Charlie shook his head slightly in amused disbelief. “So what was Marjorie’s problem with little Sammy Evans?” he asked.
“He was becoming a fan favorite and getting plum story lines. You know, playing the precocious little kid. The audience just eats up that kind of thing.”
“Her worst nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress hurried to the table and dumped their sandwiches in front of them with a clatter.
“This is quite the popular place,” Vivian said, looking around. All of the clientele, excluding herself, were male. And males of the extremely hardworking—or perhaps not working—variety. She met the gaze of a particularly large and unwashed man at the counter and immediately looked away, but she felt his eyes linger on her.
“I come here a lot when I’m working,” Charlie said, looking around as if he’d never really studied the place before. “It’s open all night.”
“You do a lot of your work at night?”
He nodded. Vivian tried to picture this Charlie, the charming Charlie, lurking in dark alleys and mixing with shady characters, but she just couldn’t. There must be another side of him that she hadn’t seen yet. He sat chewing his egg-salad sandwich with a thoughtful expression for a few minutes before speaking again.
“I assume by the ‘Mrs.’ that there was a Mr. Fox in Marjorie’s life at some time,” Charlie said.
Vivian shrugged. “I assumed so too, but I’d never heard anything about her being or having been married.”
“What about children?”
“Search me.” Vivian stared down at the egg salad and tried to muster an appetite. All of this talk of Marjorie had squashed it. She looked back up at the detective and watched him chew his sandwich with gusto. His eyes caught hers, and his mouth curled in something like a smile. He was a terribly attractive man, Vivian thought, especially when he really played up being a hard-nosed detective. “So let’s hear your story for another time,” she said.
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “My what?” He shoved the last bit of sandwich into his mouth.
“When I asked you last night how you became a detective, you told me it was a story for another time,” Vivian said.
“And now is that time?” Charlie looked less than thrilled at the prospect.
“Well, we seem to have exhausted my firsthand knowledge of Marjorie Fox.” Vivian took a sip of her coffee.
“Okay, well, where do I begin? My father, the senior Mr. Haverman, is a private detective, as I believe I mentioned. He started out as a track detective at Hawthorne Race Course. But then he branched into other areas as sort of a hobby. He also owns a furniture store.”
“And how did you get into the business?”
“I was always helping him out, even when I was a little kid, but I never wanted to be a private eye myself. I wanted to be a cop. I started at the police academy, and I got a few months in, and then my mom got sick. Dad couldn’t handle everything on his own, so I dropped out to help. Then after she died, I stayed on with Dad. That’s about it.” His eyes flicked off to concentrate on something over her shoulder when he mentioned his mother’s death, but then they returned to Vivian’s face.
“How did you get involved with The Darkness Knows?”
“Mr. Hart had hired me for a few jobs in the past year or so—just some small things, checking out business associates and the like. And when the show came up, he asked me if I could assist Mr. Yarborough with some of the finer points of being a PI, help him flesh out his character or something like that.” Charlie smiled.
“Help him with his arc,” Vivian said, nodding.
“His arc?”
“Oh, nothing,” she mumbled. “So how is it? Working with Graham, I mean?”
Charlie leaned back in his chair, knitted his fingers across his abdomen, and smiled slightly. “Interesting,” he said.
“That’s it? Just interesting?”
“Mr. Yarborough,” he said, “doesn’t want to hear what my job is really like. He wants pulp novel plots about smugglers and white slavers.”
“And that’s what you give him?” Vivian asked.
“I aim to please,” Charlie answered with a shrug. “But if he only knew he could subscribe to Black Mask magazine himself and cut out the middleman, I’d be out of a job.”
Vivian smiled at the idea: if Graham only knew, he’d be livid. “You don’t like Graham very much, do you?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.
Charlie shrugged again noncommittally.
“He’s just very focused on his career,” Vivian said quickly as if that explained any of Graham’s character flaws—his intense self-interest, for one. She narrowed her eyes at Charlie, considering. “You know, Mr. Hart must have hired you for those jobs shortly after I left my position as his secretary last spring. I’d have remembered you otherwise,” she said.
The detective’s eyes opened comically wide. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows planted on the table on either side of his plate. “Wait a second. You were Mr. Hart’s secretary?”
She nodded.
“You were,” he repeated, pointing one long finger at her.
“Yes,” she said, a little miffed that he hadn’t already heard her story. Apparently, he didn’t read “The Tattler” section of the Radio Guide magazine.
He seemed to consider this for a long moment. “So how on earth did you go from being Mr. Hart’s secretary to the illustrious Lorna Lafferty?” he asked.
Vivian glanced down at her coffee cup, suddenly self-conscious. “I was in the right place at the right time,” she said. “I filled in for a screamer, and the acting bug bit me.” She looked back up at Charlie, whose brows had come together over the bridge of his nose.
“A screamer?” he asked.
Vivian smiled. “Someone who screams on the air for the lead actress so she doesn’t ruin her voice,” she explained. “You’d be surprised how often they have women screaming in these shows. Lorna Lafferty screams at least once an episode, sometimes more.”
“Oh,” he said.
“There are women who specialize in crying like babies too,” she added. Charlie smirked, and Vivian added defensively, “It’s a real talent.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, sitting back in his chair again. He eyed her speculatively for a long moment. “So you went from being a screamer to a star just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
Vivian couldn’t tell whether he was teasing her, whether he’d already heard the gossip at the station. Charlie looked at her expectantly. There didn’t seem to be any malice in his expression. Perhaps he hadn’t heard anything—or perhaps he was exceptionally good at not betraying anything he already knew. “Hardly.” Vivian picked at her egg salad. “It took a year of slogging through bit parts before I got my break. Edie eloping was a godsend for me. Right place at the right time.”
Charlie returned the smile with one of his own. “You still appear on shows besides The Darkness Knows though…like that sappy melodrama. What’s it called?”
“Love & Glory,” she supplied. Then she shrugged. “I take whatever I can get. Usually just bit parts, but the role in Love & Glory is pretty plum. It’s a daytime serial though. Those aren’t nearly as high profile as the nighttime shows. Unless you’re a huge star—Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen—you have to do more than one show to get by.”
“From the looks of the pile of bricks you live in, you don’t need to just get by,” he said. His smile had turned into a knowing smirk.
Vivian pushed her plate away and sat for a moment with the palms of her hands resting on the table.
“That’s my mother’s house, my mother’s money, Mr. Haverman,” she said slowly. “Not mine.” She knew her tone was too severe, but he’d struck a nerve.
Charlie smiled lazily and leaned toward her.
“I was only tea
sing you, Viv. No need to start calling me Mr. Haverman again.”
Vivian looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just a sore subject for me. My career, my independence, is very important to me.”
Charlie held up both hands in mock surrender. “Understood,” he said seriously.
Vivian sighed, sorry she’d been so harsh. Her eyes flicked to the counter, and she made eye contact with the same large, threatening-looking man. He didn’t turn away, but smiled at her in a menacing way and rubbed the steak knife next to his plate with this thumb and forefinger. Vivian dropped her head and shielded her face with her hand, and Charlie’s head swiveled in the direction she’d been looking.
“That man,” Vivian said without moving her lips, “is staring at me.”
The man hadn’t turned away even though Charlie had taken notice of him, and he hadn’t averted his gaze. Before she could say another word, Charlie leaped out of his seat and sauntered toward the man, hands in his pockets.
“What’s the idea, pal?” he asked. Suddenly, the room was quiet, no one actually watching the altercation, but everyone with an ear tuned.
“Whaddya mean?” The man snorted dismissively, still fingering the steak knife.
“I mean…” Charlie’s hands tightened into fists, but his voice stayed level. “What’s the idea makin’ eyes at my girl like that?”
“Makin’ eyes? Who’s makin’ eyes?”
“You are. You’re making her uncomfortable.” Charlie pulled his right hand out of his jacket and rubbed the large ring situated there before he spoke again. “And you’re making me angry.”
The man blinked and looked down at his plate for a moment. His eyes met Charlie’s again, and he shrugged. “Sorry, mack. Just noticing a pretty girl, that’s all. Last time I checked, that’s not a crime.” He laughed nervously.
Charlie didn’t bother to answer. He returned to their table, cracking his knuckles as he walked, and the noise level of the room returned to normal as if someone had adjusted the volume control knob. “Just a regulation lowlife. No one to worry about,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s go.” He dumped a couple of bills on the table and helped Vivian into her jacket.
She took his arm and risked a glance at the man as they passed. He was studying the ham-salad sandwich on his plate, obviously intimidated. Vivian’s eyes darted to Charlie’s face in profile. He was scowling, eyes trained on the front door. Now this was the back-alley Charlie, she thought, the one that got things done. This Charlie was interesting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vivian had the dress rehearsal for the Millicent Morris live performance in less than half an hour, and she hadn’t even seen the script yet. Millicent Morris was another sentimental melodrama about a poor little rich girl who was always running into some sort of exotic trouble: smugglers, jewel thieves, gold-digging love interests, scheming archrivals. Vivian only had a bit part in today’s show as a conniving French maid, but every part was important. Every part kept her working.
She should probably practice her accent at least. That was one thing she had over Frances Barrow. Frances was horrible with accents. Vivian was staring at her feet as she walked toward the studio on the twelfth floor, repeating “Ah, oui, madame” over and over again, when she ran into something solid. She looked up, surprised, to find Morty Nickerson, the station engineer.
“Oh, Morty!” she cried. She felt her face flush with surprise.
“You walked smack into me, Viv,” he said congenially. “Are you okay?” he asked, his boyish face full of concern. Everything about Morty was boyish—his wide blue eyes, the splash of freckles across his cheeks, the way he talked that made it seem like all of the world was one big surprise.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just a little flustered today.”
“I can imagine,” he replied. He glanced around the crowded hallway. “Do the police know any more about…you know?” He jerked his thumb toward the room where Marjorie had been found.
Vivian glanced toward the lounge and shook her head.
“Do they still think it was a crazed fan?” he asked.
“I don’t know what they think,” she said, studying Morty’s open, guileless expression.
“Have there been any more letters?”
Vivian shook her head again.
“Strange,” he said softly. “I mean, I would have expected another by now. One just for you perhaps…”
Vivian’s throat grew dry. “How do you know what was in Marjorie’s letter?” she croaked.
“I’ve been keeping my ears open. You know, listening to people when they don’t know I’m listening.” He smiled, and his gaze grew soft. “People say a lot of crazy things when they don’t think anyone’s listening.”
Vivian shivered. She’d assured Charlie that she’d be perfectly fine while he popped into the men’s room for a moment, but now she wasn’t so sure. Even though the hall was crowded and people were rushing past in every direction, she suddenly felt very alone.
“I really have to get going, Morty,” she said, stepping to the right to walk around him.
He matched her step, remaining in front of her.
Vivian looked up sharply. “Morty,” she said firmly. “I have to go. I have a rehearsal soon.”
“I know,” he said, but he didn’t budge. He was standing so close that she could see herself reflected in the pupils of his light blue eyes. “Don’t you want to know what I have behind my back?” he asked.
“Morty, I really have to—”
His closed fist appeared in front of her face. He turned his hand over and slowly uncurled his long fingers to display a small gold locket without a chain. “I found this on the sidewalk outside,” he said. “I thought it might be yours.”
Vivian blinked at the piece of jewelry, the dulled gold surface etched with an elaborate set of initials she couldn’t make out. She glanced up at Morty, trying to read his expression. Had he really found it? He was smiling eagerly down at her, pushing the locket toward her.
“Thank you,” she squeaked, her throat closing. “But I can’t accept it.”
Morty’s face fell. She’d be the first to admit that she’d flirted with the poor boy in the past. He was an engineer. He could make her sound good on the air, take care of her. Didn’t all of the actresses at the station do the same? Looking up into his very young, very disappointed face, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.
Morty shrugged and shoved the locket into his pocket without another word. He stepped aside after a few seconds, threw his arm out in the direction Vivian wanted to go, and bowed formally at the waist. It was meant to be an amusing, theatrical gesture, but Vivian couldn’t force herself to smile. “Say hello to Millicent for me,” Morty said in a bright voice.
Vivian managed a grunt in acknowledgment and gratefully went on her way.
• • •
“Viv, there you are!” Graham made a show of looking at his wristwatch. The gold cuff link in his sleeve glinted in the glare of the hallway lights.
“Here I am,” she agreed, trying to sound casual.
“Are you okay? I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.” Graham was playing Millicent Morris’s current boyfriend, a playboy from Monte Carlo who was not as he seemed. Millicent’s boyfriends were never as they seemed.
“I’m okay,” she answered, mustering a genuine smile for Graham. She nodded toward his sleeve. “Say, I think I might have something of yours.”
She pulled the cuff link she’d found that morning from the pocket of her jacket, along with the envelope she’d hastily stashed there. She frowned at the memory of the envelope slipping from her Love & Glory script as she held the piece of jewelry out for Graham to see.
“My cuff link! I’d wondered where this had gotten to.” He plucked it from her palm and held it up for a better view.
“When did you lose it?�
�
“Yesterday,” he said. “I took my cuff links off so I could roll up my sleeves during The Darkness Knows. It was hot in that studio. Where’d you find it?”
“In the back stairwell.”
Graham’s brow wrinkled, and he dropped the errant cuff link into his jacket pocket. “What was it doing there?”
“You didn’t take the back entrance this morning?” Vivian asked.
“The back entrance?” Graham seemed genuinely befuddled. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Isn’t that through the alley? I’m not sure I’ve ever used it.”
Vivian tried to hide her smile. She had been right: the last thing Graham would ever do was avoid reporters—any reporters—or enter from the back when he could go through the front entrance where everyone could see him.
“Did you happen to say anything to the rabble out front when you came in?” she asked.
Graham feigned offense. “Of course not. I gave them no comment.” He leaned in and added, “And a smile.”
Vivian nodded her approval.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the envelope in her hand.
“Oh, nothing.” Vivian regarded the envelope for a moment. But she had the distinct feeling that it was something. She grabbed Graham’s lapel, tugging him a few feet farther away from the door of the studio. “Listen, Graham. I have to tell you something, and you have to promise not to tell another soul.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. Promise?”
“Of course.”
Vivian swallowed and paused dramatically to impart the gravity of the situation on Graham. “I was mentioned in the letter found with Marjorie’s body,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that letter mentioned Lorna Lafferty—and me as well.”
Graham looked first over one shoulder, then the other. “Someone’s after you?” he whispered.
“Well, not right this second…I don’t think. The police don’t seem to believe it’s anything to worry about. But I don’t want you to worry, and I also don’t want you to wonder why Mr. Haverman is hovering around.”
The Darkness Knows Page 9