The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  Vivian paused, panting slightly and trying to put the words into a context that she felt fit the moment, but they didn’t jibe with the butterflies still swirling in her stomach. “Now?” she whispered.

  He nodded and, without giving her a chance to protest, pushed the closet door open slowly with his fingertips. Charlie glanced out into the room and then back at her as he stepped through the door into the bedroom.

  He held out his hand to help her out of the closet. She took it and very carefully stepped over the threshold. The floor creaked under her weight, and they both froze. Again, the policemen seemed oblivious to their presence. A roar from the cheering crowd miles to the north had masked the sound.

  “How?” she mouthed, cocking a thumb toward the living room, but then she followed Charlie’s gaze to the window.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “I’m not climbing out of any windows.”

  “I thought you were a fan of shimmying down drainpipes,” he hissed.

  Vivian glared at him.

  “Well, that’s the way I’m going,” he said. “Follow me or spend the evening among the mothballs.” He dropped her hand and pulled away.

  Vivian waited only a split second before following him.

  Charlie turned to her from the window, hands resting on the sill. “We’re in luck,” he said. “There’s a fire escape.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Despite Vivian’s protestations that she needed to arrive at Chez Paree no earlier than fifteen minutes late for her date with Graham, Charlie had deposited her in the elaborately decorated lobby-cum-lounge at precisely 7:50 p.m. He then took his leave of her to “make his rounds” of the establishment, making sure no assassins were lurking among the potted plants, Vivian supposed. She stood awkwardly against the wall and tried to look discreet and completely unconcerned with her solitude.

  She tried not to meet the questioning gazes of the couples sauntering past—all of whom she imagined pitied her for her lack of an escort. She glanced at the coat check and ran one freshly manicured hand down the soft ermine of the coat she’d borrowed from her mother’s closet. She was overly warm in the crowded room, but if she checked the coat before Graham arrived, he wouldn’t see it. And Graham seeing it—and being impressed by it—was precisely why she’d snuck it out of her mother’s closet in the first place.

  She’d been trying not to think of the passionate scrabbling in Marjorie’s closet earlier in the day, but her mind kept returning to it over and over. She felt Charlie’s palms on the small of her back and running over her hips, his lips hungrily parting hers, and she smiled involuntarily. The man certainly knew his way around a kiss. But the incident had gone unmentioned in the hours since.

  On the drive here, Vivian had felt Charlie stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and she had done the same when he hadn’t been looking at her. What was it about that detective that got under her skin? He was handsome and charming, but he was also a man who earned his living by skulking in alleyways and taking photos of illicit lovers outside hotel rooms—hardly respectable. But her life was certainly more exciting with him around, and damn if that didn’t make her pulse quicken.

  • • •

  The nightclub lobby was made to look like a Parisian street scene, complete with black, wrought iron accents, like those that might be found at an outdoor café, and a small Eiffel Tower painted on the back wall. Tiny lightbulbs were strung along the midnight-blue plaster walls. As Vivian watched, they all came alight, and she gasped at the simple beauty of it.

  “Pretty swanky place, right?” a voice whispered close to Vivian’s right ear.

  She jerked her head around in surprise to find Morty Nickerson smiling shyly down at her, hands rooted deeply in the pockets of his trousers.

  “Morty,” she said, letting her breath out in a rush. “You’re always lurking around.”

  Morty’s blue eyes grew wide at the accusation. “I’m sorry,” he said, immediately on the defensive. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Vivian pressed a hand to her chest, her heart still hammering from the sudden shock. She waved her other hand dismissively. “It’s all right,” she said in a lighter tone. “What are you doing here?”

  Morty smiled, a small dimple appearing in his freckled right cheek. He might be attractive with a few more years—and a few more pounds—on him, Vivian thought. “I’m working,” he said with no small amount of pride. He cocked a thumb toward the open door to the ballroom. “Live remote for Abe Lyman tonight.”

  “Oh,” Vivian answered, relieved. Abe Lyman was one of the top bandleaders in the country, and Morty was here to set up the remote equipment that enabled the band’s set to be broadcast live over WCHI. That was a perfectly reasonable reason for his presence here. Vivian was almost embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that she’d suspected Morty had come to Chez Paree specifically for her, that he’d been following her.

  “You look nice,” he said, gaze traveling down from her face to her soft silk dress. “All in white. Like an angel.”

  Vivian registered the earnestness in the boy’s eyes and glanced quickly away, studying the nearest illuminated yellow bulb.

  “Say,” he began in a small, timid voice. “Do you think… I mean, would you mind…”

  Vivian’s eyes swiveled back to meet Morty’s, and his gaze immediately shifted to the floor. “Yes?” she asked impatiently. She glanced down at her wristwatch. Graham was now officially late.

  She saw a flush of embarrassment work its way up under his collar to his cheeks. “Would you mind saving a dance for me?”

  Vivian sighed. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she would answer until she heard it herself. Just then she saw someone approach in her peripheral vision—someone tall and dark. Vivian sighed audibly with relief.

  “Graham!” she said, her voice overly bright. “You’re here!” She smiled at him so hard that her cheeks strained from the effort.

  “Of course I’m here,” Graham said. His eyebrows lifted, and Vivian watched his appraising gaze travel from her hair to her shoes in one long, slow movement. Then he smiled at her and pronounced, “You look wonderful.”

  Vivian felt her smile grow wider. “You really think so?” she asked.

  Graham winked at her and leaned in ever so slightly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know it,” he said with a smirk.

  Vivian laughed.

  “Shall we?” Graham asked, offering one arm.

  “Good luck with the remote,” she said, smiling at Morty.

  Graham glanced over and exclaimed, “Well now, Morty! I didn’t see you there!”

  Morty’s face was a mottled reddish purple. “Graham,” he said in a strangled voice, with a stiff nod of acknowledgment.

  “Working tonight, eh?”

  Morty nodded.

  “Poor sap,” Graham responded happily and led Vivian into the waiting ballroom.

  They had a fantastic table, so near the bandstand that Vivian thought she might be able to reach out and play the piano herself if she wanted. The musicians hadn’t arrived, but the buzz in the room was growing, the excitement palpable.

  Each woman who passed was more glamorous than the last. Sequin-covered dresses, some daringly backless. Red lips, rouged cheeks, every other coiffure dyed a platinum blond. Vivian felt that her appearance paled in comparison. She glanced self-consciously down at her own gown, which had a daringly low neckline but fully covered every other inch of her. She regretted checking the white ermine coat she’d worn to the club. It lent her an air of sophistication that she felt she sorely lacked on her own. She looked up at Graham and caught his eyes on her.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “You do look fantastic, Viv. That dress really suits you.”

  As if on cue, a swarm of photographers descended on the table, their voices a jumble of compliments and questions
. Graham leaned into Vivian and snaked an arm around her shoulder. She’d expected photographers, of course. What was a date with Graham without them? Still, she found it hard to muster a smile. It all seemed so manufactured, so forced.

  “Closer!” One photographer shouted. Graham’s chest pressed roughly into Vivian’s shoulder as he squeezed in toward her.

  “Give us a smile, doll,” another said.

  Vivian obliged. She’d been to Chez Paree before, of course. It was the hottest nightclub in town. But no one had clamored for her photo then. Now she was with Graham, and the photographers couldn’t get enough of her—or rather, of them together. She was somebody now—because of the The Darkness Knows, because of Graham.

  The flashes popped in rapid succession until Vivian’s world was a blur of white.

  “How do you feel about Marjorie Fox’s murder? Are you next?” the photographers shouted.

  She had been expecting those questions. Still, she rose halfway from her chair and gave the reporter a dark look. A flash from one of the cameras blinded her again, and she turned back toward Graham, who had risen from his seat after her. “That’s enough,” Vivian said. She closed her eyes and burrowed her face into Graham’s expansive shoulder. She saw nothing but the mottled green-and-yellow remains of the flashbulbs behind her eyes.

  She felt Graham’s arm around her, pushing her gently back down into her seat. “No comment,” he said to the photographers as he flicked his fingers at two burly men watching the action from the entrance. The men glanced at each other and moved toward their table.

  “Sorry about that,” Graham said, watching the reporters and photographers being led away by nightclub security. She noticed with disappointment that they weren’t escorted off the premises, just to the opposite end of the room where they descended on another table like a ravenous flock of vultures.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said automatically, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she started to wonder. This had happened every time she’d been out with Graham—reporters showing up, taking photographs. Tonight was supposed to be different, a real date. She didn’t like being made a fool of. “Graham, were those photographers tipped off that we’d be here tonight?” she asked.

  “There are always photographers in a place like this,” Graham said dismissively. “A lot of famous faces around. Look, there’s Gabby Hartnett from the Cubs right there.” Graham lifted his chin at a man at a table across the dance floor. “Too bad they got swept in the Series,” Graham said with a shake of his head. “I really thought they’d get the Yanks this time around. He seems to be holding up though.”

  What was it with men and baseball? She turned and glanced at the smiling man across the room who was flanked on all sides by beautiful women. She recognized him. He’d been in all the papers—the hero that led them to the Series, in fact. He’d hit a home run to get them there that the papers liked to call the “Homer in the Gloamin’,” whatever that meant. She turned and scanned the crowd for Charlie. And there he was, not far away, watching her with Graham. She smiled slightly at him and quickly returned her attention to Graham.

  “Is this a setup?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

  “A setup?”

  She took a deep breath, speaking slowly and clearly so there could be no mistaking her intent. She thought of Graham’s face as he’d looked down at Frances the evening before. She wasn’t jealous, not exactly, but if all of this was just part of some attention grab, she wanted to know. “Is this just another date for publicity?”

  Graham eyed her for a long moment.

  “Of course not, Viv,” he said finally. He leaned toward her, and the intensity in his dark eyes made her a little uncomfortable. “I asked you to have dinner with me because I like you.” He held her gaze until Vivian turned away to look out over the dance floor. She gathered her courage and turned to face him again.

  “It’s just that this has happened so many times before…” she said, her voice getting lost in the buzz of the voices in the room.

  Graham nodded, then said, “But I asked you this time. This was not set up by publicity.”

  Vivian shrugged noncommittally.

  Graham sighed. “Look, I hate it as much as you do. I don’t have any control over the guys in the publicity department. They dictate what they think is good for the show and the station. They seem to think we’re good together.” He tapped the cigarettes on the table and tore the box open. Another brand of cigarettes was concealed within the distinctive Sultan’s Gold box. Graham even let the station control the illusion of which cigarettes he preferred. “And I’m inclined to agree,” he finished, glancing at her as he fished a cigarette from the pack.

  “You do?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course I do,” he answered firmly, slipping the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He tipped the box toward Vivian and raised his eyebrows. She waved it away. “Speaking of setups,” Graham continued, “I assume your shadow is lurking around here somewhere?”

  “Charlie?”

  “Oh,” Graham said, eyebrows raised. “It’s Charlie now, is it?” His voice was cool, detached. He plucked one of the matchbooks out of the ashtray on the table, pulled a match from the row, and lit it in one fluid motion. He touched the flame to his cigarette and puffed slowly, eyeing her over the smoke curling out of his nostrils.

  Vivian’s eyes strayed over toward the control table, where she caught a glimpse of Charlie’s dark blond head. He seemed to be in earnest discussion with Morty. It made her feel better, more relaxed, to have spotted him, to know he was keeping watch.

  “He’s being paid by Mr. Hart to keep an eye on me, as you know,” Vivian said. “I’ve been threatened.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Graham answered with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you, Viv.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair in resignation. “You know, this date isn’t going at all like I’d hoped it would.”

  “I know,” Vivian agreed. “I think we’re both on edge.”

  Graham squinted at the stage, where the musicians were taking their places, and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

  “So he is here somewhere?” he asked with his exhale.

  “Of course.”

  Graham nodded. “As much as I hate the idea of Chick hanging around you all the time, it does make me feel better to know you’re being looked after—especially after what I read in the papers.” His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Speaking of, why didn’t you tell me all that when I phoned you this morning?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” she lied.

  “So I have to read that your life’s been threatened over my morning coffee?” he asked. “You didn’t think I would worry about that?”

  “Mr. Hart told me not to tell anyone,” she said.

  “Mr. Hart doesn’t know—” Graham began and then abruptly snapped his mouth shut, as if he had thought better of what he was about to say.

  The waiter appeared at their table with their drinks. Vivian took a small sip of her sidecar, licking the sugar that had transferred from the rim of the glass off her lips, then placed the glass gingerly on the table.

  “I’m glad you asked me to come tonight,” she said, moving toward more neutral territory.

  “I’m glad you accepted,” Graham replied, turning to her with a smile. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smoothing the tiny pleats of the gown over her thighs. “But you already told me that.”

  “Well, it bears repeating.”

  Vivian smiled and met his gaze only briefly before glancing away again. Her eyes landed on the production table. Charlie had his back to her now. She could just see the top of Morty’s head over Charlie’s left shoulder. He seemed agitated, even angry, as he spoke
to Charlie, his head bobbing.

  “Things have been crazy,” Graham continued with a sigh. “I can’t believe what happened to Marjorie…but I can’t say I didn’t see something like that coming. Maybe not murder, but she’d been heading toward a bad end for some time.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Vivian answered, distracted by Charlie and Morty.

  “…you know, a drunk,” Graham said, his voice nearly inaudible.

  Vivian watched Morty for a few more seconds, then turned to Graham, confused.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  Graham gazed at her through a thin stream of cigarette smoke. “I just said that it’s a shame about Marjorie, because she hadn’t always been such a drunk.”

  “You knew her…before?” Vivian asked.

  Graham paused and looked over at the stage. “We had something of a history,” he said.

  “What kind of a history?” Vivian lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip.

  “Well…” He glanced down a bit sheepishly. “A romantic history.” He nearly swallowed the word “romantic,” as if the word itself were too much to say.

  Vivian’s eyes widened, and she somehow struggled not to choke on the mouthful of liquor.

  “You and Marjorie?” she whispered. She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice. She tried to picture the two of them together, but it was impossible. Dried-up old Marjorie and Graham? It didn’t make any sense.

  “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Graham said. He glanced around them and leaned toward her, the cigarette balanced precariously between the first and second fingers of his right hand. “You know I didn’t kill her, don’t you?” His voice was panicked. “I was with you at the time, if you recall.”

  “Of course I don’t think you killed her,” Vivian answered. “For God’s sake, Graham, would I be having dinner with you if I thought you killed someone?” Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. The truth was, she hadn’t even considered the idea that Graham had killed Marjorie or had anything to do with Marjorie—until he brought it up himself. Graham made a shushing motion with his hand and glanced both right and left to make sure no one had overheard them. She glanced around at the other tables, but no one seemed interested in them or their conversation.