Vivian’s mind was still spinning around and around over what Mr. Langley had told her. She had to keep up this pretense with Graham. But how could she, now that there was Charlie? Her face flushed at the memory of him lying in her bed, sheets rumpled. She realized the Gloria was looking at her with expectation.
“Then what are you talking about?” Vivian said impatiently.
Gloria’s voice became a soothing whisper. “You know about Paul, don’t you?”
“Paul? Of course. He’s Graham’s collaborator.”
Gloria snorted. “I’ll say.”
Vivian studied the girl. There was something in her face that Vivian didn’t like: calculation.
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, Gloria.” She had lost patience with this game, whatever it was. She started toward the door. “I need to get going.”
Gloria grabbed her arm. Vivian looked down at it, and the girl let go.
“Look, I heard all about you and this other man. It’s all over the station.”
Vivian’s stomach sank. “So?”
“Well, I think there’s something you should know…a bargaining chip for you perhaps. The real reason the brass at WCHI are so keen on keeping your relationship with Graham in the papers.”
Vivian stared at the girl studying her so earnestly with big, blue eyes. “The real reason? What do you mean?”
“I hate to have to put it so bluntly,” she said. She puffed out her cheeks and flicked her eyes toward the ceiling. Then she let the air out and fixed her eyes on Vivian. “Graham prefers the company of other men.”
Vivian blinked. “He what?”
Gloria nodded. Everything came back to Vivian then, flashes of times she’d tried to kiss him. Times when they’d actually kissed, and it had left her cold. He was attractive, he was charming, but there was no chemistry between them. His persona, everything she’d known about him, everything she thought she’d known, was an act.
She was shocked, but not quite to the marrow of her bones. She feigned incredulity, but she felt her heart fall like a brick into her stomach. And yet, a part of her, a large part of her, felt an immense relief. So that was it, she thought. Her way out.
“How do you know?” Vivian asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I followed him,” Gloria said. “Well, not me. I’ve met Graham. He’d recognize me. One of my friends from school followed him.”
“Followed,” Vivian repeated. Gloria didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed of herself.
Then the realization hit Vivian like a punch to the stomach. That man she saw everywhere. The man who had been scaring her half to death all week. The man she’d thought was working for a shady underworld crime figure and out to kill her. The man who’d chased her down the icy street before she’d fallen. He was one of Gloria’s school chums. He had to be. Vivian glanced down at her still-bandaged hand.
“You had me followed too?”
Gloria’s eyes widened. “Of course not. What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a journalism student, and you’d probably do anything to get your name above the fold.” How could she believe anything Gloria told her, now that she knew this? She thought of that snake Mack Rippert and wondered if Gloria had known all along—if they were in cahoots.
“I’m hurt that you’d think that of me. I had Graham followed out of curiosity. That’s all. I’m not proud of it, but I’d been talking to Mr. Banks about the station’s publicity campaign—about the two of you. There’s something lacking there… I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
Vivian grimaced. Was she the last person to know about Graham’s secret? She felt like such a fool.
“Maybe there was a mistake. Maybe you misunderstood.”
“Viv, I saw them together.” There was no mistaking the girl’s expression. Revulsion over barely disguised glee.
“So why exactly are you telling me this?”
“I thought you should know. It’s not fair that you don’t.”
Fair? Vivian cocked her head and studied this chit of a girl. Was this truly about what was fair? No, of course it wasn’t.
“What do you want?”
“A job,” Gloria said, crossing her arms. “Here.”
Oh God, Vivian thought. Another scheming wannabe actress. She sighed. “I can get you a bit part on The Darkness Knows.”
“No. I don’t want to be on air. I want to work in publicity.”
“Well, then talk to Mr. Banks.”
“He said he doesn’t hire kids with no experience.”
Vivian rolled her eyes. “Then I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“Grease the wheels a little.”
“Why not go to Graham?”
Gloria shrugged. “Maybe I will. But I feel sorry for you. Being played for a fool. You deserved to know either way. Besides, you’re Everett’s sister. And this way I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
“And if I do this for you—talk to Mr. Banks, get you a job—you’ll keep what you know to yourself?”
“Of course.”
Vivian looked at Gloria. Her little brother’s innocent-looking girlfriend. It was like making a deal with the devil, she thought. Graham’s situation wasn’t unusual. A lot of men in the entertainment business were of that ilk. Vivian had run into several who she suspected of leaning that way, but none of them had ever admitted it. It was always a secret, whispered behind backs. Rumor, innuendo. But rumor and innuendo could ruin careers. She would keep this secret—she owed Graham, after all. He’d single-handedly kept her on The Darkness Knows. And if his career was ruined, then hers might be as well.
• • •
Graham and Paul stood on the opposite side of the studio, heads bent together in heated discussion. Paul pointed to something in the script and shook his head. Graham threw his head back in exasperation, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Nothing about them suggested they were anything other than writing partners. Now it was time to find out if there was any fire to that smoke, Vivian thought. She marched right up to them.
“Graham, we need to talk.”
She felt, rather than saw, all heads in the room swivel in their direction. Forget The Pimpernel. This was today’s real show.
Graham ducked his head, avoiding the eyes on him. “Not here,” he said. He shot Paul a look, then took Vivian by the arm and marched her right out of the studio and into the hallway, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. He shoved her into an empty studio and turned to her, his arms crossed.
“So it’s you and Chick then? This whole time?”
“Not this whole time, no.” She was taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, the betrayal.
“Do you know how this makes me look, Viv? Like a fool.”
That’s rich, she thought. He thinks he looks the fool.
“Graham, you and I both know this has never been a real relationship. Maybe it’s time we end it.”
“We can’t just end it, Viv.”
He was right, of course. She knew he was right, but she had to hear him say why. He had to admit everything Gloria had told her.
“Are you going to tell me then?”
“Tell you what?”
“The real reason we can’t end it.”
He stared hard at her. She couldn’t read his expression.
“The real reason is that Langley and Banks have us by the short hairs. You and me both.”
Vivian stared at him. It was on the tip of her tongue, so close to spilling out. So he wasn’t going to admit to what Gloria had said. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him. Maybe it wasn’t true after all. Maybe Gloria had misread everything. But, then again, she’d been so certain. She’d said she seen Graham and Paul together. Still…there were doubts. Graham had to be the one to tell her, not the other
way around. She wouldn’t accuse him. This was too big to be wrong about.
“We’ll discuss this later, Viv. Frankly, I don’t have time to think about it right now. This is terrible timing. Terrible. Until tomorrow night, we’re going to pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“Graham, we can’t—”
“We can, and we will.”
He stormed from the room, all fiery temper and flare, and for a moment that fire reminded her of why she’d found him attractive in the first place. But any feelings of admiration soon faded into confusion and then into frustration. How did things get so complicated? He couldn’t put her off forever. One way or another, they would have their talk, and then everything would be out in the open.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When they broke for lunch, Vivian headed across the street to the Tip Top Café to meet Imogene. She needed to talk through all of this with someone who might understand. Her father, Graham, Charlie, all of it. She needed an impartial ear. But as she hopped up onto the curb on the south side of Madison, someone called Vivian’s name.
Vivian spotted a familiar blond in a bright-red coat among the crowd waiting at the corner of Madison and LaSalle for the eastbound streetcar. Della. She was waving. Vivian returned the wave. If there was any guilt in Della, she hid it perfectly, Vivian thought.
She hurried toward Della, her heels clicking on the pavement. As she approached, so did the red-and-cream State Street streetcar, dinging madly to alert everyone to back up and get out of the way of the tracks. Vivian caught Della’s eye again and smiled. Della was looking not at the streetcar but at Vivian. Vivian was steps away as the streetcar bore down on the stop on the corner. Suddenly, Della lunged forward, her eyes wide with surprise, and stumbled onto the tracks directly in front of the approaching streetcar.
Vivian dashed the final two steps, shoved through the crowd, and reached desperately for the flash of red of Della’s coat sleeve that she could barely see through the throng of people. She reached blindly, grabbing hold of something—what she hoped was Della—and then yanked backward, throwing all of her body weight into it. Vivian fell roughly to the pavement, a female body tumbling on top of her. They landed in a heap on the sidewalk. Vivian’s hip slammed against the pavement with a bright burst of pain. The streetcar stopped with a screech of the brakes, and a murmur went up among the crowd. But there was no scream, no sound of impact.
Vivian groaned.
The crowd around them parted like the Red Sea, and Vivian looked up into a dozen confused faces.
“You okay, miss?”
Vivian blinked the stars in her vision away, but the faces still swam in front of her. She couldn’t speak. All the wind had been knocked out of her.
“I’m okay, I think,” said the other woman. She finally rolled off Vivian and looked down at her. It was Della after all. If Vivian could breathe, it would have been to let out a sigh of relief.
“Viv,” Della said. “Viv. Oh God, Viv, don’t—”
And then the world faded and went black around her.
Vivian woke a few seconds later to that sea of confused faces, a smaller pool now that the streetcar had loaded and departed eastbound down Madison toward State. Her eyes caught on a familiar face—the young man with the flat cap. She blinked to clear her vision, but when she focused on that spot again, he was gone. Someone helped her to her feet, and she rubbed her left hip. The bruise there would be enormous. She could already feel the lump. Her breath had come back in short little gasps. She stood wheezing in front of Della and assorted strangers, her mind a jumble at what had just happened. She looked at Della’s pale face, her eyes wide with shock. Della had almost been killed. That’s what had just happened.
Vivian glanced around at the faces, but none of those remaining were familiar, and none of them registered anything but surprise, concern, or mild disinterest.
“Oh, Viv, let’s get you somewhere to sit down,” Della said, grabbing Vivian’s arm. “Can you walk?”
Vivian stepped forward with her injured leg and gingerly tested whether it would hold her weight. It did, barely. She nodded to Della. They waved off a few Good Samaritans and their assistance, and she and Della headed the fifty feet or so down LaSalle to the Rookery Building.
Once they were in Freddy’s office, Della settled Vivian in a comfortable chair, clucking like a hen over her. “I’ll get you some tea.” She rushed off before Vivian could protest.
Della took three steps, then stopped dead in her tracks. She shrieked, an ear-piercing and unexpectedly loud sound in the silence of the office on a Saturday afternoon. Vivian jumped and rose halfway in her chair. But the pain in her hip made her gasp herself, and she sat swiftly back down.
“What is it?” Her heart thrummed against her rib cage. Was someone lying in wait for Della in the pantry—ready to finish the job botched when Vivian pulled her away from the streetcar tracks? Or was it Freddy, lying prostrate in a pool of blood on the floor, his head bashed in? She braced herself against the chair for certain tragedy, wondering what she would do if she needed to run to save herself.
“My plants!” Della sobbed, turning back toward Vivian. There was true anguish in her voice and on her face. “They’re smashed all over the floor.”
Vivian’s eyes moved to the window behind Della’s desk where days before the veritable jungle had stood in assorted pots of all sizes. They were all gone now. Nothing remained except a few shards of pottery and a large, ragged piece of the glass cloche.
“Oh,” Vivian sighed. Just the plants.
“Who could have… Why…?” Della struggled for words, and then she turned back to Vivian with decision. Her face was set. “The cleaners. This has happened before. They’re so careless with that cord—sweeping it across the sill like that when they vacuum.” She looked helplessly at Vivian.
“I’m sorry, Della.”
Della shook her head sorrowfully. She crouched down and came back up with a limp green plant cupped in her hands, with two nutlike brown objects attached. “This one was my baby. And now there’s no saving it. I’ve tried to grow this one for years.”
“What is it?”
“Odollam. It’s called the ping-pong plant because of these.” She lifted one of the brown nutlike objects. “It’s a tropical plant. Terribly hard to grow in this climate.”
Vivian watched Della sadly and reverently place the remains of her prized plant on the now-empty windowsill. She stared at it a moment longer and shook her head.
“I suppose it’s an easy enough mistake.” She pointed to the outlet next to the window. “That’s the one outlet in this room. If they want to vacuum, they’d have to unplug my lamp to use it.” Vivian noticed that although the cleaners had destroyed an entire windowsill of plants that they hadn’t bothered to clean up, they’d plugged the lamp back into the socket afterward.
Then Della went on her way to the small pantry at the back of the office, still shaking her head. She came back a moment later with two cups on saucers, steam rising in tendrils from the hot drinks. She handed one to Vivian.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Della asked for what seemed the umpteenth time, her brow wrinkled in concern.
Vivian nodded, rubbing her hip. “I’ll survive. But what about you?”
Della nodded. “Shaken up, but I’ll be fine.”
“What happened out there?”
Della shook her head and shrugged. “I was standing there waiting for the streetcar. I called to you. We waved to each other, and then suddenly I was stumbling into the street and onto the tracks.”
“You were pushed?”
Della’s hazel eyes went wide. “Pushed? Heavens no. There were a lot of people out there on the street, and you know how people jockey for position when the streetcar approaches…people out for the after-Christmas sales, juggling all those packages. I slipped on the ice, that’s all.”
&nbs
p; Vivian thought of the man with the flat cap. Had she really seen him? Her vision had been blurred from the fall to the pavement. Maybe her mind had inserted his face where it hadn’t really been. Her imagination had been working overtime lately.
They sat in silence, each lost in her own thoughts as they sipped their tea.
“Della…” Vivian said, her eyes straying again toward the plant carnage under the window. “Did you know what my father was up to before he died?” She left the question deliberately vague.
“Up to? What do you mean?” Della’s tone was innocent, but her eyes had narrowed.
“I know what he was doing. With the Racquet Club. Capone.” Vivian reached out and patted the secretary’s hand. “You don’t have to protect me anymore.” She glanced significantly toward Freddy’s closed office door.
Della followed her eyes and glanced quickly away. Vivian took a sip of her tea and let the woman gather herself.
“I’m sorry, Viv. About your father. About all of it. I feel like it was my fault,” she said, her voice breaking. “And I didn’t come to Arthur’s funeral—any of it—because I couldn’t bear to face you, to face your mother.”
Vivian’s mouth went dry. She took a sip of tea, but didn’t taste it. “What do you mean, your fault?”
“I could have stopped it. I think about it all the time, about how I could have saved him.”
Vivian swallowed. Her heart started to hammer in her chest. She was right. Della had known everything. She said nothing, waiting for Della to explain herself.
Della hitched in a great gulp of air and straightened in her chair. “I knew Arthur was having chest pains that day. I should have made him see a doctor. But I didn’t.”
Vivian took a deep breath. She didn’t realize until that second that part of her had been expecting a confession. That she’d been expecting Della to admit outright that she knew exactly what Vivian’s father had been mixed up in—that he’d been murdered—maybe even that she’d helped murder him. Vivian searched Della’s face, but the woman seemed to be telling the truth.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 23