“He’d been having chest pains?”
“Yes, that afternoon. I’d seen him grimace a few times and touch his chest, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even ask if he was feeling well. I was so busy that day, but that’s no excuse. Your father was so good to me. I’m sorry, Vivian.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said automatically.
Vivian thought of meeting Della at the kitchen door as she left that night to meet her boyfriend at the time. “Is that why you came over to the house later that evening? To check on him?”
Della’s brow furrowed, and she touched her temple with her fingertips as if it physically pained her to think about it. She’d been the one to find Arthur Witchell dead in his favorite chair. Vivian could sympathize. She’d never forget the moment she stumbled upon Marjorie Fox’s body.
“Oh, no. Mr. Witchell had taken a brief that Mr. Gilfoy needed the following day for court.”
“Why didn’t Martin come by himself?”
“I volunteered to go. Martin was working late on an important case. He was due in court first thing the next morning with Mr. Endicott. Martin was flustered, and I wanted to help him out.” Della blushed. She’d had a crush on Martin from the first. Of course she’d wanted to help him out. Vivian sympathized. She would have done the same. “He was out of sorts because Mr. Endicott and your father weren’t here. They’d left the office early to have a drink and hadn’t returned.”
Freddy had had an important court date the next day and had left early to have a drink? She remembered her father sitting in the chair the night he’d died as she sat at his feet. He’d smelled of tobacco and stale beer.
“Is that something they did often, Freddy and my father?”
Della shook her head. “I can’t say they did.”
“Any special reason for it this particular time? Were they celebrating something, perhaps?”
“I was busy filing when they left. I wasn’t paying much attention, I’m afraid.”
Vivian decided to try a different tack. “My father had been under a lot of stress before his death. Do you know what he’d been working on?”
Della looked down at the desk and rubbed her temple. “No. I mean, it was so long ago that I don’t recall. I’m sorry.” She didn’t look up. Vivian knew she was lying. The sorry wasn’t an apology for her faulty memory. It was an apology for not telling the truth. There was fear behind her eyes. Della knew something. But if that something was her father being mixed up with Capone and his ilk, Vivian didn’t blame her for not recalling things clearly. She probably wouldn’t either. The stigma of Al Capone still hung heavy over Chicago.
“I’m sorry, Della. I don’t mean to give you the third degree.” Vivian reached over and patted the secretary’s hand resting on the desktop. Della pulled it away and then looked stricken that she’d done so.
“No, I’m sorry, Viv. I’m out of sorts.”
She stood suddenly and slid the remnants of her now-dead prized plant from the windowsill into the trash can. She looked sadly down at it, her lower lip shaking. “So senseless.” She shook her head.
“I think you need to fire those cleaners.”
That got a weak smile out of Della. She clapped her hands together to get rid of the excess dirt.
“Do you want me to see you home?” Vivian asked.
“No, I’ll take a taxi. I don’t think I can face the streetcar. Not today.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Any plans for the New Year?” Della asked casually.
That’s right, Vivian thought, rubbing her hip. Tonight is New Year’s Eve.
Then she noticed Della’s pinched expression and suddenly understood that she was asking if Vivian had plans with Martin. Vivian had been a witness to their flirtations earlier in the week, and she knew that what to Martin was a casual monthly flirtation was Della’s whole life. Then she realized that Della had heard Vivian invite Martin to dinner earlier in the week, and she felt a sudden stab of pity for the woman. Vivian knew that she had no intentions toward Martin now that Charlie was firmly back in the picture, but she hadn’t informed Martin of that yet, had she?
“Just rehearsal,” she said with a sigh. “We have a live show tomorrow, and I’m sorry to say that it’s a shambles at the moment. I doubt I’ll ring in the new year from anywhere other than a stuffy, windowless studio down the street. You?”
Della shrugged. “I think, under the circumstances, that I should stick close to home,” she said. She looked meaningfully at Vivian, and Vivian knew Della understood more than she was letting on.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The afternoon rehearsal for The Pimpernel went poorly. Missed cues, fumbled lines—everything that could go wrong went wrong. The cast was so frustrated that they ended early. Graham’s face was a dangerous shade of vermillion, and his hair stood up in corkscrews all over his head. Vivian wanted to finish their conversation from earlier, but this was not the time. He was in no mood for rationality.
Vivian was already on her way to Imogene’s desk to call Charlie when Imogene caught up to her in the hallway.
“Well, that was terrible,” she said. Imogene had been helping out with the rehearsal and had witnessed the worst of the debacle. “I don’t have high hopes for the performance tomorrow.”
Vivian grunted in reply as she hobbled down the hallway, a hand pressed to her left hip.
“Say, what happened to you? You didn’t show up at the Tip Top Café for lunch. And…you’re limping? A lot. Gosh, are you okay?”
Vivian heaved a great sigh. Her hip had grown stiff during rehearsal, and it ached like the dickens. “Oh, Genie. So much has happened today.”
“Do tell.”
Where to begin? Imogene already knew about Charlie. Should she tell her what Gloria had told her about Graham—the other piece of this convoluted puzzle? She’d have to, but not before she talked to Graham himself. She shook her head.
“I saved Della, my father’s secretary, from being run over by a streetcar at lunchtime. I pulled her away, and she landed on top of me on the pavement. I’m sure I have a great big goose egg on my hip. I’m afraid to look.”
“What? She fell?”
“That’s what she says.”
“Wow, no wonder you stood me up at the Tip Top. What was it that you wanted to talk about?”
Vivian’s mind raced as she looked at Imogene’s earnestly concerned face. She was too tired to explain all of it now—that is, if she could explain it at all.
“Never mind, Genie. It can wait.”
“Well, I don’t think you should be alone tonight, Viv.”
Vivian had no plans to be alone. She looked over at the telephone. She was longing to call Charlie, but Imogene clearly had ideas of her own.
“I think we all deserve to let off some steam. What do you think of having a little party?”
“A party? I don’t know, Genie…” She thought of Charlie and how much she’d like to see him—if to not explain all that had happened, then just to escape The Pimpernel, Graham, everything. Then to lean on his shoulder and shut her mind off.
“Well, I think it’s a great idea, and I think you should host.”
“Oh no, you don’t.”
“You have the biggest house… Well, your mother does. Everyone’s in. I already took a poll.”
“Genie…”
“Come on, Viv. You host and we’ll bring everything else, including the noisemakers.” She smiled at her.
“You’re not asking me, are you? You’re informing me that it’s going to happen.”
“Aha! Now you’ve got it.”
Vivian sighed. “Give me an hour to clear it with management,” she said. Hopefully, her mother would be out on the town. That way, she could ask for forgiveness in the morning rather than permission tonight.
Chapter Tw
enty-Seven
Vivian picked up the note from beside the telephone in the entryway.
Vivian—Martin phoned to ask if you’d changed your mind about the party tonight.
She frowned and dialed the number left on the message. There was no answer. It was just as well, because she was calling to turn him down. Whatever lingering teenage feelings she’d had for Martin Gilfoy were nearly extinguished now that Charlie was back in her life. Teenage infatuation could not compare to grown-up love. And that’s what it was, she thought with some amazement. She loved Charlie. She smiled to herself as she looked down at the telephone. She would call him now.
Vivian placed her hand on the receiver, then noticed the mumbling sounds of the radio in the den. Someone was here after all. Everett, perhaps? No, he should be out with Gloria by now. Gloria… Vivian sighed. What was that girl after? She pondered that while she walked toward the den. Was Gloria so transparent that all she wanted was to clue Vivian in on Graham’s motives in exchange for a leg up at the station? Maybe she wanted Vivian’s good opinion—that is, if she was serious about Everett. Vivian had the sneaking suspicion that Gloria was. And then there was Graham. She doubted he would show at the party. Then again, if he didn’t, tongues would wag even harder than they already were. She sighed and stepped through the doorway from the front hall to the den.
Oskar sat in the chair in front of the radio. He didn’t hear Vivian enter, and she stood regarding him for a moment. She hadn’t seen him since the revelation at the Green Mill, and she didn’t know what to make of the man. What was his game? Did he have a game? Now was as good a time as any to find out, she thought. She walked toward him, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
“Is there news from Europe?” she asked.
His shoulders jerked as she startled him. He shook his head. “Nothing new.”
She looked toward the blazing fireplace and the shimmering, tinsel-covered Christmas tree beside it.
“I thought you and Mother would be cutting a rug right about now,” she said.
“Oh, we plan on it. Your mother wanted to stop here to freshen up a bit after dinner. She will be down shortly.”
Vivian glanced toward the doorway and the staircase. She listened for a moment to the muffled voices from the radio. All was quiet in Europe, the announcer said. Hitler was probably busy celebrating the new year too. Oskar reached over and turned the dial.
“Enough of that morbidity. Tonight is for celebrating, yes?” He stopped the dial on an upbeat dance number—a live remote from some ballroom in the city where Vivian wished she could be right now. She would love to just close her eyes and pop into that other place, that other time, turn her mind off and dance like everyone else seemed to be doing tonight. But when she closed her eyes, she saw her father dead in the chair in which Oskar now sat.
“Something is bothering you?” Oskar said.
Vivian opened her eyes to find him studying her. “Yes, actually. My father… Something you said the other day…” She paused to find the right phrasing, words that wouldn’t put Oskar off before she could get anything out of him. “He didn’t just do immigration paperwork for you, did he?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” But she could tell from his closed expression that he knew exactly what she meant.
“I know how chummy you were with Easy Artie.”
Oskar’s eyes widened. He sighed heavily and looked up at her.
“No,” he said. “He did not just do immigration paperwork for me. And he never liked that nickname, Easy Artie. It was deplorable.”
Vivian waited for him to continue, but he only stared outside for a long moment in silence. Fat, wet snowflakes splatted against the window, making soft plinking noises on the glass. The radio played softly, gaily.
Oskar turned to her and studied her, his expression unreadable. “I care for your mother,” he said. “I want you to know that, Vivian.”
Vivian didn’t respond. He was evading the question, and she would wait him out.
“I wanted to preface my next statement with that…in case it leads you to question my involvement with your mother.”
Vivian kept quiet. Oskar looked hard at her and then sighed again.
“I have not lived an exemplary life, my dear.” He shook his head sorrowfully, looking down at his hands. “I have done things I regret with individuals I regret having known.” He glanced up at Vivian, but she worked hard to keep her face blank. He shrugged and looked down again.
Vivian glared at him. She couldn’t stay silent any longer. “You mean you did things you regret with my father,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the Racquet Club,” she said, trying and not succeeding to keep the anger out of her voice. She clenched her fists once, tightly, and then released them.
Oskar stared at her for a moment longer and then leaned back in his chair, eyes on the floor.
“How, might I ask, do you know about the Racquet Club?”
“I found the envelope in my father’s desk.” She stared at him, registering his reaction. There wasn’t a reaction though. “And I know you took it.”
He blinked slowly. “Envelope?”
“Let’s not do this,” Vivian said, sighing. “I know you took it so I wouldn’t find out about my father—about you and my father. But now I do know.”
Oskar shook his head, his bushy gray brows drawn together over his nose.
“I won’t lie to you. I had been to the Racquet Club. I had been there with your father. In those days, I liked to consort with people I had no business consorting with.” He looked off into the distance as if trying to remember. “But I didn’t steal any envelope.”
Vivian stared into his gray eyes. Could he be telling her the truth? She had been so sure of his guilt. But if Oskar didn’t take it, who did?
Oskar rubbed his palms on his trousers. “I think I owe you the truth, Vivian.”
Vivian’s heart pounded. She thought of the money, the ledger, $200 to Al. Oskar’s voice rang in her head—I have done things I regret with individuals I regret having known.
“I, myself, didn’t do anything illegal. But I had the habit of consorting with unsavory characters. Stupid, but it was a hobby of mine at the time. I was new to the country, and there was so much glamour in it.” He looked pointedly at her, and she found that part of her understood that allure. That’s what had made her shimmy down drainpipes and risk her father’s disappointment—glamour and a bit of danger. But she made sure none of that was betrayed in her expression. “Your father was, indeed, my lawyer. He did do immigration paperwork for me.”
“And?”
“We became friends. And, well, I introduced your father to some unsavory people. At that time, they happened to be in the business of kidnapping wealthy men for ransom. A snatch racket. A dangerous game. One day, they took the wrong man, who turned out to be a friend of Capone’s.” He raised his bushy eyebrows at her. “Talk about a dangerous business. Your father smoothed things over between all parties concerned, and no one lost their head. Capone liked that. Capone liked Arthur.”
Vivian felt sick. “And that’s when my father started working for him.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What did he do exactly?”
“He solved problems.”
That was a familiar vague statement—exactly what Caputto had told Vivian her father had done. He’d fixed things. For Oskar, apparently. For a lot of people.
“Look, Vivian, your father was a good man who got himself involved with the wrong people. That’s all you have to know. You might say we had that in common—for a time. But that’s all in the past now. I got out of the whole thing after the Saint Valentine’s Day mess,” he said.
St. Valentine’s Day. Vivian felt her hands grow cold. Seven men had been lined up a
gainst a garage wall and gunned down on Saint Valentine’s Day in 1929. The papers had called it a massacre. She could still see the images from the front page of every paper—the twisted bodies lying in a spreading dark pool. It had never been proven, but had always been assumed that Capone had ordered the hit to keep Bugs Moran of the North Side from infringing on his liquor-running territory. She took a step back and swallowed the lump in her throat. “You were involved with that?”
Oskar’s eyes widened with alarm.
“Heavens no. But one of those men killed was an optometrist…someone like me, a regular man that liked to hang around bad men because it gave him a thrill. That scared me, reading about that in the papers. So I stopped all of the nonsense after that. I distanced myself. I didn’t want to end up full of bullet holes.”
“But my father didn’t distance himself.”
Oskar shook his head. She considered the man in front of her—whether he might be the type to push someone in front of a streetcar. What was that adage? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?
“Why are you with my mother?”
“For the reason I told you. I met her at the charity function. I hadn’t known her before. Your father kept his business life and his private life quite separate, as I think you are now finding out.”
“Does she know about you and my father?”
He shook his head.
Vivian’s eyes darted toward the door. Where was her mother? “Well, you need to tell her or I’m going to.”
“Vivian…” He held his hand out to her and then lowered it. “I have, as you say in English, turned over a new leaf.”
“Yes, you do charity work, you said. For whom?”
“The European Aid Society. There are people in Germany—and Europe, in general—that need help right now.” He looked pointedly at her.
“Like your family.”
“And those like my family,” he said solemnly. “Something horrible is going to happen, Vivian. The Nazis have plans. Kristallnacht was just the beginning, and I cannot sit by and watch if there’s something I might be able to do to help those people. My people.”
Homicide for the Holidays Page 24