The Darkness Knows

by Cheryl Honigford

  “I won’t stand for it,” Frances began, her eyes skimming over the script.

  “Stand for what?” Vivian asked. Her palms were sweating, the paper already damp in her hands.

  “I won’t stand for you taking what’s rightfully mine,” she said.

  “Rodrigo was never yours,” Vivian said. She glanced over at Peggy. The girl was standing just to the side, mouthing every word with them, a slight smile on her lips, clearly taking satisfaction in her own rewrite.

  “He was, and you took him from me,” Frances hissed, deep in character. “But it doesn’t really matter anymore,” she added with a shrug. “Rodrigo is dead.”

  “Dead?” Vivian asked, shocked.

  “That’s right,” Frances answered. “He’s floating in the duck pond out back. And you’re going to join him.”

  “You can’t do this, Evelyn. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan on getting away with it,” Frances said. “After all, what’s another murder? They can only hang me once.” Then she leveled an imaginary revolver at Vivian and pulled the trigger. Bang, she mouthed, a smile of genuine satisfaction on her lips.

  The two women stared at each other for one long moment before Joe’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Great, girls. Sounds great,” he said.

  “Joe,” Frances called, glancing coyly over her shoulder, her voice dripping with sugar. “Would it be possible for Vivian and me to switch microphones? This one’s giving me a tinge of feedback. And since I’m the star of this episode I thought I should sound the best.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Vivian muttered under her breath.

  Frances’s head jerked toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean,” Vivian said, “you seem to want everything I have.”

  Frances’s eyes narrowed. She waited a beat before saying in a low, even voice, “And I’ll get it.”

  “Girls, we’re live in fifteen,” Joe interjected over the speaker with an audible sigh. “Why don’t you both get some air, huh? Viv, you can use the time to review the rest of the script.”

  Vivian blushed and glanced at the microphone, which was obviously still live. Joe had heard everything they’d just said. She looked down at the floor and rushed from the room.

  • • •

  The twelfth floor was dark and deserted again, just as it had been the night Marjorie was killed. Vivian rubbed the gooseflesh down on her arms as she walked, trying to make as little noise as possible with her heels on the marble floor. She steered clear of the side with the lounge, the image of Marjorie’s lifeless eyes creeping into her head for the thousandth time.

  The lamp was lit at Imogene’s desk, and the mailbags had been hauled out from the closet. One bag lay open atop the desk, the contents spilled haphazardly across the blotter, but Imogene herself was nowhere to be found. Vivian stood still for a moment listening, her eyes scanning over the letters and packages all addressed to Marjorie’s alter ego, Evelyn Garrett. Her eyes fell on a mug of tea still steaming next to the lamp. Imogene couldn’t have gone far. Vivian heard a noise from down the hall, and her head jerked in that direction. Maybe Imogene had gone to Mr. Hart’s office for some reason. Maybe she was on to something after all.

  Vivian rushed down the hall, but Mr. Hart’s office door was closed, the room dark behind the smoked glass. Vivian stopped outside it and listened again, but all was silent. What now? She had to talk to someone. Instinctively, she reached into her bag and pulled out Charlie’s card.

  Charles Haverman Jr.

  Private Inquiries

  HAR–7998

  Her heart thumped a little harder at the sight of it, and she turned back toward the telephone on the secretary’s desk. She had no idea what she’d say to him, but maybe she could get him to explain himself—how he’d known Marjorie, and why he’d kept something so important from her. As she reached for the receiver, there was a click from inside Mr. Hart’s office.

  Vivian’s attention snapped back to the door, and she peered in through the nearly opaque glass. She saw nothing, but now she heard it—the tinny sound of the radio. She snuck over to the door and listened for a moment but couldn’t hear anything else. To her surprise, the door swung slightly open at her touch. It wasn’t locked.

  Mr. Hart sat at his desk, his back to the door. He didn’t turn around when Vivian entered; he was listening intently to the radio, leaning toward it to concentrate. Vivian cleared her throat, and Mr. Hart turned slowly to face her. He was flushed and holding an empty glass in his hand.

  “Viv,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?” His words were slightly slurred, melting together at the edges.

  “I was looking for Imogene,” Vivian said, ignoring the larger question—what she was even doing in the station, given this morning’s conversation. “Is she here?” she finished stupidly, seeing full well that she wasn’t.

  Mr. Hart blinked, then shook his head mournfully. “I haven’t seen her.” He tilted his head toward the radio. “Have you heard this?” he asked.

  Vivian listened for a few seconds. The program was a man reading a news bulletin. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. “What’s happened?” she asked in a low voice, her stomach sinking with dread. She thought immediately of Europe. Had the war started?

  Mr. Hart smiled and reached for the decanter of scotch on the corner of his desk. It was almost empty. “That Orson Welles is brilliant,” he said, watching the amber liquid flow into his glass.

  “Orson Welles?” Vivian asked.

  Mr. Hart filled his glass to the brim and took a hefty swig before answering. Sirens suddenly blared from the radio speakers behind him. “My wife called in a panic ten minutes ago,” he said. “She told me that the Martians had landed…in New Jersey of all places.”

  “Martians? Mr. Hart, I don’t understand…” Vivian took a glance at her wristwatch. It was 7:19. She needed to get back to the studio. Murder & Mayhem would go live in a little over ten minutes.

  “Oh, it’s just a play,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face. “War of the Worlds. H. G. Wells. Brilliant.” He looked at her, eyes narrowed and piercing. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but held back.

  Vivian sighed with relief. “Well, I need to get back to the studio,” she said, turning to leave. Mr. Hart was obviously very drunk and not making much sense. She also didn’t want him to realize that he had effectively fired her just this morning and that she should be nowhere near WCHI.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to Marjorie,” he said.

  Vivian looked back over her shoulder. “Me too,” she replied automatically.

  “No,” Mr. Hart said impatiently. “It was my fault. All of it.”

  Vivian’s hand froze on the doorknob. She stood still for a moment, hoping he wouldn’t continue. But he did.

  “She was so young then, Effie was,” he said.

  Vivian turned to face Mr. Hart, but he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at his hands clasped tightly around his glass—empty again.

  “I hadn’t meant for it to happen. But I thought I loved her. I thought she loved me, and maybe I did, maybe she did…” He looked up to meet her gaze, his own watery blue eyes pleading with her to understand.

  Vivian shook her head at him. “Mr. Hart, I…” she said helplessly. She glanced at her watch again. She had five minutes to make it to Studio B. She reached for the doorknob behind her. “I’m going to be late—”

  “And I lied,” he continued, seeming not to hear her. “I told Effie I’d taken care of it. I lied to everyone…even my wife…especially her. But I had to, don’t you see? She’s sick. She can’t take this. I lied. I lied. I lied!”

  Without warning, Mr. Hart raised the empty glass above his head and sent it crashing down to his desk. Vivian stood frozen for a
moment in shock, her heart hammering in her chest. Mr. Hart eyed her wildly, just as shocked by what he had done as Vivian was.

  Vivian’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. What exactly had Mr. Hart done? What was he trying to confess to her? And why her of all people? What did any of this have to do with Marjorie’s death? Mr. Hart rose from his seat and started toward her, arms outstretched. Vivian yanked the door open.

  “No! Don’t go!” he begged as she ran down the hallway.

  The door slammed behind her, and Vivian jerked at the sound. Her ankle twisted painfully sideways, and she lurched to a stop, muffling a cry with the back of one hand. Mr. Hart wasn’t following her. She slumped back against the wall, her heart thudding in her chest. She put a hand to her sternum and forced two deep breaths through her lungs, feeling her diaphragm move up and down under her palm. She also felt something else, something flat and hard in the pocket of her jacket. Her hand slipped inside, and with her fingertips, she felt the worn leather cover of the Bible she’d taken from Marjorie’s apartment.

  She held it gingerly in the palm of one hand as if it were a living thing. Holy Bible was stamped in faded gilt lettering across the cover. She half expected the book to open of its own accord, its pages riffling by magic, but they didn’t. The spine was still stiff, the book having rarely, if ever, been used. Vivian took another deep breath and opened to the flyleaf. A short inscription was written in a strong, ornate hand, stark black against the thick cream paper: Presented to Euphemia Juergens upon the celebration of her first Holy Communion, April 25, 1900. Vivian read the inscription three times before it hit her. Euphemia Juergens…Effie Juergens… Could that be the Effie that Mr. Hart had been so upset about? Before the connection could fully form in her mind, the elevator motor whirred to life. Vivian watched the needle over the elevator door slide from ten to eleven to twelve. Someone was coming up—it could be Imogene or even Charlie.

  As the elevator lurched to a stop, Vivian looked down at her watch and gasped when she found it was only two minutes until showtime. She lurched toward the staircase, stumbling down the stairs on her twisted ankle, and made it into the studio just as the opening music began to play. Joe shook his head at her from the control booth. Vivian hadn’t even looked at the script beyond the page she’d rehearsed with Frances. She would have to do the show cold.

  Halfway through the script, Vivian thought that it was going as well as could be expected, especially as she could barely read her lines with her hands trembling so badly. She had to get ahold of herself. But she was holding her own against Frances, and Joe even seemed to have relaxed slightly in the control room.

  “Talent opens a lot of doors,” Frances growled.

  “I don’t play any games,” Vivian replied in an icy tone.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  Vivian furrowed her eyebrows. There was something familiar about these lines of dialogue. Frances seemed not to notice. She was deeply set in her character, relishing the starring role of murderess, her eyes focused intently on the script in her hand.

  Dave Chapman, as Rodrigo, stepped up to the microphone, and Vivian fell back a pace. She was out of this scene and had a moment to breathe.

  Vivian’s hand found the Bible in her pocket. Effie Juergens was Marjorie Fox, she knew with sudden certainty. And Mr. Hart had done something horrible to Effie when she was younger…something that had gotten her killed years later? Had Mr. Hart killed her? He said he’d loved her, and Charlie had said it had been a crime of passion, a whiskey bottle to the head in a moment of exquisite anger.

  Mr. Hart and Marjorie? Vivian could scarcely believe it. Who didn’t Marjorie Fox share a past with? she thought. Then another, more upsetting thought struck her. Had Mr. Hart, the man who’d hired Charlie to protect her, been the one who’d wanted her dead all along? But why? What role could she have possibly played in any of this?

  “I won’t stand for it,” Frances said, breaking Vivian out of her reverie.

  “Stand for what?” Vivian asked, hurrying to find the correct place in the script.

  “I won’t stand for you taking what’s rightfully mine.” Frances’s eyes glittered.

  “Rodrigo was never yours,” Vivian said vehemently.

  “He was, and you took him from me,” Frances replied, the anger in her voice unmistakable. Vivian looked up to find Frances glaring at her, both of them knowing they weren’t talking about Rodrigo, but Graham. Frances finally broke eye contact and shrugged, still in character. “Doesn’t matter anymore anyway,” she said. “Rodrigo is dead.”

  “Dead?” Vivian asked, shocked.

  “That’s right,” Frances answered. “He’s floating in the duck pond out back. And you’re going to join him.” Frances pulled a gun from her pocket and leveled it at Vivian, the barrel aimed right between her eyes.

  That’s a real gun, Vivian thought. A real gun pointed directly at her. Oh God, Frances wasn’t really going to shoot her during a live performance, was she? Vivian watched Frances’s thumb move back, heard the hammer cock. Vivian’s eyes darted around the room, but she found only disinterested stares. The soundman was lounging at his table as if this turn of events were the most natural thing in the world. Wasn’t anyone going to doing anything? Did they all really think this was just playacting? Vivian’s mind worked frantically.

  Frances could shoot her in front of all of these witnesses and plead ignorance. She could claim someone had accidentally left a live round in the chamber and that Vivian’s murder was an unfortunate accident. Vivian caught the director’s arm moving in frantic circles out of the corner of her eye. Dead air. She was blowing it. Again. Vivian swallowed and forced the next line out of her constricted throat, her voice a squeak of panic.

  “You can’t do this, Evelyn. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan on getting away with it. After all, what’s another murder? They can only hang me once.” Vivian didn’t even have time to blink before the gun went off, shockingly loud at such close range. Vivian gasped in surprise and clapped her hand over her mouth. She glanced up to see Frances smirking at her. Blanks. The gun had held only blanks. Vivian let out a shaky breath, and the announcer stepped up to the microphone for the sponsor break.

  “Are you feeling weak, irregular, not at the top of your game?”

  Vivian looked down at her script in embarrassment. She really was on edge. It was almost all there, the solution tantalizingly close, but she couldn’t make anything fit yet. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes, making the text of her script swim before her. She blinked to clear them and surreptitiously wiped away a tear that was making a break for it down her cheek. She hoped Frances wasn’t watching.

  She tried to control her racing heart. Her vision was blurred again by persistent tears, and before she could wipe them away, a pattern formed in the fuzzy text. She stared at it for a long moment and then blinked the text back into focus. The Os, she thought. The Os in every word on this page were off. She flipped quickly between the pages. Yes, they were different on the pink revised pages Peggy had given her. The Os on the new pages appeared lower than all of the other letters on the line, just a fraction, just enough to mar the symmetry.

  Just like the Os in the letters Vivian had received—the second threat and the one that had just been delivered to her house. Then it hit her like a thunderbolt. She knew exactly why this pattern was so familiar. Why hadn’t she put it together before? She sucked in her breath and held it. These Os were made by the typewriter outside Mr. Hart’s office. She’d used that typewriter for two years, and she knew its quirks like the back of her hand. The person who’d sent her the letters had used that typewriter. Her roiling stomach told her so. But she had to be sure. She had to go back up to that typewriter and test it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “What are you doing up here?”

  Vivian jumped, her fingers dan
cing above the typewriter keys.

  “Oh, Peggy, hello.” She sighed with relief and placed one hand over her thumping heart. She glanced at the girl and back down to the typewritten letters on the curled paper in front of her. She’d been terrified of running into Mr. Hart again. Terrified that he’d confess to Marjorie’s murder or try to harm Vivian too. But his office had been dark when she’d returned to the twelfth floor. “Did you use this typewriter for the script revisions tonight?”

  “I…” Peggy began. She swallowed visibly and continued. “I did.”

  Vivian nodded. She rolled the paper out of the machine and studied it. The O was definitely lower than the other letters—just like in that last message warning her about Charlie. “Have you seen anyone else using this typewriter?” Vivian asked.

  “Just Daddy’s secretary.”

  “Does Mr.—your father ever use it?” Vivian asked, trying to keep her tone neutral. She couldn’t betray to Peggy that she suspected her father of anything.

  A smile flitted briefly over Peggy’s face, and she said, “I don’t think Daddy knows how to type.”

  Vivian returned the smile. Peggy was absolutely right. It was impossible to imagine the debonair Mr. Hart hunched over a typewriter.

  “Vivian, can I get you to listen to something?”

  “Listen?” Vivian looked up.

  “Yes.” Peggy looked down at her feet. “I’ve written a lot for different shows, but I’d like to try my hand at acting…nothing big…just a bit part on a serial or something. Anyway, do you mind listening to me read and giving me some tips?”

  “Oh, sure,” Vivian said, looking nervously down the hallway. What if Mr. Hart was lurking in the dark somewhere?

  Peggy motioned toward the smoked-glass door of Studio G, the little one no one used because it wasn’t completely soundproof and the noise irritated Mr. Hart in his office next door.