The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  “Frances,” Vivian answered immediately. “She’d love me to just drop everything and leave.” The more she let the idea stew, the more plausible it seemed. “Yes, she’d do anything to get her mitts on Lorna Lafferty,” she said.

  “Do you think Frances is capable of taking a shot at you?” he asked.

  Vivian sat back in her chair. She thought of Frances’s taunting smile over Graham’s bowing form in the ballroom doorway. There had been jealousy in that smile, certainly, but had there been malice in it as well? But Frances would have only had a few minutes to leave the ballroom and set herself up in the alley below while Vivian spoke with Charlie. It was possible, but only just.

  “I think she might be,” Vivian finally said. “What about Marjorie? Do you think Frances could have killed Marjorie?”

  Charlie bit his lower lip, then released it with a sigh. “Would she have profited from Mrs. Fox’s death?”

  Vivian thought for a minute. “I can’t see how she would have. They weren’t exactly competing for the same parts. Getting Marjorie out of the way doesn’t do much for Frances’s career.”

  “Are there any personal reasons Frances might want Mrs. Fox dead?”

  Vivian shrugged. “I don’t think so. I hadn’t heard anything at the station about them quarreling.”

  “Then we’re looking at a more complicated scenario,” Charlie said. “The killer, and Frances piggybacking on top of that murder to scare you and get you out of the way.”

  Vivian sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “It is awfully complicated. And I’m not sure that even Frances could be that conniving and underhanded. I mean, shooting at a person?”

  “It’s just a hunch,” Charlie said. He paused and continued, his voice soft, “And you recall where my last hunch got us.” He smiled weakly at Vivian. “You know, it’s also still a possibility that there really is a lunatic named Walter.”

  Vivian frowned at that idea but said nothing. She picked absently at the oilcloth covering the table. She’d worried a tiny hole in one of the strawberries in the pattern during the conversation, and she hoped Mrs. Graves wouldn’t notice. “Charlie, what did you really talk about with Mr. Hart earlier this evening?” she asked, keeping her tone light and hoping to catch Charlie off guard.

  “The case,” he said, carefully sweeping the crumbs from the table into his open palm. He turned to deposit the crumbs in the waste bin under the sink behind him.

  “No, really,” she said to his back. “I know you weren’t discussing Marjorie’s murder.”

  He turned slowly, looked at her through narrowed lids for a long moment, and then said, “It’s been a long night, Viv. I think you need to get some sleep.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Cops Hunt Crazed Fan!” screamed the headline from the front page of the newspaper on the dining room table. Dual photos were centered directly under the thick, black letters. Marjorie Fox and Vivian stared up from the page.

  Vivian groaned as she took a seat opposite Charlie at the table. She pulled the Tribune toward her and scanned it quickly.

  “So the—”

  Mrs. Graves entered, and Vivian snapped her mouth shut, flipping the newspaper over on the table to hide her photo. She watched the housekeeper carefully as she made her way behind Charlie to place a fresh scoop of scrambled eggs onto his plate. Mrs. Graves was utterly incapable of hiding her emotions, and clearly she’d already seen the papers. She didn’t so much as glance in Vivian’s direction, and that alone told Vivian all she needed to know. Mrs. Graves moved on to Vivian’s side of the table and scooped eggs onto her plate without a word. Vivian touched the older woman’s arm, stopping her as she turned to go.

  “Has Mother seen them?” Vivian asked.

  “She hasn’t come down yet.”

  “Give me a chance to speak to her, please,” Vivian said in a quiet voice.

  Mrs. Graves nodded, her forehead puckered with worry, and then left the room.

  “So the letter’s finally made the paper,” Vivian said as the dining room door swung shut.

  Charlie paused in scooping eggs into his mouth long enough to nod. “The original one, yes, where you were only mentioned in passing.” Then he added, “The Tribune also mentions that you found the body.”

  Frankly, it was surprising none of this had come out earlier. The station’s employees were like sieves—none of them capable of holding any information, no matter how trivial, close to the vest. Mr. Hart’s power to keep this story contained as long as he had amazed her. Vivian stared down at her own face on the front of the Tribune. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. There she was, Vivian Witchell, on the front of one of the largest and most widely read newspapers in the country. Thankfully, they’d picked the publicity photo in which she wore the black crepe dress with the lovely white lace collar. Her freckles were barely even visible in that one. It was fantastic exposure, for sure, but she could hardly be pleased.

  “And the shooting last night?” she asked, her eyes sliding from the photo to skim the contents of the article.

  “Not a word about that or the second letter directed specifically at you,” Charlie said.

  “Well, that’s a relief anyway.” Vivian plucked a piece of toast from the holder next to her plate and clutched it in both hands as she read. “The Tribune doesn’t seem to know much of anything,” she said after a moment.

  “Don’t bother to read it,” Charlie said. He scooped up the other paper on the table and held it up. “Now this,” he said tapping the front page. “This one is interesting.”

  He held the morning edition of the Chicago Patriot. The headline screamed “Marked for Murder!” with the same publicity photo of Vivian centered underneath. Marjorie’s face was absent.

  Vivian sucked in her breath and then let it out in a slow curse. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said, her eyes wide in horror, but also wide with the thrill of seeing her photo gracing the front page of not one, but two major newspapers.

  “Now, don’t get too excited,” Charlie said. Fortunately, he saw only horror on her face. “It’s a bunch of malarkey, really. Most of it about some diary Mrs. Fox was supposed to have kept about her secret life away from The Golden Years.” He set the paper down on the table and laughed uncomfortably. “But some of it is eerily close to the mark. They’re either excellent at grasping at straws or they’ve got a source on the inside who’s feeding them information.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this.” He slid the paper over to her side of the table, marking a particular passage with the tip of his index finger.

  Vivian read aloud:

  Sources say that Mrs. Fox had been receiving threatening letters for quite some time previous to her murder and that the letter writer may be targeting others within the WCHI family. One actress in particular, a rising star at the station, has been threatened further and provided police protection until the matter is resolved.

  She looked up at Charlie. “It doesn’t mention me by name.”

  “But with your photo plastered above the article stating Lorna Lafferty was mentioned in the original fan letter, it implies pretty heavily that the star actress under police protection is you,” he said matter-of-factly. He took a bit of a jam-laden piece of toast, chewing thoughtfully as he studied her reaction.

  “Wonderful,” Vivian said, sighing heavily. Things seemed more real in the light of morning. Someone had shot at her. Someone wanted her dead. And yet she had to pull herself together before her mother came downstairs. Her mother couldn’t find out about this latest turn of events. No one could know. Vivian had to pretend everything was fine, and so she would. She was an actress, wasn’t she? It might turn out to be the performance of her life.

  Vivian pushed the paper away, refusing to think about it anymore. She stirred some cream into the cup of fresh coffee awaiting her and tapped
the silver spoon on the side of the china cup.

  “How are you feeling today?” Charlie asked.

  “Tired,” she said. She touched the puffy skin under one eye. Her pancake makeup was getting a workout this week. What she didn’t say was that she had been up half the night thinking about that kiss in the kitchen, not worrying about whether some crazed person really wanted her dead.

  Vivian met Charlie’s eyes briefly, then let her gaze drift out the dining room window and across the manicured side lawn. Leaves skittered across the dying grass. Vivian took a bite of her toast and considered the events of the previous evening—everything up to the kiss, that is.

  “Charlie?” she said. “Why do you think Mr. Hart lied to us last night?”

  Charlie’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed, but he leisurely finished chewing the bite of eggs in his mouth before replying, “What makes you think he lied to us?”

  “I heard that argument he had with Marjorie outside the ladies’ room,” Vivian said, lowering her voice to a whisper even though they were alone in the room. “They weren’t talking about fund-raising or Marjorie’s drinking.”

  “What were they talking about then?”

  “Mr. Hart said he’d take care of something, and I suspect since Marjorie was still holding the letter from the foundling home that it had something to do with that. She was very angry…and he seemed fed up with her…” She realized her case wasn’t as strong as she’d thought.

  “I don’t know, Viv,” Charlie said, his eyes fixed on the newspaper in front of him. “Mr. Hart was fed up. That matches what he said last night, doesn’t it? He was fed up with Marjorie’s drinking and her attitude. It also explains that letter from the foundling home and why it made her so upset. She didn’t want to do any fund-raising, and she argued with Mr. Hart about it.”

  “Well, yes and no,” Vivian responded, her confidence faltering. Charlie was technically right. Mr. Hart’s explanation did make some sense, but there was still something out of place. She just couldn’t put her finger on what. “I just think there’s something else about the foundling home,” Vivian said. “Some connection we’re not making.”

  Charlie took a sip of his coffee.

  “Charlie, what do you think?” Vivian prodded, dropping her toast back on the plate and fixing him with a stare.

  “I think you’re looking for connections that don’t exist,” he said.

  “Well, what else do we have right now? Everyone wanted her dead, Charlie. This is the only thing that seems to lead us in a direction, any direction. The killer switched those letters. Why would the killer do that unless there was something in that foundling home letter he or she didn’t want to be seen?”

  “The switch is just a red herring,” he said irritably. “We’ve discussed this.”

  “Yes,” she answered, irritated herself. “But what if it’s not? What if the red herring is the red herring?”

  Charlie raised one eyebrow.

  “I know,” Vivian said, reddening. She waved a hand in front of her face. “It doesn’t make much sense, but what harm could it do to ask a few questions? And I think we both know that Mr. Hart isn’t going to be forthcoming with any definitive answers. If anything, it would serve to rule out the foundling home angle. Isn’t that worth something?”

  Charlie seemed to consider this information as he chewed and swallowed the last of his eggs.

  “You’re right,” he said finally with some reluctance. “It couldn’t hurt to rule the foundling home out. I can run by there this morning.”

  “And you’re going to take me with you,” Vivian added.

  “No,” he said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching me night and day? You’re going to shirk your duty? Let some madman have full access to me?”

  Charlie didn’t take the bait. “You’ll be fine right here surrounded by patrolling policemen.”

  Vivian slumped back in her chair. “Well, I’m not sitting here all day twiddling my thumbs.”

  “I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t leave this house,” Charlie said, matching her steely gaze with his own.

  “You’re not going without me.”

  “Like hell I’m not,” he said, setting his fork down a bit harder than necessary.

  The telephone rang in the foyer. Vivian and Charlie glared at each other as they listened to Mrs. Graves making her way to it. She answered in a muffled voice and then came the soft thump of the receiver being laid to rest on the foyer table. After a moment, the door to the dining room swung open a crack.

  “Vivian, telephone for you,” Mrs. Graves said.

  Vivian plucked the napkin from her lap and placed it next to her plate on the table. “For me?” she asked. “Who’s calling at this hour?”

  “It’s a Mr. Yarborough,” Mrs. Graves answered.

  “Oh,” Vivian said. Graham.

  What on earth would she say to him? She caught Charlie’s eye and shrugged.

  • • •

  Vivian paused for a moment to steady herself before picking up the receiver. She didn’t want to seem in too much of a hurry to answer Graham’s call. And she wasn’t really. After all, it was her first performance of the day, and there was no script. She took a slow, deep breath, counted to fifteen, and only then reached for the receiver.

  “Hello, Graham,” she said smoothly.

  “Hello, Viv,” he replied. “How are you this morning?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, thanks,” she answered. “You?”

  “Not bad,” he said. He paused. “I’ve just been sitting here wondering what happened to you last night. You promised me a dance, and then you just disappeared.”

  Vivian’s stomach twisted into a knot. She had a split second of panic when she feared she would just blurt out the truth: Oh, someone attempted to kill me, Graham, so I thought it best to hurry off.

  “I had an awful headache,” she lied. “It must have been the punch. Rum doesn’t agree with me sometimes.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then Graham replied, “Oh. Well, that’s too bad.” There was skepticism in his voice. “You could have at least said good-bye.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid it came upon me rather suddenly. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  Graham “mmm-hmm’d” into the phone. “Feeling better this morning then?”

  “Right as rain,” she answered.

  “Good,” Graham said. “Anyway, I called so early to arrange our date for this evening. I was hoping to catch you before you could run out on me again.”

  He was teasing her, but Vivian detected an edge to his voice.

  “Yes,” she said. “Our date.” Her stomach turned—and not in an I-have-a-date-with-a-charming-man kind of way. She shouldn’t be going out on the town when someone was trying their level best to do her in. Then again, she was supposed to be pretending that nothing had happened last night. If she declined, made up some silly excuse, Graham would see right through that. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingertips, trying to decide what to tell him.

  Charlie appeared in the doorway, and Vivian forced a smile at the detective. Nothing to concern yourself with here, she tried to convey with her eyes.

  Charlie didn’t buy it. He waved his hands in front of his face and mouthed “Cancel.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight?” Graham asked.

  Vivian turned away from Charlie and leaned back against the telephone stand. She couldn’t cancel on Graham. What excuse could she use? She’d already said she felt right as rain. So she’d go, but she didn’t want Graham to pick her up at home—not with Charlie here. Besides, Charlie would insist on trailing along if she went through with this, and it would best if Graham didn’t know from the get-go that there would be a third party at their assignation. She resisted the urge to glance back at the dete
ctive.

  “Why don’t we meet somewhere instead? I think that would be easier.” She wound the telephone cord around and around the index finger of her right hand and studied the floor. She could see Charlie waving frantically out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored him.

  “If you’d rather,” Graham agreed. “Let’s meet at Chez Paree at eight o’clock then.”

  “Chez Paree. Eight o’clock,” she repeated. “I’ll be there.”

  “Vivian?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The smile formed like a reflex, and she was incapable of stopping its spread across her face. “Me too, Graham,” she said. “Good-bye.” She ducked her head to avoid meeting Charlie’s eyes and fumbled the receiver back into its cradle. When she’d gathered her wits enough to form a coherent sentence, she looked up to see Charlie turn on his heel without a word and retreat through the door to the dining room. Vivian followed.

  “Charlie, I don’t see why—” She stopped short.

  Vivian’s mother stood openmouthed over the copy of the Tribune. She picked up the paper, unfolded it, and laid it back down on the table, smoothing the middle crease with her fingertips. She continued reading for a few more seconds in silence before finally looking up at her daughter. The shock was still evident on her face, but her voice rang out like a bell.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  Vivian glanced at Charlie, noticing that he’d had enough time to flip the copy of the far-more-incriminating Patriot open to an inside page, a double spread on fall fashions.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Vivian said, trying to sound breezy. She sauntered over to her chair and sat down, making an elaborate show of unfolding her napkin and letting it float gracefully into her lap.

  “It looks like something to me,” her mother said. She looked from Vivian to Charlie.

  “A lot of claptrap, Mrs. Witchell, that’s all,” Charlie said. “Trumped-up stories to sell papers.”

  “Don’t double-talk me,” Mrs. Witchell sniffed.

  “They found out about the fan letter is all,” Vivian said, holding a heaping forkful of eggs she had no intention of eating. “It was only a matter of time. Everything’s fine. Well, not exactly fine, but no worse than yesterday.” Vivian’s eyes flicked over to Charlie.