Charlie lowered his paper and gestured to the newspapers strewn over the coffee table. He raised one golden eyebrow and said, “See for yourself.”
Vivian bit her lip and scanned the front page of the Tribune he was holding but saw nothing referencing her or Marjorie’s murder.
She pulled the edge of the paper away from Charlie’s face, a smile forming on her lips, sure that he was teasing her. “There’s nothing—”
“Look again.”
She followed his eyes to this morning’s edition of the Patriot lying on top of the pile on the coffee table.
A photo dominated the top half of the paper—it was Vivian and Graham at their table at Chez Paree. She was half standing, scowling angrily (but not unbecomingly, she noted) at the camera. Graham’s hand was raised as if to ward off the photographers, but she noticed that both of their faces were conveniently left uncovered. Graham’s face sported a mild half smile, one eyebrow raised. This must have been the last photo taken of them before she begged Graham to run the photographers off—the one taken after they’d asked her about Marjorie.
Then she read the headline above the photo. “I’m Not Afraid,” it trumpeted in bold, black type. She snatched the paper from the table with trembling fingers, feeling the heat rise to her face as she read the first paragraph.
Vivian Witchell danced the evening away at Chez Paree with her costar Graham Yarborough despite the peril of imminent death hanging over her head. She confirmed that she’d received a threatening letter just like the one received by the recently murdered Marjorie Fox, her costar at WCHI, but claimed with a defiant air that she was “not afraid of anything.” Miss Witchell was seen dancing and canoodling with Mr. Yarborough throughout the evening as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Vivian threw the newspaper down onto the coffee table. It struck a bowl of sugar cubes and sent it crashing to the tile floor.
“Canoodling?” she said aloud, feigning disbelief. Though she definitely had been canoodling at least in the beginning of the evening—and Charlie knew it as well as she did. “And I didn’t say… I would never say…” She stopped suddenly, snapping her mouth shut, a fresh rush of heat rising to her cheeks. She had said those things, all of those things. She’d confirmed the second letter. She’d distinctly told the reporter that she wasn’t afraid of anything. She hadn’t realized the man was a reporter at that point, but she’d still done it. Her heart pounded with anxiety. If she’d seen this, then Mr. Hart had definitely seen it.
She squinted at the byline of the story—Mack Rippert—and snorted at the memory of the smarmy, bespectacled man who had begged a dance from her. Charlie had known, of course. He always knew. She owed Charlie an apology, but she had no idea how to begin. It wasn’t like her to eat crow.
“Look,” she said, worrying the hem of her dress. “You were—”
Charlie held up one large hand, halting her attempt at an apology, letting the scowl etched on his face do all the talking for him.
Vivian waited a long moment before beginning again. “I’m sorry,” she said, not giving Charlie time to cut her off. She hitched in a deep breath. “I should have believed you about that reporter,” she continued. “He was a snake in the grass.” And she hadn’t even gotten the two-page spread out of it, she thought with more than a little regret. Her eyes fell on the photo again. Graham looked handsome and something else… Satisfied? Pleased? She felt her anger rise again at the very idea. Graham had known about the photographers ahead of time, that much was certain.
“Any publicity is good publicity,” she said mockingly, staring down at Graham’s smirking face.
“Isn’t that your philosophy too?” Charlie asked.
Vivian didn’t answer. It is, she thought. Or at least it was.
She felt the urge to rake her fingernails over the photo and scratch Graham’s handsome face into oblivion. She felt her knees buckle, and she collapsed into the chair opposite Charlie. She closed her eyes, putting her fingertips gently to her temples. She took a breath and forced the exhalation through her nose. After a moment, she opened her eyes to find the detective staring at her.
“Where’s Mother?” she asked, her voice dull.
“Church,” he said. “Then she mentioned something about surprising your brother at school. She took one of the policemen with her.”
Vivian snorted. A surprise visit from their mother on a Sunday afternoon—Everett would love that. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the quiet of the room. She snatched the newspaper and scanned the remaining contents of the article, unable to help herself. When she was finished, she sighed and tossed it back onto the table, flipping it over so that the photo didn’t show.
“It’s not so bad,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice. “I mean, it could be worse.”
Charlie only grunted in reply, his face again buried in the Sunday edition of the Tribune.
Vivian glared over at the detective. She didn’t expect much, but she thought a smidgen of sympathy for the precarious position she was in was justified, especially after what had happened between them last night. She’d expected, at the very least, that after last night he’d be in a better mood, but he’d barely even looked at her. “What gives?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she had an abrupt realization about Charlie’s uncharacteristically dark mood. He clearly regretted last night. That’s what. What else could it be? What had so drastically changed in the past few hours, despite the fact that she’d taken him to her bed? He hadn’t said ten words to her since she’d come downstairs. He could barely look her in the eye. He was going to put that paper down any moment now, fix his steely gaze on her, and tell her in so many words: Viv, it was a mistake. It was unprofessional. Her stomach clenched at the thought.
“Charlie,” she said before she could lose her nerve. She wanted to beat him to the punch, even though she didn’t regret one thing about last night. But if she didn’t say it, then he would. And she didn’t think she could bear hearing it. “Last night was—”
The telephone rang and cut her off. They looked at each other while it trilled. Last night was…wonderful, amazing, what you wanted too… Please don’t say it wasn’t. She wanted to say all of those things, more, but nothing came out. Six rings in, she realized that no one else was there to answer the blasted thing. Charlie simply looked at her with those gorgeous blue-green eyes, his expression a strange mixture of curiosity and confusion. The ringing was insistent, rattling around inside her head so that she couldn’t form a coherent thought. “Sorry,” she said, jumping from the chair and rushing into the foyer.
“Hello,” she said, clutching the receiver.
“Vivian, this is Mr. Hart.”
Her stomach dropped, and she thought she might be sick just from the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Hart,” she squeaked.
“Listen, Viv,” he said. “About that story in the Patriot this morning…”
“Yes.” She felt sweat break out along her hairline. “Let me explain about that.”
“There’s no need,” he said.
Vivian felt a momentary rush of relief. Perhaps all of this would be swept under the rug. Perhaps it wasn’t important after all.
Mr. Hart cleared his throat. “You can’t be talking to reporters. We’ve discussed that.” The anger in his tone was unmistakable.
Vivian closed her eyes. “Yes, Mr. Hart. We did. But what happened was—”
“I don’t give a damn about what happened. The problem is that you talked to a reporter after I explicitly told you not to, Viv. And now the papers are going to be all over us like flies on goose shit.”
Vivian tried to respond but her mouth felt sticky, glued shut.
“I’m afraid I have no recourse but to suspend you from all of your roles indefinitely,” he said.
Vivian blinked, uncomprehending. “Suspend me?
” she echoed. “But—”
“But nothing,” he said. “You can and will be replaced.”
The words echoed in her head. Around and around they went: Replaced, Replaced. She would be replaced.
“I…I…” she stammered. “I understand.” The words seemed to be coming from someone else’s mouth.
She heard the click as Mr. Hart hung up on her. Vivian rested her back against the wall and slid down the smooth oak paneling, coming to rest on the polished floorboards with a thump, the receiver still clutched in her hand.
Charlie poked his head into the hallway. His eyes widened with surprise and mild alarm at seeing her nearly supine on the floor of the entryway.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Vivian didn’t move. She blinked slowly, then met the detective’s eyes. “I think I’ve just been fired,” she said, her voice flat and disbelieving.
“Fired?”
“Mr. Hart is angry about the paper this morning. About what I said…”
Charlie furrowed his brow. “Can’t say I blame him,” he said.
Vivian dropped her head into her hands.
“That’s what he said? You’re fired?” Charlie asked.
“Not exactly. He said I’m on an indefinite suspension from all of my roles at the station.” Vivian blinked, tears springing to her eyes. She was barely able to force the next sentence from her trembling lips. “I just know Frances is going to be taking over Lorna Lafferty.”
Charlie shook his head and offered a hand to help her up from the floor. She took it with reluctance, and he pulled her to her feet. He removed the receiver from her grasp and returned it gently to its cradle. Vivian stood unsteadily before him, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms, to have him hold her and make everything better. She opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie beat her to it.
“You know, Viv, you give Frances too much credit. It seems like you are your own worst enemy. You brought this on yourself,” he said.
Vivian wiped her eyes and met Charlie’s gaze with her own fierce glare. “Where do you get off?” she asked, pushing his arms away.
“You talked to that reporter, Viv. You said those things.”
“Yes, but…” she sputtered, her mind grappling for an excuse that made sense. “I was tricked.”
Charlie shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s your bed…” He lifted both eyebrows and left it to her to fill in the rest of the phrase. She blushed furiously at the mention of her bed.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” she said, her voice dangerously low. She balled both hands into fists. She could feel the fingernails biting into the soft flesh below her thumbs, but she clenched them even harder. She glared at Charlie, who looked impassively back at her. He seemed almost amused by this horrible turn of events. As if he’d been wishing all along that she’d fail spectacularly. She was utterly humiliated—at being fired, yes, but mostly because of the callous way Charlie was treating her. They had been as close as two people could be, and now it was like last night had never happened.
“I am on your side,” he said. “But you need to hear the truth.”
She knew the truth. The truth was that the goal she’d been so doggedly pursuing for the past two years, the stardom that was almost within her grasp, had been wrenched away after a few ill-chosen words to the wrong person. The truth was that everything had come crashing down on her, and Charlie didn’t care.
“Leave,” she said coldly.
“You know I can’t,” he said. “It’s my job to keep an eye on you.”
“I don’t care.” She unclenched one fist and raised an index finger to point toward the front door. “I don’t want your eye…or anything else of yours…anywhere near me!”
Charlie leaned back against the door frame, both arms crossed over his chest. “This isn’t the end of the world, you know.”
He was right. Of course he was right. Damn him. She reached behind her, grabbed a vase of chrysanthemums off the end table, and hurled it at Charlie. He ducked smoothly, and the vase smashed into the wall just above his left ear, leaving a divot in the plaster. Charlie brushed a few glass shards off the shoulder of his gray serge suit. Then he lifted his head, his cold aqua eyes meeting her own.
“I think you need to practice your aim,” he said.
Vivian glared at the detective, too furious to speak.
Someone knocked on the front door directly behind her. Vivian sucked in her breath but waited for Charlie to look away before she jerked her head toward the entrance. It could only be more bad news. The round face and cap of one of the policemen popped into the window that ran alongside the door.
Charlie rushed past her to answer it.
“Message for you,” the policeman said gruffly, handing a folded piece of paper to Charlie. Charlie nodded and closed the door. He scanned the paper, a wrinkle appearing between his brows as he read.
“What is it?” Vivian asked, her hands ice cold.
“Looks like you’re getting your wish after all,” he said.
“My wish?” she croaked.
“I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean leaving?” Vivian asked, panicked. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” He stepped over to the coat-tree and grabbed his worn wool overcoat.
“When will you be back?” she asked as she scurried after him.
He shrugged his coat on and grabbed his hat. “Later,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. He locked eyes briefly with her before saying, “The police guard is still outside. Stay here until I come back.” Then he stepped over the threshold, pulling the heavy mahogany door shut behind him with a soft click.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vivian awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in the darkened room. The telephone was ringing, an insistent trill that had pushed its way into her fitful dream.
She registered the utter silence of the house and realized that neither her mother nor Charlie had returned. The grandfather clock was just readable in the fading light: 6:10. Despite everything that had happened, she’d managed to fall asleep on the sofa. Now she felt lethargic, yet panicked. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She stumbled to the front hall, each ring of the telephone filling her with fresh dread.
She went to pick up the receiver, but her fingers refused to grasp it, and she knocked it to the floor with a clumsy sweep of her hand. It clunked against the tiles, and a startled female voice was barely audible from the speaker.
“Hello? Viv? Viv?”
She clutched the receiver to her ear. “Imogene?”
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Vivian sighed with relief at hearing her friend’s voice, but that terrible feeling still churned her guts. “I…” She glanced at the window next to the front door. The policemen weren’t visible. But they were there. Or had they gone too? “I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?”
Vivian swallowed. “Everything.”
“Has something else happened? Are you okay? Viv, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry,” Vivian said, noting for the first time the alarm in her best friend’s voice. “I’m okay. Physically at least.”
“Then what is it?”
Vivian felt the tears prick her eyes, and she bit her tongue to keep it together. “I think I’ve been fired.”
“Fired? What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Hart called earlier. He saw that article in the Patriot this morning. Oh, Genie, I’ve been so stupid.” She slumped against the wall and slid down, clutching the telephone cord to her chest.
“I’m sorry, Viv. But fired? I can’t believe that. Maybe you misunderstood.”
Vivian shook her head, unable to speak.
“Well, we’ll fix this, okay? We’re going to fix
this.”
Vivian felt a tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away and hitched in a breath. Imogene understood. Imogene always understood. This was the reaction she’d wanted from Charlie, and he’d given her the opposite. And then he’d just left. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Imogene about what had happened with Charlie last night…today… It was all too embarrassing.
“I can’t talk about this right now, Genie.”
“Sure. All right. I was just calling to tell you that I’m going down to the station. I’m going to look through those mailbags in the closet. Maybe I’ll find something that will help—another letter maybe? It’s a long shot, but I’ve been sitting here stewing about it all day, and I feel like I have to do something. I was going to see if you wanted to come along, but I suppose that’s not the best idea right now.”
Vivian sighed. “I suppose not.”
“Would you rather I come to your place instead?”
“No, don’t bother.”
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
Vivian didn’t answer.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Vivian said. “Thanks, Genie.”
She reached up and replaced the receiver on its cradle without moving from her seat on the floor. Her legs wouldn’t work. All the energy seemed to have been leached from her body. She lowered her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d just go back to sleep, and when she woke up, all of this would have just been a bad dream.
Then the doorbell rang, and her head jerked back up.
A man’s form was silhouetted in the window next to the front door. It looked like one of the policemen—Vivian could make out the sharp peak of his cap in shadow. She pulled herself to her feet and opened the door, keeping the chain latched.
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