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afraid I was going to have to shimmy down the drainpipe or something.” Vivian glanced sidelong at the detective. She noted his rueful smile and added, “I’ve done it before.”
    Mr. Haverman raised his eyebrows at the thought and said, “I have no doubt, Miss Witchell.” Then he added, “But I don’t blame her. She’s worried about you.”
    â€œWorried about me,” Vivian repeated with a scowl. “Worried about my reputation, you mean. And hers.” Vivian affected the boarding-school-polished, mid-Atlantic tones of her mother and added, “Murder is so working class.”
    â€œHey, you sounded just like her.” He slapped the steering wheel in surprise.
    â€œAh, she’s easy,” Vivian said, waving her hand in dismissal. “You should hear my Mae West.”
    â€œYou’re a pretty good actress, you know,” he said, his smile fading slightly.
    â€œThank you,” she replied. Her brow wrinkled. “But you’ve only seen me perform one Darkness Knows episode.”
    â€œI mean that, sure. You’re certainly better than the previous Lorna. She couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag… But I also mean the act with your mother and with me. The stiff-upper-lip charade.”
    Vivian laughed nervously. “Oh yes, well, if I act devil-may-care, I may start to believe I actually am.”
    â€œIs it working?” The detective glanced over at her, then back to the road.
    â€œNot so far,” Vivian admitted. She absently fingered a worn spot in the upholstery of her seat, scraping her nail against the individual threads.
    â€œYou know, I don’t think anyone would question you taking some time off right now,” he said.
    Vivian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If this is some sort of reverse psychology, Mr. Haverman, it won’t work. I was serious about what I told my mother last night,” she said. “If I bow out of anything now, I’ll be a has-been before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”
    â€œAnd then you’ll have no choice but to get married and have babies.”
    Vivian’s brow furrowed, then she smirked when she realized he was teasing. “Exactly,” she agreed.
    They stopped at a red light next to the stone column of the historic Water Tower, and Vivian watched the commotion of early morning commuters rushing past her window. People scurried to and fro on the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue. The men were a blur of gray flannel, the women clad in smart fall dresses with matching hats and gloves. It was a gorgeous, crisp October morning. They were in the middle of a true Indian summer, the days warm and sunny. Vivian had always thought Indian summers were a cruel trick. They gave everyone false hope that winter might not come. But winter always came to Chicago.
    â€œI’m going to be a star, Mr. Haverman,” she said firmly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
    The detective narrowed his eyes. “Whatever it takes?”
    Vivian didn’t like his tone: teasing, sarcastic, implying something devious in her ambition. She opened her mouth to unleash a scathing retort when her eyes fell on the newsstand on the corner. Marjorie’s face stared back at her from the front page of every paper, dozens of them lined up for sale. “Radioland Murder!” the handwritten advertisements screamed.
    Vivian shuddered and closed her eyes, opening them only when the car started moving again and they were past the newspaper stand. “So what are we going to do about finding this Walter?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œI mean, how do we find this awful person before he comes after me too?”
    â€œI have no plans to find any Walter,” Mr. Haverman said.
    â€œBut you’re a private detective—”
    â€œWho is being paid simply to keep one client from harm. Mr. Hart didn’t hire me to find a