The Darkness Knows (9 page)

Charlie didn't bother to answer. He returned to their table, cracking his knuckles as he walked, and the noise level of the room returned to normal as if someone had adjusted the volume control knob. “Just a regulation lowlife. No one to worry about,” he said in a low voice. “Let's go.” He dumped a couple of bills on the table and helped Vivian into her jacket.

She took his arm and risked a glance at the man as they passed. He was studying the ham-salad sandwich on his plate, obviously intimidated. Vivian's eyes darted to Charlie's face in profile. He was scowling, eyes trained on the front door. Now
this
was the back-alley Charlie, she thought, the one that got things done. This Charlie was interesting.

Vivian had the dress rehearsal for the
Millicent Morris
live performance in less than half an hour, and she hadn't even seen the script yet.
Millicent Morris
was another sentimental melodrama about a poor little rich girl who was always running into some sort of exotic trouble: smugglers, jewel thieves, gold-digging love interests, scheming archrivals. Vivian only had a bit part in today's show as a conniving French maid, but every part was important. Every part kept her working.

She should probably practice her accent at least. That was one thing she had over Frances Barrow. Frances was horrible with accents. Vivian was staring at her feet as she walked toward the studio on the twelfth floor, repeating “Ah,
oui
, madame” over and over again, when she ran into something solid. She looked up, surprised, to find Morty Nickerson, the station engineer.

“Oh, Morty!” she cried. She felt her face flush with surprise.

“You walked smack into me, Viv,” he said congenially. “Are you okay?” he asked, his boyish face full of concern. Everything about Morty was boyish—his wide blue eyes, the splash of freckles across his cheeks, the way he talked that made it seem like all of the world was one big surprise.

“I'm fine,” she said. “I'm just a little flustered today.”

“I can imagine,” he replied. He glanced around the crowded hallway. “Do the police know any more about…you know?” He jerked his thumb toward the room where Marjorie had been found.

Vivian glanced toward the lounge and shook her head.

“Do they still think it was a crazed fan?” he asked.

“I don't know what they think,” she said, studying Morty's open, guileless expression.

“Have there been any more letters?”

Vivian shook her head again.

“Strange,” he said softly. “I mean, I would have expected another by now. One just for you perhaps…”

Vivian's throat grew dry. “How do you know what was in Marjorie's letter?” she croaked.

“I've been keeping my ears open. You know, listening to people when they don't know I'm listening.” He smiled, and his gaze grew soft. “People say a lot of crazy things when they don't think anyone's listening.”

Vivian shivered. She'd assured Charlie that she'd be perfectly fine while he popped into the men's room for a moment, but now she wasn't so sure. Even though the hall was crowded and people were rushing past in every direction, she suddenly felt very alone.

“I really have to get going, Morty,” she said, stepping to the right to walk around him.

He matched her step, remaining in front of her.

Vivian looked up sharply. “Morty,” she said firmly. “I have to go. I have a rehearsal soon.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn't budge. He was standing so close that she could see herself reflected in the pupils of his light blue eyes. “Don't you want to know what I have behind my back?” he asked.

“Morty, I really have to—”

His closed fist appeared in front of her face. He turned his hand over and slowly uncurled his long fingers to display a small gold locket without a chain. “I found this on the sidewalk outside,” he said. “I thought it might be yours.”

Vivian blinked at the piece of jewelry, the dulled gold surface etched with an elaborate set of initials she couldn't make out. She glanced up at Morty, trying to read his expression. Had he really found it? He was smiling eagerly down at her, pushing the locket toward her.

“Thank you,” she squeaked, her throat closing. “But I can't accept it.”

Morty's face fell. She'd be the first to admit that she'd flirted with the poor boy in the past. He was an engineer. He could make her sound good on the air, take care of her. Didn't all of the actresses at the station do the same? Looking up into his very young, very disappointed face, she suddenly wasn't so sure.

Morty shrugged and shoved the locket into his pocket without another word. He stepped aside after a few seconds, threw his arm out in the direction Vivian wanted to go, and bowed formally at the waist. It was meant to be an amusing, theatrical gesture, but Vivian couldn't force herself to smile. “Say hello to Millicent for me,” Morty said in a bright voice.

Vivian managed a grunt in acknowledgment and gratefully went on her way.

• • •

“Viv, there you are!” Graham made a show of looking at his wristwatch. The gold cuff link in his sleeve glinted in the glare of the hallway lights.

“Here I am,” she agreed, trying to sound casual.

“Are you okay? I wasn't sure you'd be in today.” Graham was playing Millicent Morris's current boyfriend, a playboy from Monte Carlo who was not as he seemed. Millicent's boyfriends were never as they seemed.

“I'm okay,” she answered, mustering a genuine smile for Graham. She nodded toward his sleeve. “Say, I think I might have something of yours.”

She pulled the cuff link she'd found that morning from the pocket of her jacket, along with the envelope she'd hastily stashed there. She frowned at the memory of the envelope slipping from her
Love & Glory
script as she held the piece of jewelry out for Graham to see.

“My cuff link! I'd wondered where this had gotten to.” He plucked it from her palm and held it up for a better view.

“When did you lose it?”

“Yesterday,” he said. “I took my cuff links off so I could roll up my sleeves during
The Darkness Knows
. It was hot in that studio. Where'd you find it?”

“In the back stairwell.”

Graham's brow wrinkled, and he dropped the errant cuff link into his jacket pocket. “What was it doing there?”

“You didn't take the back entrance this morning?” Vivian asked.

“The back entrance?” Graham seemed genuinely befuddled. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Isn't that through the alley? I'm not sure I've ever used it.”

Vivian tried to hide her smile. She had been right: the last thing Graham would ever do was avoid reporters—
any
reporters—or enter from the back when he could go through the front entrance where everyone could see him.

“Did you happen to say anything to the rabble out front when you came in?” she asked.

Graham feigned offense. “Of course not. I gave them no comment.” He leaned in and added, “And a smile.”

Vivian nodded her approval.

“What's that?” he asked, pointing to the envelope in her hand.

“Oh, nothing.” Vivian regarded the envelope for a moment. But she had the distinct feeling that it
was
something. She grabbed Graham's lapel, tugging him a few feet farther away from the door of the studio. “Listen, Graham. I have to tell you something, and you have to promise not to tell another soul.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. Promise?”

“Of course.”

Vivian swallowed and paused dramatically to impart the gravity of the situation on Graham. “I was mentioned in the letter found with Marjorie's body,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that letter mentioned Lorna Lafferty—and
me
as well.”

Graham looked first over one shoulder, then the other. “Someone's after you?” he whispered.

“Well, not right this second…I don't think. The police don't seem to believe it's anything to worry about. But I don't want you to worry, and I also don't want you to wonder why Mr. Haverman is hovering around.”

“Chick? What's he got to do with this?”

“Mr. Hart's hired him to watch over me until this thing has blown over.”

Graham scowled at her. “To watch over you?” he repeated.

Vivian nodded.

“I see,” he said in a low voice.

Vivian watched his jaw work as he considered that piece of information. Was that a glimmer of jealousy she saw rising to the surface?

“We have rehearsal in a few minutes,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. She met Graham's eyes. “Not a word to anyone about the letter. Mr. Hart is adamant that it not get into the papers.”

“He doesn't need to worry about me.” Graham mimed zipping his lips and then locking them with an imaginary key. “But, Viv,” he said, placing his hand on her arm. When he lowered his chin and looked directly into her eyes, she stopped breathing for a moment. “Please be careful.”

“I will,” Vivian said. She absently brushed the spot near her elbow where Graham had touched her and managed an upbeat smile until Graham turned to enter the studio.

As soon as he disappeared through the studio door, the smile faded, and she turned the envelope over in her hands. It was unmarked. She tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of white paper that had been neatly folded twice.

There were only a few short lines, typed in the middle of the page. Vivian read it and gasped, swaying slightly and steadying herself against the wall. She blinked rapidly, once, twice. She heard someone talking to her, their voice muffled as if there were cotton in her ears. Strong arms pulled her upright and held her steady. Charlie's face appeared inches from her own. She could see him mouthing her name, but she couldn't quite hear him.

She read his lips. He was repeating “What's wrong?” over and over again.

“I…I…got a letter…” she whispered. Her voice sounded like it came from the end of a long tunnel.

The letter had slipped from her fingers, and Charlie managed to retrieve it while continuing to hold her upright. He read the letter rapidly and grimaced.

“Let's sit you down,” he said.

He helped her into Studio G, where the cast members waiting to rehearse crowded around her.

“What happened? What's going on?” A jumble of voices assaulted her from every direction.

Vivian stared at the tips of her shoes and ignored all of them.

“Miss Witchell is just feeling a little under the weather,” she heard Charlie say.

“Poor thing,” someone clucked.

“Understandable,” said another.

“Is that Viv?” she heard Graham ask as he pushed his way toward her.

“Is she going to make the rehearsal?” The director's voice boomed above the din.

Vivian looked up at Charlie and shook her head. No, she would not make the rehearsal or the live show this time.

Above the panic and fear rose the overriding feeling of guilt. Vivian was missing a show: a job, an opportunity to prove herself. It was only a small part, barely more than a few lines, but it was something. She didn't know who'd replaced her, and she didn't care—just as long as it wasn't Frances.

Mr. Hart was not in the building, but Sergeant Trask suggested they meet in his office anyway.

“It's a good thing I was already here,” he said, making himself comfortable in the same leather chair he'd occupied a few hours before when he'd so blithely assured Vivian that there was no cause for concern. He pulled a fresh pencil out of his pocket and flipped to a clean page in his notebook.

Vivian perched on the edge of her seat, her body rigid, trying to calm her racing mind. This unknown person, this “Walter,” had the upper hand. This person was likely inside the station right now and knew where she was and what she was doing every second. How could she fight that? Maybe she
should
just disappear for a while. She wasn't able to do her job properly now anyway. Earlier, she'd flubbed spectacularly in front of one of the most powerful people in radio, and she'd just bowed out of
Millicent Morris
. It was all too much to bear, and maybe it was time to admit that. Admit that maybe the killer had already won—he'd killed her career by barely lifting a finger. Ending her life couldn't be much harder, could it?

Mr. Hart's secretary came in and pressed a mug of hot tea into Vivian's hands. Vivian nodded her thanks and rubbed her thumbs along the ceramic sides until they ached from the heat while watching the thin tendrils of steam rise from the milky gray liquid.

Charlie smiled at the secretary as she handed him a cup of coffee. “You're sure it's all right if we talk here?” he asked.

“Oh yes, Mr. Hart is having a late lunch at Henrici's,” she replied with a pert smile. “I don't expect him back for hours.”

Vivian's stomach flipped. He must be meeting with Mrs. Gill-Davison to talk over
The Golden Years
and very likely Vivian's momentous flubbing during
Love & Glory
earlier in the day.

When the secretary had gone, Sergeant Trask licked the tip of his pencil and trained his eyes on Vivian.

“How did you get the letter?” he asked.

Vivian continued to stare at the steam rising from her mug as she spoke. “I think it was in my script for
Love & Glory
,” she said. Then she nodded sharply, remembering. “Yes, the envelope fell out of my script as I turned the pages. I just picked it up and shoved it into my pocket since we were beginning rehearsal and there wasn't time to read it. Then I forgot all about it.” She looked up at Sergeant Trask and shrugged apologetically.

“Any idea how it got there?”

“No,” she said quietly.

He scratched a note onto the notepad, then asked, “How did you get the script? Was it delivered to you somehow?”

Vivian looked up at the ceiling, trying to jog her memory. “I guess Peggy handed it to me,” she said. “But I don't really recall. Things were so distracting today.”

“How so?” the policeman prodded.

“Mrs. Gill-Davison was visiting,” Vivian said, her stomach clenching. “Everyone was in a tizzy.”

“Mrs. Gill-Davison?”

“The creator of
Love & Glory
. She's terribly important. I assume that's who Mr. Hart is lunching with right now.” Vivian considered for a moment how lucky it was that she hadn't read the letter right away. If she'd read it before the rehearsal, she wouldn't have been able to continue at all—and that very likely would have been the end of her role in the show. She glanced over at Charlie, who offered the slightest smile of encouragement.

“Do you mind?” the policeman asked.

Vivian swiveled her head back toward him. Sergeant Trask held the letter up.

Vivian winced. Of course she minded.

He began reading without waiting for her answer.

Dearest Lorna,

I'll be seeing you very soon. I've been watching you, and I know you'll be more cooperative than Evelyn. I don't really want to hurt you, you know.

Lovingly,
Walter

“Short and to the point,” Charlie said grimly.

Vivian took a sip of her tea, trying to keep her hand from shaking as she brought the cup to her lips. Charlie took the note from the policeman's hands and studied it, laying it out flat on his thigh to give her a chance to look again too, if she wanted. She didn't want to, but her eyes strayed to that seemingly innocuous piece of paper anyway. The message had been typed, even the name at the bottom, and something about the whole thing was off somehow. She leaned forward, studying it more intently. There was something familiar about it, but her head was swimming, and her thoughts wouldn't focus long enough to make any sort of connection.

“Has anything suspicious happened to you today, Miss Witchell? I mean, anything besides this letter, of course.” Sergeant Trask was staring intently at her. “Anything at all?”

Vivian wrinkled her brow in thought. “There was that man in the coffee shop…”

The policeman leaned forward and asked, “What man?”

“That was nothing,” Charlie said, waving his hand dismissively.

“He certainly seemed menacing,” Vivian said, glancing sidelong at Charlie. “I didn't like the looks of him.”

“Me neither, but he wasn't your letter writer,” Charlie replied, lips pursed. Then he addressed the sergeant. “In fact, I'm sure the man could barely read. Just a garden-variety thug not used to seeing a pretty girl up close, that's all.”

Sergeant Trask scribbled more notes, and Charlie leaned toward Vivian, speaking softly. “I shouldn't have taken you there. I just didn't want you to be around all of the usuals from the station. I wanted you to feel free to talk.”

The “usuals” from the station. The idea made sense. It wouldn't do to feed the fire of gossip, and all of this likely had something to do with one of their own. Vivian shivered at the thought, and some of the tea spilled from the cup and splashed onto her hand. She started, rubbing it on her skirt.

Charlie placed one strong hand on her shoulder while he took the cup out of her hands with the other.

“Miss Witchell,” Sergeant Trask said quietly. His voice was almost soothing now, and the change of tone scared her more than anything. “Can you think of anything else that happened today that might be helpful?”

Vivian shook her head slowly as she stared at the red welt beginning to form where the hot tea had burned her.

“There
is
something else…” she said slowly.

Both men waited silently for her to continue. A clock ticked somewhere in the room as she considered how to phrase what she was about to say.

“It's just that Morty was acting strangely this afternoon.” She looked up, alarmed at what she'd just implied. “I don't want to get him in trouble or anything. Morty's a nice boy.”

“What do you mean by ‘strangely'?” Charlie asked, his fingers tightening their grip on her shoulder.

“Well, it's hard to explain, but he knew about the letter found with Marjorie's body. That's not so strange in itself,” she added quickly. “People like to gossip around here. But he also seemed, I don't know,
surprised
that I hadn't received one myself. It was almost as if he knew that I was supposed to get another letter.”

Charlie's voice was urgent. “When was this?”

“In the hallway before rehearsal. Just before I remembered the letter in my pocket.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked.

Vivian shrugged. “It all happened so fast. There wasn't any time.”

“I'll need to talk to Morty. Morty Nickerson, is it?” The policeman flipped through his notepad. He tapped a page with his pencil. “The engineer on last night's program.”

Vivian nodded. Her mind whirled with the possibility. Could Morty have put that letter in her script? Why on earth would he want to hurt her? To hurt Marjorie?

“He worked on
The Golden Years
,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Did he?” Charlie said.

Vivian nodded. “Every evening. It's on from 6:00 to 6:15.”

Sergeant Trask leaned toward her, no longer taking notes. “How well did he know Mrs. Fox?”

“I don't know. I mean, I can't say. I really can't. Morty is a…” Vivian searched her mind for the right word. “Friendly guy,” she finally said. “He likes to chat about radio technology to anyone and everyone.”
To me especially
, she thought. “I assume he did the same with Marjorie. But I really can't see them having any sort of friendship.”

“Maybe it isn't a friendship we need to be looking into,” Charlie said to Sergeant Trask.

Vivian looked up, confused. “What are you suggesting?”

“I'm suggesting,” Charlie said, “that they weren't friendly at all. I'm suggesting,” he continued, removing his hand from her shoulder and flexing his fingers, “that perhaps they'd had a nasty fight.”

Vivian's attention swiveled to Sergeant Trask. “Did Morty mention that he'd fought with Marjorie?”

Sergeant Trask quickly scanned his notes. “No, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“Especially if he was the one who killed her,” Charlie said.

Vivian shook her head, not wanting to believe the accusation. “I can't see Morty quarreling with anyone.”

“He does have access to every area of the station, every studio…” Charlie argued.

“Every script,” Vivian added in a small voice. “But so do a lot of people.”

“We need to find out where these letters came from,” Charlie said. He turned to the policeman. “Did the police find an envelope that may have come with Marjorie's letter? Postage marks? Things like that?”

Sergeant Trask shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Mrs. Fox's home has been searched, I assume,” Charlie said.

The sergeant shrugged. “I can't share that information with you, Mr. Haverman,” he said firmly.

Charlie sighed and sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. When the policeman got up to leave, Charlie leaned in to Vivian and murmured, “We'll figure this out on our own then, won't we? Who would know about Mrs. Fox's fan mail here at the station?”

“Imogene,” she answered without hesitation. “Imogene would know.”

• • •

Imogene was on the phone when Vivian and Charlie approached her desk, the receiver cradled in the nook between her chin and her shoulder, her hand cupped over the mouthpiece. Her eyes widened when she spotted them. She whispered something they couldn't hear and then hung up the phone.

“Viv!” she said, smiling broadly. “Felt like slumming, did you?”

Vivian smiled at the friendly jab. “How's George?” she asked, nodding toward the telephone. They weren't supposed to use the station telephones for personal calls, especially not for calls to boyfriends. “Did you give him my regards?”

Furious red blotches appeared on Imogene's cheeks and crawled down her neck. Her eyes flicked to Charlie and then back to Vivian.

“You wouldn't get me in trouble, would you?” Imogene said.

“Oh, come on, Genie. It's me you're talking to. I was just kidding you.” Imogene relaxed, and Vivian continued. “I'm… We're…” she corrected, gesturing to Charlie who stood by her side. “
We're
actually here in a sort of nonofficial investigative capacity.”

Imogene glanced at Charlie again. “You're Mr. Haverman, I assume?” she said, extending her hand.

Charlie shook it. “And you're the Imogene that knows everything about everything at the station.”

“Quite right,” she answered with a nod of her head and a funny closed-lipped smile. “And I assume this ‘nonofficial investigation' has to do with Marjorie Fox's death?”

“Yes,” Vivian said, taking a seat in the one guest chair afforded to Imogene in her meager position.

“What can I do to help?”

Vivian glanced at the door to Mr. Langley's office, which was shut tight.

“Don't worry. Mr. Langley is in a very important lunch meeting that I expect to last well into the afternoon.” Imogene made an almost imperceptible drinking motion with her hand and rolled her eyes.

“With Mr. Hart and Mrs. Gill-Davison?” Vivian asked.

Imogene nodded.

“Good,” Charlie said. “We just have a few questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Who handles the fan mail at the station?”

“It depends. Sometimes a page, sometimes another secretary, but mostly yours truly.” Imogene smiled ruefully and leaned back in her chair.

“So what happens with all of it? Do you read the mail and pass it on to the actors?” Charlie asked.

“Not usually,” she said. “It has to be a really special letter to make it through to the actors.”

“Did any ever make it through to Mrs. Fox?”

“I've never given her any. Mostly because I didn't want to have anything to do with her,” Imogene murmured. “But I didn't say that,” she added quickly.

“Did she receive a lot of fan mail?” Vivian asked.

“
She
didn't,” Imogene responded. “But Evelyn did.”

Imogene stood and walked to a door in the corner of the room. She swung the door open, and three canvas sacks slumped to the floor. Envelopes spilled from the top bag, which had fallen open.

“It was the Garretts' twentieth wedding anniversary last week,” she said, bending to retrieve one of the letters. “We got three bags of mail congratulating them. I don't know if people think the Garretts are real, or if they know they're not and just can't help themselves.” She sighed heavily and held a letter out to them so they could read the address.
To: Mrs. Roger Garrett, The Golden Years, WCHI Radio, Chicago.
“We get all sorts of things sent here for the characters on the serials: baby booties, condolence letters, flowers…you name it. The characters on these shows are real to people. They're like members of their family.” She nodded at the bags of mail. “As far as I know, they are all very complimentary cards and letters. I haven't heard a word about anything threatening being received, ever, and I would know.”