Remember Me to Herald Square
Vesper Shillington hated the holidays.
As the Sooner than Never float wound its way down Broadway through a pounding downpour, she silently cursed Macy's, the Thanksgiving Day parade, the pilgrims, the Indians, the turkey farmers, and every single one of the wide-eyed tourists who stood on the sidewalks dripping in glee.
She was cold. And wet. And Thaddeus had been sitting on her feet since the float had left Central Park, what seemed an eternity ago. And her new feathered fur astrakhan cap drooped on her head, like a horridly flattened and indistinguishable animal. She pulled her blindingly yellow designer parka snugly about her, and settled back onto her throne beside Simon.
Simon was having a wonderful time, and she hated him for it. He gaily called out to the tourists, and threw copy after copy of Sooner than Never to the adoring crowd. He chuckled and beamed, even as water ran in rivulets down the sides of his now ruined suede Panama hat.
At least the actors look as miserable as I feel, she thought dully as she looked down upon them as they slipped and slid over the float's slick surface. The float was made up to look like a desolate moor and the gargantuan entrance gate to Lady Violet's hall, and the actors were decked out in once-handsome gothic attire. Lady Violet, played by a lovely young woman named Amelia Peterson, smiled warmly to the crowd, though her ankle-length flowing nightgown was plastered to her wet body, and her soaking red wig ran a long, bloody-looking stain down her back. Tim Pfizer, the spry and boyishly handsome actor playing Violet's ward, Harlowe, bounded about the float, trying his best to be brave and heroic, but sneezing intermittently.
She couldn't wait for the entire fiasco to be over. She couldn't wait to get off the float and begin her vacation. Each year, Simon left New York in December to go play Santa Claus at his favorite Las Vegas casino in cognito, and each year he graciously gave her the month off as well. She had booked herself a bungalow on a private island in the Caribbean, and intended to stay as far away from Christmas, from publishing, and from Sooner than Never as possible.
It had been a ferociously busy and tedious autumn. The launch of Sooner than Never, the send-off of Laura Dial and her treasure-hunting companion, the storms of controversy in the popular press, the annual over-production of Lily Waterbury's memorial, the constant updates from her little reporter boy, the coddling and coaching of Chad, plus all of her usual and weighty responsibilities. . .just thinking about it all gave her a little twinge of a headache.
But now, things were going well, she assessed. Reasonably well. After the disconcerting appearance of a Sooner than Never clue in Centralia, life had gotten on a rather more even keel. The Dial woman and her friend were chasing their tails in Chicago, where they had been for over a month; David Nimoy had truly blossomed, and was getting their quest and the novel some truly stupendous press coverage; Chad was staying out of sight and assuring that the press had something to cover; Simon was, she thought, pleased as punch with her. . .yes, things were working out well after all the initial turmoils and difficulties.
Her reverie was broken as the float bumped to a sudden halt in front of Macy's. The actors all flooded off, and a ludicrously whimsical tune began. This was the float's time in the spotlight, she thought wearily. She sat up straight and gave the crowds and the cameras a dazzling smile.
Amelia, Tim, and all of the other actors bumped and grinded as the syrupy melody of the piped-in song kicked in. Simon had thought it would be "cute" to stage a musical number at the parade, celebrating the novel and the treasure hunt. He had enlisted his dwarfish friend, a flamboyant Broadway impresario, in writing a little tune. The finished product sounded something like a cartoon theme song:
"Once upon a dreary moor,
half a moon from yesteryear,
A lady in a stony tow'r
Kept the ghosts and spooks at bay:
'Begone, o spirits of the night,
Do leave and give me rest.
Tomorrow is my wedding day and I want to look my best.'"
Vesper squirmed uncomfortably on her throne. Thaddeus pointed his damp muzzle at the sky and began to howl, but Simon shushed him.
"But the wedding day brought terrible strife,
And quickly took her husband's life.
The lady saw him bake and fry,
as a horrid rain poured from the sky.
The thunder crashed,
her love and dreams were smashed.
The lake grew dark
Her hopes were dim
and the ghosts wailed on and on and on and on. . ."
The actors broke into a feverish dance break, twisting about, thrusting their pelvises, temporarily abandoning their silly lip synching. It was entirely inappropriate choreography, Vesper thought, for the material. The actors sang again:
"But slowly Violet got on top
a lady who would never stop.
She fought the ghosts and ghoulies too
and knew exactly what to do.
She took her ward and went due East
and left her Pa who was a beast. . ."
On and on the song droned. Vesper blocked it out with thoughts of sandy white beaches, azure blue seas, and very large drinks being served by men in very small bathing suits. Surprisingly, the conclusion of the song brought thunderous cheers and applause. People loved it. The actors bowed. Simon stood up and bowed. Vesper waved politely to the camera, and the float lurched around the corner.
Thank God, she thought, it's over.
As they were disembarking from the float, Simon gave her a smothering bear hug. Nearby, his car stood waiting to take him to the airport.
"As always, Ms. Shillington, a stellar job this fall. Stellar," he repeated, and smiled so his yellow teeth showed. "Do enjoy your trip. You do so deserve it."
"Thank you, Simon," she smiled and did her best to look radiant in the cold rain.
"By the way," Simon added, "your publicity stunt couple is in the right place. They'll find what they're looking for if they just apply themselves."
All of the breath went out of Vesper's lungs. Simon never spoke to her about the hunt anymore. She had a feeling that their planning sessions last year had been peppered with half-truths. Telling her that the next clue was definitely in Chicago was out of character. Suspiciously out of character.
"Oh," she stammered. "Good. I'm. . .I'm sure that it will drives sales up, darling, when they--"
"Oh, bah!" Simon snorted. "Never mind sales. You'd love to know where they should look, wouldn't you?"
"Well, I--"
Simon suddenly handed her a creamy vellum envelope. "Merry Christmas, Vesper." He walked away into the sheets of gray rain.
Old wacko, she thought viciously, as she tore the envelope open. Inside was her Christmas bonus: a Waterbury certified check for $150,000. That was standard.
And there was a card.
It wasn't a Christmas card. It was a beautiful, hand-painted geisha girl, daintily holding a parasol under a blossoming cherry tree. Inside, Simon had simply written, "All my best, Christmas 1998."
Vesper's knees turned to Jell-O. She, the ultra-poised and perfect, in full view of thousands of parade marchers and tourists, bent at the waist and vomited noisily onto the pavement.
It was a miracle on 34th street.
*****
Laura sat chilled on a bench near the Clark Street bridge in downtown Chicago. A raw wind ruffled her hair. She pulled a pair of cheery red earmuffs from her coat pocket and put them on.
What a great way to spend Thanksgiving, she thought grimly. All across the country--and in the apartment buildings and hotels around her--families were watching football on TV, polishing their silverware, and preparing to settle down to the most sumptuous feast of the year, while she sat freezing on a bench in the nearly-deserted Meat-Packer to the world.
Where was Will? she wondered impatiently. They needed to get back to Faye, Christine, and Holly's for dinner. And, after combing this stretch of the Chicago River dozens of times, she knew there was nothing new to see.
But there had to be something new to see. They had to be missing something. She kicked her feet impatiently at the asphalt. She was certain that somewhere, probably within sight of where she now sat, lay the next clue in the Simon Waterbury's twisted little game.
Weeks ago, the day after Will's freaky Tarot card reading and the bomb explosion--the second day they were in the city, for God's sakes-- Faye, Laura, and Will had stumbled across what they infallibly believed to be the next landmark in Sooner than Never. After fruitlessly pursuing Chicago's long history of violent electrical storms, mob hits at lakefront wedding ceremonies, and an amazingly frequent series of Lake Michigan shipwrecks, Faye had pulled up a website which basically fit all of the clues that Simon had provided in Chapter 1: The Eastland Disaster.
The Eastland was an excursion boat which made day trips out of the city at the turn of the century. On Saturday, July 24, 1915, the Western Electric Company rented out the Eastland and several other boats for its annual company picnic. The plan was to sail to the beaches of Indiana for a day of leisure. . .a truly exciting getaway for the hardworking, poorly paid, and immigrant workforce that Western Electric employed. But the Eastland was poorly designed, and as the eager passengers swarmed aboard the ship, it began to list in the river. Thinking it was amusing, the passengers paid little mind to the boat's dangerous tilt, and still more passengers thronged onto the decks. Around 7:30 am, the ship had capsized at its dock near the Clark Street bridge, and 844 people who were trapped inside were engulfed in a swift and watery death.
It was all just too perfect, Laura thought, running through the clues in her mind. The anchor in Centralia symbolized water and ships. Its inscription, ". . .in which the dead do slumber" signified the deaths of the passengers and crew. Lady Violet's obsession with the East pointed to the name of the boat. The violent electrical storm was an oblique reference to Western Electric. The whole tone of Chapter 1 was "an idyllic garden party turned into a ghastly nightmare." The Eastland simply had to be the next clue in the hunt.
But they had found nothing. The ship had been dismantled in 1947, after having served as a training vessel. Hardly a shred of the event was visible in Chicago. Most Chicagoans didn't even know about the disaster. There was nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. No giant anchors half-embedded in the ground, no mysterious plaques, no fissures spewing forth fire and brimstone. Nothing.
Will had become positively obsessed with the Eastland. Every day, he made the long trek downtown from Evanston and trudged along the river, looking for something, anything that might signal the next clue. After their disastrous appearance on Oprah, he was recognized and followed by bands of curious Chicagoans. So, he now made his treks in the middle of the night, hoping to fend off other would-be clue-seekers and what he termed "cheaters."
Laura was growing increasingly weary and frustrated with the whole thing. She had recently begun to think that they should have headed to Wyoming, and followed the mysterious inscription on the Centralia anchor: "Cheyenne, 8/14/28." Chicago had been nothing but trouble for her. After the car was nearly blown up, she was mugged in broad daylight, a crazed sidewalk preacher had accosted her and slapped her across the face, she had been made to look like a fool on national television, and an Internet site had sprung up purporting to show nude pictures of Mike (they were, in fact, just his head superimposed on beefcake models). Where was Mike? she wondered. She hadn't heard from the geologist since mid-October. And, more importantly, where was Will?
As if on cue, Will came bounding down the riverfront sidewalk, a crazed look in his eyes. "Get, up, honey," he commanded swiftly. "Run. Quick."
"Did you find something?" Laura asked, getting to her feet.
"I don't know," he muttered. "Maybe. There's got to be a tunnel, or something. Connecting it to the river. Where the boat sank!"
"Will, what are you talking about?"
"Look!" he said, making a broad sweep of the eastern horizon with his arm.
"Look at what?"
"That building!" He pointed to a sleek, unobstrusive skyscraper, situated about a block away. "That's got to be it!"
Laura looked at the company name, blazing in red neon on the side of the building.
It said, "TAKAMOTO."
*****
Vesper stormed into her apartment, and was greeted by Shilah, her maid, who was dressed in an absurd-looking mother pilgrim outfit. Soft strains of "We Gather Together" came in through the stereo system.
"Welcome home, Goody Shillington," Shilah said brightly. "Dinner is--"
"Shut up, you little fool," Vesper hissed. "Did you buy that ridiculous costume with my money?"
"I was just--"
"Shut up and listen to me. Go unpack my bags. Get rid of the beachwear. Pack me some warm clothes."
"But--"
"And. . .and pack some clothes from the laundry room closet. Be quick."
"Ooo, Ms. Shillington, something's the matter, isn't it?!"
"Just go, you ninny! My flight to Chicago leaves in two hours."
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