“Yes?” she said.
The policeman touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Letter for you, miss,” he said. “Just delivered by messenger.”
“A letter?” she repeated.
He pushed the slim envelope toward her through the crack in the door. “Unless you want me to read it first?” he asked. “In case it’s, you know, another threat?”
Vivian shook her head and snatched the envelope from his hand. “No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
She shut the door and tore the envelope open right there in the foyer. It was a clipping from today’s paper—the photo of her and Graham, with the bold “I’m Not Scared” headline centered over it. She studied it, confused. Was it from a fan? Something for her scrapbook? And then she noticed the circle penciled around a face just visible in the background of the photo. She held the clipping up, squinting in the dim lamplight that filtered in from the street. Charlie’s face was circled. He glowered at Vivian and Graham from over Vivian’s shoulder, just one of the crowd at Chez Paree.
She reached into the envelope and pulled out another sheet of paper, her heart hammering in her chest. She read the message quickly, each typed word filling her with slowly growing terror.
You should be scared, you fool. He lied to you. He knows what Marjorie was. And I know what he is. Get out while you still can.
It was unsigned. She flipped the paper over, but it was blank on the back. She brushed her fingers over the indentations left by the typewriter keys and flipped the paper back over. She glanced again at the message. The letters. They were off-kilter. Wonky. Just like the threatening letter that had been slipped into her script. The letters swam before her. She closed her eyes. Then she looked again at the circled face on that clipping. Not Graham’s face, but Charlie’s.
What he is. What he is. The phrase spun around and around in Vivian’s head. What was this letter suggesting? What is Charlie?
In a daze, she found her way to the sitting room, turning on every lamp on her way, and snapped on the radio. The silence was suddenly too much. She was almost suffocating in her thoughts. The uproarious laughter of a live studio audience filled the air. It was the Carlton Coffee Variety Hour, live from WCHI. Vivian barely registered Sammy Evan’s high-pitched voice. He was already hard at work in his new job. Things had turned out well for Sammy Evans, hadn’t they? She snapped the radio off again, suddenly feeling sick.
Charlie had said he’d met Marjorie, but that he didn’t know her. Had that been a lie? Had he been acquainted with Marjorie, as the note insinuated? Did he know what she was—whatever that meant? Had he killed her? Of course, that was ludicrous, Vivian thought. But Charlie had had the opportunity, hadn’t he? He’d been a consultant on The Darkness Knows for months. He’d said he’d worked for Mr. Hart prior to that. He could walk into and out of that radio station whenever he pleased. And he could lie just like anyone else, couldn’t he? Being a private detective didn’t give him any sort of heightened moral compass. He could have been lying to her about all of it.
She didn’t really know the man at all, did she? She’d met Charlie all of four days ago, and she’d already jumped into bed with him like a common hussy. That’s what her mother would call her if she ever found out. And then he’d humiliated her and abandoned her without an explanation. That’s not something a man that cared for you would do, she thought. That’s not something a man who cared about anybody but himself would do.
On impulse, she went to the telephone in the hall, intending to call…to call who? Charlie’s office? The police? As she reached down, the telephone rang, loud and insistent, under her fingertips.
Vivian jumped back, her hand clutched to her chest as if she’d been shocked. The telephone rang twice more before she could summon the courage to answer it.
“Charlie?” she whispered, hoping despite everything that he was calling. She needed him to clear all of this up. She needed him to tell her that everything she’d just been thinking was wrong. She glanced into the dark entryway. She couldn’t see the police guards from here, but she knew they were there.
“Viv?” a female voice asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
“It’s Peggy Hart.”
Vivian’s breath came out in a great whoosh of air.
“Viv, are you there?”
Viv felt the color flood back into her face, but she’d heard the note of panic in the girl’s voice.
“Yes,” she said, her voice stronger. “I’m here. What is it, Peggy?”
“Oh, thank goodness. I was hoping you’d be around,” Peggy said. “Deena hasn’t shown up yet. Joe was hoping you could come down to the station and fill in for her—”
“Which show?”
“Murder & Mayhem.”
Vivian glanced at the hall clock. Murder & Mayhem went live in little over an hour. Her immediate instinct was to respond that of course she would come down to the station, but she hesitated. Surely Peggy and Joe both knew that Mr. Hart had effectively fired her. Should she mention it or assume they already knew and were asking her anyway with his blessing?
“Peggy, I don’t know…”
“You’re our only hope, Viv,” Peggy said, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears. “There’s no one else.”
Vivian bit her lip, thinking of Charlie’s order that she stay home until he returned. She was suspended. She wasn’t to come near the station. But if Vivian came in now and gave a professional, dependable performance on such short notice, maybe that would help change Mr. Hart’s mind. She could prove to everyone that she was a professional and the actress they needed her to be. This was her chance to be a team player and to prove that she wasn’t just a flighty chit who only looked out for herself.
“I’ll be there,” she said, her stomach twisting at the idea. Charlie would be angry with her for leaving the house, but he was already angry with her. And who knew if he was even coming back? She’d thrown a vase at him. She’d told him to leave—and he had, even though that’s precisely what he was not supposed to do. He’d left her alone. He’d let her down, hadn’t he? Maybe that had been his plan all along, she thought, glancing down at the newspaper clipping still in her hand.
“Thank God! Get here as soon as you can.” Peggy hung up without saying good-bye.
Vivian thought of leaving a note for Charlie, but what on earth would she say? Instead, she wrote a few scant lines to her mother telling her where she’d gone. Her mother didn’t know anything about the recent events, and she didn’t need to know. Vivian took one last long look at the clipping and stuffed the envelope containing it and the warning message into her jacket pocket. She patted it, and another thought struck her. This could be another red herring, couldn’t it? Someone who was just trying to keep her away from the station and Charlie?
But staying away was the last thing she’d do, Vivian decided. She would not be scared away. She may not know who was toying with her, but she refused to cower. She was going to go to that radio station and take matters into her own hands.
• • •
One of the policemen gave Vivian a ride to the station, and she walked through the empty lobby of the Grayson-Cole Building only twelve minutes after she’d hung up the phone with Peggy. She nodded to the nighttime security guard, who eyed her warily.
Angelo sprang from his stool in the corner of the elevator, his eyes wide.
“Miss Witchell,” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat. Was it possible that Angelo knew about her suspension too? “I’m filling in for Deena on Murder & Mayhem,” she said. “I need to hurry.”
Angelo clucked his tongue and shook his head, but he closed the elevator doors behind her without comment. Vivian watched the dial move from floor to floor in silence, her stomach twisting itself into knots.
Ju
st before the car reached the eleventh floor, Angelo pulled the brake and brought the car to a sudden stop. Vivian had to grasp his arm to keep from falling.
“What happened?” she asked, breathless.
Angelo didn’t answer, and he didn’t turn to face her. Vivian felt the hairs on her arm stand at attention as the goose bumps raced down her arms. She stared intently at the back of Angelo’s gray head, willing him to turn around and smile. Willing him to act normally.
“Angelo,” she said, fighting to quell the panic rising within her.
After a moment, he did turn, but his eyes were locked on the floor of the elevator car.
“Angelo,” she repeated, her voice rising. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes still trained on the floor at his feet.
Vivian swallowed. “Sorry about what?”
Angelo’s caramel-colored eyes flicked up to her face. “It was me,” he said, spreading his hands palms up before lacing his fingers together over his midriff as if in prayer.
Vivian tried to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed and tried again. “What was you?” she whispered. She desperately wished that she’d accepted Imogene’s offer to lend Vivian her gun. She had no way to defend herself. She glanced down to the brake and the lever beside it. She’d wished she’d paid more attention to how the elevator actually operated. Could she make a lunge for the brake? Set the car lurching upward and put him off balance if she had to?
“Mrs. Fox…” he began.
Vivian’s heart stopped in her chest.
“Mrs. Fox,” he repeated, shaking his head slowly, “was not a nice woman.” He glanced up at Vivian again, as if needing confirmation that he was not the only one who felt that way.
“No,” Vivian whispered. “She wasn’t.”
She balled the fingers of her right hand into a fist but kept it hanging at her side. She’d never punched anyone before, but she was sure she could do it if she had to. And Angelo was small and slight, not much bigger than Vivian herself. She was sure that if she caught him off guard she could at least knock him off balance and make a break for it somehow. Make a break for it in an elevator, she thought with rising panic. How does one do that? She fought the giggle of hysteria that tried to force its way out of her mouth. This was no time to lose her mind.
“But that’s no excuse,” Angelo continued. “And it’s no excuse at all for bringing you into it.”
Vivian flexed her fingers. It was now or never, she thought. Punch him. Knock him down. Release the brake. Save yourself.
Angelo stared at the floor, shaking his head. Vivian clenched her fist tighter, but then Angelo looked up at her again. She decided she needed to hear it. She needed to hear his confession and know why.
“It was a lot of money he was offering,” Angelo said.
“Who?” Vivian asked, her fist still tensed.
Angelo blinked several times. “That Mack something or other,” he answered.
“Mack? From the Patriot?”
“Yeah, that’s it. The Patriot.” Angelo grimaced. “He offered me fifty bucks just to feed him a little bit of information, that’s all.” Angelo looked at her, eyes pleading with her to understand. “Then I saw those stories, and I felt horrible. Mrs. Fox was a nasty woman, but you should never speak ill of the dead. And you, well, you didn’t do nothing at all.”
Vivian shook her head. She rubbed her sweaty palm on the side of her skirt.
“You were the Patriot’s inside source at the station?” she asked quietly.
Angelo nodded sorrowfully.
A sharp bark of a laugh escaped Vivian’s throat, and the little man looked up at her, startled. “Sorry,” she said, trying to get control of herself. “But that’s all?”
“That’s all?” he repeated, incredulous. “How can you ever forgive me, miss?”
“Jesus, Angelo,” she said under her breath. Vivian took two long breaths. She pressed the palm of one hand to her chest. Her heart was indeed still beating. Then she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “You’re forgiven. Now release that damn brake. I have a show to get to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Frances drawled as she looked up from a huddled conversation she’d been having with Morty. “You look tired, Viv. Something wrong?” Frances’s pretty face was a mask of false concern.
Vivian forced a smile to her lips. Frances was the last person she wanted to see right now. “Not a thing,” she said in a breezy voice. “I was out late last night.” She paused for effect, then said, “Dancing, oh, having a wonderful time…” She made a show of gazing off into the middle distance dreamily, as if recalling the reverie of the night before. She brushed the tips of her fingers against her lips and smiled.
Frances’s blue eyes flared, and Vivian knew she’d seen the day’s papers. Let Frances think things are peachy between me and Graham, Vivian thought vindictively. Serves her right.
“Morty,” Vivian said, acknowledging the engineer with a smile.
Morty glared at Vivian, his hands jammed in his pockets. He’d apparently not forgotten what had happened the night before—or, more accurately, what had not happened. Anyway, Vivian seemed to have moved onto his no-longer-favored list. “I need to go check the microphone levels,” he muttered before rushing off.
Frances smiled encouragingly after him. She looked down to her hands, fingering something that flashed golden in the light. Vivian recognized the object in Frances’s hands as the same locket Morty had attempted to give to her a few days earlier. She blinked in surprise, slightly offended that she hadn’t been Morty’s one and only object of affection—but at least he’d offered her the locket first, Vivian thought with mild satisfaction.
“You know, I’m surprised to see you anywhere near the station,” Frances said, a Cheshire cat smile creeping onto her face. “I’d be lying low if I were you.”
Vivian narrowed her eyes at Frances, deciding whether or not to take the comment at face value. “I don’t scare that easily, Frances,” she said. Frances had looked annoyed by Vivian’s appearance at WCHI but not surprised. Maybe she hadn’t sent the warning note to keep Vivian away. “And I’m most certainly not afraid of you,” Vivian said, her voice a husky whisper.
Frances raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows in surprise. “I’m not talking about me, silly,” she said. “I’m talking about Mrs. Gill-Davison.” She paused dramatically as she spoke the woman’s name, each syllable ringing like a hammer blow.
“Mrs. Gill-Davison?” Vivian repeated.
“I hear she’s none too pleased with the unfavorable publicity you’ve drawn to yourself and the station,” Frances said. She tut-tutted in mock sympathy before adding sotto voce, “She could ruin your career in a heartbeat, you know.”
Vivian willed herself not to react. Frances could smell weakness like a hungry lioness, and Vivian was determined not to give her an ounce of leverage. Until this moment, she’d hoped that it had solely been Mr. Hart’s decision to suspend her from the station. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Before Vivian could respond, Frances continued. “You know, speaking of careers,” she said. “I’d like to thank you for handing Lorna Lafferty to me on a silver platter.”
Vivian felt the tingle of impending doom crawl up her spine. The false smile slipped from her face. Frances held the metaphorical knife above her head, ready to bury it to the hilt in Vivian’s back.
Frances nodded as if she’d read Vivian’s thoughts. “Mr. Hart called me into his office earlier and informed me of your little suspension. I told him I would be more than happy to take Lorna over for you. It seemed to ease his mind that he could rely on someone so capable.”
Vivian’s breath caught in her throat. So it was true. Her worst fears confirmed. Frances had indeed taken Lorna from her and was well on her way to stea
ling her entire career.
“Still,” Frances continued, her voice light. “Graham and I have such wonderful chemistry off air. Imagine what we’ll be like on the show.” She smiled beatifically at Vivian.
“I won’t be forced out,” Vivian said, finally finding her voice. Frances’s thin, black eyebrows arched effortlessly before coming together over the bridge of her nose in false concern.
“Oh, but, sweetie,” she said in a low, soothing tone as if she were speaking to a small child, “I’m afraid you’re already on your way.”
Peggy hurried into the studio in a flurry of movement and audible sighs. She shoved a sheaf of papers at Vivian. “I can’t believe Deena would be so irresponsible. She hasn’t called or anything…” The words tumbled from her mouth in a rush.
For once, Vivian was thankful for one of Peggy’s ill-timed entrances. She took a long, slow breath to calm herself. “Have you phoned her?” Vivian asked.
Peggy rolled her eyes. “A dozen times.”
“She’s probably had an accident,” Frances chimed in, sounding rather pleased at the prospect.
Peggy shrugged. “I hope not, but the show must go on,” she said. She pointed to the script in Vivian’s hand. “Yours are underlined, Viv.”
Vivian scanned the script, flipping pages quickly forward, then quickly back. “I’m the murder victim?” she asked, incredulous. “You didn’t mention this on the telephone, Peggy.”
Frances hummed something jaunty and lighthearted under her breath. Vivian shot her a venomous look, but Frances’s head was bent over her script.
“Sorry,” Peggy said with a tight smile. “I guess it didn’t occur to me. Now, shall we rehearse a bit? Time’s running short.” She nodded toward the control room. Joe McGreevey watched them intently, concern etched in every line of his face. “Let’s start with page eight. There’s been a last-minute rewrite near the end that I think we should concentrate on.” She handed each of them two fresh pages copied onto pink paper to indicate a script revision.
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