The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  Vivian glanced down at the stain turning a nasty mottled brownish-red on the pristine white of the cowhide vest.

  “Morty happened to me.”

  “Please tell me that’s not from the costume closet,” Imogene said.

  “I’m sorry, Genie. It was an accident.” Vivian brushed at the stain. “It’s fine. It’ll come out with a little club soda.”

  Imogene made a face. “Not likely.” She took a sip of her punch, regarding Vivian carefully over the lip of her glass. “What’s wrong? You have that pinched look to your face that tells me things aren’t going as planned.”

  Vivian turned and glanced quickly around the room. She still didn’t spot Charlie’s white Stetson in the crowd. She looked at Imogene. “Frances,” she said in an exasperated exhale.

  “What’s she done now?”

  “What she always does, I guess. Make trouble.” Vivian watched her fingers pull at the fringe on her vest as she spoke. “I just saw her with Graham in the coat closet. They were very close.” She looked up and locked eyes with her friend. “Very.”

  Imogene shook her head in sympathy. “I hate to say it, but that’s not really a surprise. I’ve been hearing for months that she wanted to get her hooks into him.”

  “Well, it looked a few minutes ago like she got her wish.”

  Imogene touched Vivian’s arm lightly. “Are you going to call off your date tomorrow night?”

  Vivian shrugged. She had no claim on Graham Yarborough. She’d be a fool to think that those thousand-watt smiles were reserved just for her. Graham was a flirt, and Frances was an attractive girl. It was just biology. Still, it hurt Vivian’s pride to see them together like that—so cozy.

  “I don’t know,” Vivian said, distracted. She didn’t have time for this drama right now. “I need to find Charlie.”

  Imogene took another sip of her drink. “Is that really all that’s bothering you?”

  “Yes,” Vivian said. She’d turned and gazed over the dancing crowd so that she wouldn’t have to look her best friend in the eye as she lied to her. She felt terrible, but she couldn’t tell Imogene about the blackmail. She couldn’t tell anyone but Charlie, and he was the only person she hadn’t run into since she found out. She turned back to her friend. “Sorry, Genie. I’ve got to go.”

  She could tell from the look on Imogene’s face that she didn’t believe her. Genie knew her too well for secrets. “Try the balcony,” she said. “Maybe he needed some air.”

  Vivian nodded, turned on her heel, and headed toward the balcony on the opposite side of the room. She fought her way across the dance floor again, getting a painful shot to the ribs from an overzealous jitterbugger on the way. She was within steps of the doorway when a shout stopped her in her tracks.

  “Viv!”

  She turned to find Graham bearing down on her, his path appearing in the throng of bodies as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. He did make a terribly dashing Robin Hood, she thought, watching him approach. He might be the only man in the Western Hemisphere, besides Errol Flynn himself, who could pull off that ridiculous penciled-in mustache. He reached her and smiled. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Have you?” Vivian asked, her face the picture of innocence. Looking for me in the coat closet, she thought, as you pressed yourself against Frances Barrow?

  Graham nodded and held his hand out to her, palm up. “How about a dance?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood for dancing.” She rubbed her sore ribs.

  Graham’s sparkling smile faded a bit. “A rain check then?”

  Vivian nodded, her eyes darting over Graham’s shoulder and around the room. Still no Charlie.

  “Later it is, my lady.” Graham doffed his Robin Hood cap and bent at the waist with a flourish in an exaggerated impression of a courtly bow. As he did, Vivian’s eyes wandered above him over the dance floor. Frances stood on the opposite side of the room directly in her line of vision. As their eyes met, Frances’s lips curled into a syrupy, taunting smile.

  • • •

  Vivian watched Graham disappear into the crowd on the dance floor, then turned and stepped through the doorway and onto the balcony. She needed some air herself. The balcony was a long, thin strip running the length of the ballroom. It was unlit and quiet. The only noises were the sounds of traffic three stories below and the ever-present rumble of the El trains. She’d expected to come across at least a few amorous couples out here in the darkness, but she seemed to be alone. Maybe it was too early for those kinds of shenanigans. She walked to the edge of the balcony and placed her hands on the railing with a sigh.

  She heard a rustling in the far corner, feet shifting on the concrete. She squinted into the shadows, her pulse quickening. “Who—” She’d meant to sound authoritative, but the word had come out in a whisper inaudible to anyone but herself.

  Then a white Stetson became visible in the gloom. Charlie, thank God. She took a deep breath to slow her racing heart. He walked toward her, and she said, in what she hoped was a casual tone, “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”

  He smirked and turned away from her again, elbows on the balustrade. “So I gathered,” he said.

  “Have you been enjoying the party?” Vivian asked.

  “Not really,” he said, squinting into the alley below. “You?”

  “I’ve had better evenings,” she answered. She walked over next to him and rested her hands on the railing.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, trying to keep her tone neutral. Vivian clutched the railing a little tighter and then released it. She tugged impatiently at the cuff of one glove.

  “How long have you being seeing Yarborough?” Charlie asked, tilting his head toward the ballroom door. His tone was matter-of-fact, and Vivian couldn’t tell if he was asking for personal reasons or if he was merely inquiring as part of his investigation.

  “I’m not seeing him,” she said automatically. “Well, I mean…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I mean…”

  “You’re going out with him tomorrow night.”

  “How did—” She cut her question short. Charlie was a detective after all. It was his job to know things. “I’m not so sure about tomorrow night anymore.” I’m not sure about Graham anymore, she thought. She followed Charlie’s gaze and squinted into the darkness of the alley below. She couldn’t see anything except shades of gray and tiny pools of yellowed pavement where the lights of the streetlamps reached into the dark.

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” Charlie said.

  Vivian glanced sharply at him. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “No one’s above suspicion, you know.” He turned to favor her with a long, meaningful look.

  “You can’t be serious. Graham? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  The detective just shrugged.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, a puff of impatient air exiting her nostrils. “Besides, Graham couldn’t be the killer. He and I were together in the coffee shop when Marjorie was murdered. Dozens of people saw us there.”

  “Of course,” he answered. “I’m just trying to impress upon you that you shouldn’t trust anyone.” She could only see Charlie’s profile in the light from the ballroom. He looked like the cover of a pulp comic, his expression cold, impassive.

  “You think Graham used me as his alibi?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible, that’s all.” He paused before adding, “Anything’s possible.”

  “So you’ve said,” she replied curtly. Vivian studied Charlie’s profile for a moment longer. His mood had changed drastically since he’d gone to talk to Mr. Hart. “I don’t know what’s happened,” she began. “But this conversation is—”

  Charlie’s hand darted toward her, and he held one finger up
to her lips, his eyes focused over her head. After a beat he pointed over her right shoulder toward the end of the alley.

  Vivian twisted her upper body and squinted into the darkness but saw nothing. She turned back to Charlie, exasperated. “What’s the meaning of all—”

  In a flash, Charlie clamped one hand over her mouth and pulled her toward him with the other. He squeezed her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. He’d knocked the hat from her head as he pulled her to his chest; she could feel it hanging down the middle of her back, pulling at the strap around her neck. The smell of cowhide filled her nostrils, and one tip of Charlie’s tin sheriff’s badge scraped against her cheek. She struggled frantically, but he held her arms in a viselike grip.

  Almost instantaneously, a bang and an explosion came from beyond her line of vision. Vivian let loose a scream, but the sound was muffled under Charlie’s hand. She twisted to look up at him, panicked, but he was focused on something in the alley below. He tossed her roughly to the floor of the balcony and threw himself on top of her. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice squeaky with alarm. She squirmed, but he must have outweighed her by fifty pounds. After a moment, Charlie jumped up to crouch near the railing. He popped his head over the top and then quickly back down. She began to sit up with some difficulty.

  “Stay where you are!” Charlie hissed.

  “What’s going on?” she repeated as she lowered herself back to the floor. In her peripheral vision she could see hundreds of tiny pottery shards scattered across the balcony floor, the remains of the potted fern that had been sitting on the railing next to her.

  “Someone’s taken a shot at you,” he said. “Now stay down!” Then he sprang from his crouched position and sprinted off through the doorway back into the ballroom.

  Vivian gaped after him, openmouthed. She turned to stare at the remains of the pot and realized, with embarrassing clarity, how right Dave Chapman had been. She’d been a fool for coming here tonight. Someone really did want her dead.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Vivian felt like Charlie had left her alone in a heap on the balcony floor only seconds before, but already he was back. Flushed from exertion, he helped her to her feet. When she tried to speak, he silently put a finger to her lips. Then he grabbed her roughly by both shoulders and steered her back through the melee of the ballroom, deftly dodging swirling couples, and into a small room just to the right of the bandstand. The music and laughter must have drowned out the echoing bang of the gunshot, because the party was continuing as if nothing had happened. Charlie shut the door quickly behind them. When he finally spoke, his voice was urgent.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The band struck up again: “Begin the Beguine.” Instead of answering, Vivian looked wistfully at the closed door, picturing the carefree time being had beyond. She found herself deeply regretting her refusal of Graham’s earlier offer of a dance. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d just danced with him.

  Charlie placed his knuckles under her chin and tilted her face back toward him. His own eyes were hard and narrowed, his features now pale. He searched her face for a moment before his eyes shifted down to the front of her costume. His gaze focused sharply, and his eyes widened with alarm.

  “You’re hurt!” he said.

  Vivian shook her head, but before she could explain, Charlie had swept her up into his arms and carried her to an armchair in the middle of the room. He lowered her gently into it and fell to his knees in front of her, his hands passing lightly over her midriff, poking here, prodding there, concentrating on the task at hand. Vivian could only watch, her mouth agape. It was only when Charlie began to unbutton her blouse from the bottom up, fingers sliding under the fabric to inspect her “wound” further, that she finally regained her senses and smacked his curious hands.

  Charlie looked up, confused, his hands still hovering over her stomach.

  “It’s just punch,” she said wearily, rubbing her stinging palm.

  “Punch?”

  “You know,” she answered, her voice flat. “The drink in the big bowl out there?”

  Charlie’s face was blank. “You’re not bleeding?”

  “No.”

  He pulled his hands away from her and rocked back on his heels. The color rushed back into his face in an instant, and he muttered his apologies. He straightened to his full height. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Morty,” she said, glancing down at the stain, which had dried to an unsightly maroon.

  Charlie looked at her and blinked several times. “Morty threw a drink on you?”

  Vivian would’ve laughed if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Instead, she exhaled slowly through her nose. “I ran into him. Literally. And the punch he’d been carrying spilled on me.” She smiled then, mouth tightly closed, but the smile faded when she recalled the conversation she’d had with the engineer afterward. “He knows I told Sergeant Trask about his strange behavior yesterday,” she said.

  Charlie scowled at the information. “And?”

  “And he was very adamant about me rectifying the situation with the police.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Angry enough to shoot me, you mean?” As Vivian considered the idea, she raised her hand to brush an errant wisp of hair from her forehead. She sat mesmerized by the trembling of her fingers for a few seconds before finally answering “I don’t know” and letting her hand fall back onto her lap.

  Charlie grunted thoughtfully.

  The door flew open, emitting a blast of sound from the orchestra. Mr. Hart strode in, the heels of his pirate boots clacking on the wooden floor. He looked so livid that Vivian thought he might draw his paper sword from its scabbard and threaten to flay both of them.

  “What happened?” he shouted over the din. His eyes darted wildly back and forth between Vivian and Charlie, then were drawn like a magnet to the stain on the front of Vivian’s costume. “Oh my God!” he cried, taking a stride toward her.

  Vivian held up both hands palms flat out to stop Mr. Hart from advancing on her further in a panic. “I’m fine,” she said firmly. “Really.”

  Mr. Hart’s eyes darted warily from the stain to Charlie, who nodded to confirm that Vivian was unharmed. Then he nodded toward the open door, and Mr. Hart rushed to close it.

  Charlie moved behind Vivian and rested his hands on the back of her chair. Vivian felt him clutch the upholstered chair back, then release several times. He waited until the door was securely latched, then said in a clear voice, “We were standing on the balcony a few minutes ago, and someone shot at Miss Witchell from the alley below.”

  “Shot at her?” Mr. Hart’s expression remained calm, but a telltale redness crept out from under his pirate’s cravat.

  Neither Charlie nor Vivian responded.

  “Well, did you see who it was?” Mr. Hart asked.

  “No,” Charlie answered. “I gave chase, but the alley was empty when I reached it.”

  “You informed the police?” Mr. Hart asked.

  Charlie nodded. “Sergeant Trask is on his way here now.”

  “The papers will have a field day,” Mr. Hart growled. He looked down at the floor, deep in thought.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Vivian said, holding Charlie’s gaze. “The letters were supposed to be a red herring.”

  Mr. Hart looked up sharply. “Red herring?” he asked.

  Vivian narrowed her eyes at Charlie. “You didn’t tell him?”

  Charlie shook his head and looked away.

  “What’s all this about red herrings?” Mr. Hart asked, his voice rising in irritation.

  Charlie glanced down at Vivian, his jaw clenched, and addressed Mr. Hart. “I had thought that the letters to Mrs. Fox and Miss Witchell were fabricated t
o send the police down the wrong path.”

  “Had thought,” Mr. Hart repeated. He glared at Charlie. Vivian thought he seemed much angrier than the situation warranted. He wasn’t just alarmed that an attempt had been made on her life. He was angry at Charlie for not seeing it coming, and perhaps for something more.

  “Until someone took a shot at Miss Witchell, yes.” Charlie briefly met Vivian’s eyes before he looked away again.

  “What made you think a fool thing like that?” Mr. Hart asked. The anger in his voice was unmistakable.

  Vivian rose from her chair, stepping between the two men. She said to Mr. Hart, “I had seen Marjorie with a letter from the foundling home earlier in the evening, and then her body was found with that fan letter. The letter from the foundling home was missing. We assumed,” she said, locking eyes with Charlie, “that the killer had switched the letters after Marjorie was dead.”

  Mr. Hart’s face blanched.

  “Was Marjorie doing something for the foundling home?” Vivian asked. She watched unreadable emotions pass over the older man’s face. When he didn’t respond, she added in a tentative voice, “Fund-raising perhaps?”

  Mr. Hart continued to gaze at something on the far side of the room for a few seconds after the question had left her lips. After a moment, his eyes focused on Vivian, and he smiled weakly. “I was trying to talk her into doing some fund-raising, yes,” he admitted.

  “She didn’t want to?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Hart shook his head. “She was a stubborn woman,” he said. “We argued.”

  A puzzle piece clicked into place in Vivian’s mind.

  “You argued with her outside the ladies’ washroom on the twelfth floor just before she was killed,” she said.

  Mr. Hart turned his head sharply in Vivian’s direction. Something flickered behind his eyes and then was gone.

  “Yes,” he said in a faltering voice. He sat down heavily in the chair Vivian had vacated. “Of course, you know about her drinking? Everyone did,” he added, quietly answering his own question. He looked from Charlie to Vivian and back to Charlie. Some of the color was returning to his face. “Well, it was really starting to come to a head, and that was part of it: a large part.”