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entering the room oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “Good morning, Miss Witchell.”
    â€œGood morning,” Vivian said. She didn’t look up from the grapefruit she was studiously dissecting on the plate before her, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her newly acquired dark circles.
    â€œSo what’s the schedule for the day?” he asked, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm.
    Vivian jumped a little at the noise. She paused to recover her nerve before speaking. No doubt she was on edge.
    â€œWell, I should be at the station by at least 10:30,” Vivian began. “There’s a rehearsal for Love & Glory at 11:00, and then we go live from 11:30 to 11:45. I have another rehearsal after lunch. Another live show from 2:00 to 2:15. And there’s some publicity to do in there somewhere…”
    â€œThat’s quite a schedule.”
    â€œWelcome to the world of an up-and-coming radio star,” she said with a tight smile.
    â€œYou aren’t going anywhere today, Vivian,” her mother said, setting her spoon down with sharp finality next to the grapefruit half on the plate.
    â€œI have to. I have two shows and a photo shoot for—”
    â€œI don’t care what you have,” her mother interrupted. “When I spoke with Mr. Hart last evening, he advised very strongly that you stay at home where we can all keep an eye on you.”
    â€œMr. Hart advised, did he?” Vivian looked to the detective for confirmation.
    Mr. Haverman nodded. “He did. But—”
    â€œBut nothing.” Mrs. Witchell’s gaze at the detective was cold.
    â€œBut the threat against Vivian is not verified,” he continued, returning her cold gaze completely unfazed, “and I see nothing wrong with Miss Witchell going about her normal routine.”
    There was a tense silence while Vivian’s mother considered his statement. She seemed to be taking stock of the detective. She held his gaze for a few seconds, and Vivian noted with satisfaction that her mother was the first to look away.
    â€œYou’ll be with my daughter the entire time, Mr. Haverman?” Mrs. Witchell asked finally.
    â€œI won’t let her out of my sight.”
    â€œDon’t you have other cases?” Vivian asked. She found herself inordinately pleased to be the focus of so much special attention.
    â€œI do,” he said. “But Mr. Hart has made it worth my while to put those on hold for the time being.”
    â€œAll for me?”
    â€œAll for the station ,” he corrected.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Mr. Haverman’s car was even less impressive in the full light of day. It was an unremarkable Packard sedan, black, with some rust spots beginning to form near the wheel wells. It was clean inside and out, but the cloth upholstery was shabby and had certainly seen better days. Vivian began to wonder how well his business was doing and, consequently, just how good a detective he truly was. But Mr. Hart seemed to trust him, and Mr. Hart didn’t trust just anyone.
    They drove south down Michigan Avenue toward WCHI. It was a rare treat for Vivian to be driven anywhere. She usually walked or took the streetcar. She didn’t have a driver’s license, and her mother had been nearly shocked to apoplexy a few years back when Vivian suggested she wanted to study for one. A woman of means didn’t drive themselves anywhere, her mother had told her. But she had adamantly refused to use her mother’s chauffeur at any time. It was a small act of defiance, but it pleased Vivian to shock her mother by bucking social convention. When Vivian had argued that she was an independent working woman who needed a car, the mere idea had sent her mother into a fit and ended the conversation.
    Vivian rested her head against the seat back in Mr. Haverman’s car and smiled at the memory. “I want to thank you for helping me out with my mother,” she said. “I was