She suddenly remembered her father’s intense look of unease at the front page of the Tribune the night of his death. The headline screaming in all caps CAPONE CITY HALL BOSS. He was going to give what he had, what he knew, to a federal agent the next day. No wonder he’d been nervous, not himself.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, her voice a croak.
“You don’t have to say anything. I think it’s enough that you know. I wanted you to know that no matter what your father may have done before, he was on the right side at the end. Or trying to be on the right side.”
“At the end…” Vivian said numbly. They looked at each other in tense silence.
Charlie stepped forward and put his hands lightly on her hips. Vivian gasped and jumped at the intense pain that shot up from her most recent injury.
Charlie jerked backward. “What is it?”
“I fell.”
“Slipped on the ice again?”
“Not exactly.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed in concern. “You’re hurt.”
Vivian rubbed her hip. “Not too badly.”
He put his hand lightly over hers. “You’re taking a beating this week.” He pulled her other hand up into his and pressed it to his chest.
“I’ll survive.”
She considered telling Charlie about being followed, but she didn’t have any proof that the young man in the cap was anything more than an innocent journalism student. She didn’t have any proof that someone had pushed Della in front of that streetcar, or that the cleaners hadn’t knocked the plants off the windowsill with the vacuum cleaner cord. She also had no proof that her father hadn’t had a heart attack, or that Oskar knew more about all of this than he’d let on. Everything was a jumble in her head. If she could sit and think for a minute, she might come to understand how it all fit together. Or more likely she would come to the conclusion that none of it fit together at all, that her imagination had been running away with her.
Charlie pulled her injured hand toward him and kissed it lightly. Then he pulled her even closer, pressing her cheek to his chest. She couldn’t think right now. She didn’t want to. Right now, it felt good to be wrapped in Charlie’s arms.
She tilted her chin up. His lips were on hers, and everything else faded away. Vivian didn’t hear the telltale creak of the step. She did hear the gasp though, like the air from a deflating balloon.
She pulled back and turned toward the source of the interruption: Graham, in the doorway, holding two glasses of champagne, his mouth dropped open into an almost comical O of surprise. Then the countdown started from the group downstairs: 10, 9, 8, 7…
They all stared at one another in suspended animation until the countdown reached its zenith. A tremendous racket erupted on the floor below from party horns and ratchet noisemakers. The year 1939 was starting with a bang in more ways than one, Vivian thought. The racket finally broke Graham’s paralysis. He blinked, closed his mouth, and opened it again.
“I demand an explanation.” His eyes darted from Vivian to Charlie and back again.
“Graham, this isn’t—” she said, trying to pull away from the circle of Charlie’s arms.
But Charlie pulled her even more tightly to him. “No, actually, it’s exactly what it looks like,” he said.
“I…” Graham began. Then he stopped, looking down at the champagne glasses in his hands. Then his brown eyes flicked up to meet Vivian’s. By all rights, he should be outraged, but he didn’t seem able to muster the enthusiasm for it. There was something in Graham’s dark eyes that Vivian couldn’t quite place.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to tell you everything today, but you wouldn’t let me.”
Graham frowned at her. “Yes.” He glanced backward toward the raucousness of the party below. He didn’t turn back immediately but stood lost in thought. “Let’s not ruin the party for everyone with a big nasty scene, eh? We’ll talk this over tomorrow.”
Vivian watched as Graham stepped forward and placed one of the champagne flutes on the desk in front of her and then turned on his heel and left the room without another word. She glanced at Charlie, registering the confusion on his face and certain it was mirrored, to a lesser extent, in her own.
“Well, he certainly took that in stride,” Charlie said, glancing back toward the now-empty doorway.
The crowd downstairs had burst into a rather off-key rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Vivian gazed at the bubbles rising to pop at the surface of the champagne Graham had left for her. Then she placed the emotion she’d seen flit behind Graham’s dark eyes at seeing Vivian and Charlie together. It hadn’t been jealousy or even anger. No, it had been fear.
Chapter Thirty
Vivian’s head thrummed. Somewhere in the cotton wool of her mind, there was a ringing telephone. She felt the pillow beside her. Empty. That’s right. Charlie had left. After Graham had caught them kissing…
Graham. Her mind spun in circles around the name. Graham had disappeared by the time she’d finally gone downstairs to explain. Then she’d drunk glass after glass of champagne, and now her mind wasn’t working correctly. She rubbed her temples.
She glanced at the alarm clock—12:14 p.m. Had she slept the morning away? What day was it? New Year’s Day. That’s right. She’d had a party, and quite a lot to drink after Charlie and Graham had gone. She pulled herself from the warm bed and padded into the front room. She picked up the receiver to quiet the insistent ring.
“Hello?” Her throat was scratchy, thick.
“Viv. It’s Freddy.”
“Oh, Freddy.” She slumped against the table. “I’ll have to call you back. I’m not feeling so well.” She noticed the note next to the telephone.
Spent the night on your couch. Went out for a bit. Stay here. C
She smiled. Charlie hadn’t left her after all. She should have known.
“I’m afraid not, Viv. There are some things we need to discuss.”
“Like what?”
“Well, in the spirit of the new year, I want to apologize. For not telling you the truth about your father from the beginning.”
“The truth…”
Vivian’s stomach dropped. It was too early in the day for more unwelcome revelations. She suddenly wanted to retch. Her eyes scanned the room for a suitable spot. “Can’t this wait?”
“No. I’m sorry. If I don’t tell you this now, I may never do it.”
She didn’t especially feel like being Freddy’s confessional—not this morning, afternoon, whatever it was. Why should she be the one to ease Freddy’s conscience? And what exactly did he want to get off his chest? She felt nauseous, and not just because of her monstrous hangover. She decided to cut him off at the pass.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I already know what you’re going to tell me,” she said, wincing at the volume of her own voice. “You knew what my father had been up to, didn’t you? His involvement with the Racquet Club? What he was doing with that ledger? All of it.”
“All of it?”
“You’re a terrible liar, Freddy.”
Freddy sighed heavily into the receiver. “I was a coward, Viv, and I didn’t think things would get this far,” he answered. “I thought you would give up long before you came upon the truth. And, truth be told, I wanted you to go on believing your father was the upstanding man you always thought he was.”
There was a twinge in Vivian’s stomach. She almost wished that too. Freddy had tried to warn her, to his credit. He’d tried to get her to leave it when they’d found that ledger. Why hadn’t he told her the truth? Sat her down and told her everything? Why had he let her twist in the wind? Maybe he was a coward, or maybe he wanted to tell her a carefully curated version of the truth to get her to stop asking questions.
“So you knew what the ledger was from the second we laid eyes on it, and you k
new who he was going to give it to?” she asked.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” Freddy finally said. He sounded defeated. “Your father had been subpoenaed, Vivian.”
“Subpoenaed?”
“By the prosecutor leveling the tax case against Capone.”
Wilson, she thought absently. A thought niggled at her. Hadn’t Charlie said last night that her father had called Wilson and volunteered the information? He hadn’t said anything about a subpoena, had he? She placed the flat of her hand against her throbbing temple.
“You ripped that page out of his appointment book,” she said. “The one dated the day after his death. The one with ‘W-son’ written on it.”
There was a long pause. She’d surprised him.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Because I worried that one day you or your mother or Everett would start to piece things together, figure things out. Then you’d realize what Arthur had been up to all those years, and your memory of a wonderful man would be tarnished by a few bad decisions he made.”
“Well, I did figure it out, Freddy,” she said bitterly.
“Yes, well, you were the one I was the most worried about. You’ve always been the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Vivian laughed, her throat like sandpaper. That laugh abruptly turned to a dry, coughing sob.
“I’m worried about you, Viv,” Freddy said finally, his voice weary.
She hitched in her breath and steadied herself. She sounded hysterical. She was hysterical. I’m worried about myself, she wanted to answer.
“Don’t be,” she said. “Now that I know what Father was up to, what kind of a man he was, I’ll let sleeping dogs lie.” That may or may not be the truth, she thought. She hadn’t decided, but she was certainly leaning toward not disturbing them now. She wouldn’t be doing any more digging today anyway—not with this throbbing head and the sure-to-be disastrous Pimpernel to prepare for.
“Good. Have you spoken to your mother about any of this?”
“No.”
“Don’t,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything about it. Any of it, Viv. It would only hurt her to find out now.”
Vivian nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. There was a long pause, and she thought maybe the connection had been dropped, but then Freddy spoke again.
“Look, Viv, I feel like I can’t leave it this way—a discussion over the telephone. Can we meet to talk it through?”
“I can’t now.”
“Later, then?”
“Maybe. I have to go. Good-bye, Freddy.”
“Wait. I want you to know that your father was my best friend, Viv,” He paused and then said, his voice raw with emotion, “I want you to understand that what I did… I did it to protect you and your mother and Everett.”
“Good-bye,” she said.
She set the receiver gently down in its cradle. What he did, she thought. He lied. But perhaps he’d meant something else as well. What else had Freddy done? Her mind refused to take that thought any further. Then she hurried across the room and was abruptly sick into the wastepaper bin.
• • •
Vivian poured herself a tall glass of Bloody Mary and stood at the kitchen counter staring down at the red liquid. It seemed so ominous, the color of blood. Still, she sorely needed it this afternoon if she was going to make it in to do The Pimpernel in a few hours. She took a long gulp and winced as the liquid sloshed in her empty stomach.
“Drinking already?” Everett had come into the room.
“Hair of the dog,” she said without turning.
“Rough night?”
“You could say that. How was your New Year’s?”
“Great. Gloria and I went to the Aragon and danced the soles of our shoes off.”
Gloria, she thought sourly. Just the thought of the girl turned her stomach. Everett poured himself a glass and took a sip. He made a “not bad” expression and then leaned down, his voice a whisper. “Anything new about Father? Who took that money from his desk?”
A lot, but none of it substantiated, she thought. She shook her head. “I’m starting to think all of this is for nothing,” she said. “Father’s gone. And nothing I dig up will bring him back.”
Everett nodded.
“I think that’s best, Viv,” he said. Then he patted her shoulder. He took his glass and headed out of the kitchen. “Oh, and Mother was looking for you,” he tossed over his shoulder.
• • •
Vivian gazed at the family photo on the mantel. It was the one she’d taken to Charlie’s office. She glanced from her younger self to the others in the circle of faces: her mother, her father, Everett. They all seemed so happy. She looked again at her own face, leaned in. She was smiling, but she knew she’d been anything but happy then.
“Oh, hello, Vivian. How was your party?” her mother said as she entered the room.
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yes.” She thought of the embarrassing scene with Graham and shuddered. She’d have to face him today. They’d have to finally get everything out on the table. It was past time. She continued down the line of framed photos on the mantel. She stopped at the photo of her mother’s sister and her family.
“Why didn’t Aunt Adaline come to the Christmas party?”
“Oh, you know she never comes, so I don’t even invite her anymore.”
“She only lives ten miles away, and you never see her.”
Her mother shrugged.
“Did something happen between you two?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “Not as such. Adaline is older than me, and ten years can make a big difference between siblings. I didn’t know her growing up. She was married and out of the house by the time I was eight years old. We were never close.”
She didn’t sound especially sorry about it, Vivian thought. Adaline had married a man from another Chicago industrial family, and her husband had taken over the running of the family meatpacking business. Vivian’s eyes strayed to the next photo—of her mother’s eldest sister and her family. A pasty older husband and two pasty boys who would now be pasty men of the gentry. They lived on an estate in the English countryside. She’d met all of them once when the family took an abbreviated grand tour of Europe when Vivian was twelve. She didn’t think of it much, but her mother’s eldest sister had a title—an actual title.
Both of her mother’s older sisters had made much better marriages than her mother had. Her sisters had married men with storied families. Vivian’s father had no family, no wealth. What he had made of himself, he’d made exactly that way—by himself. He’d inherited nothing except his intelligence and charm.
“You know, you never told me how you met Father,” Vivian said.
Her mother glanced at her, not hiding her suspicion at Vivian’s reasons for asking such a question out of the blue.
“My father brought him to dinner.”
“And?”
“And I liked him.”
“Ah, the romance,” Vivian said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. This was like pulling teeth.
“He was my father’s attorney—one of his attorneys. He was fresh out of law school then.” Her mother leaned toward Vivian slightly and smiled. “And he was so handsome.”
“And just like that, you got married?”
Her mother laughed. “Not quite. I held him off for a long time.”
“Why?”
Her mother tipped her chin down and studied Vivian for a long moment. “Well, Arthur was charming, and I was quite taken with him, but my heart was still mending when we met.”
“Mending?”
“I’d been promised to another man. He died quite suddenly of pneumonia two months before we
were to be married. I was nineteen.”
Vivian didn’t know what to say. She’d never known that about her mother. She thought of that apple-cheeked girl in the photo from her mother’s study. Her mother hadn’t been far removed from that and was already dealing with heartbreak.
“I’m sorry,” Vivian said. “That must have been terrible.”
“It was. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I considered entering a convent. My mother quickly put an end to that idea. And then I met your father, and he pursued me until I accepted him.”
Her mother fussed over the tinsel on the tree, picking up a strand from one branch and placing it on another.
“I’ve set that meeting with the attorney over your inheritance for January 12. Will that be all right?”
Vivian turned and looked over her shoulder at her mother. “I suppose.”
“A Mr. Henrick—his office is on Monroe and LaSalle.”
“Uncle Freddy’s not handling it?”
“Your father arranged it through Mr. Henrick. That’s all I know.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Father this past week…since you told me about the inheritance. And I was wondering… Did you know anything about Father’s business? About his clients?”
Her mother shook her head. “I stayed out of your father’s business.”
“Of course you did.”
“Your father was a defense attorney for a long time, criminal cases… I know enough to know that everyone he represented couldn’t possibly have been innocent of what they were accused of.”
“So you decided to look the other way.”
“Oh, Vivian.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Vivian’ me. Father was involved with some bad people.”
Her mother stared at her. “Why on earth would you think such a thing of your father, Vivian?”
Vivian swallowed and looked down at the floor.
Her mother didn’t know after all. It was obvious in her expression—the outrage at the idea that her father had knowingly done anything beyond the pale. Vivian found herself both relieved and disappointed. Relieved that her mother hadn’t been lying to her this whole time, and disappointed that Julia could be so obtuse. Her mother saw what she wanted to see, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to see what her husband had been up to, and where the money to support her cushy lifestyle had come from.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 26