Homicide for the Holidays

by Cheryl Honigford

  • • •

  Someone grabbed her arm as soon as she came off the elevator. Vivian started and pulled her arm away. It was Graham.

  “You owe me an explanation,” he hissed.

  “You’re the one who owes me an explanation.”

  His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

  “Honestly, Graham, I didn’t think you would care,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t care?” he asked, incredulous. His eyes darted up and down the empty hallway. “My girl is out kissing other men, and doing God knows what else. Why in hell wouldn’t I care?” His face was flushed.

  “Not other men, plural,” Vivian said. “Just Charlie.”

  He waved a hand at her dismissively. He nodded his head toward the alcove near the elevator, and they stepped into it for the modicum of privacy it provided.

  “You told me you hadn’t heard from him, and this whole time—”

  “This whole time, nothing,” she said, her anger rising. “Cut the jealous act, Graham. You know I’m not your girl, and you don’t want me to be.”

  “What are you talking about, Viv?” There was wariness in his voice now.

  “Graham. I know,” she said.

  “Know what?”

  “I know,” Vivian said again. He was going to make her say it, wasn’t he? Graham looked at her, his face a careful blank. “I know your secret…” she whispered. “The one that would ruin you if it got out.”

  Graham’s face turned from deep pink to white in an instant. “I don’t have any secrets,” he said.

  He was still denying it, and if she dropped it now, he would deny it forever.

  “I know about Paul,” she said, and it was like she’d slapped him in the face.

  Graham’s mouth dropped open, but he snapped it shut quickly, coming to his senses. “You don’t know anything,” he retorted. He turned his back to her.

  “I know, Graham,” she repeated slowly. There could be no mistaking her tone. Did he want her to say it outright? That she knew he preferred men? That she was a front to keep anyone from suspecting, to keep him from ruining his hopes for a Hollywood career?

  “What are you going to do about it?” Graham asked, his back still to her. His voice was tight.

  Do? She hadn’t thought there was anything for her to do. She hadn’t thought past confronting him with the knowledge.

  He turned to face her, pleading in his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Want?”

  “You already have a starring role,” he said, his voice panicked, the words running together. “I’ll get you in on those Sultan’s Gold ads…”

  Vivian shook her head, her face growing hot with indignation. “This isn’t a black-hand scheme, Graham.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then what is it?”

  Vivian shrugged. “You lied to me,” she said, surprised at the tremolo in her voice. Surprised at how much it mattered to her. The anger bubbled to the surface. She’d been taken advantage of—by Graham, by Banks, by Langley, by those idiots at The Gossip Club.

  He shook his head. “I never lied to you.”

  That was technically correct, she supposed. He hadn’t lied. He’d just never told her the truth.

  “Then you used me. Why didn’t you tell me?” Vivian knew he’d been using her. She’d been using him too. But he hadn’t told her why, and that’s what irritated her.

  “I was going to… I swear. I had to be sure I could trust you. How did you find out?” Graham asked quietly.

  “Gloria,” she said.

  “Everett’s little girlfriend?” Graham’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “How did she—”

  “She had you followed.” It sounded ludicrous coming out of her mouth, but there it was.

  “Followed?”

  Vivian nodded. “Bored on Christmas break and following misguided journalistic instincts, I guess. She suspected something was up between us. She got bored, and she had you followed—and she got more than she bargained for, I’d say.”

  “What…what is she planning on doing about it?”

  “Nothing. She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  Graham let his breath out in a whoosh of air that ruffled her bangs.

  “She told you.”

  Vivian nodded. “She thought it was only fair that I know. I think it’s only fair too.”

  “Viv, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, and I was working up the courage to tell you the truth. You deserve the truth.” There was such a look of naked sincerity in his eyes that it made her heart hurt to look at him. She’d never seen him like that before—without his public persona, his shield of confidence and swagger. He seemed older. He seemed tired.

  He was right. He couldn’t have told her something like that, at least not until he was sure he could trust her to keep his secret. But hadn’t she proven herself trustworthy over the past two months? Hadn’t she been a friend to him? Hadn’t they shared confidences? Surely none anywhere near as big as this one, but they’d kept each other’s little secrets. Then something occurred to her.

  “Marjorie Fox knew, didn’t she?” Vivian asked with sudden clarity. “That’s what made you so jittery about her murder and the blackmail. She knew about you, and you were afraid someone would figure it out after her death?”

  Graham nodded.

  Vivian laughed suddenly. “You know, for a while, I thought you were being so secretive because you’d killed her.”

  “Me? Kill Marjorie?” The shock on Graham’s face was almost laughable. “How could you believe such a thing?”

  Vivian shrugged. “What was I supposed to believe? I wouldn’t, in a million years, have suspected this,” she said, holding her hands out to encompass everything they’d been talking about.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “That even you hadn’t suspected.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. Some part of her had always suspected; she just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  “This is one fine predicament. I assume Banks and Langley know the truth?”

  He nodded.

  “And they’re obviously 110 percent behind this whole Harvey-and-Lorna-in-real-life thing…”

  He nodded again.

  “How far are you willing to go for your career, Graham? Marriage? Children?”

  “Would that be so horrible? To be married to me?” She knew he was half joking and would marry her this minute if he thought that would secure his future as a matinee idol.

  “I don’t love you, and you don’t love me.”

  “Successful marriages have been built on far less than mutual affection.” Graham put his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

  Vivian thought of the lavender marriages that were whispered about in Hollywood circles—including, she had been shocked to find out, her beloved Rudolph Valentino. It would be a marriage of convenience to hide the sexuality of one or both of the people involved so that they could continue their show-business career. Graham would never be accepted as a romantic lead if it got out that he had no interest in romancing women in his private life. Marriage would divert attention from him—especially a marriage to a costar whose career was also on the rise. She should have seen the signs all along. How could she have been so naive?

  She sighed. “Well, you can forget it. Find another sucker.”

  She watched his face fall and immediately felt sorry for being so blunt.

  “I’m sorry, Graham. I’m not marrying anyone. Least of all you.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “What about Chick?”

  “What about him?” She ignored the implied question. Would she consider marrying Charlie—in theory, if they were anywhere near that—if he asked her? Would she? She suddenly felt angry, frustrated, trapped. Vivian bit her lip. All of this had been an elaborate, unnecessary, utter
ly confusing sham. She had known she was being used, but she didn’t realize why. She didn’t like being played for a fool. By all rights, she should be angry with Graham, but she couldn’t force herself to be. Graham was in a bind. A huge bind, and she couldn’t leave him in the lurch. What would she do about Charlie? She couldn’t tell him about Graham, surely? Would he even understand? She shook her head.

  Vivian sat for a moment, considering the situation. Then she turned to him. What had Charlie said—that Vivian Witchell never did anything out of the goodness of her heart?

  “So I guess it’s status quo then. I play the role of dutiful girlfriend as long as necessary,” she said quietly. “At least until we can figure something out that won’t ruin either of us.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course I would,” she said, her stomach twisting at the thought of what it might mean. But what choice did she have? If Graham went down, so did the show. She could kiss Lorna Lafferty good-bye just when she was gaining momentum. She wasn’t simply doing it for Graham; she was doing it for herself too. She was doing it for everyone that worked on any show she was involved with. She was doing it for everyone at WCHI. And it felt like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dave leaned in to the microphone. “Well, Lady Blakeney?”

  Vivian opened her mouth and hastily closed it again. She felt the belch slowly making its way up her windpipe. Good lord, to belch on the air would be career suicide. She forced it down, turned to the microphone, and delivered her line.

  “I’ve learned nothing yet,” Vivian said. She turned to the side and covered her mouth—and met Frances’s eye across the room. Frances smiled slightly, acknowledging Vivian’s misfortune. Vivian pressed a hand to her stomach. It was pitching and roiling. Something she’d eaten? Something she’d had to drink? Had Frances had a hand in this? She wasn’t content to ruin her personal life, but she had to give her indigestion too?

  She shook her head. Of course it hadn’t been Frances. Stress-induced indigestion. And after what Graham had confessed, there was no doubt that the news could induce vomiting.

  “Come now, let’s not be coy,” Dave cooed.

  “I’m not being coy,” Vivian said. “I’ve learned nothing.”

  “If you don’t tell me the Pimpernel’s true identity, you know the alternative. The guillotine. Your brother’s head will roll on the streets of Paris.”

  “Monsieur Chauvelin,” Vivian pleaded, stifling another belch. “You can’t do this.”

  “My dear lady, the Pimpernel is under this roof. At this moment. Among your friends. Find him…or else.”

  The music swelled from the phonograph in the control room.

  Someone pressed a glass into her hand. Vivian looked up into Frances’s startlingly blue eyes. “Bicarbonate of soda,” she mouthed. Then she mimed a drinking motion and patted her stomach. Vivian eyed the milky liquid with trepidation. Could Frances really be trying to help her? She brought the glass to her lips and tasted the tiniest of sips. It was chalky, slightly salty, bitter. Bicarbonate of soda all right. Vivian downed the glass and handed it back to Frances with a grateful smile. Perhaps she wasn’t all bad.

  The Pimpernel was going well. Surprisingly well. They’d reached the end of the play without mishap. Vivian couldn’t help but think she was jinxing things by having the audacity to think of how well they were going.

  “The firing squad is waiting, monsieur,” Dave said.

  “You will come to see me die?”

  “Ah, no, I will picture the scene.”

  “Be sure to make it as horrible as possible.”

  “Oh, have no doubt.”

  The head soundman opened and closed a metal door on its special stand. It clanged ominously.

  Another soundman stood far off in the corner, covering his mouth with his hand to muffle the sound. “Ready!”

  The head soundman and his assistant picked the prop muskets off the table and locked them.

  “Aim!”

  A pause. All was silence in the studio. Vivian looked at Graham, his eyes trained on his script, waiting for the blast. Her eyes flicked to the control room. All were rapt with attention, mouths agape, including the ad man practically on his toes in anticipation.

  “Fire!”

  Then the thunderous sound of rifles firing filled the studio. Vivian flinched, even though they’d been through this scene ad nauseam in the past week.

  “And so it is done,” Dave said with barely disguised glee. “That infernal Pimpernel is no more.”

  There was a long pause. Silence. Long enough to think it might be over and that the Pimpernel had not escaped justice after all.

  The soundman wrenched the metal prop door open and let it clang against the frame.

  “Excuse me, monsieur,” Graham said. “I seem to have forgotten my hat.”

  “Blakeney! What the deuce!”

  “Perhaps you should sit down, Chauvelin. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

  The soundman opened a wooden door with an exaggerated creaking groan. Then Dave screamed, crouching down toward the floor to mimic falling into a pit.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur! Vive la France!” Graham turned to Morty in the control room with a flourish of his arm.

  Morty dropped the needle onto the record, and “La Marseillaise” rang out loud and clear. After one stanza, Morty lowered the volume, and Vivian stepped up to the microphone.

  “Oh, Percy darling, you’re here.”

  “Yes, Marguerite, and we’re safely on our way to England.”

  “We’re free now? Really free?”

  “Yes, darling. Both of us.”

  The music swelled again, and Vivian looked up, catching Graham’s eye. He smiled brilliantly. The smile of the Graham of old. The first time he’d smiled in days. They’d done it. They’d pulled it off. Graham had pulled it off against all the odds. They all stood stiff as statues until the announcer had finished his spiel and the music had died out dramatically. The on-air light blinked off at eight o’clock, and a spontaneous cheer erupted from everyone in the room. They’d done it. They’d actually done it.

  Graham held up his hands in the middle of the room to hush the celebrations.

  “Congratulations, everyone! Fantastic. Just fantastic.” Vivian thought she saw a tear or two sparkle in his deep-brown eyes. He smiled, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of people assembled in the studio space. She watched as his eyes caught and lingered on Paul’s. A smile passed between them, but it was brief and his eyes swept on. Her stomach twisted. She hoped she was the only one who had noticed, would ever notice.

  Affairs of this sort were not tolerated anywhere, but especially not in a rising star. Graham would have to pretend for the rest of his career, for the rest of his life. He’d lead a double life—one for the public and one for himself. And maybe the one for himself would eventually fade away to be replaced by the hollow comfort of a sham marriage, and maybe even some sham children. She glanced away. The bicarbonate of soda was no longer helping her stomach.

  “Viv!” Graham waved her over to the far side of the room. He was flanked by both Mr. Langley and Mr. Banks, as well as the ad man. Both men were slapping Graham’s back and smiling ear to ear. Oh yes, things had gone well—better than either she or Graham could have dreamed.

  She approached the group and shook the men’s proffered hands.

  “Wonderful program!” the ad man intoned.

  “Top-notch!” Mr. Langley said.

  Both men nodded their heads at her.

  “Yes, Graham’s done a magnificent job.” She smiled at Graham, patting his arm.

  “We were saying that this would be a capital idea as a series—dramatic presentations of the great works of literature, helmed by our young genius Graham here.”

 
; Vivian’s mouth dropped open slightly. “A regular series? Wow.” Her eyes flicked to Graham’s, but she only saw pride and accomplishment there. But what would this mean? For The Darkness Knows? Certainly he couldn’t keep this sort of pace, deal with this sort of stress, in the long term.

  “And we were talking of the Sultan’s Gold spot and how much we think you would add. The public loves both of you and especially loves you together. I think an ad with both of you would be terrific.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.” Her mind flashed on that previous image she’d had of Graham, illustrated in three-quarter profile, but now she joined him. A national magazine ad. She could hardly believe it.

  “Say yes.”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing. “Yes.”

  “That’s great. We’ll start working on the particulars tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait. But I’m afraid right now I must be going.”

  She shook their hands again and headed toward her coat and bag on the opposite side of the room. Graham grabbed her arm, stopping her progress. He moved close to her, his mouth next to her ear. “Thank you, Viv. For everything this past week…and for being so understanding. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”

  She looked at him, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again. Her eyes lit on the ad man, Banks, and Langley, all watching her and Graham. “You’re my friend, Graham. Friends help each other, don’t they?”

  • • •

  The Packard was not waiting at the curb in front of the building. Vivian stood on the sidewalk, slightly bewildered. It had kept snowing while they were doing the show, and there was another half an inch covering everything. Vivian waited for five minutes. Charlie had said “right here,” hadn’t he? She looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. She looked at her watch again. Had something happened?

  She pulled her coat tightly around her and looked back into the building, then scanned the street once more. She looked across the street into the lighted windows of the Tip Top Café. Charlie’s blond head was not visible anywhere. Surely, she should go back inside. If he came and she wasn’t waiting, he’d go inside and find her. That’s what she should do, yes.