“I don’t know why I said that,” Vivian said, feeling chastised. “I’m sorry. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately at the station with The Pimpernel and The Darkness Knows.” She wondered how long she could keep using work as an excuse.
Her mother harrumphed. “I think maybe with this inheritance, it’s time to finally quit all that nonsense.”
Vivian looked into the crackling fire and pretended she hadn’t heard.
Chapter Thirty-One
The front door of the coach house opened under Vivian’s fingertips. Hadn’t she locked it when she left? She pushed the door the rest of the way open and braced herself for confrontation. What she wouldn’t give for that cast-iron pan right now! The front room was dim, but she could make out the outline of someone sitting on the sofa.
“Where have you been?” a voice boomed from the darkness.
Charlie.
Vivian let the breath she’d been holding out in a whoosh. “You scared the life out of me. What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
“I asked you first. Where have you been?” He reached over, and the table lamp sprang to life, illuminating the scowl on his handsome face.
“Arguing with Mother.”
“I told you to stay here.” He held the note up in the yellow glow of the lamplight and pointed to those very words. “I underlined it.”
Vivian stuck her lower lip out and exhaled so that her bangs ruffled. “Posh. I didn’t even leave the property.”
She flopped down next to him on the sofa. She rested her aching head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to massage her scalp. She sighed with pleasure.
“You came back last night,” she said.
“I was worried about you. I didn’t like the idea of you being here all alone. Especially after what I’d told you last night—and what you told me. And how Yarborough reacted to seeing us together. So I let myself in.” She felt him shrug. Let himself in was his way of saying he picked the lock—if she’d even remembered to lock the door in her drunken state.
“And when you let yourself in, I was…”
“Sleeping like a kitten.”
She grunted in reply. It wasn’t terribly comforting that someone, even someone as benign as Charlie, had gained entry to her house while she was sleeping and she’d been none the wiser.
He pulled away, and Vivian opened her eyes briefly to watch him plop two Alka-Seltzers in a glass of water. He nudged the fizzing glass toward her on the coffee table, but Vivian didn’t reach for it. She didn’t want to move from this spot—ever. She wanted to curl up in Charlie’s lap and ignore the world.
“You talk in your sleep, you know,” he said.
“Do I? What do I say?” She resettled herself on his broad shoulder and closed her eyes again, almost instantly on the edge of drifting off to sleep.
He laughed. It sounded wonderful, she thought, Charlie’s laugh. She didn’t hear it often enough.
“Something about lambs. Odd lambs.”
“Odd lambs?” she said lazily.
“You kept repeating it. Those odd lambs had you in a lather.”
Vivian opened her eyes and lifted her head. It rewarded her with a painful thump. She stared out the window, lost in thought. Odd lambs. Odd lambs. The connection was so close to clicking into place. Then it did.
“Not odd lambs, Charlie,” she said, her pulse quickening. “Odollam.”
“Odollam? What’s that?”
“A plant Della grows—grew—in the office. The cleaners knocked it off the sill and destroyed it yesterday.”
“Why are you dreaming about one of Della’s plants?”
She wasn’t exactly sure, but maybe her brain had kept working on things even while she’d been sleeping last night. She tried to remember what the dream had been about, but it was gone except for the feeling of unease it had left in its wake.
“I don’t know. But she was terribly proud of that plant and very upset that it was ruined. She kept it in a glass cloche because it was tropical and hard to grow in this climate.”
Charlie pulled back to look at her. His smile was gone. “Destroyed yesterday, you said?”
“Pulverized.”
Charlie reached out to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear. He thought for a moment. “Dreams are strange things, Viv. I had one the other night that I was having a Gin Rickey with Sherlock Holmes. Probably because of all the Occam’s razor talk. Dreams don’t mean anything at all.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Charlie smiled at her, and his hand slid from her temple to the back of her neck, and he rubbed up and down her vertebrae with his strong fingers. Vivian took a long sip of the Alka-Seltzer and put her head back down on his shoulder.
She fell asleep like that and woke an hour later stretched out on the sofa. Charlie was still there, reading the newspaper at the table, the ledger at his elbow. He’d brought it back, Vivian thought, the sight of the book churning her guts. She didn’t want that thing in her house. That ledger was like an albatross around her neck.
And the odollam still flitted in the back of her mind. She didn’t agree that all dreams were nonsense. Her headache was gone, and she decided that she’d like to sit in her father’s study for a few minutes before Charlie drove her to the station. Being there might give her some peace of mind. Being there might help things fall into place once and for all.
• • •
The house was quiet. Her mother and Everett were both out. Vivian sat in the leather desk chair, staring off into space. She wasn’t purposely thinking of anything. Her mind seemed to work better when she didn’t focus. When she didn’t force connections to be made. Unfortunately, that method wasn’t working this time.
The board creaked in the hall, and Vivian turned her head expectantly toward the open door. The housekeeper came into view.
“Hello, Mrs. Graves. Happy New Year.”
The older woman smiled. She paused at the edge of the desk, one hand pressed to something in the pocket of her apron. “I find you in here a lot lately.”
“Yes.” Vivian cocked her head and considered the housekeeper. There was something odd about her. Her stance, her expression. She wouldn’t look Vivian directly in the eye.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Mrs. Graves said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
Vivian’s stomach twisted. More confessions. More secrets. She held a hand up to stop the woman, not wanting to hear any more.
Mrs. Graves pulled something from her pocket and held it in front of Vivian. An envelope. The envelope, still fat with cash. Vivian glanced quickly up at the housekeeper in confusion.
“You took it? Why?”
The elderly woman shrugged. Funny that Vivian had never noticed how old she was until right now. Her hair was no longer just steely gray; it was also starting to thin—getting that cobwebby look that an old woman’s hair has. Her eyes were tiny behind her spectacles and sagging upper lids. “I was trying to dissuade you from digging into your father’s business.”
“You knew about…his business?”
She nodded. “Herbert was his valet, his right-hand man. He knew everything.”
“And he told you everything?”
The housekeeper looked off toward the framed photos on the bookcase. “Not all of it, but enough.”
Herbert Graves. Her father’s valet. The valet that had died a month after her father. He’d known everything. Too much, like her father.
She blinked and followed the housekeeper’s gaze to the framed photos on the wall.
Mrs. Graves turned back to her. She reached out suddenly and squeezed Vivian’s hand. Then her brow furrowed.
“Oh, my dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry for stirring all of this up. I was trying to help you
, but I ended up making things worse, didn’t I?”
Yes, she had made things worse, Vivian thought. Infinitely worse. If she hadn’t taken that money, Vivian might have gone on with the rest of her life, never truly knowing what her father had been up to all that time. All the time he pretended to be the model husband and father. But Vivian shook her head and patted the elderly woman’s hand.
Then she gazed down at the envelope of money sitting on the desktop. She was going to lock it back in the drawer and put the keys back where she found them and try to never think of this again. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do.
Mrs. Graves had turned to go, but then she paused and turned back.
“And please tell Mr. Gilfoy when you see him next that I’m sorry for the way I acted the other night. He’s a nice boy. And he’s not responsible for what happened to my Herbert. I suppose I was startled to see him after all this time. It stirred up a lot of memories, and I behaved badly.”
Vivian nodded. Martin had said he’d suspected they’d been forced off the road, hadn’t he? Had someone purposely tried to kill Mrs. Graves and Martin too? Mr. Graves was gone, but what did Martin know? More than she’d originally suspected. He’d been so close to her father. Was Martin in danger too? From whom? No, it was over, she thought. She’d decided this was over, and it had to be.
Vivian’s head throbbed. Her headache had come back with a vengeance.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Graves said, looking at the clock on the bookshelf. “Is it four o’clock already? I need to get some dinner started.”
Vivian glanced at the clock. Four o’clock? She was due at the station in half an hour.
The telephone on the desk rang, startling them both, and Mrs. Graves reached over to answer it. Vivian’s mind immediately replayed the conversation they’d just had. It seemed that she, her mother, and Everett were the only ones that hadn’t known what Arthur Witchell been up to.
Mrs. Graves held the receiver out under Vivian’s nose.
“Mr. Gilfoy for you,” she said.
Speak of the devil. She took a deep breath and grabbed the receiver. She forced a smile to her face and into her voice.
“Hello, Martin. Did you say hello to the mayor for me?”
He laughed. “Yes, yes, he sends his regards.”
“How was the party?”
“As much of a bore as I thought it would be—especially without you.”
Vivian glanced down at the desk. She’d have to tell him sooner or later about Charlie, and now was as good a time as any. She sucked in her breath.
“Had a bit of excitement on the way home though…an accident,” he continued.
Her head jerked up in alarm, and she let her breath out in a whoosh. Bad news was coming at a rapid clip today.
“An accident?”
“I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the brakes went out on the old Cadillac, and I slid into a ditch.”
Her heart lurched and then started to hammer in her chest. “Your brakes went out? My God, Martin.”
“I’m fine.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve worried you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t know. I pressed the brakes, and they didn’t respond. Luckily, the street was deserted at that time of night, and I skidded into a little ditch. I’m not going to lie. I was frightened out of my wits, flashbacks to my previous accident and all that, but I wasn’t hurt in the slightest. No other cars involved. Had to get a tow truck to pull it out—took forever on New Year’s Eve, mind you. And for that, and that reason alone, I was glad to not have you with me last night.”
“Oh…” She couldn’t say anything else. He was blasé about it, but suddenly she was certain. This had been no accident. Someone had pushed Della in front of a streetcar, and that someone had also cut Martin’s brake lines. Who could have done such a thing except the person who had killed her father? Martin and Della knew too much. That was apparent. But what exactly did they know?
“Is it on? I’ll tune in.”
“I’m…I’m sorry?”
“Your show, The Pimpernel. When’s it on tonight?”
Yes. Yes, The Pimpernel. She still had that to do. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was already four ten. She needed to get to the station soon.
“It’s at seven tonight.”
“I’ll be listening.”
“Martin,” she said, the whole story on the tip of her tongue. She needed to warn him, but how could she? There wasn’t time, and if she couldn’t explain everything now, she didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily.
“Yes?”
“I think someone may be trying to hurt you. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course,” he said. She could hear the amusement in his voice. He wasn’t taking her warning seriously. Why would he? “Don’t worry about me, Viv. I’m used to attempts on my life. I make a lot of people unhappy in my line of work.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry. A little gallows humor, I guess.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was more serious. “I assure you, Viv. No one’s out to get me. Life isn’t like the movies. Brakes wear down, go out all the time. It was happenstance that it occurred to me last night. Car’s in the garage getting fixed up as we speak. And if it makes you feel any better, the entirety of my plans for the day are to stick by the radio with bated breath, waiting to hear your beautiful voice. Hey, I’ve got an idea. What would you say if I pick you up at the station after the show and we have a celebratory late supper?” He paused and then added, “Pick you up with a different car, of course. Brake lines intact.”
She smiled in spite of the guilt roiling her stomach. It was a shame. Finally something she and her mother agreed on: Martin would be perfect for her—perfect if Charlie didn’t exist, that was.
“I’d love to…” Her voice trailed off regretfully.
“But you can’t.”
“I’m not sure how the evening’s going to go. If things turn out badly, I’m sure I won’t be fit company for any sort of celebratory supper. If it goes well, then I’ll be celebrating with the cast and crew, I suppose.”
“A late night for you either way,” he said. She could hear the disappointment in his voice, and she felt terrible for leading him on—even if it was unavoidable.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“I look forward to it.”
If he only knew what she would to tell him, she thought. Not just about Charlie. All of it. He might not look so forward to the conversation.
“Break a leg,” he said.
“Thanks. Good-bye, Martin.”
“Bye, Viv.”
She hung up the receiver. Break a leg was an ironic thing for Martin to say, she thought, especially considering what that accident had done to his own leg. Especially after what had happened to him last night.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Vivian watched Charlie’s profile in the flash of city lights as he drove her to the station.
“Mrs. Graves took the money? Why?”
Vivian shrugged and twisted her gloved hands in her lap. “She wanted to shield me from the truth about my father,” she said.
“Well, I’d say that attempt failed spectacularly.”
Vivian let out a shaky laugh. “I would have dropped the whole thing if she’d left that cash where it was. And I may have been the one person in Chicago that hadn’t known all along what my father was up to. Well, me, Everett, and Mother.” She looked out the window as they made their way over the Chicago River. “I mean, even your father knew, Charlie.” It was still odd, she thought. Having met Charlie’s father in that way. She glanced at him, feeling the smile creep onto her face despite everything. “He rea
lly liked me?” she asked.
“Of course he did,” Charlie said. “Why wouldn’t he?”
He winked at her, and she felt the warmth in the pit of her stomach.
She wanted to ask what Charlie had told his father about her, about them, but she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to jinx anything now that she had him back. Well, had him back for the moment. There was still the small issue of Graham.
“Do you think Martin’s okay?”
Charlie shrugged. “Hard to say. Probably if he stays at home like he said he would, he’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.”
Charlie looked sharply at her as he pulled up in front of the Grayson-Cole Building, but he said nothing. He put the car in Park and they sat there for a long moment, the engine idling roughly. Vivian watched snowflakes drift down in the yellow arc of the streetlights.
“Come in with me,” she said. “You can watch the train wreck from the control room. Front-row seat…”
“I would like a word with Yarborough.”
Vivian’s heart thumped as she studied Charlie’s expression. She was so close now. She couldn’t risk Charlie ruining everything, knocking the whole delicate house of cards down around her before she could dismantle it herself.
“Charlie…I said I’d handle it with Graham. Maybe it’s best if you don’t come in.”
Charlie sighed, eyeing the building. “I can’t anyway. Not yet.”
She stroked his arm and leaned in to peck him on the cheek. He accepted it, but as she drew away, he caught her by the waist and drew her back for a proper kiss. Then she pulled away again, laughing breathlessly as she dodged his searching hand.
“I’ll meet you right here afterward,” he said.
She slid to the passenger side door and opened it. She leaned down before closing the door to smile at him.
“Right here,” he said sternly.
“Yes, sir.” Then she saluted and turned to walk through the front doors of WCHI.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 27