Charlie eyed the doll and raised one eyebrow.
“Oh, stop. It’s sentimental. My father won that for me at a carnival game. He must have spent twenty dollars to win this fifty-cent doll.” Her voice faltered, and she reached over to trace the molded curves of the doll’s forehead curl. He’d taken her to Riverview Park one sticky July afternoon when she’d been about ten. He’d won the doll and then let her ride the thrilling new coaster, the Bobs, as he white-knuckled by association from the walkway below. She smiled at the memory.
And when her father hadn’t been playing happy families, he’d been mixing with Capone and his cronies. Her smile faded, and she shook the memory from her head. No time to wallow in thoughts of her father or what any of the revelations of the night before meant. She looked into the Kewpie doll’s face, frozen into an image of childish happiness with its insipid toothy grin. It stirred a memory. Something she’d recently seen somewhere? Heard somewhere? She shook her head. It was no use. Her mind was a rattletrap of thoughts, and this particular one was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Have some breakfast. I think there are eggs in the icebox,” she said. “You’ll have to take your chances on how fresh they are.”
“I could go to the big house for some breakfast,” he said.
Vivian’s eyes widened in alarm, and she smacked him not so playfully on the chest. “Don’t you dare!” The elderly housekeeper’s scandalized face sprang to mind at the thought of a disheveled and half-dressed Charlie showing up at her breakfast table, sheets clutched around his waist. And her mother. Oh, Vivian couldn’t even think of what her mother would do.
“Your mother loves me,” Charlie said as if he’d been reading her mind.
“Not enough to have you chat her up over her morning toast, she doesn’t.”
Charlie laughed. “Don’t worry about me. I make my living by skulking around and alluding detection. No one will be the wiser. Besides, I can’t afford to lounge in bed all day. I have that Watson…or Wilson…or Whatever-son fellow to find today.”
Vivian’s stomach twisted. “You’re not still looking into that?”
“I think there’s more to it.”
She did too, and that was the problem. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to Charlie. “I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know any more about what my father was up to. He was involved with gangsters…” The thought of those footsteps on the icy sidewalk speeding up in the dark echoed through her mind suddenly, and she shivered. Someone else was on to them as well, on to her. She thought about telling Charlie, but she had no proof, and all he would do was lock her in a gilded cage to try to protect her. He’d try to stop her from going to the station, from leaving the house at all. And then she’d be no good to anyone. She had obligations. Not only The Pimpernel, but she had to end things with Graham. The playacting had to stop. Today.
“Maybe it’s time to let sleeping dogs lie,” she said. “Maybe I should’ve dropped all of this when you told me to at the Tip Top Café.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” She felt his hand on her waist, warm and comforting.
Vivian smiled and leaned over to kiss him good-bye.
“I’m serious, Charlie. Promise that you won’t tell me if you find anything worse than what we’ve already found?” His eyebrows rose, but he nodded at her.
“Promise,” he said, pulling her down for another longer, more thorough kiss.
Still, something gnawed at her—the idea that her father being murdered was only the tip of the iceberg.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vivian took a taxi to the station. She couldn’t bear the idea of facing her mother to ask if she could borrow her driver, pretending that she didn’t know what she knew about her father in order to spare her mother’s feelings. During the whole drive to the station, her mind kept returning to her father and what had been alleged. Not only that he’d been murdered, but—even worse, in Vivian’s mind—that he’d been part of Capone’s criminal empire. Arthur Witchell had held court in the back of an illegal gambling house, and if Moochie was to be believed, her father had owned part of that illegal gambling house.
Her mind scrambled to find memories that might fit this new image of her father, and she came up empty. He’d been home at the same time every evening—almost always making it for dinner with the family. He had rarely gone out at night without her mother. He’d never acted suspicious. There had been no visits from strange men, no phone calls that seemed ominous, no hushed conversations behind closed doors. Then again, she’d been young and her attention had been almost solely focused on herself and her own petty concerns. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed any evidence of a double life.
The truth was, Vivian didn’t want to believe it. Her father had been her champion, her sole support in living a life that was truly her own. He’d nixed the idea of sending Vivian to boarding school. Instead, he’d let her go to a public high school. He’d encouraged her free thinking, her free spirit. He’d been in the back of her mind when she’d decided to become an actress, certain that if he’d been around, he’d have given his wholehearted support and encouragement—despite her mother’s feelings on the subject—as he did with most things that his daughter wanted.
But the proof was impossible to deny. Her father hadn’t been who she’d thought he was, not entirely. And now the one thing that could set her free—the inheritance he’d left her—was likely tainted money. Would she accept it? Could she? And if she didn’t, how on earth would she ever manage to get out and fully live her own life?
And then there was the other large issue looming. She needed to end it with Graham—their fake relationship. How, she didn’t know. But she knew things couldn’t continue the way they were. Charlie wouldn’t be willing to play second fiddle to Graham, even if it was just for the newspapers. And she didn’t want him to.
• • •
Angelo tipped his hat to Vivian as she entered the elevator. “Miss Witchell,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you.” That’s the way their exchange always started, she mused. Like a script. Angelo always told her that she was “looking well,” regardless of whether it was the truth. She smoothed the front of her coat and tried not to think about how well she might be looking after last night with Charlie. Beyond well, she suspected. “Twelfth floor, please.”
Angelo shut the doors and pulled the lever on the floor to set the car in motion. The elevator lurched upward, and Vivian watched the bronze arrow above the doors move slowly to the right as it indicated their rise to the top floor.
“Mr. Yarborough taking you out for New Year’s tonight?” Angelo glanced back at her.
No, she wanted to say. No, of course he isn’t. He hasn’t asked, and I wouldn’t accept if he did. It’s all a sham, and it has to stop.
“No, I’m afraid we’ll be working too hard on The Scarlet Pimpernel to celebrate New Year’s,” she said instead, hands balled into fists at her sides.
Angelo shook his head. “Working too hard to take a lovely girl like you out on the town?”
Vivian forced a smile. “I’m afraid so.”
“You two are… How do you say it? Peas in a pod.” He looked at her, eyebrows raised.
She swallowed. “That’s how you say it,” she said, hoping to avoid commenting on the implication that she and Graham were a match made in heaven. She watched the arrow, willing it to slide to twelve already.
“I hear that you’ll be married soon,” he said, a smile spreading over his face.
Vivian sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. No doubt Angelo thought that was something that pleased her. She took a deep breath and then another. Angelo was just an innocent bystander, she reminded herself. He didn’t deserve her misplaced hostility.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, forcing a lightness to her tone that she didn’t feel.
&n
bsp; “No?” He put one hand to his chest, seeming to be genuinely hurt by the news. “But I heard—”
Vivian put a hand up. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Angelo.”
Angelo said nothing until the elevator reached the twelfth floor and he pulled the door open. As she stepped forward, he put a hand on her arm. She turned and looked into his kind, sincere face. “It’s just that I want you to be happy, miss.”
“Me too, Angelo,” she said. “Me too.”
• • •
Vivian passed by Imogene’s desk on the way to the studio. Her friend was absorbed in a copy of the Patriot and didn’t look up as Vivian stopped in front of her.
“May I?” Vivian asked as she snatched the newspaper out of her friend’s hands.
She flipped to the gossip section, page 6, and scanned it quickly. Nothing about her and Charlie at the Green Mill. Not that she had expected anything. She hadn’t seen any photographers, and why would they have been there? Graham hadn’t been there to call them.
Vivian also half expected to see an exposé about her father. She felt as if the world should know, that the world should care what she’d found out. Her world had imploded in the span of twenty-four hours, and yet the earth kept spinning. No one seemed to notice her inner turmoil—nor would they. She had a job that was in no way related to her father and what he may or may not have done, and she would do it.
She dropped the newspaper unceremoniously on the desk, lost in thought.
“So?” Imogene asked.
“So what?”
“Spill,” Imogene said and cocked her head ever so slightly toward the closed door of Mr. Langley’s office. “What happened last night?”
“A lot happened last night,” Vivian said. “Why do you ask?” Imogene was her best friend, but Vivian was on guard. The main thing she’d learned over the past week, with all of the revelations about her father, was that not everyone was as they seemed.
“I ask because Mr. Banks is in heated discussion with Mr. Langley. On a Saturday.”
Vivian’s eyes darted to the closed door.
“And they wanted to see you as soon as you came in today,” Imogene continued.
Vivian swallowed.
“Just me?” Vivian asked.
“Just you.”
It could be about anything. It could be about the new magazine ad campaign for Sultan’s Gold. Yes, that had to be it. Didn’t it? Vivian looked into Imogene’s worried face and suddenly felt like there was a brick in her stomach. No, that wasn’t it. Frances. She’d seen Vivian and Charlie outside the Green Mill. Vivian had been lulled into a false sense of security where Frances was concerned over the past few months, but now Frances had seen her chance to undermine Vivian. So Frances had told Langley what she’d seen and likely embellished it quite a bit—even though the reality needed no embellishment, Vivian thought. Imogene cocked her head to the side, staring daggers at Vivian.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” Imogene asked. Frankly, Vivian was surprised Imogene didn’t know already. Imogene knew everything there was to know around the station.
“Charlie,” Vivian whispered.
Imogene smiled and raised one eyebrow. “What about him?”
“We went to the Green Mill last night.”
“Oh?”
“Part of the investigation into my father, you see.”
“And?”
Vivian decided that now was not the time to drop the bombshell about her father.
“And we ran into Frances there.”
“Aha. That explains it.” Imogene sat back in her chair. “Frances scurried up here not thirty minutes ago, breezing right past me and straight into Langley’s office. I tried to listen at the door, but I couldn’t hear anything. So Frances told Langley that you’ve been seen with a man who was not Graham.”
“That’s not all of it. I… Well, last night we…”
Imogene’s eyes went wide. “Your plan worked.”
“I suppose.”
“Would Frances have told him that?” Imogene jerked a thumb toward the closed door.
“Of course not,” Vivian said. “How on earth would she know?”
“I’ve been rooting for you two. That’s great, Viv.” Then her eyes flicked to the closed door. Voices were barely audible, an insistent rolling burr. “But also not great.”
Vivian sighed. “Exactly.”
“What are you going to do?”
Vivian shrugged. “I suppose that all depends on what Mr. Langley has to say.”
“What if he says ‘Drop Charlie, or we’ll drop you?’”
Vivian shrugged. What would she say in that situation? Would Mr. Langley do something like that to her? Force her to choose between Charlie and the show? She’d considered that before, but that was when everything was just starting for her. Now she had traction, momentum. It would be harder to toss her career aside for him. But she would do it if she had to. She could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.
The door swung open, outlining a thunderously unhappy Mr. Langley in the frame. His eyes trained directly on Vivian, and he pointed a finger at her.
“You. In here. Now.”
• • •
It hadn’t been as terrible a dressing-down as Vivian had expected. It had been much worse. A talking-to by a disapproving father—two disapproving fathers. Of course they knew she and Graham weren’t a couple. Of course she might have feelings for men other than Graham. However, there was more at stake here than her romantic feelings. The show was at stake, ratings were at stake, ad revenue was at stake. The station’s profile was at stake. Essentially, she thought, the entirety of WCHI was riding on her shoulders and her ability to pretend that Graham Yarborough was truly the man of her dreams.
They didn’t explicitly say she couldn’t see Charlie. But they did say that it could never get into the papers. Mr. Langley had soberly reminded Vivian of the morals clause in her contract. She could not be publicly ensnared in any sort of morally questionable behavior—like being linked romantically to Charlie while she was “seeing” Graham—or the station would have perfectly legal cause to throw her out on her ear. And it was implied that she would continue this ruse with Graham in perpetuity, or she could kiss Lorna Lafferty, as well as any future roles at WCHI, good-bye.
Things could be worse, Vivian thought, but not much worse. Charlie would not think highly of this arrangement, if he agreed to it at all. He wouldn’t like having to share her. Langley’s various veiled and not-so-veiled threats rang through her mind. Biggest of all was his implication that The Darkness Knows was close to moving to Hollywood. They were “in discussions” right now, as a matter of fact, he’d said. So she couldn’t lose Lorna now. Not now. Not when there was the imminent promise of Hollywood on the horizon, and everything she’d always dreamed of—at least professionally—was at her fingertips.
She needed to talk to Graham. Really talk to him. Lay everything out on the table. Maybe they could work something out, something where they could both see who they wanted and still perpetuate this ruse. There certainly had to be someone else in his life, judging by the scant interest he’d shown in her. Yes, she needed to find Graham.
“Viv.”
She glanced up, biting her thumbnail, to find Gloria bearing down on her. Gloria?
“What are you doing here?”
“Graham invited me to see a rehearsal of The Pimpernel.”
“When did he do that?”
“After Thursday’s Darkness Knows broadcast.”
“Oh.” The girl didn’t waste any time ingratiating herself, Vivian thought.
“Say, can I talk to you about something?”
“I have to get to rehearsal.” Vivian started walking again, but Gloria stepped in front of her.
“It’s rather important, I think.”
&n
bsp; Vivian held out her wrist and pointed to her watch with an exaggerated shrug.
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
Vivian sighed. The girl ingratiated herself, and she didn’t take no for an answer. Future reporter all right, she thought.
Gloria headed toward the actor’s lounge, tugging Vivian along by her sleeve.
She pulled her into the empty room and closed the door. Vivian got a flash of a time not too long ago when another girl had pulled her into an empty room at the station. That time it had been Peggy Hart, and she’d been planning to kill Vivian. She shivered at the memory.
Gloria’s choice of a place to have a tête-à-tête couldn’t have been worse, in Vivian’s opinion. She didn’t willingly enter the actor’s lounge on the twelve floor. Not since Marjorie Fox’s murder two months ago. This is where Vivian had found the body, and being in here made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She couldn’t believe people still had coffee and ate their lunches in this room. Here, where the life had leaked out of a human being onto the linoleum.
“So what’s this about? Everett?”
Gloria shook her head. “Graham.”
“Graham?”
Gloria nodded. “And his secret.”
Vivian wrinkled her brow, distracted. Her eyes swept over the spot where Marjorie’s dead body had lain: her hair matted with blood, her eyes open and unseeing. Vivian shook her head and blinked at Gloria, trying to refocus on the conversation at hand. Secret? Her mind latched on to what she imagined Graham’s secret might be. “Oh, Graham’s not a communist,” she said. “Don’t worry. That was bluster, and it’s all blown over now.”
Gloria’s blue eyes widened as she considered the idea. Then she leaned in toward Vivian and pitched her voice low, even though there was no one else to overhear. “I’m not talking about communism, Viv,” she said.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 22