He was right. She admittedly knew little about the situation, but the papers were full of stories about restrictions against the Jews, new ones seemingly being reported every day. The noose was tightening. Things were coming to a head. Her throat was suddenly dry. She felt it hard to form the words to her next question, partly because she didn’t know if she wanted to hear the answer after everything he’d already told her.
“Did you know Freddy before you met him at dinner the other evening, Oskar?”
“I told you—” he began, but Vivian held up one hand to cut him off.
“I know what you told me. Now I want the truth.”
He smiled sadly at her. “I don’t know much about Freddy, but I believe Arthur thought of him as sort of a younger brother—or at least he treated him that way. He kept him away from all of that.” Oskar waved his hand in front of his face. “The only time I ever saw Freddy was at your father’s office…and I hadn’t seen him since your father’s death until dinner the other night. I don’t know why he harbors such ill will toward me, except that he probably knows what I got your father involved with…who I got your father involved with. Part of it, I suspect, is that he also has an interest in your mother. And it was simple jealousy at seeing her with another man.”
Vivian stared at Oskar and looked into his steely gray eyes. She had no idea if he was telling the truth about any of this. What—who—could she believe? Everyone she knew seemed be lying or dancing around half-truths.
“I also think these are matters that a sweet young woman like you should not concern herself with.” He looked down at his hands. “And Vivian, what we discussed here—about my past, about what your father may or may not have been involved with—that’s between us, eh? I suppose it’s not a secret, not to a certain set of people. But it’s not exactly common knowledge among my new set of friends and acquaintances. And I feel my role in my charitable interests would be comprised if it got out among them.”
His new set of friends—her mother included, Vivian assumed. She could keep a secret, but why should she? Why shouldn’t her mother know exactly who Oskar was, who he had been, what he’d gotten her husband involved with that, indirectly, had gotten him killed?
“People are depending on me, Vivian,” Oskar said solemnly. “Innocent people who need my help, who need my contacts. Time is running out for them.” His voice faded away as he looked off into the space beyond her. “I did some bad things in the past. I won’t deny it. But I’d like to think this is my small way of making amends.”
“Oskar, darling, are you ready to go?” Julia swept into the room, her black Persian lamb coat already slung around her shoulders. Her eyebrows rose as she saw Vivian standing by the fireplace. “Viv, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be in rehearsals all night.”
Vivian exchanged a quick glance with Oskar. There was fear in his eyes, genuine fear that she would tell her mother everything right now, and the jig would be up. Vivian bit her lip. She looked at her mother. Why shouldn’t she tell her? Didn’t her mother deserve to know? But that one small truth would snowball into others, and Vivian wasn’t ready to tell her mother that her husband had been murdered. She didn’t think she’d ever be ready.
So she wouldn’t say anything. Not for Oskar’s sake, she decided, but for her mother’s, and for the sakes of all of those people in Europe he claimed to be helping. She couldn’t expose Oskar and have those lives on her conscience—not if he could actually help them somehow by keeping his past hidden.
“Rehearsal ended early. Do you mind if a few of the cast and crew come over here? We need to blow off a little steam.”
“The play’s not going well?”
The play? Her mother would never get the lingo right—purposely, Vivian thought. She sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid tomorrow’s live show is going to be rough.”
Her mother tsked and had the good sense to at least look disappointed for her, Vivian thought. Even though inside she was likely secretly rejoicing, celebrating what could be another setback in Vivian’s acting career.
“Can’t you use the coach house?”
“Not enough room. I’m afraid we’d be packed in like sardines.” Vivian smiled without mirth. “I’d have people toasting to the new year in the bathtub.”
Her mother looked at her for a long moment, but then she returned Vivian’s smile. She must have had a few cocktails with dinner, Vivian thought.
“That’s fine, I suppose. As long as it’s not too many people,” her mother said. “But be mindful of the rugs. I’ve just had them cleaned.”
Vivian nodded and looked at Oskar. He smiled at her and stood from the chair, snapping the radio off.
“Happy New Year, Vivian,” he said. Then he leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. His moustache was scratchy, and she fought the urge to recoil at his touch. She stared after them as they left, trying to parse together what Oskar had told her. He’d known all about her father. He’d introduced her father to the criminals that led him to Al Capone, and he didn’t exactly apologize for it, did he? No, he’d turned it around on her so she was the one who felt guilty about uncovering the secret, about wanting to tell her mother that her current paramour was a liar. Oskar had successfully talked his way out of trouble, she thought, and it probably wasn’t the first time he had done so.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Vivian looked out the back kitchen window at the coach house. She could see everything from here—all the comings and goings.
“Oh, Vivian. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
Vivian turned to find Mrs. Graves. “Sorry to startle you,” she said.
“Why aren’t you out for the New Year?”
“I’m having some people over, a little party. We’ll be quiet. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry about me, dear. It is a night for celebrations.”
Vivian wondered if Mrs. Graves had indeed been spying on her and reporting on the goings-on in the coach house to her mother. And what would it matter if she had? Soon Vivian would inherit enough money to move out from under her mother’s roof forever. And she’d decided she would take it, even if it was tainted.
“I was thinking of mixing up a pitcher of Bloody Marys,” Vivian said. “You know, hair of the dog for the morning.” She motioned to the bottle of vodka on the counter in front of her.
“Your father’s favorite. No one drinks those around here anymore with him gone.”
Vivian thought of handing him that drink the night he died, and her stomach twisted. The housekeeper put one hand on Vivian’s forearm.
“You’ve been thinking about your father a lot, haven’t you?”
“I have with the holidays.” She glanced at the housekeeper as she went about gathering the ingredients. Mrs. Graves disappeared into the pantry and then reappeared, her arms laden with a can of tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and black pepper.
“I’ve always felt guilty that I wasn’t here when he died. Maybe I could have done something.” Vivian felt her throat constrict. She did feel guilty, she realized. She always had.
“Oh, you couldn’t have done a thing. When it’s someone’s time to go, it’s their time to go.”
Mrs. Graves face was grim, the corners of her mouth pulled down as she punched a triangular hole in the lid of the tomato juice can with the can opener and then dumped the blood-red liquid into the pitcher. She didn’t meet Vivian’s eye.
“I know,” Vivian said. “But it bothers me that I don’t actually know what happened.”
Mrs. Graves said nothing in reply as she measured out and added the Worcestershire sauce.
“Could you tell me what happened? What his last moments were like?”
Mrs. Graves turned and looked at Vivian for a long moment, her forehead creased with worry. She wiped her hands thoroughly on her apron. “What do you wa
nt to know?”
“Tell me what happened after I left that night.”
Mrs. Graves nodded. “Well, I took him his Bloody Mary, as usual.”
Vivian shook her head. “I took him his Bloody Mary that night…before I left.”
“You did?” The old housekeeper’s brow furrowed in thought.
“Yes, and then you called me to the telephone a few minutes later.”
The housekeeper looked confused. Vivian realized that Mrs. Graves’s memory had faded and anything she might remember should be taken with a grain of salt.
“Yes, then I left, and I saw Della at the kitchen door on the way out,” Vivian said. She remembered Della at the back door, wiping the slush from the treads of her shoes onto the mat.
“That’s right. Della came over to retrieve some paperwork. We talked in the kitchen for a few minutes after you left, and then she went in…and found him…”
“He was already dead?”
“Yes. Della screamed.” Mrs. Graves grimaced and shook her head at the memory. “Then she called for my help, and I hurried in. He was gone. Slumped over in his chair.” She shook her head.
“What did he look like?”
Mrs. Graves blinked. “Pale…himself, but not. His hand was on his chest.” She shook her head again. She either couldn’t or didn’t want to remember anything more. “I’m sorry, but it happens, Vivian. People have heart attacks all the time—even the ones who seem to be the picture of health.” She put her hand lightly on Vivian’s arm. Then she turned back to her task. She was silent for a long moment before adding, “Though your father hadn’t been feeling at all well that day.”
“He hadn’t?” She thought of him that night—pale, drawn, wincing with a hand on his chest.
“He came home in the early afternoon for some bicarbonate of soda. He’d had lunch somewhere with a client, had eaten something he shouldn’t have. You know how touchy your father’s stomach was. I don’t know why he insisted on Bloody Marys every evening. They gave him terrible heartburn.”
“He was a stubborn man,” Vivian said absently. She remembered going to the icebox that evening after he’d died, looking to nip some of the Bloody Mary, but the pitcher had been gone. She assumed someone else had beaten her to it. Her mother? Della? Mrs. Graves herself?
“Was he alone when he came home that afternoon?”
So far, this was the same story that Della had told, Vivian thought. Her father had been having chest pains—a sure sign of a heart problem.
Mrs. Graves’s brow furrowed. “I don’t recall, but I imagine that Herbert had driven him. He usually did.” She looked off over Vivian’s shoulder.
“And what about the car accident afterward?” It was only after she registered Mrs. Graves’s pinched expression that Vivian realized she’d spoken aloud.
The older woman shrugged. “Herbert was driving Mr. Gilfoy back from a late night at the office. They hit some ice.”
The office, Vivian thought. She shook her head.
“Martin said it happened on Ogden. Yes, he said Ogden was a solid sheet of ice that night.” And Ogden Avenue was nowhere near the route they’d have taken back from the office. She was sure he’d said Ogden—and what was on the other end of Ogden Avenue? Cicero, that’s what. The Racquet Club was in Cicero.
Mrs. Graves didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to answer. She’d turned away, the subject still too painful to discuss.
Vivian didn’t know what to believe anymore. Either Mrs. Graves was mistaken or Martin was. And what did it matter anymore? All signs did, indeed, point to a heart attack. Maybe Moochie had only been trying to stir up trouble—spreading rumors with no truth behind them. Maybe Vivian was looking for a pattern that didn’t exist.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Graham had shown up to the party at eleven forty, looking his old dapper self and bearing a bottle of champagne. Vivian had been so surprised when she met him at the door that she didn’t know what to say.
“Here’s to a good performance,” he’d said, handing her the bottle. She knew that he meant the performance between the two of them. They had to pretend their quarrel was all made up, didn’t they? She was angry with him for perpetuating this lie, for not letting her explain, and for not trusting her enough to tell her the truth.
She’d stared at him and watched him walk into the den. Vivian had followed as far as the doorway, the bottle of champagne clutched in her hands. She watched everyone clustered around the piano. Morty played “A-Tisket, A-Tasket” while Frances sang. Vivian was pleased to note that Frances’s singing voice was nothing special. Then her eyes trained on Graham. He was smiling and singing along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Maybe he hadn’t, she thought. There was still the possibility that Gloria had misunderstood the situation. But how could Vivian go on pretending that she didn’t suspect? And even if it wasn’t true, how could she go on pretending that Graham was her one and only? No, this had to end. Tonight.
There was a knock on the door behind her. She jumped, her nerves on edge. Who could be knocking at almost midnight on New Year’s Eve? Everyone she’d invited to the party was already here—Graham, Imogene, Morty Nickerson, Dave Chapman, Bill Purdy, Joe McGreevey, Frances. Even though Vivian knew that the man following her had been one of Gloria’s undergraduate friends, she was still tense. She tiptoed over to the window at the side, intending to take a peek, when the top of a man’s head popped into view from the opposite side of the glass. She jumped again, heart hammering, and then realized it was Charlie.
She threw open the door.
“Oh, Charlie…” She had to stop herself from flinging herself into his arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” she lied. “It’s been a rough night.” She was glad to see him, but she was overwhelmed with everything that had happened. She wanted to see him alone, not with a house full of people lurking around. She glanced over her shoulder toward the singing in the den. Then she turned and walked farther into the dark foyer. He followed.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling all day.”
“Rehearsing.”
A raucous shout went up from the group in the den as Morty launched into a jaunty rendition of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.” Charlie’s eyes moved to the bottle of champagne she still held.
“And working hard, from the sound of it.”
“Oh, posh,” she said, rolling her eyes. Of all the times for Charlie to get jealous, she thought. She set the bottle on the hall table. “We’ve been rehearsing all day. I invited everyone over to let off a little steam. So you came to check up on me?”
“Of course not.”
She sighed in frustration. She was irritated—not at Charlie, but she knew it sounded like she was. Her mood had nothing to do with him and everything to do with him, and she couldn’t tell him one thing about it, not yet.
“I’m sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure to help pull this Pimpernel show off tomorrow night, and from all indications today, it isn’t going to go well.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
They stood awkwardly in the foyer for a moment. Vivian knew he was expecting her to invite him in, but she couldn’t do that. She was supposed to have told Graham about them today. It should be all settled, not still up in the air as it was. So for the interim, Graham couldn’t see Charlie, and Charlie couldn’t see Graham. She didn’t want Charlie to leave, but he had to. If he didn’t, there was sure to be a scene.
“I came by because you weren’t answering the telephone and I have something to tell you. Something important about your father.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about my father,” she said in a low voice. She half turned, intending to leave him and the subject in the foyer, but he grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him. She grimaced at the pain in her injured hip.
“I know who your father was supposed to meet the day after his death,” Charlie said.
“So,” she said impatiently, “what does it matter now?”
“It matters a lot, actually.”
Vivian wrenched herself from Charlie’s grasp. “Well?”
Charlie glanced over her shoulder toward the ruckus in the den. He frowned. “Isn’t there somewhere more private we can talk?”
Vivian’s stomach clenched. “I thought you promised not to tell me if what you found out was worse than what we already knew.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s not worse.”
Confused, Vivian limped up the stairs, Charlie trailing behind. She rushed into her father’s study and shut the door. She leaned back against it, hands on the knob.
“So what is it?”
“Maybe you should sit.”
“I don’t want to sit. You said it wasn’t worse.”
He paced in front of the desk for a moment, his eyes roaming over the shelves, the framed photos showcasing her father’s storied career. He paused and studied her father arm in arm with Big Bill Thompson for a long moment and then turned to her, his hat in his hands.
“The name in the appointment book was Wilson,” he said.
“Wilson?”
“Frank Wilson, the Treasury agent who made the case against Capone.”
Vivian shook her head slightly. Capone. The name was like a smack in the face. More evidence of her father’s relationship with the mob boss.
“I spoke to Frank Wilson this afternoon by telephone. Your father called him a few days before he died, Viv. Set up that appointment personally. Said he had something big.”
Vivian stared at him. “The ledger?”
He nodded. “Wilson said that all your father told him was that he had something big for him. And that the ledger was one part of it.”
Homicide for the Holidays Page 25