Charlie took another sip of his coffee.
“Well,” Vivian said. “What do you think?”
“What do you think, Viv?”
Vivian looked down at the table. “I think it’s fishy,” she said. She wrinkled her nose, then added in a rush of words before she could lose her nerve, “I think he might have been involved in something illegal.”
She lifted her head to gauge Charlie’s reaction, but his face was impassive. He took another sip of his coffee, then returned the mug to the table, glancing around before speaking.
“Well, Viv, I can think of one reason a man would have a secret locked drawer full of cash, mysterious keys in secret hiding spots, and threatening notes,” he said, leveling a cool aqua gaze on her. “That man was doing something he shouldn’t.”
Vivian opened her mouth to protest, but the denial rose and died in her throat in an instant. It was exactly what she’d suspected and feared. She tapped her fingernails against the ceramic coffee mug.
“I guess I was hoping that you might have some other explanation. I can’t…I can’t see my father…”
“Did he play the ponies?”
She shook her head.
“Then he had a bit on the side?”
Vivian looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Another woman? Of course not,” she snapped. “He loved Mother.”
Charlie threw up his hands. “Look, Viv, I’m asking you the questions I would ask any client in your situation. Don’t take it personally. There’s always some concrete reason that an otherwise respectable citizen would take up with the wrong element.”
“I’m sorry,” she said and stirred the coffee she now couldn’t bring herself drink. She watched the swirling vortex, unsure how to continue.
“What did your father do for a living again?” Charlie asked.
“He was a defense attorney.”
Charlie whistled through his teeth. Then he leaned in toward her and lowered his voice. “That’s easy. He gambled, laundered money, threw cases…” His expression softened as he looked at her, and he added, “I know it’s hard to hear, but it’s what you expected, isn’t it? You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a crooked lawyer in this city. Without hitting a crooked anything…”
Vivian shook her head, still in shock at the idea of her staid, respectable father doing something like fixing cases or laundering money.
Charlie rapped the knuckles of one hand on the table and flicked his fingers toward the waitress to signal for the check. “I say stay out of it,” he said. “Pretend you never found that money. Let your father, and his memory, rest in peace.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Vivian said, her voice flat. But it would be hard to forget that the money and the note had existed—especially now that they were gone. Should she tell him that they had gone missing? Maybe that wasn’t important after all. And it wouldn’t be important at all if she dropped all of this like Charlie wanted her to.
But then the waitress returned with their check, and Vivian’s mind switched to the more urgent matter at hand.
The check? Charlie was leaving? Already?
“I know I’m right. I don’t want you messing around with any gangsters.” He glowered at her for a moment before his expression softened, one corner of his mouth quirking up.
Vivian forced a smile in return, but it quickly faltered. She looked down again. Gangsters, she thought. Could her father really have been involved with gangsters?
When she looked back up, Charlie was still gazing at her, his smile faded into something softer, more intimate. The air between them was charged, thick with possibility. Just ask him, she thought. Ask him why he never called you back. And then tell him that it doesn’t matter. Tell him that whatever the reason that you don’t care. Forget it. You can start from scratch. Tell him. Her lips parted.
“Excuse me.”
Vivian blinked. A young girl had come up to the booth. She was clutching a napkin to her chest and looked as though she were about to hyperventilate. The girl glanced from Vivian to Charlie, considered him for a moment, and turned back to Vivian.
“Do you think I could I have an autograph, Miss Witchell?” She thrust the napkin toward Vivian, flushing purple with embarrassment.
“Oh, of course,” Vivian answered. She turned to Charlie. “Do you have a pen, by any chance?”
Charlie reached into his inside breast pocket and handed the fountain pen to Vivian with a smirk.
“What’s your name, dear?” Vivian asked, pen poised above the napkin.
“Norma.”
Vivian scrawled, To Norma. Always reach for the stars. Vivian Witchell. She began to hand the napkin back when the girl interjected, “Oh, could you date it as well?”
“Sure,” Vivian said. She wrote December 26, 1938 underneath her message. “Might I ask why?”
The girl answered in a rapid clip. “Oh, it’s so that if this turns out to be a pivotal moment in your career, the autograph will end up being worth more than if there wasn’t a date on it. Everyone’s doing it these days.”
“Very sensible,” Charlie said.
Vivian smiled and handed the napkin over. The girl’s eyes flicked toward Charlie again. “You’re… Well, you’re not anybody, are you, mister?”
“Nobody worth knowing,” he said with a wink.
The girl nodded at him, her cheeks fiery all over again. Then she turned on her heel without another word and scurried back to her own booth.
“Looks like you’ve hit the big time,” Charlie said.
Vivian smiled and glanced after the girl. She usually loved being asked for her autograph, but something about having it happen in front of Charlie made her feel superficial. She knew Charlie thought the entertainment business was shallow in general and that he thought Vivian shallow in particular. But the validation did matter to her. She was good at her job, and she took pride in hearing it.
“That happens every so often now. I have to admit it’s nice. Let’s hope for her sake that today is a pivotal moment in my career,” she said with a laugh. She turned to Charlie again, but his smile was gone, and his eyes were cold. The window of opportunity for heartfelt confession had passed.
“You know, I listen to the show when I can,” he said. “It’s good. You’re good.”
“Thank you.” It was a kind thing to say.
“And I’ve seen you in the papers, of course,” he said. “How is Yarborough?”
Vivian swallowed. So that was it, then. Graham. Graham was the reason he hadn’t returned her call. Charlie believed that after everything that had happened, she’d chosen Graham over him. She almost laughed with relief. It was a misunderstanding that could easily be remedied. She had to admit that it pleased her a little to see the jealousy evident under Charlie’s polite facade. He’d never liked Graham, and he hadn’t liked seeing her with Graham.
Her eyes caught on the girl and her friends huddled in the nearby booth, and she realized that she couldn’t tell Charlie the truth. Not here. Though they weren’t looking at her, she knew the girls were listening, leaning toward her to catch snippets of her and Charlie’s conversation—as they surely had been since the moment Vivian walked into the coffee shop.
Vivian clenched her hands into fists under the tabletop. She’d learned her lesson about keeping her mouth shut. The last time she’d blabbed something she shouldn’t have, it had ended up in the newspaper. She’d been temporarily fired from The Darkness Knows, and her career had almost ended before it had begun. She couldn’t risk that happening again—not when everything was going so well.
“Graham’s fine,” she said finally, her voice tight. She forced a smile. “He misses you though.”
“Misses me? Why?”
“Because you’re Harvey Diamond, of course. The real Harvey Diamond. Graham needs your stories, your insight, to base the character on,
you know. Without you around, he’s just guessing.”
“I think we’re all just guessing.”
“That’s a very Harvey Diamond thing to say.”
Charlie smirked as the waitress returned, bearing the check for their two coffees. Both Vivian and Charlie reached for it, and their hands brushed. Vivian snatched the strip of paper toward her, feeling a thrum where his fingers had brushed hers.
“I’ll pay,” she said, clutching the check to her bosom as if Charlie might try to steal it from her. “I’m the one who asked you for the consultation.”
Charlie leaned back in the booth. “Suit yourself,” he said.
Vivian fished some change out of her handbag and made a show of looking at her wristwatch. “Oh,” she said, not even registering the time. “I must be going. I have rehearsal…”
“Sure,” Charlie said, a smile curling at one corner of his mouth. “It was nice to see you, Viv.”
“You too,” she said, meeting his gaze again for an instant before looking toward the door. She stood up, and he helped her on with her coat. His hands didn’t linger this time. She was close enough to smell the citrusy aroma of his aftershave, and she closed her eyes against the memory of what it had been like to press her nose against his neck. What it had been like to breathe him in, to touch him. She turned back to face him, and she thought she saw frustration flit across his face for an instant. Had he thought this meeting would go differently as well?
“Thanks again for your help,” she said.
“Anytime.”
She turned her back and felt the stab of regret in her chest. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to turn back and explain everything—the gaggle of listening girls be damned. Instead, Vivian hitched in her breath as she pushed the front door open with a jangle of bells and stepped out into the biting December wind.
Chapter Six
Vivian crossed Madison to the Grayson-Cole Building. She hopped over a puddle of slush near the curb and turned back toward the coffee shop, pretending to brush the dirty water off her plastic shoe covers. She fought the urge to look back, but now she couldn’t help herself. Charlie was visible through the large plate-glass window, sitting back down in the booth. As Vivian made eye contact, he turned away. He’d been watching her, she thought. Hope fluttered in her chest, and she raised her hand to wave at him, but a streetcar clanged past, blocking her view, and she let the hand fall back to her side.
The doorman nodded at her as he swung the door wide. She nodded to the new security guard, who looked bored standing his post in the lobby. The old guard, Del, had lost his job not long after Marjorie’s murder because he’d been leaking information to the Chicago Patriot about the murder investigation. Del had roped Angelo, the elevator operator, into the scheme as well, but thank goodness, Angelo hadn’t been canned. Vivian had always had a soft spot for Angelo, and he’d actually helped her career with all the publicity he’d generated through his leaked gossip. Now, he stood at attention beside the elevator labeled Express to 11.
“Miss Witchell,” Angelo said, beaming. “You’re looking well today. You had a nice Christmas?”
“Yes,” she said. “You?”
“Wonderful. My daughter came down from Waukegan with her family. You spend the holiday with Mr. Yarborough?”
Vivian nodded, careful to keep her expression neutral. For all she knew, Angelo could still be leaking gossip to whoever would pay him. “Graham gave me this,” she said, tapping the little enamel-and-gold bird brooch pinned to the lapel of her wool coat.
The older man whistled in appreciation. “He sure is sweet on you.”
She held her smile, pretending to be happy about Graham’s attention. She tried not to think of the man she’d just left, but that was impossible. She closed her eyes, and Charlie’s easy smile appeared on the back of her eyelids. She opened her eyes and sighed in frustration. The flutter he’d started in her stomach at the diner hadn’t subsided with the distance she’d put between them. There was nothing for it then, she decided. She had to see Charlie again.
• • •
WCHI had sprung back quite well from the tumult of Marjorie Fox’s murder. Mr. Hart was gone, of course, having had such a large role in the entire scandalous affair. His daughter, a fixture around the station, had killed WCHI’s biggest star and had tried to kill his son. Though Mr. Hart wasn’t directly involved in either incident, he couldn’t stay as head of the station. The scandal was too much to overcome.
Mr. Langley was the interim head of the station now, and things were much as they had been before all of that sordid business happened. In fact, in many ways, things were even better now. The station had never produced more nationally sponsored shows, including Vivian’s own The Darkness Knows, which had been steadily climbing in the ratings since Vivian joined the cast in October. She was sure what had spiked the rise in listeners had been her intimate role in Marjorie’s murder, her appearance in so many newspapers, and her accompanying “romance” with Graham—but she wasn’t complaining.
Vivian stepped off the elevator onto the eleventh floor and made her way past the large, auditorium-style studios where the shows with orchestras or live audiences were held—Quiz Time or The Carlton Coffee Hour, before the latter moved to Hollywood. Things were still quiet today, the day after Christmas, the halls almost empty. So it was not difficult to spot her best friend and the acting head of the station’s secretary, Imogene, barreling toward her, her dimpled face alight.
“You’ll never guess what George gave me for Christmas!” Imogene cried. There was no preamble. Vivian stopped and waited for her friend to reach her.
“A vacuum cleaner?” Vivian teased.
Imogene rolled her eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am being serious. George is a practical guy.”
Imogene thrust her left hand under Vivian’s nose. A tiny sapphire winked at her in the hallway lights from Genie’s ring finger.
“No!”
“Yes!”
Vivian embraced her best friend, her smile faltering for a split second when she was sure Imogene couldn’t see. She pulled back and searched her friend’s face. Imogene was beside herself with excitement. She’d been living on pins and needles for over a year, expecting a proposal at any moment. And Vivian had been on vicarious pins and needles as well.
“How did he propose?” she asked. “Details, please.”
“On Christmas,” Imogene said, her eyes gone dreamy. “He took me ice skating on the pond at his parents’ farm after dinner. And right there in the middle of the ice, he got down on one knee and popped the question. I said yes, of course.”
“That’s wonderful, Genie,” Vivian said, clasping the other girl’s hands. “Really.”
“Really?” Imogene’s brow wrinkled as she searched Vivian’s face. There was no hiding anything from Imogene. “What’s with you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Vivian said, suppressing a smile. “I had coffee with Charlie is all.” She tried to keep her voice light, but she could tell by Imogene’s expression that she hadn’t been successful.
Imogene’s brown eyes widened. “So you did call him.”
“I did.”
“Good for you,” Imogene said. “How did it go?”
“Well.” Vivian frowned. “Not great.”
“Meaning?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. He was…aloof.”
“Aloof.” Imogene crossed her arms.
Vivian bit her lower lip in thought. Her statement wasn’t entirely true. Charlie hadn’t been aloof until the subject of Graham had come up. Until she had missed her opportunity to tell Charlie that what he had been seeing in the papers about them was untrue.
“Did he explain why he never called you back?”
Vivian shook her head.
“Did you even ask him?”
Vivian shook her
head again.
“Well, that’s the first thing I would have asked.”
“That’s not why I called him this time,” Vivian said. She picked at the fur on her lapel. She wanted to tell Genie everything about what had happened. She had to tell someone, but this was not the place. The walls had ears at WCHI.
“You told him about the locked drawer full of cash?”
Vivian narrowed her eyes and peered down the deserted hallway. “He thinks my father was up to no good.”
“No good like what?”
Vivian shook her head. “It’s too horrible to discuss. And Charlie said I should let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Will you?”
Vivian shrugged.
“Hmmm. To me, this mystery sounds like a terrific excuse to stay in touch with a handsome detective,” Imogene said.
Vivian said nothing. Her friend was right. It was a terrific excuse, and although things hadn’t gone as planned at the diner, Vivian was not ready to admit defeat. Not just yet.
Imogene glanced around to make sure the coast was clear before leaning in and whispering, “You told him about you and Graham, of course.”
Vivian sighed. “You know I can’t do that.”
“How can you not? That’s vital information! And Charlie’s a detective. If anyone can keep a secret, he can.”
“I can’t risk it after what happened the last time.” Vivian glanced back over her shoulder toward the elevator. Angelo was gone.
Imogene narrowed her eyes. “I’d risk it if I were you.”
Vivian exhaled. That’s exactly what she wanted to do. That’s what she would do if she got another chance.
“Anyway, congratulations on the engagement, Genie. I’m ecstatic for you and George.”
“Thanks, Viv. And keep your calendar clear. You’re my maid of honor.”
Hugging Imogene one last time, Vivian pushed the idea of Charlie and her father’s dirty dealings out of her mind. She had a rehearsal to get to in Studio C.
• • •
Despite his best efforts, Graham hadn’t made any progress in convincing the writers to round out the character of Harvey Diamond. He was still entirely one-dimensional: a hard-nosed, tough-talking gumshoe who led Vivian’s character, his long-suffering sidekick Lorna Lafferty, on romantically while leading her out of danger. Unfortunately for Graham, the listeners didn’t want character growth. They wanted action.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 7