The Weird Sisters
They passed the trip in silence. Will was weary; Laura, nettled. She was glad to have the road to focus her attention on, even if it meant letting Will weasel out of his day of driving.
"It's just so embarrassing," she finally said, breaking the silence. "It ruins everything."
"I don't see why you're so embarrassed," Will yawned. "He was cute. It's not like you slept with some creepy boy with poor hygienic habits."
She rolled her eyes. "Will, for the last time, I didn't sleep with him. Is that so unfathomable? Some us don't jump into bed just because someone has a nice smile." She looked meaningfully at him.
"Well, aren't we on our high horse today. But let me ask, young Missy," he shot back, "Just what you were doing all night . . . alone . . . in that motel room . . . . with that big, comfy bed . . . ? Your general crabbiness suggests you weren't sleeping . . .," he sang.
She hated it when he got into his 'I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself' mood. "You're right. We didn't sleep. We talked."
"You talked?" he asked, eyebrow lifted. "And what, pray tell, did you talk about?"
"We talked about everything: the treasure hunt, Sooner than Never, life in New York, college, you . . . everything."
"Fine. We'll leave it at that."
Silence again, for stretches of highway. Will occasionally gave Laura curt directions on turn-offs and highway changes. At the junction of the Interstates 94 and 90, he steered her onto the 94. At Dempster Street, he ordered her off the expressway.
"OK, but which way do we head?"
"East, my dear, East! To the lake! In Chicago, the lake is always east!"
"We're going to the lake?"
"No . . . we're going to the Writer's Guild."
*********
Vesper roused herself early that morning. She hoped that Simon would sleep late. His 'invigorating' air bath the night before had rejuvenated him--more than she would have liked. She had wanted him asleep, and as early as possible. Toward that end, she had suggested they start the evening's games with a cocktail--his drink liberally spiked with sominex, of course--but he refused. He felt, as he put it, in 'rare form' and didn't want any decrease in his 'manly powers.' His words, not hers. Her carefully concocted Mickey went down the drain as she steeled herself in expectation of a night of labors.
His efforts flagged around 3:00am. She was relieved. As he drifted off, Vesper watched Simon slip deeper and deeper into sleep. As she had suspected, the evening romps had produced an effect not unlike that of the thwarted sedative cocktail. He would not soon awake.
Vesper herself hardly slept a wink. She rarely slept well in Simon's penthouse. The constant trickling of water from his cajun-inspired habitat creeped into her brain and made slumber impossible. Not that she could allow herself the luxury of relaxation. She had work to do.
Stealthily slipping from the bed, she turned once to make sure he hadn't stirred. Success: he was still wrapped around his navy satin body pillow. Sliding her feet into tiny pink ballet slippers and enveloping herself in a silky floral robe, she crept from the room noiselessly. He did not stir.
She slid into his study and began her search. Not that she was entirely sure what she was searching for. Anything unusual, anything out of place. During her fifteen-year tenure at Waterbury Publishing, Vesper had achieved a level of intimacy with Simon's affairs, business and personal, that few had attained. Anything that did not belong would be readily apparent to her trained eye.
Desktop. Nothing.
Desk drawers. Nothing.
Filing cabinet. Nothing.
As she turned to search the bookcase, a figure in the corner of her eye made her jump. Her mind raced as she clambered for an explanation, a ruse, anything to account for her actions. Simon was innately suspicious; her early morning treasure hunt could only do her harm. Calming herself by sheer force of will, she faced the intruder.
To her relief, Milton's stooped and reverent figure filled the door.
"Beg pardon, Miss Shillington," he sputtered. "I came in to leave the morning paper for Mr. Waterbury. When I heard someone in here . . . well, I figured it was best to be safe then sorry." He nodded apologetically, cap in hands.
"Oh, Milton! It's you!" she burst out, her alarm half feigned, half real. Girlish charm engaged, she added, "I was just looking for my reading glasses. I thought I may have left them in here. Do you think you could help me find them? I'm so scattered this morning."
**********
The bee-crap yellow car trundled along the crowed residential thoroughfare. Laura considered Will's tone of high mystery. He loved to surprise her and she, well, she had had just enough of surprises lately.
"I guess we're close enough now that you can start to fill me in on the details. Exactly who are these people we'll be staying with? . . . .Don't forget to tell me where to turn."
"I won't, sugar beet. As if I could! These are my old stomping grounds. Evanston, Illinois! But to answer your question, we will be staying at the apartment of my old friends and confederates, the ladies of the Writers' Guild."
"And they are . . . ?"
" . . . graduate students in English Literature studying at Northwestern University. We met during my glorious undergraduate days." He gestured her to turn right at the next corner. "I like to think of them as my own private "lone gunman committee". They have a wealth of obscure information at their fingertips. Your one-stop-shop for trivia and intrigue," he beamed.
"And you think they can help us with our next clue?"
"Definitely! And not only that. They are also in the possession of two divinely comfortable sofas. I call the dark blue one! You can sleep on the striped one."
"Well, at least we won't blow our housing budget while in Chicago."
"Exactly. We'll be stopping just after this next intersection. Holly told me there should be plenty of street parking. There!" he exclaimed gleefully, and pointed to modest looking old-style brick two-flat. "Top floor! Let's notify the good ladies of our arrival!"
Laura gazed at the sturdy building and felt a wave of relief wash over her. It was a homey little building, a warm brick red with white trim. A jungle of house plants peeked from the windows which spanned the building's narrow front. At last, she thought, somewhere normal that looks like home.
As they scooted across the street toward the welcoming edifice, Laura reflected on how Will always seemed to surround himself with a certain type of female friend. She knew only a little about the women of the so-called Writers' Guild, but they seemed to fit the typical profile for Will's friends: highly intelligent, highly educated, not too flashy, very well-informed and practically oriented. Girls with glasses. A proper foil for his own, more glamorous gifts.
They stepped into the tiny, cramped entryway, and Will hit the buzzer with great ceremony. A few seconds elapsed, and then was heard from space above the jubilant question, "Is that our darling boy?"
"Yes! It is I! We have arrived from our perilous trek."
This clarion call received no more response than the thundering of little feet as they came barreling down the carpeted staircase. The door swung open. "And it's Wee Faye," Will announced. "How are you my darling. This is my intrepid companion, Laura!"
Faye gave Will a big hug, turned to Laura, and welcomed her to the Windy City. She then directed them up to the second floor.
"Do you still have the crazy old land lady?" Will asked. "The one who snoops when you're out of the apartment."
"Yes!" Faye moaned, "She hasn't kacked yet. I guess we're stuck with her for another year. Oh, but we've developed a strategy," she added mysteriously. "Now we plant suspicious faux evidence around to the apartment to hint to her that we're up to no good. We've got her convinced that Holly is having an affair with her boss, and that Christine has plans to detonate plastic explosives somewhere in Kenilworth! I figure if she's gonna snoop, give her something worth finding!"
"Well, Christine probably will blow something up eventually, don't you think?" Will quipped slyly. "So are the other ladies a-home?"
"Holly's here--there's a Packer game on, so she'll be glued to the tube for awhile. Christine took a trip up to campus. . ." she trailed off.
"Tactical maneuvers?" "Bingo." Will noted Laura's puzzled look and explained. "These young ladies have spent the majority of their time in graduate school undertaking a form of guerrilla warfare against their department and the world of academe at large. Fake departmental memos, flyers advertising new course offerings that don't exist, that sort of thing."
"Graduate school can be really BORING," Faye added. "We needed to do something to keep from becoming a bunch of stiffs."
At that moment, the back door of the flat banged shut, and a wild-eyed red-head beetled into the room.
"Turn off the phone ringer! We are in SO much trouble!" she proclaimed jubilantly. The newcomer was clad in a plain green fall jacket. She wore a red and black bike helmet on the her head, which lent her the look of a rather manic ladybug.
"And this is Christine," Will added.
Her eyes brightened even more as she recognized the visitor. "Why Mr. Gilbert!" she exclaimed, you've arrived at last! So tell us everything! How has your journey been thus far?"
"That in a moment," he replied. "What's all this about being in trouble?"
"Oh, just one of our latest extra-curricular activities. A little academic espionage. We have to lay low a bit. They really can't pin anything on us. We covered our tracks."
Laura was stunned. "You do things that could get you in trouble? Aren't you afraid of . . . well, of what they could do to you in response?"
Faye chuckled. "Well, they'd have to catch us first. I mean, they KNOW it's us. We kind of have a reputation. But nothing would ever stick. We're too careful."
"But enough of this," Christine cut in. "Have you attended to our guests?" She smacked Faye on the head. "What kind of a hostess are you?" She turned back to Will and Laura. "Come in! Come in! Take of your shoes and enjoy our spongy carpet."
As the two hostesses ushered their guests around the apartment, Laura surveyed her new surroundings and the inhabitants. It was not precisely what she had anticipated. Warm and cozy--yes. Casual and comfortable--yes. Big brick fireplace, warm earth tones, airy lighting through multiple windows. But also slightly askew. Books of all descriptions lined the walls in the livingroom. Old text books, reference books on every field under the sun, action-adventure novels, financial and investment planners. Cosmopolitan Magazinelay side by side with several copies of The Economist. A delicate Japanese window box stood beside a signed cast photo from Mystery Science Theatre 3000 ("We really like Joel," Christine explained later.) Asian art prints, communist propaganda and "beefcake photos" of major sports figures created a colorful collage on the wall. A marker board in the kitchen listed under the category of 'hot men': Brett Favre, Michael Moore, Michael Jordan, Kevin Spacey. The taste in decorating, and in men, was certainly eclectic.
The three inhabitants left an equally scattered impression. Holly, the Packers fan, was introduced only briefly. She stared intently at the television, clutching a plush football, a Wisconsin cheese head crowning a short, thick, stylishly clipped mop of dark blond hair. She looked up briefly, flashed a wild grin, waved madly and sunk back into intent contemplation. A slender, willowy woman, she had the kind of physique most women would kill for. And while she looked like you could snap her like a twig, it would be a mistake to challenge her intellectually, Will would later warn Laura.
Holly's sometimes cool reserve contrasted sharply with Christine's effusive boisterousness. Relishing the role of ambassador to the world, she inquired solicitously regarding Laura's comfort and offered refreshments. As she buzzed about, her wild mop of reddish brown pre-Raphaelite curls worked their way out of their confinement, a brown plastic hair clip. Her hazel green eyes sparkled with evil wit as she explicated the various decorative features of the apartment and described its previous tenants.
Throughout it all, the procession was followed up by Faye, who padded behind, interjecting only the occasional comic gloss on things. A small brunette with an alternating shy and obstreperous personal style, Faye seemed constantly distracted by the physical world about her. Fidgeting, pacing, stacking objects, she seemed happiest attending to the guests' physical wants of a cup of tea and muffin, only sporadically joining the conversation.
Their simple breakfast was interrupted by Holly's loud proclamation of "Half-time!," and the group repaired to the livingroom.
********
Nothing. The search had turned up nothing. No files, no disk, nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, it didn't help to have Milton doddering behind her. She couldn't very well do a really thorough search with him around.
Simon roused himself several hours later. After his morning steambath and ice plunge, he was ready for action again. It was his perverted little idea of how to celebrate a Sunday. Deftly warding of his advances, Vesper reminded Simon that the anniversary of the death of Mrs. Waterbury would soon be upon them. The early bird catches the worm, she chirped.
Mrs. Simon Waterbury. Lily. Simon Waterbury's beautiful child bride. When they married, Lily was a fresh-faced midwestern girl, all of 18 years old. Simon was 22 years her senior. She had traveled to New York on her own, eager to do social work in the big evil city. An orphan since her early childhood, Lily felt a natural kinship with the rejected, the disenfranchised. She had been raised in an institution, and knew first-hand all that could be lacking in that environment. Love just wasn't in the budget. She wanted to use such institutions to provide for others what had been missing in her growing-up.
The two met at a charity function. Lily was serving as the liaison from the local women's shelter; Simon was a major benefactor. He seemed to her strong, powerful, but underneath it all, benevolent. She seemed to him young, fresh, and easy to control. Throughout her cold childhood, Lily had solaced her loneliness with books. Jane Eyre was a particular favorite. She rejoiced that she had found her Rochester.
When he proposed, she had joyously accepted. The match seemed, to the gossip tabloids and tea-room klatches, quite happy. Simon doted on Lily, and she looked up to him with a wonder tantamount to awe. Naturally, rumors abounded that all was not as it seemed. If they were so contented together, why was Lily so often committed to the care of Simon's personal assistant, Philip? And why her extended retreat (to God knows where) to "relieve her nerves"?
And then, two years after the marriage, Lily vanished. She was never located. Over 25 years later, Simon still grieved. Deeply. Profoundly. Publicly.
Waterbury's memorial services were a legend in the town. A yearly celebration, as his PR department so carefully phrased it, of the glory of youth and spirit that left this grim world all too soon. As the years rolled by, the services grew more and more elaborate. A black clad cortège winding up 5th avenue, crowned by a spectacular "flight of angels" ascending skyward at Rockefeller Center. A Mexican-influenced "Masque of the Dead," featuring a white satin-clad nymphet spreading joy and sunshine amidst an army of skeletons, as performed by a troupe of world-renowned dancers from flown directly from Mexico city. A pantomime presentation of the rape of Persephone, as staged with giant man-sized puppets, which stopped traffic at Columbus Circle. Though commemorating death, the jubilant celebrations spread of tone of ebullience through the city. And of course, coupons for discounts on Waterbury Press publications were handed out liberally at such affairs.
The man knew how to grieve.
At Vesper's mention of the upcoming ceremony, Simon pulled back. His face went blank for just a moment. Shrewd intelligence glimmered in his eyes. What does he know?, Vesper's earlier question came back to haunt her.
The moment passed, and his face shifted to eager concentration.
"Yes, yes!" he proclaimed. "The final touches are upon us. I need to meet with Carlo to discuss the backdrop design." Though Simon employed an army of assistants, he always attended to the details of the memorial service personally. When he turned to his wardrobe to select the day's outfit, Vesper breathed a silent sigh of relief.
He seemed to detect the slackening in her posture, even though he could not see her. He spoke without turning.
"You're coming, Vesper dear, are you not. You've always taken such a personal interest in my beloved's memorialization." He pinned her with a look.
Her mind raced. "I wouldn't have it any other way. You know that, my dear," she purred. "But first, I must attend to some affairs of my own. I was such a lazy girl this morning, I haven't even had my shower yet. And I wouldn't want to hold you up. Why don't you run along ahead, and I'll catch up."
He smiled a quizzical, knowing smile, and turned back to his toilette. "As you wish. But don't delay. You know I simply cannot do without your valuable input on these matters."
She smiled an assent, and allowed her hand to graze his shoulder in a half-caress as she left the room.
********
"So, my dear girl, what have you found for us?" Will asked as he sank back into the couch cushion.
"Well, I have to say, you didn't give me much to work with," Faye answered. She pulled out a sheath of papers, a map of the Chicagoland area, and a notebook and pen. "Chicago is on a LAKE, after all. Lots of people have died in water around here--and there would be a lot of water to hide a clue in."
"Not to mention peripheral water disasters," Christine added. "For pete's sake, remember the flooding a few years back from that maintenance accident? Water filled some of the subway tunnels and seeped into the basements of a bunch of buildings downtown. It was really sad. Lots of archival records were lost. I don't think anyone died in that, though."
"And then here's the Great Fire . . .," Holly added. Her two roommates looked at her quizzically.
"LOSER!" Christine smacked her on the head. "What has that got to do with water?"
"Excuse me . . . the Water Tower downtown . . . the only thing standing after the fire . . . ring a bell?"
"Maybe," Christine sulked. "I think there's got to be more to work with, though. Now, why do you know this clue is in Chicago?"
"There are clues throughout the chapter about shy-this and shy-that. And it talks about a river on the lake."
"Well, couldn't there be more to it than that in the chapter?," Faye asked as she reached for another muffin. "what else does it say?"
Laura reached for the novel.
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