“I’m afraid I’ve got to be going,” he said. He shrugged and smiled the blinding Graham Yarborough special that could charm the skin off a snake.
“Going? So soon?”
“I promised I’d have a fresh draft of act 2 by tomorrow morning. There’s a lot of work to be done and precious little time to do it.”
She followed him to the entry hall and watched as he plucked his overcoat and fedora from the overloaded coat-tree. Then he held his hat to his heart and lifted his chin. “It is with a heavy heart that I leave you, my darling,” Graham announced in his foppish Percy Blakeney voice, the true identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Vivian clasped hands to her heart and batted her eyelashes. “I long for your return, dearest one,” she said.
He donned his coat and gloves and turned at the threshold to say, “I shall count the minutes until we are reunited at rehearsal the day after the morrow!” Then he reached for Vivian’s hand and kissed the back of it before turning on his heel and springing down the snow-covered steps.
Vivian smiled and watched him stride down the sidewalk. She pulled the bolero jacket tighter around her to ward off the chill, and the smile faded as her hand again brushed against the little silver desk key tucked into her brassiere.
Chapter Three
Every one of the three million residents of the city of Chicago seemed to be bustling down State Street—all elbows and sharp heels. No surprise, really; it was the eleventh hour on Christmas Eve. Well, four forty-five to be precise, and most of the department stores closed in forty-five minutes. Not an ideal time to go shopping, Vivian thought, but there was nothing for it now. She and Imogene were in the thick of the rush. In the past few hours, they had fought their way through the crush of humanity down the string of department stores: Marshall Field’s southward to Mandel Brothers, Carson Pirie Scott, and The Fair, then back up again. Vivian’s head throbbed and her feet ached. But there would be no rest for the weary.
Last on the shopping list was a gift for Imogene’s eight-year-old nephew, so they had coasted through the revolving door of Marshall Field’s and stepped off the escalator into the fourth-floor toy department. And now Vivian was pressed into a candy cane–topped display case as last-minute shoppers jostled her and Imogene dithered.
“Chemistry set,” Vivian said decisively. “All little boys want chemistry sets.”
But Imogene’s brow only furrowed in response as her brown eyes darted between the chemistry set and a board game called Camelot.
Vivian sighed and glanced down at her feet. She should have worn more sensible shoes. Her toes were pinched, and the three-inch heels were doing her arches no favors. All she wanted to do was sit down—at least for a few moments. She glanced around, wincing at the sharp pain in the balls of her feet as she forced herself up on tiptoes to see over the crowd. There had to be a place to sit somewhere in this melee.
She poked Imogene’s shoulder.
“I’m off to find a chair before I collapse from exhaustion,” Vivian said. “Come get me when you’re finished.”
Imogene waved a hand in acknowledgment without looking up and worried her lower lip with her teeth.
Vivian wove in and out of the curving glass display cases, her eyes flicking from dolls to stuffed animals to board games. Toys, toys as far as the eye could see, but not a chair in sight. As she walked, Vivian found herself following a line of children and parents as she wound through the aisles. The line ended at an elaborate stage set with Santa’s Village proclaimed on the sign hanging above.
Santa himself stood on a raised platform along with his sleigh. There were no chairs here either, but there was a railing to lean against, and that was better than nothing. Vivian placed her packages on the floor at her feet and leaned on the barrier separating the platform from the excited children. It was nearing closing time now, and the sense of anticipation was palpable. Childish whispers and giggles filled the air. Santa’s voice boomed as he greeted a new group.
“Merry Christmas, children!”
A boy of about three with intensely serious dark eyes and a little girl no more than six, who could only be his sister, took their places in the sleigh next to the store’s Santa Claus. They were still bundled in their matching red-plaid winter coats and scarves. They’d apparently been marched right from the street to the fourth floor by their harried mother, who stood ten feet away, a Brownie camera clutched to her midriff as she peered through the viewfinder on the top of the case. The children stood stiffly, their eyes carefully averted as if looking directly at Santa might make him disappear like a distant star in the night sky. Smiles were plastered to their wind-chapped faces.
Vivian couldn’t help but smile herself as her eyes ranged over the tableau. Marshall Field’s spared no expense. Santa’s suit was a plush red velvet; the cuffs, real fur. His long, white beard wasn’t real, but it was lush and full and snowy white. His sleigh was an ornately carved wooden affair, a large bag overflowing with wrapped gifts resting in the back. The coursers reined to Santa’s sleigh were real taxidermied reindeer, complete with jingle-belled harnesses, she realized. They were posed with one front hoof raised as if they were about to leap into the sky at any moment.
Vivian’s eyes strayed to those still in line, tiny bright-eyed boys and girls hopping from foot to foot in breathless anticipation. Their eyes sparkled with wonder. And why wouldn’t they? This place was wondrous, and these kids had well-heeled parents able to whisk them to the Loop to visit this fantastical wonderland. These kids were certain to find what they’d asked for under the tree tomorrow morning, with or without Santa’s intervention.
Then Vivian’s thoughts turned to children on the opposite end of the spectrum. She’d thought of the Chicago Foundlings Home often since she’d visited with Charlie a few months back—especially after she’d learned that Charlie had been one of those children left long ago on the home’s doorstep. Though he hadn’t been wanted by his birth parents, he had been wanted. He’d been adopted as an infant and raised in a loving, stable home. That alone made him luckier than most. Not all the children found a home—especially those with sickness or a deformity. Vivian had found her mind straying to thoughts of those little forgotten ones at this time of year. They had no parents, no families at all. Who would make sure they got something under the tree?
Her mind had stuck fast to that question over the past few weeks. She couldn’t shake it or the sick feeling in her stomach. So she’d taken matters into her own hands and brought Santa Claus to see the home’s children the week before. She’d arranged it with Sister Bernadine beforehand, of course, and roped Joe McGreevey from the radio station into playing the part of Santa. He was the only man she knew with suitable enough roundness to his belly to truly fill out the rented suit.
Vivian had paid for it all herself and told no one. She’d sworn Joe to secrecy. She knew she could’ve gotten publicity for it, kudos for her generosity in the papers, but the idea felt hollow to her. The Christmas party was for the children and not to further her career. She’d only had enough money to buy one small gift for each child, but the memory of all those little faces so ecstatically happy at receiving that one paltry gift had made her heart clench in equal parts sadness and joy.
“Adorable little ankle biters.”
Vivian blinked out of her reverie and looked to Imogene, who’d sidled up to her. Vivian glanced toward the box in Imogene’s hands.
“So what did you end up with?”
Imogene held the box up so that Vivian could see the picture of a cabin on the front. “Lincoln Logs,” she said with a note of triumph in her voice. “Sure to be scattered under every piece of furniture in my sister’s home by New Year’s Eve.”
Vivian laughed. She’d attached the silver desk key to a string and had been wearing it around her neck all day. And now as she bent down to pick up the packages she’d rested on the floor at her feet, the
key swung out from underneath her sweater on that string and flashed in the electric lights.
“What’s that?” Imogene said.
Vivian caught the key between her thumb and index finger and regarded it for a moment before tucking it back under her sweater. In the hustle and bustle, she’d somehow managed to forget about its existence. She straightened again.
“It’s the key I told you about last night—the one I found that opens the drawer of my father’s desk.”
Imogene’s dark eyebrows rose. “Makes for an interesting accessory.”
Vivian shrugged. “It’s just so small I’m afraid I might misplace it.” Silly, perhaps, to carry the key around with her, she thought. But that key felt important even if she didn’t know exactly why.
“You said you found money in the drawer?”
Vivian glanced around before speaking, as if anyone shopping for Tinkertoys might care to overhear. “Money,” she whispered. “And a threatening note.”
Imogene’s eyes widened. “Not another threatening note,” she said. Vivian knew her best friend’s thoughts had immediately gone to the Marjorie Fox affair and the two threatening notes Vivian had received.
“This one was directed at my father, I assume.”
“What did it say?”
“‘Talk and you lose everything,’” Vivian whispered.
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
Imogene was silent for a moment as she tapped her fingers on the railing. “What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
Vivian shrugged again.
Imogene’s attention was drawn to a new group of children posing stiffly with Santa. She watched them for a few moments in silence, eyebrows drawn together over her nose. Then she turned back to Vivian. “Actually, I’m not sure what you could do. I don’t mean to sound crass, but your father’s been dead for years. Anything to do with him would be ancient history by now. Wouldn’t it?”
Vivian frowned. She knew Imogene was right. Nothing she found in that drawer could possibly have any bearing on the present day. Still, something pricked at her conscience. Something about that envelope of money was wrong. The note was wrong. The fact that her father had hidden the key to his own desk drawer was wrong.
“It’s just so odd,” Vivian said more to herself than Imogene.
“It is that,” Imogene agreed. “But on the other hand, everyone has secrets, Viv. And most of those secrets aren’t half as interesting as you’d imagine them to be. There’s probably a perfectly mundane and reasonable explanation for all of it. But the fact that your father isn’t around to fill you in on any of it has got you in a tizzy. So your overactive imagination has started to cook up a conspiracy where none exists.”
Imogene had a point, Vivian thought. The voice of reason—that’s one of the myriad reasons Vivian liked her.
“You’re probably right,” Vivian said, tracing the outline of the key with her fingertips under the fabric of her sweater.
“I know I’m right. You forget how well I know you, Vivian Witchell.”
Vivian rolled her eyes, and then she elbowed her friend lightly in the ribs. “So what are your secrets, Miss Crook?”
Imogene smiled enigmatically at her, placing a splayed hand on her chest. “Me? I have no secrets, interesting or otherwise.”
“Right. Would you spill for a hot chocolate in the Walnut Room?”
“And a scone?”
“And a scone,” Vivian said. “You drive a hard bargain. Let’s hurry before they close.”
She looped one arm through Imogene’s, and they headed toward the up escalator.
• • •
The Walnut Room on the seventh floor of Marshall Field’s had been dazzling. The forty-foot tree had been covered in every glittering bauble imaginable, and the scent of pine wafted gently over the room. The scone and hot chocolate had been delicious. But none of that holiday perfection had stopped Vivian’s mind from returning to the key and her father’s desk. As if of its own accord, her mind arranged and rearranged the facts of the hidden key, the money, and the note into something nefarious. If Imogene had actually let any secrets slip during their conversation, Vivian was sure she hadn’t noticed.
Then Vivian had returned home and thought about the mystery all through Christmas Eve dinner. She’d been a terrible conversationalist, responding to all inquiries with monosyllables. She’d hardly touched her roast goose and had only a few spoonfuls of the fragrantly steaming plum pudding. The only thing for it, she decided, was to have another look in that drawer and see if she couldn’t set things to rights herself. After all, she’d been interrupted by Everett and hadn’t gotten a proper look at anything in the drawer the evening before. Perhaps there was something she’d overlooked.
So after everyone had gone to sleep, she snuck back into her father’s study. She sat down at his desk. Vivian put the key in the lock and pulled the drawer open, taking the bills from the envelope and counting them: $3,750 in cash. None of the bills were dated past 1930. Now that she was thinking more clearly it was obvious to her: the AW scrawled at the bottom of the envelope was her father’s initials—Arthur Witchell. Racquet, however, was still a mystery.
And that note. She read it again, looking for any clues she might have missed, but the message remained vaguely menacing and equally cryptic. Vivian’s initial terror had faded, but seeing a threatening note like this still made her uneasy, bringing back memories of the notes she had received just a few months ago—fakes, of course, meant to throw everyone off the scent of the killer’s real motive, but frightening nonetheless.
She had a feeling, however, that the threat she was looking at right now had been quite real. Talk and you lose everything. She stared at the note until the letters blurred together and then shoved it back into the envelope. She dropped the envelope back into the drawer, then closed and locked it again. No, this idea hadn’t worked at all, she thought. Her unease wasn’t lessening. It was growing.
Chapter Four
Vivian’s eyes passed over the photos pinned to the wall next to her bedroom vanity mirror in the early morning light. They were cut from the November issue of Radio Stars magazine—a Halloween-themed photo shoot she and Graham had posed for the day following Marjorie Fox’s murder. She smiled at the one of her sitting on the table pretending to carve the teeth of a jack-o’-lantern while Graham looked on adoringly. The caption read: “Vivian and Graham partake in a little pumpkin fun.” It wasn’t quite the cover of Radio Stars, but it was a good start. It would be bad form to admit it, but Marjorie’s murder and the resulting publicity had been a real boon for Vivian’s career. The ratings of The Darkness Knows had spiked in the two months since, and Vivian and Graham had never been so popular—especially as a couple.
She’d hooked the key and string over the spindle of her vanity before going to bed, and now she plucked the little silver key from its resting place and wound the string around her hand a few times before making her way downstairs. Vivian had moved from her childhood bedroom to the coach house shortly after that edition of Radio Stars had hit the newsstands. She was supposed to be on her way up, and living in her mother’s house didn’t quit fit the bill for an up-and-coming starlet’s abode. The coach house wasn’t technically out from under her mother’s roof, since her mother still owned it, but at least it was Vivian’s own space. Besides, rent in Chicago was costly.
Vivian was actually doing her mother a favor by keeping the place livable. The Graveses had lived here before Vivian’s father and Mr. Graves had passed away in short succession. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Graves had moved into the main house. It was easier that way, with the two widows under the same roof. Plus, Vivian thought her mother secretly liked the company. But as a result, the coach house had been uninhabited for almost eight years. Things had started to fall apart without someone around to keep an eye on
them.
Shivering against the chill, Vivian hurried across the backyard, opened the back door, and stepped into the kitchen. The heavenly aroma of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the oven, and her stomach rumbled in response. The warm room was empty, and Vivian slipped on tiptoe through the kitchen to the servant stairs at the back of the house.
She avoided the creakiest of steps and made her way silently up to the second floor. She’d had a lot of practice sneaking up these back stairs over the years. She smiled as the most recent time sprang to mind, and heat rose to her face at the memory. Charlie had carried her up these stairs that night. Charlie. She had Charlie on the brain. She’d dreamed of him last night. The dream itself was now gauzy and faint, but the feeling of it was still with her. The thrill, the excitement in the pit of her stomach at being near him. She felt a twinge of sadness. What had happened to him? Had he been unable to return her call? Had he been hurt on a case? She shook the thought away. As painful as the idea was, she’d rather believe he’d chosen not to call than that something had happened to him.
Vivian made her way down the hall to her father’s study, pausing near the landing of the main staircase to gauge any activity in the house. There was no danger of her mother or Everett waking at this hour, but she knew Mrs. Graves was somewhere around—and even though the housekeeper was getting on in years, she still had hearing like a bat.
Vivian slipped into the study and slid into the soft leather chair behind her father’s enormous, carved oak desk. The disassembled picture frame still lay on the blotter. She rested her palms on the desktop for a moment and took a few deep breaths. The room smelled of leather bindings and faintly of Johnson’s Paste Wax, not unpleasant but slightly stale. Her eyes flickered over the rows of law journals sitting on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves opposite. Arthur Witchell had been gone for almost eight years, yet everything in this room was exactly as he’d left it. Imogene was right. Eight years was a long time, and what was in this drawer and whatever it might mean was ancient history. Vivian decided to look this one last time, and then she’d put that key right back where she’d found it. She’d forget she’d ever seen that money, that threatening note, and move on.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 3