The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  Graham sat down next to her and coiled his arm around her shoulders.

  “Now just relax, Vivian.” Mr. Hart walked into the room with a small glass of amber-colored liquid. He leaned down and tried to put the glass to her lips, but Vivian snatched it from his hands. She was in shock, but she wasn’t an invalid.

  Mr. Hart shrugged and pulled one of the matching leather armchairs that had been facing his desk closer to the couch and took a seat. He watched her sip at the brandy for a few seconds. Then, in complete silence, he took off his wire-rimmed spectacles and cleaned each lens slowly and carefully with a handkerchief pulled from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. His hands were shaking.

  Mr. Hart was just shy of sixty, but he looked significantly younger—quite a handsome man for his age, Vivian had always thought. He’d aged gracefully, kept a trim figure. His hair was completely gray, but it suited him. It lent him an air of distinction. In the two years she’d worked as his secretary, he’d made at least two dozen passes at her. She’d politely deflected all of them. In secretarial school they’d warned her about the propensity for an employer’s attentions to become amorous, after all.

  Despite the fact that she’d turned him down repeatedly, gossip about them had still made the rounds at the station. She hadn’t done anything untoward, yet everyone believed she had. So it was strange, uncomfortably intimate somehow, to be here with him now—in his office at night—even though Graham sat right beside her.

  At the same time, she was glad Mr. Hart was here. If anyone could handle an awful situation like this, it would be him.

  “The police are here,” Mr. Hart said. “They’re…taking care of things.” The slight quaver in his voice was anything but reassuring.

  “The police are here?” Graham stood up. “They’ll want to question us.”

  “Vivian, at least.”

  Graham rubbed his hands on the front of his trousers and glanced at the closed door. “I think I’ll go see if I can be of help,” he said. He sprang for the door, reaching it in two long strides. As he grasped the doorknob, he turned back to Vivian. “You’ll be all right here with Mr. Hart,” he said. Before she could protest, he was gone.

  Vivian shook her head and watched the door close behind him. She could see where she ranked in the grand scheme of things as far as Graham was concerned—somewhere below Harvey Diamond and the entire Chicago Police Department.

  Mr. Hart had also gotten up from his seat and was pacing back and forth between his desk and the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall. All they afforded him was a view of the mammoth brick structure of the Morrison directly across the street. Silhouettes flitted across the Roman shades in some of the hotel windows.

  “This is horrible,” he said in a low voice, shifting his gaze to the street below. “Just horrible. It’s all gone wrong.”

  Vivian made a vague noise of agreement in her throat. A dead woman in the lounge—something had gone horribly wrong indeed. She straightened her skirt, smoothing it over her knees. She slipped her feet back into her shoes, wondering which man had taken them off.

  “I’m feeling much better, Mr. Hart,” she said, anxious to remove herself from this awkward situation. Mr. Hart was clearly not himself. “I think I’ll just—”

  He turned sharply and fixed her with such a bewildered expression that she paused midsentence.

  “—walk around a bit,” she finished in a faltering voice. “Clear my head.”

  “No, no,” he said, looking down at the polished leather of his shoes. “This won’t do at all… The police will want to question you first thing.” He glanced out the window and then back to Vivian.

  “Of course,” she said, confused.

  She sat for a minute in silence as Mr. Hart continued wearing a path in the carpet: from the desk to the windows, the windows to the desk.

  “Were you here when it…it happened? Did you see anything—the person that could have done this?” Vivian glanced at the ashtray on his desk where the remnants of something still smoldered. That wasn’t cigar smoke in the air.

  “I was working late, but I didn’t notice anything unusual.” He turned from the window briefly to glance at her, then turned back before adding, “Until I heard you scream, that is.”

  Vivian felt the color drain from her face as the image of Marjorie’s dead body popped into her mind. She didn’t remember screaming.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked. She had been the one who fainted, but Mr. Hart seemed to be the one who needed support. “A drink?” When he didn’t answer, she continued in a small voice, “I’ll just go out and see if I can be of help to the police then, shall I?”

  Mr. Hart grunted. “Yes, yes, go see what you can do.” He turned to look at her and attempted a smile.

  Vivian took another sip of the brandy and then set it on the side table. She left Mr. Hart staring silently out of the window at the lights of the city.

  • • •

  The whole floor was abuzz with activity. Vivian walked a wide berth around the scene of the crime. The lounge was taped off, but she could see that the “Closed for Cleaning” sign remained on the door and was now hanging slantwise from one corner. She wondered if Marjorie was still in there, if her eyes were still open.

  Vivian poked her head tentatively into Studio K, which seemed to be the hub of police activity, and heard Graham before she saw him.

  “So you’re saying this most definitely wasn’t any sort of accident?” he said, voice booming in the perfect acoustics of the studio.

  Vivian locked eyes with Graham over the top of the head of the policeman he’d been addressing. She couldn’t hear the policeman’s response, but Graham replied with a grave “I see” as he motioned Vivian over with a quick flick of his fingers.

  As she approached, another man came into view. He was standing to Graham’s right, saying something to the group that she couldn’t make out. He stood an inch or so taller than Graham, and his golden-brown hair was smoothed back from his forehead in two sharp waves. There was something slightly unfinished about his features—the nose too sharp, the brow too prominent. They didn’t work separately, but in combination they made him look rugged, Vivian thought, and maybe a little dangerous. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled, and stubble shadowed his jaw. He also looked, Vivian decided, like she felt—like this was not quite the end of a very long day.

  The man’s eyes flicked over to meet hers, and she felt herself flush instantly under his gaze. His face was hard, his mouth drawn into a scowl. He looked her up and down, then, without a change of expression, returned his attention to what the detective was saying.

  “Viv,” Graham said as she stepped forward. “This is Sergeant Trask.” He motioned to the shorter man, and she nodded politely.

  “Miss Witchell.” The policeman acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head, and she shook the officer’s hand.

  There was an awkward pause before Vivian thrust her hand out to the taller man and said, more forcefully than she’d intended, “Vivian Witchell.”

  The strange man hesitated a moment before enveloping her hand in his. He stared into her eyes, and Vivian felt her knees weaken a little. This was real intensity, she thought, not the fake Harvey Diamond kind.

  “Charlie Haverman,” he replied.

  He wasn’t wearing a uniform, and Vivian had never seen him around the studio before. “Viv plays my sidekick on The Darkness Knows,” Graham said. “Lorna Lafferty.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Haverman’s mouth curved up on one side.

  “She’s the new Lorna,” Graham clarified. “Just started last week to replace Edie, who went and got herself married.” Graham clucked in bewildered amusement at the idea.

  Vivian glared at Graham.

  “And Chick here,” he continued, pointing at Mr. Haverman with his index finger and thumb at a right angl
e like a gun, “is the special consultant to the show.”

  “Special consultant to the show… Our show?” She hadn’t been aware they even had a special consultant.

  Graham opened his mouth to explain, but Sergeant Trask jumped in.

  “Miss Witchell,” he began. “You discovered the deceased?”

  Vivian reluctantly turned her attention to the policeman, his pencil poised at the ready. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened, please?”

  “Detective,” Graham said. “Does Viv really have to go through all of this right now? She’s been through a hell of a shock. You’ve already heard what happened.” He placed his hand protectively on her shoulder.

  “I’d like to hear Miss Witchell’s version.”

  Vivian nodded to Graham and took a deep breath.

  “Well,” she began, “Graham and I had grabbed a cup of coffee across the street between shows. Graham walked me back to the station, as he’s probably already said.”

  “Did you see anyone in the building when you arrived?”

  “Just the security guard,” she said slowly. “And Angelo. He operates the elevator.”

  The policeman nodded, and his eyes darted to the far corner of the room as he wrote. Angelo sat next to the security guard. Morty Nickerson, the show’s engineer, was slumped in a chair beside them, nervously biting his fingernails and staring at the floor. She glanced around the room and noted others from The Darkness Knows production staff. There seemed to be someone missing, but her muddled mind couldn’t place who.

  “I…I left Graham on the eleventh floor and took the elevator up to the twelfth to retrieve my umbrella. He had mentioned that it might rain.” Vivian took a deep breath and steadied herself. “The twelfth floor was deserted…or at least it seemed deserted. I didn’t see or hear anyone. The lounge door was closed when I reached it, and there was a sign on it that said ‘Closed for Cleaning’…which was odd.”

  “Odd how?” the policeman asked.

  “Well, I couldn’t tell you the last time the lounge was cleaned. It’s a pigsty,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Anyway, I opened the door, and all the lights were off, but the radio was on in the corner.”

  She paused. She’d meant to glance at Graham for some encouragement, but she caught the special consultant’s eye instead. He nodded soberly at her. Vivian took another deep breath and focused back on the sergeant.

  “I turned the lights on,” she continued, unable to keep her voice from shaking. “And I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at first. I walked into the room and reached for what I thought was my umbrella under the table near the sink, and instead, I…” Vivian shivered. “Well, then I saw her. Marjorie was lying in a pool of blood. Then I don’t know what happened.” Vivian shrugged. Graham squeezed her shoulder, and Vivian leaned into him.

  Sergeant Trask smoothly noted the end of her story with the last strokes of his pencil.

  “Apparently, you screamed and ran into the hallway, where the elevator operator caught you as you fell,” the policeman said, succinctly completing her story.

  Vivian felt her face grow warm with embarrassment as she glanced over at Angelo. He was fidgeting in his chair, probably uncomfortable with all the attention and anxious to get back to work.

  “So what killed her?” Graham asked.

  Vivian winced at his lack of tact.

  Sergeant Trask looked up at Graham with narrowed eyes. “A blow to the back of the head with a heavy glass bottle,” he answered matter-of-factly. Then he turned to Vivian. “Canadian Club. There are shards of glass all over the floor. I’m not sure how you didn’t notice that when you walked into the lounge, Miss Witchell.”

  Vivian exchanged glances with Graham. Everyone at the station had known about Marjorie’s closet drinking. She was no doubt in the process of making her coffee “Irish” when she’d been struck over the head with her own whiskey bottle. Her manner of death was so fitting that it was almost laughable.

  Almost.

  “You’re positive you didn’t see anyone suspicious around the station at all tonight, Miss Witchell?” the sergeant asked.

  Vivian shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth she might start laughing out of hysteria.

  “Well, it seems that Miss Fox had something of an enthusiastic fan.” The policeman grimaced slightly.

  “Enthusiastic?” Graham said.

  The policeman nodded before adding in a near-whisper, “There was a threatening letter from this fan found with her body.”

  Vivian sucked air in sharply through her teeth, and Graham’s fingers tightened around her shoulder.

  “I saw her with a letter after the eight o’clock show!” Vivian said. “You think the person that wrote the letter…hurt Marjorie?” Goose bumps had sprung up on her arms, and she rubbed them furiously.

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” the policeman answered. “You never heard Mrs. Fox mention anything about fan letters?”

  “No… Well, I don’t—didn’t—really speak with Marjorie…Mrs. Fox.” Vivian felt her face flush again, both at her stumbling over the clumsy explanation and the fact that Marjorie Fox had found her unworthy of conversation.

  Sergeant Trask raised his eyebrows. “Any particular reason for that?”

  “I barely knew her,” Vivian said with a shrug, hoping that the policeman wasn’t suggesting she’d had some sort of falling-out with the dead woman. “I don’t think I was worthy of being spoken to, in her opinion. Not many people at the station were.”

  “Can you think of anyone else around here that might want to hurt Mrs. Fox?”

  “Well, I don’t personally know of anyone…” Vivian said, hoping she wouldn’t have to finish the thought.

  “But?”

  “But she wasn’t the most popular person at the station.” She didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, even Marjorie, but it was true.

  “Funny how many times we’ve already heard that tonight,” said Mr. Haverman. There was nothing in his tone to suggest that he found it funny at all.

  “Oh, Sergeant Trask, there’s something else,” Vivian said. “I don’t know how much it helps, but I heard Marjorie arguing with someone—a man—earlier, just before Graham and I went for coffee.”

  “Heard them?”

  “Yes, through the ladies’ room door. It was definitely Marjorie, but I don’t know who the man was. She was angry, and she said she wanted him to take care of something, but I couldn’t follow what they were talking about.”

  “About what time was this?”

  “Well, it was after the first show… eight forty or so?”

  “I see.” The policeman snapped his notebook closed, sticking the pencil stub behind his right ear. “Thank you, Miss Witchell. We’ll let you know if we need your further assistance.”

  She nodded, then turned to ask Graham about that argument in the hallway—surely he’d seen something—but he’d already started off after Sergeant Trask, who was heading briskly in the direction of Morty Nickerson. If Graham had seen Marjorie arguing with anyone, he would’ve told the police. Wouldn’t he?

  “So you’re Lorna Lafferty.”

  Vivian looked up to find herself standing alone with the special consultant, Mr. Haverman.

  “That’s me, I guess,” she answered, her eyes returning to Graham and the policeman on the other side of the room.

  “You guess?”

  Vivian forced her attention back to Mr. Haverman and searched for an appropriate response. “I’ve only been Lorna Lafferty for a week,” she replied, realizing too late just how stupid that sounded.

  Mr. Haverman smiled though, and the whole geography of his face changed. The dangerous scowl was gone, and in its place was the smile of a man who could charm his way through most anything, and probably did.


  “You know, you’re not what I expected,” he said.

  “I’m not?”

  Mr. Haverman shrugged, broad shoulders lifting and falling in one smooth movement. “I guess I expected someone with more of a face for radio.” He fixed her with an unnerving stare.

  “I… Well, um…thank you,” she said, glancing away, flustered by the compliment. “So, Mr. Haverman,” she said quickly, meeting the tall man’s eyes again. “Graham said you were a consultant to the show. What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Well, it means I tell the writers and Mr. Yarborough”—he motioned toward the corner of the room where Graham hovered over the shoulder of the beleaguered Sergeant Trask—“what the life of a private eye is like.”

  Vivian’s eyes widened. “A private eye?”

  He nodded.

  “That makes you the real Harvey Diamond then.”

  One corner of his mouth curled in a crooked half smile. “I suppose I am.”

  “Vivian!” Joe McGreevey ran toward her, holding up one hand, fingers splayed. “We’re on in five!”

  It took a moment for the import of that information to sink in.

  “We’re on?” she asked, heart thudding. “We’re doing the ten o’clock?”

  “Of course we’re doing the ten o’clock.” The director shook his head. “Murder or no murder. The West Coast is waiting.” Then he scurried off to gather the rest of the cast and crew.

  Vivian closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, and when she opened them, the room was swimming in front of her. She swayed on her feet and held one arm out to steady herself. She grabbed the closest thing to her, which happened to be Mr. Haverman’s sleeve, and held on for dear life. He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her firmly upright.

  “Whoa there,” he said softly. He crouched down to look directly into her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Vivian held his gaze, and soon the room slowly began to right itself. His eyes were a beautifully calm shade of blue green—like Lake Michigan in the summer, she thought.

  “No, not really.”

  “Let’s sit you down,” he said. He took her elbow and began steering her toward an unoccupied folding chair.