The Darkness Knows (22 page)

“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.”

“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 stealing 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.

“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.