Chapter 18

Vesper laid a cool, slender hand on Simon's brow.

"And how are we today, darling?" she drawled.

"Better, much better. I can't imagine I'll be here much longer," he replied, reaching for the remote control. "I know you feel you must linger out of a sense of duty, but I'm certain you're no longer needed. Just sit with me a bit more, and then take off to your much-deserved vacation." He snapped off the mute, and the stirring tones of the evening news filled the room.

Vesper sighed. She wanted to leave, it was true, but there was something much too odd in Simon's manner--as if he had a secret he was savoring, and one that involved her in no small way. She sank into the deep and comfortable easy chair beside Simon's bed, one of many special amenities flown in at the mogul's request and expense.

"Of course, my dear, whatever you . . .," Vesper started in. In a sharp gesture, Waterbury's hand shot up, silencing her. His eyes never left the screen. Puzzled, Vesper turned toward the television.

A photo of Waterbury filled the upper right-hand corner of the screen, his named blazoned beneath. Finally, she caught the dulcet tones of the news anchor, handing off the top story to a correspondent:

" . . . recovering from a recent heart attack at the Mayo Clinic. Here's David Nimoy, our special correspondent, with more."

Vesper gasped. The scene shifted to Nimoy, clad in a stylish sheepskin coat and head band, set against the backdrop of mountain pines.

"Thank you, Tom. As you know, the saga of Waterbury's collapse in a Las Vegas casino dominated the national news all through the holdays. But the news of his recovery has been overshadowed by two recent developments in his most current project, the nationwide treasure hunt involving his novel Sooner than Never. "For months now, the nation has watched and waited breathlessly as a number of search parties have pursued the treasure. Always in front were a couple from New York City, Laura Dial and William Gilbert.

"But just last month, poor weather (and possibly poor driving) left the couple overturned in a ditch in southern Illinois. Minor injuries have waylaid the two frontrunners--and it couldn't have come at a worse time. While they lay convalescing, it appears a retired couple from Banning, California, have stumbled across the next clue in Beaver Creek, Colorado. . ."

At the sounds of "Beaver Creek," Vesper bolted upright, her hands stiffening as they grasped the buttery-soft arms of the leather easy chair. Frozen, she dared not turn toward Simon.

"The couple have yet to be reached for commentary. Their accidental discovery of the clue is somewhat of a mystery, as neither seems at all aware of the treasure hunt or the Waterbury novel.

"But just as this new discovery hit the press, there has been yet another complication. Earlier today, Simon Waterbury issued a press release announcing that he will be doubling the $500,000,000.00 prize hidden at the end of the Sooner than Never treasure hunt. That's a grand total of one billion dollars! Industry experts have questioned Waterbury's motives in upping the ante--some speculate he is attempting to divest some of his vast personal weath. For what reason, we can but guess. This is David Nimoy, in Beaver Creek, Colorado."

Slowly, Vesper turned to Simon. His eyes were still on the screen, hazy and contented; a half-smile played on his lips. Vesper was uneasy.

"Perhaps you are puzzled, my dear? Did I not cc you on the memo regarding the revision of the treasure's terms? I must have overlooked it." His smile deepened. "No matter. You know now."

He leaned forward and, aiming the remote, snapped the television off.

"You've been taking on too much lately, my dear. I thought I'd relieve some of your professional pressures. Issuing the press release from my hospital bed was easy enough; there was no need to involve you." He waved her toward him. "Now grant me your good-bye kiss and be on your way. Where are you vacationing again? Is it Barbados?"

Vesper gathered her composure. She leaned over and kissed Simon on the forehead, leaving a deep red mark. "Yes, darling. Barbados. The beaches are filled with fine white sand, and the water is a transparent blue. Most soothing."

"Well, enjoy. We'll touch base in a month," he said, curtly dismissing her.

She turned to leave, and hesitated at the door. Without a word, she continued on, slipping out of the room and shutting the door noiselessly behind her.

Simon settled back against the overstuffed pillows. Sighing with satisfaction, he stretched and locked his hands behind his head, hopelessly tangling the i.v. tubes attached to his inner arm.

Damnation, he cursed silently. He removed the tapes from his inner elbow, exposing the clear unmarked flesh beneath as the blunt-edged tubes fell away. No needles, no marks of penetration. He mindlessly rubbed the adhesive residue on his skin. Not as uncomfortable as a real heart attack, but inconvenient nonetheless, he thought. He leaned over the side of the bed and pulled a plug from the wall. The steady beep monitoring his "heartbeat" stopped abruptly.

Simon reached for the phone on the night table and hit speed-dial.

"This is Waterbury. I'm returning. Make the necessary arrangements."

************

The flight from Arizona to Los Angeles was short, but Vesper requested first class. She always flew first class. Not that she needed the amenities. With her ultra-slim hips, the spacious first class seats were a waste, and the cuisine, though a cut above that served in coach, was not worth the price. In any event, Vesper, who was prone to stomach disorders, rarely ate in-flight. A few slices of melba toast and a Perrier were usually all she required.

To Vesper, the leading concerns were time and convenience. First class passengers got on and off the plane first, and she was not one to wait. The privilege of pre-boarding was enough to warrant the first-class fare, even if she did have to wait subsequently for the mass of overgrown families, vacationing college students, and third-rate businessmen to board before they could depart. She liked to be settled, to have time to think. And she had much about which to think.

While striding through the terminal, Vesper had picked up a newspaper which had as its screaming headline "Retired Couple Finds Next Clue!" She glanced through the article; it was a fluff piece profiling the comfortable old couple, highlighting their easy middle-class lifestyle and playing up the "everyman" wonder of it all.

Vesper set the paper aside. This new development troubled her deeply. It was clear that Simon was playing her. The shift from gentle paternal solicitude, his pose these last few weeks, to today's sudden enigmatic detachment suggested that he knew something.

He knew something, perhaps everything, and he had a back-up plan of his own. This was an eventuality Vesper had hoped to avoid. Ever since this treasure hunt had begun, she had had her suspicions. It was such an odd project to undertake. While it provided much in the way of publicity, Waterbury's company was not anywhere near crisis-mode in that department. And the outrageous sum he offered as the grand prize far outstripped the sum needed to make a publicity splash. Simon, with his yearly fêtes, knew well the balance between expense and benefit when planning a media circus. By her calculation, he had never overpaid before.

And then there was the treasure hunt itself. Centralia was jarring. Chicago, even more so. But now Beaver Creek. It was clear that Simon was on to her. Too many memories, too much meaning tied up in these three locales.

So the question remained: precisely how much did he know? And did he know enough to undo her current project with Takamoto? It was conceivable that even if he suspected, it was too late to forestall the chain of actions she had set in motion. In any event, her impending meeting in Los Angeles with the Takamoto team would come none too soon. Indeed, with Simon's most recent eccentricity, his whimsical doubling of the prize money, Vesper felt time was of the essence. Act now, or lose all. The meeting in the so-called City of Angeles could not be timed more perfectly.

*************

Lace doilies. Lord, how he hated lace doilies.

Lace everywhere, underpinning vases and figurines, lining the coffee table, fringing the curtains.

Will had never seen so much lace. Mrs. Dial's taste in daily wear typically tended toward the daintily and conventionally feminine, but on special occasions she brought out the big guns.

Lace.

Wednesday at 3:00pm had recently become one of these 'special occasions'--the prairie-land version of high tea. Mrs. Dial, whose love of Merchant-Ivory films knew no bounds, realized that she could corner the Iowan market on savoir-faire simply by hosting a regular series of such events.

Each Wednesday afternoon, ladies of the 'best set' (drawn mainly from the P.T.A. and Baptist Ladies' Society) would convene at the Dial's for steamy beverages, dainty sandwiches, and elegant pastries--all lovingly crafted with the help of the Pillsbury Bake-off Cookbook. The pigs-in-a-blanket were a perennial favorite.

Laura typically opted out of such events. She was perfectly willing to help in the preparation for each fête--it was her duty as a hearty daughter of the Midwestern prairie. But once the ladies arrived, she always produced some carefully considered pretext to excuse herself and slide swiftly and silently from the lace-bedecked Dial livingroom.

Will, on the other hand, had become quite the tea-time fixture. Never a full-fledged 'tea lady,' he hovered on the periphery, offering refills of coffee and crumpet, along with the occasional pithy or flirtatious rejoinder.

The ladies of the tea-drinking set adored him. What at first seemed in him dangerously flamboyant, even effeminate, soon was deemed "elegant, charming and well-mannered."

"And he looks so dashing with that eye patch," Mrs. Pfost confided to Mrs. Mueller.

Some even asserted, in whispered snatches, that it seemed to them highly unthinkable that Will and Laura were, as they claimed, merely friends. They clucked their tongues and smiled knowingly into their cups of tea.

Will merely smiled enigmatically and proferred yet one more miniature shrimp quiche.

Circling the periphery of the party, Will entertained himself by perusing Mrs. Dials forays into interior decorating, frequently questioning her in a flatteringly thorough fashion about one item or another.

Having exhausted the glittering sets of blown glass figurines, pink-cheeked Hummel children, and driftwood sculptures, he now turned his eye to the clutch of family portraits that crowded the mantlepiece.

Laura at 12 with baton. Laura at 16 during summer camp. Laura with her prom date on the front lawn. Laura towering over her strangely squat parents, her winsome shape and auburn curls in sharp contrast to her dark, wee parents.

"Ma Dial," Will tossed languorously over his shoulder, "Why haven't you put out any pictures of Laura as a baby? I would dearly love to see her in her swaddling clothes."

A sudden crash of china was all the reponse Will received. He turned to find himself pinned by the panicked gaze of twenty wide eyes.

*************

The limousine ride to the hotel was uneventful, as was the flight. Vesper was grateful for small favors. She arrived at the Hyatt Regency and asked to be shown directly to her room. Three hours until her meeting with Takamoto. Ample time.

Strolling into her suite behind the bellcap, Vesper surveyed the central room. It was all as she had requested. A full-length mirror. A lit vanity. A steam press, already heated and waiting. Shilah had assumed she would be joining Vesper for this trek. She was surprised to discover that "miss" would travel alone and would prepare her own toilette.

Stepping out of her stiletto pumps, Vesper unzipped her burgandy leather garment bag and removed the carefully packed articles one by one. She hung them on the hook adjoining the steamer and began fastidiously to steam out the creases. It was a time-consuming and laborious process, but one that Vesper was glad to perform. For the most important of events, she liked to control all circumstances, down to the tiniest detail. Her slow, methodical strokes helped to steady her racing mind. She moved the newly pressed garments to the closet and carefully hung them.

She needed to have things in order in this meeting with Takamoto. It had all been paper work and preparation up till this point, laying the foundation for the swift action to come. But as much as the preparation had been solid, her appearance at this meeting was crucial. She must bolster the confidence they had shown her thus far. She must present an absolutely flawless surface, perfect in its beauty and coherence.

One sleek hand snaked up her back, catching the zipper of her Christian Dior dress and slowly slid it downward. Stepping out of dress, undergarments and hose, Vesper assessed her materials. Creamy skin, angular bones, elongated curves. Oddly neutral. An easy canvas.

Turning to her overnight bag, she pulled out a pair of glimmering sterling scissors and seated herself before the vanity mirror. As she pulled innumerable pins from her carefully crafted upsweep, gleaming platinum strands cascaded around her shoulders in slick, straight sections. Running a comb through the satin mass, Vesper separated out a one-inch strand--and snipped. And then another. And another.

She had begun her planning years before. Simon trusted her, but the future was always uncertain. She never knew when the worm would turn, and so kept her eye out for all new opportunities.

Vesper leaned in to the vanity and surveyed her work. Her flaxen hair now hung lank and close to her head, falling just to chin length. Time for detail work. She snipped and shaved, alternating scissors and clippers to produce a stylish but conservative short cut. Very Wall Street.

From the moment she had started with Waterbury, she knew that it would end this way. They were too much alike, in a way. She would never surpass him while he continued in command. And she could not be sure that he could be trusted to bequeath the company to her upon his death.

Anyway, she thought with a smirk, I don't believe he's ever going to die. He'll just harden into stone.

She stood up before the vanity and stepped back some feet, viewing the cut from all angles. A few minor adjustments, and it passed muster. Leaning to the bed, she pulled a small make-up kit from her bag and began, again methodically, to lay out a series of brushes, sponges, pencils, and small jars.

Vesper had first learned of Takamoto's desire to acquire a major publishing concern two years ago. A brief feature in the Wall Street Journal was the first mention; later that week, she encountered Mr. Murishigi at one of Simon's cocktail parties. Interested in Waterbury's holdings, he had asked a number of penetrating and insightful questions. Vesper made a mental note and took a business card.

Scanning from among a number of carefully sharpened colored pencils, Vesper chose a sandy-toned crayon and leaned in to pencil her brow. Slightly darker than her platinum strands, the pencil filled out her thin brow, giving it more force and definition.

Next she turned to several of the small jars surrounding her. Sampling a number of colors, she finally chose one a shade or two darker than her porcelain complexion. Dabbing carefully with a fine-grained sponged, she applied the base, blending to near invisibility. She topped the base with a stipple of rouge, a brown red, and blended again with lighter base. She leaned in to blend the hues by the light of the vanity's many bulbs, and then stepped back again to scrutinize the illusion. It seemed to her impeccable.

Such affairs always required tact. And discretion. Vesper knew she could not undertake such negotiations on her own behalf. Whom could she trust with such a delicate matter? And more importantly, whom could she trust to protect her interests? Only one person.

She stepped toward the vanity again, and removed two clusters of perfectly sleek and round pearls from her ears. A double-strand necklace of equally perfect pearls soon followed. Working through this alternate persona, Vesper had amassed considerable stock holdings in Waterbury. Other names held an interest as well. And then there was Takamoto. Carefully hidden assets. The media had not yet detected the impending coup. Neither had Waterbury. Or so she had thought, until very recently.

Reaching to the closet, she pulled a sharp charcol suit, black dress shirt, impeccable tie. The disguise was new, but one that Vesper easily adopted. And convincing, or so she hoped. Black Italian shoes completed the outfit. Glancing at her watch she checked the time and, catching herself, replaced the delicate gold and diamond band with a heavy rolex. It was almost time.

Vesper stepped back and strolled toward the full-length mirror. Deepening her voice, she growled, "Mr. Takamoto, I'm Christian Redding. So good to meet you at last."

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