“Okay,” she said, feeling the scotch slide down her throat, her strength artificially buoyed by the trail of warmth the alcohol left. She took a deep breath. “Let’s have it.”
Mr. Haverman set his glass on the fireplace mantel and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He spoke as he slowly unfolded a plain piece of paper. “This isn’t the original, of course, but I was able to jot down the contents of the letter that was found with Mrs. Fox’s body before the police took it as evidence.”
Vivian took the paper from him and held it gingerly between the tips of her thumb and index finger. She looked up at Mr. Haverman, who nodded his encouragement, and began to read aloud.
Dearest Evelyn,
My heart leaped into my throat when I heard you say the secret words today. Our secret words. I like how you dropped them so smoothly into your speech about Bill missing football tryouts, clever girl. I’ll come for you right away.
Vivian shot the detective a questioning glance, took another deep breath, and continued.
I’m not upset that you haven’t answered any of my letters. I know you’re busy, and I know you think of me as much as I think of you. I know Mr. Garrett will be angry when I take you away from him, but it has to be done. You belong here with me. Don’t you see that ? He’ll have to see that too. See you very, very soon, darling.
Your Walter
P.S. Tell Lorna that I’m waiting for her secret words too.
“I don’t understand,” she said slowly, staring at the words written in the detective’s large, looping script. “What does this mean? It’s addressed to Evelyn and mentions Bill and Mr. Garrett from The Golden Years… This man, this Walter, thought Evelyn was real?”
“It appears so.”
“And he mentions Lorna… He thinks Lorna is real too?” She looked up at the detective, eyes wide.
“Which is why Mr. Hart has hired me to keep an eye on you.”
Vivian’s eyebrows knit together with worry but then relaxed as a thought struck her. The whole thing was a mistake, of course. “But this Walter can’t mean me,” she said. Her voice was strong, buoyed by her sudden certainty. “I just started as Lorna. He’d be after Edith Waters, the original Lorna.”
Charlie shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I think this Walter is after Lorna. Period. He thinks she’s real, and as of last week, you are Lorna Lafferty.”
Vivian slowly slumped back into the chair. Talk about bad timing, she thought. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said under her breath. “Why would someone want to kill me?”
“Not you, Miss Witchell,” the detective corrected. “Lorna Lafferty.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Well, if Lorna dies, then so do I.” Her attempt at a carefree laugh came out as a cough, and she stifled it with her hand.
Mr. Haverman paced silently in front of the mantel for a few moments before speaking again. He turned to Vivian, frowning. “I suspect that Mrs. Fox’s death was an accident, or at least unplanned.”
“Why do you say that?” Her voice sounded flat and small in her ears.
“I think that this Walter is delusional. He may have come to see Evelyn—that is to say, Mrs. Fox—fully expecting her to go with him willingly, and when she resisted, he panicked and hit her with the first thing available.”
“The bottle of whiskey.” Vivian considered that information for a moment. She brought the glass to her lips, but there was no scotch left. She couldn’t remember finishing it. “I know that’s meant to be comforting in some way, but it’s not.”
“You’re sure you haven’t received any letters?”
“Like this? I would have remembered.” She held the note in front of her and then placed it on the side table.
“You don’t recognize the name Walter?”
She shook her head.
“Can you think of anything that you and Mrs. Fox might have had in common?”
Vivian shrugged. “We work with a lot of the same people—engineers, soundmen, writers, directors, actors, announcers, musicians. All the staff work on everything at the station. But as I told you earlier, Marjorie and I weren’t the best of friends. We were barely even acquaintances.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. He stood deep in thought for a moment. “And I suppose you don’t have any idea what the secret words might be?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she said, defeated. She suddenly sat stiffly upright as a new and terrible thought struck her. “If I don’t know what they are, how will I know if I’ve said them?” Her eyes darted over Mr. Haverman’s face, searching for some tiny bit of reassurance, perhaps even an outright declaration that the secret words mentioned were just a bit of delusional nonsense.
The detective looked Vivian squarely in the eye. “You got me.”
At that moment, the front doorknob rattled. They could hear the muffled curses of someone trying to force a key into the lock. Charlie tensed and reached inside his jacket. “Expecting someone?”
Vivian glanced at the time on the grandfather clock, then relaxed back into the chair. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.
“Just Mother,” she said with a sigh.
Vivian heard the front door open and shut again quickly, followed by the thump of the bolt being set into place. Her mother burst into the room soon after, pulling one long, white glove off as she walked. She was dressed to the nines, and Vivian recalled that her mother had planned to attend a benefit at the opera this evening. She had kept her active social and charity schedule after Vivian’s father’s death and was out at least four nights of every seven. Her mother had the same strawberry-blond hair as Vivian, except that hers was liberally streaked with gray and swept back into a classic chignon at the base of her neck. She was a bit plump—pleasantly, Vivian would say—but her eyes were bright, her skin was clear, and even Vivian had to admit that she looked like her older sister rather than her mother. Unfortunately for Vivian, her mother didn’t act much like an older sister.
“Well, that was a disaster. Whoever planned that benefit had no idea—” Her mother stopped suddenly as her eyes fell upon Mr. Haverman. She pulled the second glove off with a flourish. “You have a gentleman caller at this time of night?” she asked smoothly, addressing Vivian as she appraised Mr. Haverman with a cool eye.
Vivian fought the urge to laugh at her mother’s use of the antiquated phrase gentleman caller. “Mother, this is Charles Haverman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Haverman. I’m Vivian’s mother, Julia Witchell,” her mother said, holding out her ungloved hand. She took the detective’s hand with only her fingers, made the briefest of downward motions with her wrist, and then immediately released it. She turned her attention back to Vivian, one eyebrow arched in expectation.
“Mr. Haverman is a private detective and a special consultant to The Darkness Knows,” Vivian explained. “He graciously offered me a ride home after the ten o’clock show tonight.”
“I see.” Her mother’s eyes fell upon the bottle of scotch sitting on top of the open liquor cabinet. “Are you feeling all right, Vivian?”
Vivian paused as she considered how to answer the question. Where to begin? With her fingernail, she tapped the glass she was holding.
“There’s been an incident at the station, Mrs. Witchell,” Mr. Haverman said.
“An incident? What kind of incident?”
“A murder,” Vivian clarified. “Marjorie Fox. She played Evelyn Garrett—”
“On The Golden Years,” her mother finished. “I listen to that every day!”
“You do?” Vivian asked, surprised.
Her mother waved the question away impatiently. “What on earth happened?” Her eyes darted from Vivian to the detective and back to Vivian, where they narrowed with suspicion. “You’re not involved, are you, Vivian?”
“I m
ay be,” Vivian said quietly. She stood, retrieved the letter from the side table, and handed it to her mother. “This was found with Marjorie’s body. I’m mentioned. Well, Lorna is. I may be in danger if this Walter person was responsible for Marjorie’s murder.”
Mr. Haverman and Vivian watched in silence as her mother read the letter.
“This is horrible,” her mother said in a low voice. “No, this is really horrible.” She looked up sharply, as if they were about to argue with her. “You have to go away.”
“Go away?”
“Your life is in danger, Vivian. You can’t stay here.”
“Yes, I can. Mr. Haverman’s going to look after me.” Vivian glanced at him. “Mr. Hart hired him to do just that.”
The detective slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced a calling card for each of them. Vivian glanced at it.
Charles Haverman Jr.
Private Inquiries
HAR–7998
“I’m sure Mr. Haverman is competent at whatever it is that he does,” Vivian’s mother said, holding the card at arm’s length and gazing doubtfully at it. “But I don’t trust him with my daughter’s life.”
The detective showed no sign of offense. Vivian had to admire his calm in the presence of the formidable Mrs. Witchell.
“You’re going to have to, Mother, because I’m not leaving.” Vivian crossed her arms across her chest. “I have shows to do.”
“Oh, the shows…” Mrs. Witchell threw her hands out as if to push the idea away, the letter flapping in the space between mother and daughter. “You can do those shows when you come back safe and sound.”
“Mother, that’s not how it works,” Vivian said.
“Posh on how it works. Mr. Hart will understand.”
“Of course he’ll understand,” Vivian agreed. “And they’ll find another girl to do all my parts while I’m away.”
“I don’t really think that would be such a bad thing.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t start.”
“You can go up to our cabin in Wisconsin for a few weeks,” her mother continued in a softer tone of voice. “Everett was just up there with some friends. I’m sure it’s in fine condition.”
Vivian rolled her eyes at the idea. If Everett had been up there with his fraternity brothers, the cabin was sure to be in less than fine condition. “I’m not sitting alone in a freezing cabin for a few weeks while my radio career goes right down the toilet,” she said.
Her mother scowled at the inelegant phrasing. “I’m only thinking of your safety.”
“So it’s fine if I freeze to death?”
“Don’t be smart.”
Vivian turned to Mr. Haverman. “Mother would love me to drop all this radio nonsense, get married, and have babies. Right, Mother?”
“Now, Vivian. That’s not fair.” Her mother added a glare that said, And certainly not an appropriate conversation to have in front of a guest.
Vivian grunted, amused at the barely noticeable blush on the previously unflappable detective’s stubble-darkened cheeks.
Mrs. Witchell looked at the letter again and then turned to him. “So what do you suggest we do, Mr. Haverman?”
“I suggest that your daughter go about her daily routine as usual,” he said, pausing to assess Mrs. Witchell’s reaction. She said nothing, so he continued. “I’ll be with her at all times. She’ll be as safe as a kitten.” He brushed his jacket back ever so slightly so that the butt end of a revolver was visible, tucked into a holster on his hip.
Vivian’s mother’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. The sight of the gun shocked Vivian—and thrilled her a little too.
“And I’m to be used as a sort of lure for this Walter?” Vivian asked suddenly.
The detective had no time to answer before Mrs. Witchell admonished her. “Vivian!”
“Well, how else do you think they’re going to catch him, Mother? It’s exciting, don’t you think? I’ve read about things like this in True Crime magazine.”
Mrs. Witchell sighed. “Your father never should have let you read those silly rags. Giving you ridiculous ideas…” She rubbed her temples.
“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that now, Mother.”
Mrs. Witchell glared as she finally removed her expensive-looking, black Persian lamb coat, laying it carefully over her arm. She moved back toward the entryway, Charlie and Vivian following behind. She paused at the base of the stairs and turned back to face them.
“Oh, I have a splitting headache,” she said. She sighed again, this time more dramatically. “You’re staying, Mr. Haverman? I’ll phone Mr. Hart right now to verify your story, of course. Assuming that you are who you say you are, I’d feel much safer with a detective in the house.” She didn’t wait for his response before continuing. “The guest room is at the end of the hall upstairs. It should be ready for use.”
She started climbing, then stopped and turned back.
“Oh, and don’t go near the room next to the stairs,” she said to Mr. Haverman. “That’s the housekeeper’s room. She keeps a baseball bat next to the bed, and she’s likely to knock you out cold.”
“Thanks for the warning.” The detective caught Vivian’s eye and smirked.
“Good night, Mother,” Vivian called sweetly. She watched her mother disappear up the front stairs, then returned to the open bottle of scotch and refilled her glass. “I’d forgotten all about Mrs. Graves and her bat. She’s always saying that three women living alone together need to be able to take care of themselves.”
“I agree completely.”
“And we don’t often have strange, gun-toting men in the house… Once or twice a week at most.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Miss Witchell,” the detective said in a low voice.
“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know,” she said with a sigh. She turned to face him but continued staring down at her drink as she spoke. “All that silliness with Mother was an act so she wouldn’t worry.” She swished the amber liquid around in her glass. Then she looked up at the detective, the false bravado wiped from her face.
“I assure you, Mr. Haverman, I’m terrified.”
CHAPTER SIX
Marjorie’s murder had pushed Hitler below the fold of the morning papers. Vivian’s mother held up that morning’s copy of the Tribune wordlessly as Vivian entered the dining room. A photo of a much younger Marjorie graced a full one-third of the front page. It appeared to be a publicity photo taken when The Golden Years was first catching on. She’d been quite a striking woman before the booze really took hold, Vivian thought. Amazing what it could do in only half a dozen years. Vivian took the paper and quickly scanned the story.
The article held scant detail about the murder itself, and Vivian was not mentioned at all. The contents of the mysterious fan letter still seemed to be under wraps. Mr. Hart had no doubt worked his magic, or more likely his muscle, with the staffs of the city’s major newspapers.
The Chicago Patriot had identical information, but also ran a side story trumpeting access to Marjorie’s secret diaries, which would be published in tomorrow’s edition. Giving them enough time to be fabricated, Vivian mused. Secret diaries were a staple of the Patriot. There was little cause to think that anything they published would be the remotest neighbor to the truth. Marjorie didn’t seem like the type to keep a secret diary.
“You’re not mentioned in either paper, Vivian,” her mother said. “Thank goodness.”
“The Patriot, Mother?” Vivian raised an eyebrow. She buttered a slice of toast and applied a hefty dollop of strawberry jam. Unfortunately, being in mortal danger had done nothing to quell her appetite.
Her mother sniffed as she glanced at the tabloid.
“Yes, well, I had to see what the papers were saying… All the papers.”
“Mmm,” Vivian mumbled, he
r mouth full of toast. She didn’t want a rehash of last night. She wasn’t going to spend a few weeks in that dreary cabin in the Wisconsin wilderness, and that was final.
Mrs. Witchell appraised her only daughter. “Vivian, darling, you look awful.”
“Why, thank you, Mother.”
“Such dark circles under your eyes…” She tut-tutted.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night, as you can imagine.”
“I can imagine,” her mother said. “With this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Vivian glared at her. “Gotten myself into? I did absolutely nothing wrong, I’ll have you know, besides walk into the station lounge at the wrong time.”
Her mother sighed heavily. She didn’t have to say another word. Vivian knew the lines of this particular argument by heart: Julia Witchell didn’t think Vivian should be walking around the halls of WCHI at all, let alone at night. She shouldn’t be messing around with radio. She shouldn’t pursue this silly acting business. She shouldn’t have a job at all. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t.
Vivian fumed silently. She was determined not to let her mother get her goat this morning, even though preventing that would take something akin to a Herculean effort. She knew better than to think she could have a rational conversation about something like this with her mother. What she needed was to talk this through with someone who was on her side, someone who was always on her side—someone like her best friend, Imogene Crook.
She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the letter, but Vivian had picked up the telephone several times during the course of her sleepless night. She’d never completed the call. Not because she didn’t trust her best friend to keep a secret, but because it had been too late to give her a ring. She didn’t want to wake Genie and get her stewing about something she couldn’t do anything about. Besides, she’d see her at the station today. Genie was the station program manager’s secretary.
“Nothing new with the investigation,” Mr. Haverman said, entering the room oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “Good morning, Miss Witchell.”
The Darkness Knows Page 5