The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  “Her drinking,” Charlie confirmed.

  Mr. Hart sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “Yes. She was making a shambles of things. I tried to talk her into getting some help.”

  “But she disagreed,” Charlie said, starting to pace at the back of the room, distancing himself from Mr. Hart and Vivian.

  “Of course she did.” Mr. Hart’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he seemed to be lost briefly in some internal reverie. Then he said, “I was too soft on her, I know. I wish I could’ve helped her.” He glanced over the back of the chair at Charlie and offered a small shrug of his shoulders.

  “Did you know that Marjorie was being blackmailed?” Vivian asked before she could lose her nerve.

  Both Mr. Hart’s and Charlie’s heads snapped toward her.

  “Where did you hear that?” Charlie asked, his tone accusing.

  Vivian shrugged, “Gossip,” she said. “You can’t stop people from talking.” She focused her attention back on Mr. Hart. “Did you know she was being blackmailed?” she repeated.

  Mr. Hart looked down at his hands, which were clasped tightly in front of him. “No,” he said in a flat voice without looking up.

  The door opened behind Vivian, admitting Sergeant Trask, two more police officers, and another blast of dance music. The two officers headed toward Mr. Hart while Sergeant Trask strode straight toward Vivian. The whole maneuver seemed strangely choreographed, like they were all playing parts in a well-rehearsed drama.

  Sergeant Trask stopped abruptly in front of Vivian and said rather than asked, “Miss Witchell, you’re unhurt.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Just shaken up a bit.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the policeman said, glancing briefly at the punch stain and then back up at her face. “I need to talk to both of you,” he announced, addressing Charlie over Vivian’s head. “What can you tell me about what just happened?”

  “Not much,” Vivian said. She recounted the events of their last few minutes on the balcony.

  Sergeant Trask made a few quick notes as she spoke. Then he turned his attention to the detective who’d moved to stand protectively at her side.

  “Anything to add?” he asked, glancing at Charlie.

  “I didn’t see much either,” Charlie answered. “I noticed some movement in the alley below as Miss Witchell and I were talking. I was just suspicious enough to pull her out of the way before the shot was fired. By the time I’d made my way down to the alley, the shooter was long gone.”

  “Sounds like you’re a lucky woman, Miss Witchell,” Sergeant Trask said drily.

  “Don’t I know it.” Vivian shot a meaningful look at Charlie and mouthed the word “Thanks.”

  Charlie nodded quickly at her, then said to them, “I need to go speak with Mr. Hart. Please excuse me.”

  Sergeant Trask finished his notes with a few quick flicks of his pencil. Then he snapped his notebook shut and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” Vivian said with an apologetic lift of her shoulders. Her head was suddenly muddled, her thoughts foggy.

  The policeman nodded, then studied her in silence. “You got here quickly,” she observed, more to cover the awkward silence than to make an actual point. Silence was a tactic she’d heard policemen and therapists used to get people so nervous that they spilled their guts. Unfortunately for Sergeant Trask, she had nothing to spill.

  The policeman nodded again, a quick up-and-down jerk of his jaw. “We were in the building. We’re keeping a close eye,” he said.

  “On…?”

  “On everyone.”

  She glanced at the group of men on the other side of the room. Charlie had joined them, and they were deep in conference. Then she turned back to focus on Sergeant Trask’s round, earnest face. “You have someone in particular in mind,” she said.

  “I wish,” he answered. “But we have nothing concrete to go on yet. It’s just likely that the killer was someone from the station.”

  “If you’re keeping such a close eye,” she said in a whisper, “you must have seen something outside, something of the person who took a shot at me.”

  Sergeant Trask’s lips pursed. “We didn’t, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Vivian felt the blood rush to her face. “I was nearly killed!” she blurted out. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She glanced back over at the group of men, but none of them turned in her direction.

  Sergeant Trask’s eyes widened a bit, but otherwise, his face registered no surprise at her outburst. “We’re doing our best, Miss Witchell,” he said.

  She stared into his pale blue eyes, looking for some sign of sympathy. He’d offered no explanation, no theories. The police either had no new information, or they didn’t want to share what they had discovered.

  Then the policeman leaned in toward her and said in a low voice, “Try to keep your head, Miss Witchell. You’re in good hands.” He looked over at the quorum of men and then winked at her.

  Vivian narrowed her eyes. He was patronizing her. She’d run across this attitude before; she was a woman and therefore a simpleton. She forced a smile to her lips. Keep her head indeed. Despite the sergeant’s attitude, this was not a game, and she was not a damsel in distress.

  “I’ll keep—” the policeman began.

  “Me informed,” Vivian finished for him. “Yes, I know.”

  Then Sergeant Trask excused himself to join the group of men on the other side of the room.

  “I’m not a fan of your friend,” she said to Charlie as he approached.

  “My friend?”

  “The diminutive Sergeant Trask,” she said, her voice full of venom. She eyed the policemen from across the room as she spoke.

  “What makes you think he’s my friend?” Charlie asked.

  Vivian shrugged. “You seemed friendly, that’s all.”

  Charlie regarded her for a moment, his expression remote. “I’m friendly with everyone, Viv. It helps in my line of work.”

  “I suppose,” she agreed with a sigh. She nodded toward Charlie’s bare head. “You lost your hat,” she said.

  Charlie’s eyebrows came together over the bridge of his nose, and he frowned. “In the chase, I’m afraid. Come on, it’s time to get you home,” he said.

  “Home?”

  “Where I can keep a close eye on you.”

  Vivian sighed. Home was the last place she wanted to be right now. “I’d like to stay and have a dance,” she pleaded. “I haven’t had one all night.” She gazed up at Charlie, but his face was set.

  “We’re going,” he said, taking her arm.

  “Okay, okay, no need to manhandle me.”

  He muttered a curse under his breath and steered her toward the door.

  “Hey there!” one of the policemen shouted. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m taking Miss Witchell home where she belongs.” Charlie tossed the words over his shoulder without slowing his gait.

  “Mr. Haverman, wait!” Mr. Hart shouted.

  Charlie stopped in his tracks and turned toward the older man, face grim, head cocked toward Mr. Hart expectantly.

  There was a pause before Mr. Hart said, “Let the police escort you.”

  Charlie let his breath out in a long, slow hiss. “Come on then,” he said to the policemen. “I don’t have all night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She glanced over her shoulder at Charlie and then back out the kitchen window. As she watched, one of the policemen assigned to guard the house came into view, tapping the bushes near the window with his nightstick. Forget her mother, she thought; the neighbors would have a field day with this. Armed policemen rustling through the bushes while trying to flush out any armed gunmen lying in wait?

&n
bsp; “Mother’s going to flip her wig when she sees those two,” she said, finding herself slightly pleased at the idea despite everything.

  The officers had insisted on escorting her and Charlie out of the ballroom and all the way to Charlie’s car. One good thing about attempted murder at a masquerade was that no one blinked at seeing three men dressed as police officers follow a couple of cowboys across the dance floor. Plus, the punch was flowing freely, and the crowd was in such high spirits by then that no one even batted an eyelash. Most likely not even the person who had attempted to kill her.

  “Someone at that masquerade tonight wanted me dead,” Vivian said. Despite her best efforts to keep her voice steady, it quavered on the word “dead.”

  “It would seem so,” Charlie agreed simply.

  She let the curtain drop back into place and returned to her seat at the table. They’d come back with the police escort to find her house blessedly dark and silent, with both her mother and Mrs. Graves already in bed. The latter had left a freshly baked coffee cake on the kitchen table with a note that read For all your hard work, Mr. Haverman. Now Charlie sat tucking into a large piece of that cake with a napkin inserted into the collar of his embroidered cowboy shirt.

  Vivian watched him shovel a forkful of cake into his mouth and sighed. She couldn’t sit still. Her body thrummed with nervous energy. She wanted to talk about what had happened and, at the same time, wanted to pretend nothing had occurred. She jumped up to fill the kettle and light the stove, then stared at the blue gas flame for a long time, biting her lower lip.

  Charlie broke the silence. “I still think you know something,” he said almost casually.

  Vivian whirled to face him. “I swear I don’t!” she protested. “I already told you I don’t!”

  Charlie’s brow wrinkled at her sudden outburst of emotion. “I need you to stay calm and think now, Viv,” he said. “Really think. Anything you can remember helps, no matter how small or unimportant it may seem.”

  “I can’t think of anything,” Vivian insisted. “I can’t think of anything I did, or anything I know, that would make someone want to kill me. Why don’t you believe me?” She leaned back against the counter and hitched in a long, shaky breath, and then the torrent started, and she was helpless to stop it. She tried to weep quietly into her hands, but it was hopeless. Racking sobs overtook her, and all of the frustration and stress and pent-up emotion of the last two days was released despite her best intentions to keep a stiff upper lip.

  After a moment, she felt Charlie’s strong arms envelop her. He pushed her face to his chest and held it there, his hand resting lightly on the back of her head. He held her in silence until she’d stopped sobbing. When the tears had slowed to an inconsistent soft hiccup, he pushed her out to arm’s length and bent down to look into her eyes.

  “Come on now,” he said in a soft voice. “What’s all this?”

  Vivian let her breath out in a hiss. “I’m scared,” she said.

  Charlie snorted softly and brushed the wet strands of hair from her cheeks. “Someone tried to kill you, Viv. You should be scared.”

  “Gee, thanks for the reminder,” she said. She felt her lower lip tremble as she fought back a fresh onslaught of tears. Despite his intentions, Charlie’s concern was less than reassuring. Wasn’t he supposed to be telling her there was nothing to worry about?

  Charlie reached into the breast pocket of the flowery cowboy shirt and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at her tearstained cheeks before handing it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly. She blew her nose and looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I just don’t understand who would want to kill me. I mean, why me? What have I done?” She looked away, ashamed of the state she was in. She must look a mess—bloodshot eyes, puffy, pink tearstained cheeks…

  Charlie turned her chin gently with his fingertips until she met his gaze again. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said in a low voice. “Ever. You understand that?”

  She swallowed and nodded, unable to look away. His fingers slid up along her jawline to lightly stroke her cheek. Without his eyes ever leaving hers, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, but Vivian felt herself responding automatically, leaning into him. She slid her hands slowly up his broad chest, the silky fringe of his borrowed cowboy shirt tickling her palms. Charlie touched her hair, cupping the back of her head and pulling her deeper into the kiss. As her mouth opened against his, the kettle began to whistle directly behind her, and Vivian jerked away, startled out of the moment.

  Charlie pulled back too, but only slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, brushing his thumb across her chin as he let his hand fall back to his side. “That wasn’t very professional of me.”

  “You’re right,” she said, sounding strangely prim. “It wasn’t.” She met his eyes for an instant before looking away again. Every bit of her tingled, and she knew that despite what she’d just said, the only thing she wanted right now was to feel his arms around her again, to feel his lips on hers.

  Instead, he stepped away and sat back down at the kitchen table, picking up his fork again. Vivian watched him for a moment as the kettle still whistled behind her. Irritated, she finally turned and twisted the gas knob to the off position.

  “Who told you that Mrs. Fox was being blackmailed?” he asked casually, as if the last few minutes had never happened.

  Vivian blinked and looked down at the handkerchief still clutched in her hands. Her knees were shaky, and she knew it wasn’t because of the threat of imminent death. “Bill Purdy,” she said.

  “Blackmailed,” Charlie said quietly to himself, absorbing the word. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “So what was our Mrs. Fox being blackmailed about?”

  Vivian dabbed at her nose with a corner of the handkerchief and shrugged again. “All Bill said was that I should know because I was next.”

  “Was Mr. Purdy threatening you with this information?”

  “Threatening me? Bill?” Vivian smiled at the idea, but the smile slipped from her face as quickly as it had appeared. “No, he seemed frightened for me…and maybe himself.”

  “How did he know Mrs. Fox was being blackmailed?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, crinkling her forehead. “He just said he knew.”

  Charlie grunted. “Does anyone else know about the blackmail?”

  Vivian shook head.

  “Not even Imogene? Or Yarborough?”

  Vivian turned her face away, embarrassed about Charlie bringing Graham’s name up at a time like this. “I did not mention it to Graham,” she said curtly.

  Vivian heard the chair scrape against the linoleum as Charlie pushed his chair back from the table. Instead of standing up as she expected, he leaned back precariously on the back two legs of the chair.

  “Mrs. Graves will have your hide,” she said, pointing to the chair legs straining under the man’s weight.

  “I don’t give one fig about Mrs. Graves right now,” Charlie answered coldly. “What did Sammy Evans have to say?”

  “He said he just assumed Marjorie was murdered because she’d been horrible to someone she shouldn’t have.”

  “She’d been horrible to Sammy,” Charlie said thoughtfully.

  Vivian shook her head at the idea. “Sammy had nothing to gain from killing Marjorie—or even blackmailing her, for that matter. He needed her to keep it together for the sake of the show.”

  “True,” Charlie agreed, letting the front legs of the chair return to the floor with a thump. “And now that Mrs. Fox is dead, they’ve canceled The Golden Years?”

  Vivian nodded, but then a new thought struck her. “But…” she began, then paused.

  “But what?”

  “Thanks to her death,” Vivian said slowly, the thought still forming in her head, “Sammy
’s got a new gig.”

  “Right,” Charlie said, putting the last forkful of coffee cake into his mouth. “What kind of gig?”

  “Recurring character on the Carlton Coffee Variety Hour,” she said, deep in thought.

  “So he killed her to be able to move on.”

  “No, killing Marjorie would have been a horrible gamble.” Vivian shook her head furiously. “He had no way of knowing it would work out in his best interest.”

  “Plus, there’s the physical aspect,” Charlie added almost as an afterthought.

  “Physical aspect?”

  “Mrs. Fox was a full foot taller than little Sammy Evans.” Charlie held one hand high over his head. “How could he strike her over the head with a whiskey bottle? Logistically, it doesn’t work.”

  “He could’ve stood on a chair,” Vivian said.

  “Yes, but that takes both the passion and the element of surprise out of the whole thing, doesn’t it?”

  Vivian bit her lip, trying to imagine Sammy putting his murderous rage on pause long enough to drag a chair behind Marjorie Fox and clamber aboard, whiskey bottle in hand.

  “I think you’re right,” she admitted. “It doesn’t work. Sammy certainly hasn’t been the only one to seem unfazed by Marjorie’s murder. It’s been really difficult to find anyone who is even remorseful over her death. Most people treat it as either a juicy piece of gossip or a simple inconvenience.”

  Vivian took the teakettle from the stove, filled both of their cups, and sat back down at the table.

  “Charlie,” she began. “I’ve been thinking. Do you think it’s possible that the shooter tonight only wanted to scare me?”

  “I suppose.”

  That was a relief, but a minor one.

  “But who would want to scare you like that?”

  “It’s just that…what if I got so scared by all this murder business that I left? Went to that cabin in the woods that my mother’s been harping about?”

  “Who would profit from that?”