Homicide for the Holidays

by Cheryl Honigford

  “You moved your office,” she said.

  “About a week after I left the hospital. I was a mess after what happened,” he said. “I couldn’t set foot in the radio station again, and I couldn’t face anyone that reminded me of what had happened. I wasn’t good company for anybody.” He met her eyes again, and Vivian saw the flash of hurt in them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Charlie glanced toward the window. “The truth is, I thought about calling.”

  Vivian’s heart thumped in expectation.

  “But then I kept seeing you pop up in the papers with Yarborough, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of what seemed like a good thing.”

  Vivian felt her face flush. A good thing? With Graham? No, Charlie had gotten it all wrong. Everything was all wrong. She shook her head. “Listen, Charlie—”

  He held up one hand to cut her off.

  “It’s okay, Viv,” he said, his gaze narrowed. “What’s past is past. I think we can work together on your father’s case without all of that getting in the way.”

  Vivian’s stomach clenched at the finality of his tone. He’d reduced everything they had to a snidely chosen one-syllable word tossed out of the side of his mouth. That. He wasn’t going to let her explain, she realized, because there wasn’t any explanation she could give him that would change his mind. He thought she was with Graham, and nothing she could tell him would convince him that she wasn’t.

  She could explain everything, she realized—the publicity, the sham relationship—but it would make her seem vain and shallow, out for her little piece of glory. And wasn’t she? It didn’t matter that she’d called and he hadn’t answered, because for all intents and purposes, she was with Graham. And she was with him because it was good for her career. Frustration welled up inside her.

  We’re not past, she wanted to say. We can’t be. If Charlie would look at her, he could see it on her face. He’d understand. But he was studying the napkin on his lap, refusing to meet her gaze.

  “My fee is twenty dollars a day plus expenses,” he continued, his eyes finally flicking up to meet hers. He was back to business once again. “It’s a little lower than my going rate, but I’ll consider this job a favor for a friend.”

  She forced herself to nod. A friend. That was the second time he’d called her that in as many hours. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself as much as her, she thought. She forced a smile to her face and glanced at the oversized clock hanging behind the counter. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “Well, I have to get going. I have—”

  “A rehearsal to get to, yes.” She watched Charlie’s jaw clench before he smiled back at her. And if Vivian wasn’t mistaken, his smile was as bright and forced as hers had been.

  Chapter Twelve

  There wasn’t any fanfare surrounding Graham’s adaptation of The Scarlet Pimpernel. He had a small cast, an even smaller crew, and a nonexistent budget. The time slot had been free—New Year’s Day, when anyone with a pulse would be nursing a hangover from the night before and not likely to be paying much attention to anything on the radio. Graham had begged his way into the production through the good graces of Mr. Langley, who happened to have a hole in the schedule and wanted to indulge his station star. Well, his star now that Marjorie Fox was gone, that was. Anything to keep Graham happy. Mr. Langley and everyone with a brain knew that it was a real threat to lose someone like Graham to the pictures. But it was inevitable. Graham had a face made for the screen. And now that he had an ad campaign, Vivian imagined there would be no stopping him.

  They’d been rehearsing for a solid week now, and things were still near a shambles. The script changed on a daily basis, and act 2 hadn’t even seen a complete first draft.

  The first person she saw in Studio D was the engineer, Morty Nickerson. Things had been strained between them since Marjorie’s death—due to the fact that Vivian had not only suspected Morty of the deed and hinted as much to the police, but also spurned his clumsy romantic overtures. He didn’t kill Marjorie, of course, and he claimed no hard feelings over having the police on his tail, but there was no getting over a broken heart. Unfortunately, they needed to be in the same room a lot. Morty worked the sound for almost everything Vivian had been involved in at WCHI, and The Scarlet Pimpernel was no exception.

  His arms were full of records. Their eyes met briefly before his skittered away. When she greeted him, he jumped as if he hadn’t expected her to speak to him, and the records slipped from his grasp to spill on the floor between them. They both bent down to gather them up.

  “It’s okay, Viv. I’ve got it,” Morty said, his face flushed.

  She handed a Bing Crosby disc to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Morty said nothing and continued scooping the records into a neat little pile.

  “What’s with the dance records?” she asked, pointing to the disc resting on top, Benny Goodman’s “Don’t Be That Way.” “Is The Scarlet Pimpernel getting a modern score?”

  Morty glanced up, his blue eyes wide and sincere. “Oh no. I’m doing a little show,” he said, ducking his head again. “A dance-music show.”

  Vivian glanced from the records to Morty’s freckled face and back again.

  “You mean you play records?”

  He nodded. “It’s called Fantasy Ballroom. I announce the records like it’s a live remote. It was my idea, and Mr. Langley loves it. He thinks it’s the wave of the future.” He looked up at her as if he expected her to challenge him.

  Vivian wrinkled her brow. That was one idea that was sure to fail. Who’d want to listen to recorded music over the radio? The audience wanted live content—something new every night.

  “Well, congratulations,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Thank you.” He stood and scurried off to the far side of the studio. Vivian sighed. She knew it would take time for some semblance of their old friendship to return, but it had already been two months and Morty didn’t seem to be getting over his heartbreak. Maybe it was a lost cause.

  Across the room, Graham’s head was bent to listen to Frances Barrow, who whispered intently into his ear. Frances clutched a dog-eared copy of Gone with the Wind in one hand, marking a page about a quarter of the way through with her finger. She gestured to it once or twice, and Vivian could guess that Frances was speculating on who would play Scarlett O’Hara in the movie that was being cast right this minute. Vivian narrowed her eyes at her rival and frowned. She had to admit that Frances would make a great Scarlett O’Hara. She had the looks—shiny black hair, dark-blue eyes—as well as the nasty temperament. Or so Vivian had heard. She hadn’t read the novel herself.

  Vivian moved to the other side of the rehearsal space and grabbed a copy of the latest version of the script off the table.

  “Well, Viv, how was your Christmas?”

  She turned to find Dave Chapman standing close to her. A little too close. She flinched away. He had a habit of coming on strong, despite being married. He wasn’t drunk today, but it was difficult to work with the man. He was another person she’d suspected of having it in for Marjorie Fox.

  “Splendid,” she said. “You?”

  “Banner year in the Chapman household. The oldest broke his arm running his sled into the tree, and the youngest has the flu.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

  He shrugged. “I’m glad I get to leave the house and come here most of the day.” He winked at her and turned toward the group.

  Poor Mrs. Chapman, Vivian thought.

  Graham clapped his hands from the center of the room.

  “Okay, everybody, settle down. Let’s take it from the top of act 2.”

  Vivian flipped the pages of her script. Act 2 started with a tense scene between Monsieur Chauvelin and Lady Blakeney. Chauvelin is trying to
blackmail Lady Blakeney into revealing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel—who, unbeknownst to her, is the alter ego of her foppish husband. Vivian stepped to the nonfunctioning microphone with Dave. He looked at her, eyebrows raised, and she nodded. She was ready.

  Dave leaned in. “Well, Lady Blakeney?”

  “I’ve learned nothing yet,” Vivian replied, her voice terse.

  Dave tsked. “Come now, let’s not be coy.”

  “I’m not being coy. I’ve learned nothing.”

  Dave eyed Vivian over the microphone, one eyebrow raised in silent menace. “If you don’t tell me the Pimpernel’s true identity, you know the alternative. The guillotine. Your brother’s head will roll on the streets of Paris.”

  “Monsieur Chauvelin, you can’t do this.”

  “My dear lady, the Pimpernel is under this roof. At this moment. Among your friends. Find him…or else.”

  After a dramatic pause, Morty dropped the needle onto the record on the phonograph in the corner. A thunderous swell of music crackled from the speaker. Vivian flinched at the volume and glanced over to Graham. She hoped it would sound better over the airwaves. Graham might not have much budget to work with, but this was amateur hour.

  Graham held up one hand and Morty yanked the needle upward, stopping the music. Then Graham was silent for a long moment, chewing on the end of his pencil as he stared down at his script.

  “Good,” he said finally, glancing around the room. “Maybe ease up on the accent, huh, Dave? Let’s move on. Page 20 from the top, everyone.”

  Vivian flipped to page 20, relieved to find that Lady Blakeney did not appear in the scene. She sauntered over to the refreshment table, where Frances still stood scouring the dog-eared copy of Gone with the Wind.

  “Hello, Frances.”

  She glanced up, noted who was speaking, and then looked back down at her book.

  “Good book?” Vivian asked.

  “Haven’t you read it?”

  Vivian shook her head. She had no time to read anything but scripts and her own press.

  “You’re the only one in the country who hasn’t.”

  Vivian poured herself a glass of water and turned to view the rehearsal. Dave and Graham were heatedly discussing something. She watched Graham jab his finger at a line of dialog and then run his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

  “Did you see the photo in Radio Guide?” Frances asked.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Not the most flattering photo of me, but I suppose it’ll do,” she said.

  Vivian glanced over her shoulder at Frances, but made no comment. Frances had looked ravishing in that photo, and she knew it. She was always fishing for compliments. Frances closed the thick book with a thump.

  “Say, do you think this thing will come off?” Frances asked in a low voice close to Vivian’s ear. Vivian followed Frances’s pointed gaze toward the middle of the room. The cast had started rehearsing again, Dave and Graham playing awkwardly off each other.

  “I hope so,” Vivian said. “Graham’s worked his tail off to get this thing going.”

  Frances frowned. “I’d like to say I have every confidence in the production, but I’m not so sure. Graham’s a talented actor, but I think he may have bitten off more than he can chew with this one.”

  Vivian hated to admit it, but Frances might be right. It was five days before the live show, and things were still a mess.

  “Of course I won’t let that affect my performance,” Frances added. “Or my wholehearted support of anything Graham does.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes. Her wholehearted support of Graham, indeed. But she wasn’t going to take the bait, not today.

  “That’s nice,” Vivian said.

  “Speaking of Graham, do you two have any plans for New Year’s?” Frances asked.

  New Year’s. That’s right. She glanced over at Graham. The words New Year’s hadn’t so much as passed his lips. He didn’t seem to be aware that it was happening on the same date again this year.

  Vivian turned to Frances with a forced smile. “I think you may be forgetting that we’re in rehearsal for this performance all day on Saturday…”

  “Oh, I’m not forgetting.” A vertical line appeared between Frances’s brows as she frowned. Even her frowns were annoyingly lovely, Vivian thought. “Surely, you don’t mean that Graham will keep us past eleven o’clock?”

  Vivian shrugged. “Who knows? I wouldn’t make any plans if I were you, especially if you’re serious in your wholehearted support.”

  Frances stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “Of course I am,” she said.

  Maybe Vivian should call Martin if the New Year’s Eve rehearsal let out early. A party at the mayor’s house would be something, she thought. And then Charlie popped to the front of her mind. What did he have planned for New Year’s? Would he be working a case? Tailing a cheating husband? Enjoying a quiet night in? Or out with some mystery brunette—the leggy Maxine? Vivian bit her lip.

  Across the room, they had started from the top of page 20 again.

  “Blakeney?” Dave said with a haughty laugh. “That fool. Wake him up and ask him if he can have the decency to go home and sleep in his own bed.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, Sir Percy? Sir Percy!” said the young man playing the servant. His voice shook with nerves. Vivian felt sorry for the boy, who she had never seen before. Heck of a production to have as your first big break. He shook Graham by the shoulder.

  Graham rubbed his eyes, feigning being woken from a deep sleep. “Eh? What is it? Is there no peace for the weary? What ails you, man?”

  “The French ambassador, Sir Percy. He would like to see you alone in the library.”

  “The French ambassador, you say? Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin.” Graham paused, glanced through the page, and then held one hand up to keep Dave from continuing. There was a long, pregnant pause, then Graham looked up and smiled. “That’s it!” he said, looking over toward Paul in the corner. Paul nodded, smiling, and gave a thumbs-up. “I think we have the beginning of act 2 licked, everyone!”

  A smattering of applause broke out among those in the room, Vivian included.

  “Thank God for small favors,” Frances said a low voice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The First National Bank was on Dearborn and Monroe, a block from WCHI. Vivian didn’t bank there, and as far as she knew, neither had her father. But she was quickly learning that “as far as she knew” about her father wasn’t far at all.

  She entered the vestibule of the imposing building and gazed upward at the twenty-foot vaulted ceilings and towering marble columns. Banks always look like Grecian temples, she thought. She stamped the slush off her shoes onto the mat inside the door and glanced around her. It was one enormous room. There was a black-and-white-tiled floor with wooden teller windows all down the far side. People scurried behind the windows, whispering to one another and passing little slips of paper. Typewriters clacked. A large clock occupied the upper portion of the far end of the room. It was 12:16 p.m. She was late, but a glance around the room told her that Uncle Freddy was even later.

  Charlie had told her which bank the key belonged to and provided the unwelcome news that the law required the executor of her father’s estate to help her open the box. That meant calling Freddy and explaining that she’d found the key and that her father held a safe-deposit box that no one had known about. She hadn’t wanted to involve Freddy, but she had no choice. Freddy didn’t seem to know about the safe-deposit box either. He hadn’t said much on the telephone except that he would meet her today at noon to help her get it open.

  She scanned the crowded lobby. Her eyes skipped over men and a few women and caught on a young man in a short jacket and flat cap standing near the windows on the far side, hands in his pockets. He was handsome in a boyish way, probably a delivery boy of some kind.
He glanced away the instant her eyes met his. She’d never seen him before, but she’d recognized the quick smile, the sudden flash of his dark eyes. Vivian looked away, pretending she hadn’t noticed. She studied her fingernails and readied herself for his approach. She knew his kind—he’d either want a date or an autograph. Possibly both.

  “Vivian, there you are.”

  She turned around to find Freddy. He was out of breath though perfectly presented, as usual, tiny snowflakes glistening in his dark-blond mustache.

  “I’m sorry. Delayed by a client. Couldn’t be avoided.”

  Vivian grunted in reply. She’d almost forgotten how inconsiderate Freddy could be. There was always an appointment, a client, always something else more important than whoever he happened to be with at the time. He leaned forward, and she let him peck her cheek in greeting. Her eyes fluttered back toward the windows, but the young man was gone.

  “I have half an hour,” she said curtly, glancing at her wristwatch. “Then I have to get back to the station.”

  “Of course,” Freddy said, already striding ahead of her to the manager’s office at the far end of the large room, his heels clicking on the marble floor. “Mr. Hannigan is the manager at this bank, I believe. An old Yale pal of Leonard Halifax.”

  Vivian scowled at Freddy’s back and tried to keep pace. Who the devil is Leonard Halifax? Freddy was trying to take over. Another of his not-so-endearing habits that she’d forgotten about after infrequent acquaintance. He could be a bit of a blowhard. The problem was that she didn’t want him to take over. She didn’t want him to know more about her father’s affairs than he already did. If there was something embarrassing in that safe-deposit box, something that might damage her father’s esteemed reputation, she didn’t want Uncle Freddy to see it. She simply needed him, as the executor of her father’s estate, to get her into that vault.

  Freddy stopped abruptly, and Vivian ran headlong into his back.

  “What the…” Freddy sputtered. He whirled around and put a strong hand on each of her shoulders, bending to look her square in the eye. “Viv, this whole thing has got you worked up, hasn’t it?”