woman’s murder and its aftermath that still bothered Vivian. He hadn’t told her the whole truth about his relationship with Marjorie—Vivian was sure of that. Plus, Graham had shown Vivian a side of himself that he hadn’t shown the rest of the world, especially his fawning, mostly female fans. He’d been cold, calculating, and shrewd—all of that lurking just under the ever-affable veneer. Vivian was always on her guard with Graham now. He still had secrets, and now she found herself perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop—whatever that other shoe might be.

  As if he had been summoned by her thoughts, Graham appeared at Vivian’s side. He handed her the glass of eggnog and allowed a rakish smile to creep over his face.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said, extending a hand to Everett’s girlfriend. “I’m Graham Yarborough.”

  Her cheeks bloomed a dainty rose as she shook his hand. “I know. I’m Gloria Mendel, Everett’s…” She glanced at Vivian’s brother, who had joined the group, glass of eggnog in hand. “Well, Everett’s girl, I suppose.”

  Vivian almost saw Everett’s chest puff with pride at the acknowledgment.

  “You haven’t been peppering Viv with questions about the radio business, have you?” Everett asked, putting an arm around Gloria’s shoulders.

  She blushed further. “It’s just so exciting to a nobody like me.”

  “You’re interested in the radio biz?” Graham asked.

  “Oh, I think it’s fascinating.”

  “Maybe you can come down to the station one of these days then, Gloria,” Graham said. “Watch a show in person.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Really?” she said, looking to Vivian. “That would be wonderful.”

  Vivian smiled. “Of course,” she said. “We’d love to have you.” She lifted her drink and took a long sip.

  “Say,” Graham said. “Speaking of the show, have you heard from Chick?”

  Vivian coughed on her eggnog. “Charlie? No. Why do you ask?”

  The truth was, she’d hoped to hear from Charlie. But in the last two months there’d been nothing: no calls, no visits to the radio station, no contact whatsoever. She thought of Charlie the last time she’d seen him, lying in a hospital bed, hurt, vulnerable. She thought of what he’d told her before she left. “Call me when you need me,” he’d said. And she had called him, as soon as she’d realized what getting her job back at the station would mean—the continuation of a very public romantic relationship with Graham.

  She’d been willing to chuck it all, including her fledgling career, if Charlie didn’t approve. But she didn’t know if Charlie approved, because he hadn’t answered. When she’d called a second time, Vivian had left a message with his answering service. He hadn’t returned that call either. Then Vivian had gone to his office on the south side of the Loop and found it empty. No forwarding address. Nothing. Charlie Haverman had disappeared from her life almost as if he’d never been there.

  After a while, Vivian had stopped looking for him to appear in the control booth during the live broadcast of The Darkness Knows, stopped expecting the phone to ring. Maybe their connection had been too tenuous, forged too delicately in a time of stress. They’d only had a few days together, and once Marjorie’s murder was solved, there was nothing to bind them anymore. They had nothing in common except an attraction—but for her, that attraction had been like a magnet to true north. She’d never told Graham what had happened between her and Charlie, because the detective’s disappearing act had rendered that conversation moot.

  “Have you heard from him?” She tried to sound casual and was surprised to find she’d succeeded, at least to her own ears.

  Graham shook his head, and then his expression clouded. “I wish all that business hadn’t happened to make him quit as our consultant. Things on the show aren’t the same without him.”

  All that business. A funny way to refer to a murder and an attempted murder, Vivian thought. It had been the scandal of the year—if not the decade—in Chicago. Marjorie Fox, the reigning star of WCHI, had been murdered in the actors’ lounge right before Halloween, and Vivian had had the misfortune of finding her body. After Vivian discovered a note that indicated she might be next on the murderer’s hit list, things had gotten decidedly more complicated.

  With Charlie’s help, Vivian had uncovered the murderer and the fact that Marjorie Fox and Mr. Hart, the head of the station, had been Charlie’s birth parents. The killer, the station head’s daughter, Peggy, had not only wanted Marjorie out of the way, but also her half brother, Charlie. Vivian had saved his life in the nick of time, and now Peggy sat behind the bars of the Cook County Jail awaiting her trial for murder. In the end, Vivian couldn’t blame Charlie for wanting to keep his distance from anything having to do with the station or any reminders of that time, including her.

  She shook her h
ead. What this conversation needed was a change of subject—especially since Gloria’s eyes had widened with interest at the mention of “all that business at the station.” Graham’s clever euphemism wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “How’s the Pimpernel coming?” Vivian asked Graham.

  Graham’s heavy brows drew together. “It’s getting there, but I’m still not pleased with act 2.”

  Vivian turned to Gloria and Everett. “Graham’s writing, directing, and starring in his own radio play of The Scarlet Pimpernel next Sunday evening on WCHI.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in admiration. “Gosh, that’s great.”

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel…” Everett said, forehead wrinkling. “I had to read that in school, I think. Spies and the French Revolution, or something like that?”

  “Something like that,” Graham said. “And Viv’s starring with me. It’s only a local show, but it’s something,” he added with a shrug.

  “And who knows what it may lead to?” Vivian said, smiling up at Graham’s handsome face. For both of them.

  An insistent dinging noise made them all turn their heads toward the opposite side of the room, where Oskar stood next to the towering Christmas tree, tapping the side of his wineglass with a silver spoon. Mrs. Witchell stood at Oskar’s side, her arm looped through his.

  “I would like to propose a toast,” he announced, his clipped Swiss German accent slight but noticeable only in that his leading Ws became Vs. “If you will indulge me, it is something of a custom where I come from to get serious and rather melancholy at a time like this…” He smiled and raised his half-full glass. “To wonderful times spent with friends and family, and to the possibilities of a new year.”

  They all raised their own glasses. Vivian’s eyes flitted over Graham, Everett, and Gloria as she repeated, “To the possibilities of a new year.” She clinked her glass against each of theirs, but Everett and Gloria now only had eyes for each other. Vivian watched as Everett took the girl’s hand and pulled her off toward a secluded corner. The idea that her little brother had a girlfriend still made Vivian uncomfortable, and she turned her eyes away to find Graham studying her, a frown on his handsome face, as if she were a difficult algebra equation.