Brown Paper Packages Tied Up with Strings
Laura cleared her throat and began to read: Sooner than Never, Chapter 1.
The moon rising outside her tower window caused Lady Violet Trent to stir and wake. Her chamber, high atop the cupola, was bathed in its cool, white beams. The house was still, for once; it was as if the very stones and mortar were holding their breath; as if the muffled whispers and plaintive shrieks which so usually plagued her at hours such as this were no more than a distant and hazy dream. The world was cradled in the silence known only to the tomb.
Violet wept. How strange, how very strange that Night, which from her earliest memories was bound up with terrors too monstrous to utter, was now her only solace. Her bitterest enemy had become her one true friend.
O, would that the night, in its velvety blackness, would never end! If only the dawn would never come!
In her dreamy near languor, she pushed aside the bedclothes and lowered herself to the floor, thinking to go to the casement and draw the heavy draperies. Sleep was impossible in this brilliant near-daylight.
As her tiny feet met the cool stone, the whole room seemed to leap up at her. All the homely, well-loved articles of her childhood seemed to whisper: "Good-bye! Good-bye!" Another sob rose in her throat. There was her harp, standing elegantly in the corner. There was her pile of dolls--only the finest dolls from France--which her father had lavished on her. There was her immense dollhouse, an exact replica of the brooding hall in which she stood, hulking by the fender. There was the blood-red velveteen chaise which her mother, the venerable Mistress Peregrine, had lain on, sixteen years ago this very night, twisting in the agonies of birth. She had never seen the dawn.
Everything which was part of her, everything forever intertwined in the deepest roots of her being, called out, "Good-bye! Good-bye, Lady Violet!"
She crossed to the window, and momentarily gazed out at the great lake stretching before her. Not a ripple wrinkled its surface, which shone like polished glass. The moon painted a silvery path across the water, beckoning her. If only the moon-path would support her tread! If only the moon-path could carry her to the east! The east! In the east was escape. In the east life would forever be a drowsy summer afternoon, free from worry or care! Oh, how she longed for the east, for the motherly arms of her auntie, Dame Lydia Pinkerton!
Violet tugged on the sash which held the draperies in place, and they swung down across the sill, plunging the chamber into impenetrable darkness.
And then the voices began.
Indistinct murmurs, unintelligible whispers, countless sighs. Violet reached her arms before her, as if newly struck blind, an d found her bed in the darkness. She climbed upon it and pulled the counterpane to her chin. She summoned her strength, and cried out to the darkness:
"Begone! Spirits of the night, pray, give me peace!"
The voices about her bed sighed. The whole house seemed to sigh. Then, slowly, inexorably, they began to settle. The mumblings and whispers sank to the floor, turned to an unearthly groan, and ceased.
Violet sighed. She knew the spirits were returning to the dismal catacombs beneath the hall, returning to their uneasy slumber.
And her father wanted her to marry! To bring another into this wretched house! But none of the men wanted her. None of the men would wed her. Shy Lady Violet, terrified of conversation, unable to meet a stranger's eye! Shy little Violet, who was ill more often than well! Shy Violet, who would retire to her garret for weeks at a time! None of them had wanted her. Not Lord Sheridan, nor the Duke of Berwyn, nor yet even the despicable Monsieur de Koven.
Shy Violet, indeed, she thought bitterly. Not one of them could even fathom the horror inside her home, nor face it as resolutely as she did!
But in the morning, her life would forever change. Lord Lufton would arrive, with his small son Harlowe. Despite her protests, her father found it to be a good match, and found Lord Lufton to be a sound and virile man. If anyone could breach Violet's narrow, birdlike hips and bring forth progeny, Lufton would be the man to do it. In the morning, she would leave her tower nursery behind forever, and be married. She would then rule as the Lady of the house, till Death stole her away.
She vainly prayed that the night would never end."
"That's it?!" Christine asked indignantly. "That's the whole chapter?"
"No," replied Laura, taking a sip of the fragrant tea the ladies had provided. "There's more, and worse. God, can you believe that he even published this garbage? No, I stopped here because this is where the inimitable Mr. Waterbury has inserted a little line of asterisks, signaling a change in time or place."
"What a cheap and cheesy gimmick," Faye remarked demurely, as she stacked and unstacked the magazines littering the coffee table. "Nothing like manipulating your readers."
"Actually," Holly said quietly, "there's quite a bit to go on there. And, Mr. Gilbert and Ms. Dial, I think you are most definitely in the right place."
"Really?" Will asked, as he tore into his third muffin. "Why?"
"Well, obviously, you've got the reference to the great lake. But the chapter is packed with detail. Like Violet's suitors: Sheridan, Berwyn, de Koven. They're all streets in Chicago. Didn't you recognize that, Will?"
Will was bouncing on the couch in excitement, "No, but go on!"
Laura leaned in to Faye confidentially. "He never pays attention to details. He even skipped the preface."
"How ghastly!" Faye breathed, horrified.
"Plus," Holly continued, ignoring them, "the lake lies to the east of the Trent estate, and--"
"In Chicago, the lake is always east!" Will and Laura chorused together.
"There's a good deal of repetition, here, too," Christine said, and counted off on her fingers: "east, shy, summer, dawn, morning. . .those are the ones that leaped out at me."
"Didn't I tell you they were brilliant?" Will smirked at Laura. "Better than a geologist with a photographic memory any old day."
"And," Faye announced, "Lady Violet's surname, Trent. Reach back into your Dickens, girls. How about Little Nell Trent?"
"From The Old Curiosity Shop, " Laura nodded. A child plucked from life before her time. Her death set the world weeping."
"Or," posed Will, " what about Helen Trent. As in The Romance of Helen Trent?"
The girls with glasses blinked at him, befuddled.
"It was the longest running radio soap opera in history. It ran from the 1930s all the way through to the 60s. They reference it in Annie. Miss Hannigan listens to it."
"Maybe it was produced in Chicago," Faye mused.
"Well," Christine declared, "let's not make any uninformed decisions. We must read the rest of the chapter."
Laura opened the book and continued.
*****
Less than a mile away, Chad Bismarck sat slumped in a booth at the rear of the nearly deserted sports bar in the Evanston Holiday Inn. It was a characterless place, save for the perky undergraduate waitresses, whose very presence made his palms sweat. Meditatively, he sipped on a cup of coffee and watched ESPN with half interest.
He was glad to be away from New York. Glad to have a break from his daily posing, posturing, an ass-kissing at Waterbury Publishing. Glad to be away from his sniveling wife, Marcy. Glad to have a hotel room where her could piss with the bathroom door open. And certainly, very glad that Vesper Shillington was paying for all of it.
He caught the eye of one of the waitresses and winked at her. She rolled her eyes and turned away. Bitch, he thought grimly, taking another swig of his coffee.
Into the room strolled a man whom Chad instantly recognized as the one he was here to see. A friend of a friend had described him to Chad as "craggy, curmudgeonly, and corpse-like." The man definitely looked like he was rotting. Mid 60s, Chad guessed, in faded blue jeans and a stained windbreaker. His filthy salt and pepper toupee sat slightly askew on his head, and he looked annoyed. The man approached Chad, scowled more deeply, and approached the booth.
"You're the one who called, right?" the man asked.
"About what?" Chad replied coyly, stretching his legs under the table so his feet rested on the bench of the booth opposite him.
"Aw, I don't have time for this crap," the man said bitterly, and turned away.
"No, wait," Chad said eagerly. "Yes, I am the one who called. Roger said you'd be perfect for this. Do you have the device?"
The man withdrew a long, narrow brown paper package from his coat. "Here it is. You stick it in the tailpipe when the car has just been turned off, and pull off the paper tab. It's got to be parked. And it can't be too cold outside. And then. . ."
"And then?"
"Fifteen minutes later, the car will erupt in flames. The thing burns up, so it's untraceable."
"Amazing," Chad breathed. Vesper wanted headlines. This would guarantee them.
"It's not amazing," the man barked. "Any idiot can order from Spy Headquarters and tinker with the damn stuff. People just aren't resourceful."
Chad withdrew a manila envelope, fat with cash, from his coat pocket. He gave it to the man. The man gave him the package.
"You hurt anybody, and I'll turn you in," the man whispered hoarsely. "I'll turn you and myself in. I'm old and I don't care."
"I understand."
The man glanced at Chad's feet, resting on the bench of the booth. "Hey! Hey!" he snarled, "get your feet off the velour! You've gotta learn some respect for furniture!"
******
". . .The sky was rent with terrific thunder, and quick, hot flashes of electricity. The idyllic summer garden party had turned into a ghastly nightmare. It was as though the gods themselves had cursed their blessed union on the day of its inception.
Lady Violet dimly perceived Lord Lufton through the sheets of gray rain, scrambling down the steep bank to the shore of the lake where young Harlowe had been playing. Lufton cradled the lad in his powerful arms, and started back towards the house. Slipping on the slick grass, Lufton struggled for the sanctuary proffered by the hall.
Violet felt her father's heavy hand on her shoulder. The guests murmured about her, hundreds of indistinguishable voices appalled at the spectacle before them.
The skies split and the earth shook. A blinding flash caused her to recoil, and the acrid smell of the electricity reached her dainty nostrils. There, not ten paces from the hall, Lufton lay in a charred heap, struck down by the hand of God. Harlowe, quite alive, clutched his father's massive and blackened hand.
Violet screamed. A wife, a widow, a mother, all in the same day. This was her sorry lot. Her childhood, her innocence, was lost. Lost!"
"And that's where it ends," Laura said as she thumped the book closed.
"Poor Lady Violet, suffering so wretchedly," Will breathed.
"So we're looking for violent electrical storms," Christine suggested.
"And what was the date you mentioned?" Holly inquired.
"8/14/28," Laura replied. "And we're not sure it's a date. It was inscribed on the anchor in Centralia, and we--"
The doorbell rang.
"Who on earth could it be?" Faye asked, rising. "It's probably our nutcase landlord." She strode to the wall and pushed the door buzzer. Seconds later, there was a gentle tapping at the door. Faye looked through the peephole, smirked, and swung open the door.
"My God," Will gasped, "it's Agent M!"
Mike strode across the room to Laura, his outstretched arms filled with a massive bouquet.
"Hey," Mike dimpled. "These are for you."
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