Homicide for the Holidays

by Cheryl Honigford

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vivian had only been in the study a handful of times since her father died—most in the past week alone. But now that she knew what she knew, or suspected what she suspected, she saw everything with new eyes. Everything was a clue to who her father had truly been—even the most mundane things. She picked up the paperweight on his desk, tossing it from hand to hand to feel its heft. She peered at the real butterfly trapped inside—its orange-and-black wings outstretched as if it might fly away any second. She ran her fingertips along the leather spines of the law journals straight as soldiers on the bookshelves. She let her fingers drop to her side where the books ended and the framed photos began.

  These were not family photos. These were photos relating to her father’s professional life—the professional life fit for his family to see, anyway. She recognized none of the men her father stood so chummily with—shaking hands, arms over shoulders. All backslapping, glad-handing old men. Vivian paused in front of a large photo of her father and a large, buffoonish-looking man with a huge rounded nose, taken at a political rally. The sign on the podium behind them said Mayor Thompson—the glad-hander of all glad-handers. Her father looked young, happy, and healthy. He was smiling broadly for the cameras, cheeks flushed with pride and accomplishment.

  She sighed. She didn’t know what she was looking for. A signed confession? A secret diary explaining everything in terms she could understand—and his motivations for why in the hell he would ingratiate himself with such people, such criminals? Her eyes fell on his briefcase, still standing sentry at the foot of his desk. Yes, that’s exactly what she was looking for. Why hadn’t she thought of looking there before? She hauled it onto the desktop and flipped open the clasps with a hollow thunk. It was sure to be empty.

  It wasn’t.

  Among the loose, meaningless sheaves of paper was a small, black leather book. Her father’s appointment book.

  Vivian snatched it up as if it might sprout wings and fly away. She flipped through the pages of the date book, her eyes scanning the words, the notations—most of it not making any sense to her. She knew she wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find, she told herself. She flipped to the last page with writing and then beyond to where the pages went blank—heartrending proof of a full life cut short. Then she flipped back. No, she wasn’t imagining it. The dates in the upper right-hand corner had jumped from 12 to 14. She flipped the pages—back and forth, back and forth a few times. Where was February 13?

  Instinctively, she ran her fingertip along the inside seam of the book and found the rough edge of a page that had been cut out. She sat back in her chair and splayed the book apart until she heard the spine crack. She held it up to one eye and squinted. There it was, a tiny sliver of what had been the previous day’s page still caught in the binding. Her heart began to thump.

  She bit her lip and rubbed the pencil lead lightly over the entirety of the following page, obscuring the mundane tasks that her father had written there. The things he’d planned on being alive to do. Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat. It was something she’d seen Charlie do at Marjorie Fox’s house—using pencil lead to reveal the written indentations of a page that was no longer there. She shaded over the blank page following the date of her father’s untimely death: dinner with someone named Victor Hamer, reservations at Henrici’s… Top-C. What on earth does Top-C mean? Then letters began to form in relief, a name appearing as if by magic—stark white in the leaden cloud of gray. Vivian blinked and leaned in closer.

  She squinted at the name, printed in her father’s large, blocky handwriting in a slant across the middle of the page. W-son 1:00. Vivian furrowed her brow, running through the imaginary list in her mind of all of her father’s friends and acquaintances. Watson? Wilson? And was that a last name? It could also be a first. The problem was that she hadn’t known many of the people her father associated with when he’d died—even the perfectly legitimate ones. Her mind raced, clutching at fragments, at bits of old memories. She was certain that if she concentrated hard enough, the answer would come to her.

  It didn’t.

  Vivian slumped back into the chair and glanced at the clock. She had to meet Graham at the Chicago Theater for an appearance on The Gossip Club in forty minutes. She shut the briefcase, returned it to the floor, and shoved the appointment book into her pocket. Her eyes swept over the photos again. No, she couldn’t bring any of these to Charlie’s office. That glad-handing ham-fisted man wasn’t the father she knew.

  • • •

  Vivian stood on the corner of State and Lake. The day was bleak and cloudy, the sun a feeble white disk low in the sky. A Brown Line train screeched around the bend of the elevated tracks overhead. The wind stung, and Vivian sank her chin into the warm, soft fur of her coat’s collar. The Gossip Club broadcast from a studio in the basement of the Chicago Theater, and she eyed the dancing lights of its marquee down the block with trepidation: New Year’s Eve Special: Paris Honeymoon Starring Bing Crosby! and underneath, in a smaller font, All-Girl Band The Melodears Live in Blazing New 1939 Revue.

  She knew the appearance on The Gossip Club was important, but the last thing she wanted to do right now was pretend all was right with the world on some silly radio chat show. So she dithered at the newsstand on the corner, her eyes skimming over today’s headlines: SEND TROOPS TO CURB ITALY. She squinted at the small print under the headline. Now it was Italy? She was reaching forward to pull the newspaper from the stand when a gloved hand closed over her own. She started with a gasp and yanked her hand free.

  “I’m sorry, did I frighten you?”

  Vivian turned at the familiar voice. Martin stared back at her, his face a mixture of concern and bemusement under the brim of his gray homburg. She let her breath out in a relieved hiss. “Yes, you did a little.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he with a grimace. “I assure you, that wasn’t my intention.”

  Vivian waved his concern away. Martin just watched the traffic for a moment, worrying his lower lip, before meeting her eyes again. He inhaled sharply as if to speak, but then let the air out without making a sound, his brow furrowing. After a moment he tried once more.

  “It’s like this,” he said. “I haven’t laid eyes on you in years, Viv.” He cocked his head to the side as he regarded her. “And well, I suppose seeing you for the third time in one week was an occurrence so unlikely that I had to touch you to make sure you were real.”

  Vivian’s throat was suddenly dry under his intense blue stare. She noted the teasing lilt to his voice and the frank appreciation in his gaze. Then she felt the corner of her mouth curve up into a smile. “I do believe I remember you saying something along the lines of ‘I couldn’t keep you away now if I tried.’”

  He smiled. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Not that I’m trying,” she said, placing a gloved hand lightly on his forearm. “To keep you away, that is. In fact, I find I rather like it when we meet unexpectedly on street corners.”

  His smile widened. She felt the force of that smile like the jab of an index finger to her chest. Oh, but he was handsome. She wasn’t sure if it was the biting wind or her teasing that had added that delicate pinkness to his cheeks, but she liked it. It made him look mischievous—like a schoolboy about to place a tack on the headmaster’s chair.

  But then Martin’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s no good.”

  “No good?”

  “I like certainty, you see,” he said, his voice low.

  “Certainty.”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning slightly forward. His warm breath mingled with hers in the frigid air. His eyes held hers, and after a moment, he lifted his eyebrows. “No more of this unexpected nonsense. Now that I’ve stumbled upon you again, I’m not letting you go.”

  Vivian swallowed.

  “Tell me you don’t have any pressi
ng engagements,” he said.

  Vivian found herself pulled in by the unmitigated hope in his deep-blue eyes. Here was a man who wasn’t looking for excuses to divest himself of her presence, she thought. Martin wanted to be with her. Now.

  Alas, that could not be.

  “I can’t,” she said with a sigh. “Because I do have a pressing engagement.” She pointed over Martin’s shoulder at the marquee.

  He half turned and then looked back at her with incredulity. “They run pictures this early in the day?”

  Vivian shook her head. “I’m appearing on The Gossip Club this morning. It’s broadcast from the basement of the theater.”

  “What’s The Gossip Club?”

  “Oh, just a little show where they interview celebrities…or quasi celebrities, in my case.”

  “Well, well, Miss Witchell. Color me impressed.” He held out his arm to her with a wink. “Then the least I can do is escort a star to her destination.”

  She took his arm, and they began walking the short distance to the theater, listening to the ambient honks and dings and rumblings of the city coming to life around them. Martin’s uneven gate made a distinctive click-thump, click-thump on the pavement, but he had no trouble keeping up with her. Vivian was trying to think of something to breach the lull in conversation when they arrived under that dazzling marquee. They paused and looked at each other, Vivian’s arm still looped through his.

  “You couldn’t have had an engagement just a little farther away?” he said.

  She laughed. “I’m sorry I had an engagement at all. I would very much have liked to take you up on… Well, whatever you had in mind.”

  “I’m just glad I got a chance to see your lovely face this morning. It was the most pleasant of surprises.” Then he shot her a look through half-lidded eyes that was so intense it made her toes tingle. “You haven’t, by chance, changed your mind about the mayor’s New Year’s party, have you?”

  She managed a coy smile as she removed her arm from his. He stepped forward and opened the front door of the theater for her. “Not quite yet,” she said, stepping inside. “But by all means, please keep trying to persuade me.”

  Martin’s throaty laugh rang out as the front door of the theater swung shut. She smiled and pressed a palm to her chest. Another one of Martin Gilfoy’s smoldering looks might persuade her of a lot of things, she thought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Gossip Club was privy to famous guests by virtue of the fact that someone like Jack Benny had to change trains and stations—not to mention waste several hours in Chicago—in order to get from New York to Hollywood. Jack Benny had been there the week previous, as a matter of fact. He—along with his wife, Mary Livingstone—had stopped off in Waukegan, his hometown on the far-north suburban shores of Lake Michigan, to visit family for the holidays. Vivian had read all about it in the Tattler section of the Radio Guide. So it was quite an honor to have been asked to appear today along with Graham. She wished she could get her mind off her father and that appointment book thumping against her leg every time she took a step.

  She opened the studio door and heard Graham before she saw him—as often happened with Graham. His deep baritone boomed through the small studio. Then the door clicked shut, and he turned and smiled at her. “Viv!”

  “Good morning.” She walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. Her smile faded when she saw who he’d been talking to. Wendell Banks, WCHI’s head of publicity. What was he doing here?

  “Hello, Viv,” he said, smiling.

  “Mr. Banks. An unexpected pleasure.”

  “Well, I thought I’d check in with the country’s favorite crime-solving couple.”

  Vivian’s smile stiffened. His emphasis on the word couple had been unmistakable. It seemed this morning’s performance would be for a live, in-studio audience. They would perform their adoring couple act, not only for the hosts of the show and the listening public out in Radioland, but also for Mr. Banks.

  “The Carringtons aren’t quite ready for us,” Graham said. “We were just chatting.”

  “I think I’ll get myself some water,” Vivian said, making her excuses to escape any pointers Mr. Banks might be waiting to give her about how to fawn over Graham.

  They sat at an actual table set for breakfast—Graham and Vivian across from the show’s hosts, Eddie and Franny Carrington. Two microphones were live in the middle of the table. It was supposed to sound like they’d stopped by and were chatting over their morning coffee, although they weren’t allowed to touch anything on the table because shuffling china would interfere with the sound—not to mention that it would be terrible to talk through a mouthful of toast crumbs on the air. Mr. Banks leered over Franny’s shoulder, ears open to everything that might come out of their mouths.

  The interview itself was harmless enough, touching on their characters in The Darkness Knows. Vivian glanced at the clock throughout the ten-minute interview, willing the second hand to move faster before she put her foot in her mouth.

  “That’s a lovely pin,” Franny exclaimed, leaning forward to get a better view of the golden bird on Vivian’s lapel.

  Vivian touched it and glanced at Graham. “Oh, thank you. It was a Christmas gift.”

  “Is that right?” Eddie said, looking significantly at Graham. “I’ve heard there might be another piece of jewelry headed your way soon.”

  Vivian stared blankly at him.

  “A little birdie told us that there may be wedding bells in your future.” Franny’s eyes darted between Vivian and Graham. “Wouldn’t that be lovely? Harvey and Lorna married in real life. Perhaps fiction will mirror reality as well?”

  Vivian turned away from the microphones to mask the curse she uttered under her breath. Married? Where on earth did they get that idea? She glanced at Graham, but he was not looking in her direction.

  “Who knows what may be in the cards for us,” he said in his blustery, confident voice.

  “Indeed. You heard it here first, folks. Who knows what may be in the cards? Well, best of luck to both of you. I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this morning. Thank you for tuning in to…” Vivian had tuned out the rambling closer. Wedding bells? She looked at Mr. Banks, who shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn’t known they’d bring the subject up. As if he hadn’t planted the idea. She turned to Graham, but he was industriously examining his cuticles. He’d known too. He’d known this whole time that they were going to bring up marriage. And they’d blindsided her. Graham and the WCHI publicity machine were in on this together.

  She stood and waited impatiently for the on-air light to blink off. Then she bent to Graham’s ear and hissed, “A word, please,” before stomping off to the far side of the room. He followed reluctantly.

  She took a deep breath, calming herself.

  “What was that all about?” she whispered, eyeing Mr. Banks over Graham’s shoulder. He was chatting up Eddie across the room.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little something Wendell and Eddie cooked up to keep the fans interested.”

  “Nothing? You don’t think I should have some say in whether I’m getting married or not?”

  Graham looked alarmed. He held his hand up in front of him. “Hey, hey, nobody’s getting married. It’s a ploy.”

  “A ploy? I don’t know how you can be so blasé about this, Graham.”

  He shrugged. “And I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s show business, that’s all. Give the people want they want.” He glanced at the clock and winced. “And we have rehearsal in ten minutes.”

  A small crowd had formed on the sidewalk outside the theater while they’d been on the air. Whenever Vivian and Graham appeared in public together now, they attracted a fawning group. Vivian suspected that today’s particular crowd was all Mr. Banks’s doing. She had no doubt that he was tipping people off to their whereabouts. Vivi
an was still angry, but she forced a smile, her eyes flicking from person to person. All the attention was flattering, and it was exactly what she’d always wanted, she reminded herself. And these people were here, in part at least, because they thought she and Graham were a couple. If that’s what the people wanted, then that’s what they’d get.

  Vivian clutched Graham’s arm, shooting him adoring glances, as he wove through the throng to the curb. Then someone grabbed Vivian’s sleeve and yanked her backward. Vivian held fast to Graham’s arm, and she felt him stop beside her. She turned to find a young woman, eyes wide with hope. She held a pen up in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  “Sign this, please?” she asked.

  Fawning and a bit intrusive, Vivian thought, taking the woman’s pen and paper. At least she said “please.” Smile, she told herself.

  “When’s the wedding?” the woman asked as Vivian scrawled her name. Vivian’s stomach somersaulted. She looked blankly into the woman’s excited face and found she had no idea how to reply. Thankfully, Graham pulled her forward then and gently pushed her toward the waiting cab.

  “Come, darling,” he said, projecting his voice over his shoulder at the crowd.

  Darling, my foot, Vivian thought.

  • • •

  After rehearsal, Vivian took three streetcars and then a bus, doubling back to confuse anyone who might be following her. Not that that was likely. She fumed the whole way. About Graham. About Mr. Banks. About the Carringtons, of all people, thinking they could run her life like that. The idea that her relationship with Graham would end in marriage had always been like a joke. Now it was a frightening reality. Not that she thought they could make her marry against her will, but now all of Chicago would assume the match was inevitable and imminent. Mrs. Graham Yarborough. The thought made her shudder. The thought of being Mrs. Anyone made her shudder.