Chapter 23

"Oh, my land, I could drop right where I stand!" Will moaned as he and Laura approached the lobby of the Beaver Creek Resort. "I need a shower, but I think I'll settle for sleep!"

"I'll shower, thanks," Laura responded.

It had been a grueling night. First, there had been the trek out to the shrine campsite, with tent and pack in tow. Then the long vigil as they waited for the other pilgrims to sleep. Finally, the long hike to the site of the boxcar. The discovery of the clue had led to exhilaration, but that soon gave way to exhaustion. But they still had to hike back to the shrine, strike the tent, and return to Beaver Creek. "Miles to go before I sleep," Laura had glumly recited to herself as they marched back to the condo.

"I do hate going to bed as the sun is rising," Will complained. "It always makes me feel so disoriented and put-upon." He pushed open the double oak doors of the lobby and ushered Laura inside.

The lobby, oddly, was all astir with movement even at this early hour. Well-heeled patrons sauntered to and fro, and the murmur of literate gossip filled the space.

"What the . . . " Will stopped dead. "What is this, a convention?"

Laura surveyed the lobby. "Yes . . . I think it is. An academic conference. Humanities or literary studies, from the looks of the attendants." It was a site all too familiar to Laura.

The crowd assembled was a surprisingly varied crew, ranging from distinguished grey bearded men in tweeds, to young slim women in tight designer suits to greasy-haired, black turtle-necked bohemians sporting birkenstocks. Conversation was peppered with hot buzz-phrases enunciated with a tone a knowing bored cynicism: "deconstruction," "postmodern," "jouissance."

A central sign-in table dominated the space, with registration cue designating alphabetical groupings: a-d, e-k, l-p, r-z. At the other end of the lobby, a large table groaned under the weight of innumerable platters of croissants, strawberries and pastries of all description, flanked by urns of coffee and hot water. Even great minds must eat.

Above it all fluttered a banner identifying the event: "Polymorphous Perversities: Postmodern Pastiche and the Problematization of Pre-Modern Culture."

"An awful lot of Ps, don't you think?" Will yawned lazily.

"Oh yes, alliteration is very big. So are colons. If your title isn't colonated, forget it."

"Well, let's browse! This is fascinating!" The variegated spectacle seemed completely to revive him. Laura smiled at Will's amusement. She had attended far too many during her years as a masters student, but she was pleased to view the circus through fresh eyes.

"Oooh, a program! What's up for today?" He pulled Laura to a large directional placard mounted on an easel. "Do you think we could crash?"

"Do you think we'd want to?" She turned to the list of sessions.

"Hmm, they all seem a bit naughty to me," Will crooned as he perused the list. "Is this a case of those who can't 'do', teach?

"A point well taken," Laura smirked. "Trust me, it's not the sessions you want to attend. They're a pretentious snore. The cocktail reception: now that's entertainment. Nothing funnier than a bunch of academics getting tanked. All swinging party animals in their own minds."

"Too true. Too, too true," said a voice just behind them.

Laura's body snapped upright. It couldn't be! She turned to face the small, sleek man who had silently beetled up behind them five minutes earlier. His appearance struck Will as at once jovial and calculating - a bit like a mischievous gnome. His sleek round head was crowned by closely cropped brown hair that descended to a carefully trimmed beard. Behind his shining, round wire-rimmed glasses, pale blue eyes glinted, seemingly with the pleasure of having 'caught' someone out.

"Professor Hoffstettler! Will . . . " she turned to her companion, "This is my advisor for my masters thesis, Professor Hermann Hoffstettler."

Again with the alliteration, Will thought.

The academic smiled at Will, an odd smile that was simultaneously broad and undisclosing. "So good to meet you. I take it that you are Laura's travelling companion about whom I have heard so much. It's hard to miss mention of your little project - it is everywhere these days."

A long pause ensued. Will had the odd sense that the professor wasn't quite finished with his thought, though he had paused to beam expectantly at the pair. Will smiled an assent. Just as he was about to speak, the professor broke in:

"And are you having luck here in Colorado? I thought the race for treasure had already moved on to the east coast. Or do you have - inside information - that others don't."

"Well, not exactly inside information," Laura rushed to explain. Despite her decision to leave academe, she still had a certain affection for her former advisor and didn't want him thinking worse of her than she deserved. "Waterbury doesn't assist us. But we have managed to . . . um, throw others off the scent."

The small man smiled more broadly. "Well, that was fortunate. And I imagine," he mused as fiddled with his spectacles, "that any red herrings you plant will give you more time to work here."

Laura smiled in response, considering whether to disclose more about the project.

A long pause.

"And . . . ," Hoffstettler resumed, "what luck have you had?"

Will's face lit up, and he began to speak, but Laura silenced him with a look. "I'd rather not discuss it here," her eyes scanned the crowd. "But I do think you can help."

"The diner is empty," he offered, and she assented.

As they settled back against the vinyl booth, Laura pulled out her notes and her copy of Sooner than Never. She pointed to the passage describing the shrine of Persephone and told him about the monument they found in Beaver Creek. Lowering her voice, she told him about the box car, and showed him her transcription of the sonnet. Reading, he smiled broadly.

"Ah, a parody of Wyatt's 'Whoso List to Hunt.' Quite appropriate, considering the novel's characterization of the ancient Fortescue." Laura nodded sagely and took notes.

"What, what, what? Remember, some of us are literature-impaired. Fill me in!"

Hoffstettler settled back, removed his glasses and began to polish them absentmindedly with his napkin. "'Whoso list to hunt' is a sonnet that describes a lover's decision to stop pursuing his beloved. He describes her as a 'hind' - a deer - and portrays himself as one of a group of hunters pursuing her. It is postulated that Wyatt was one of Anne Boleyn's lovers - this was in the court of Henry VIII of England, you know - and that he was describing his frustration at loving a woman who was now the 'property' of the most powerful man in the land."

"Considering the age difference between Henry and Anne, Henry's obsession that Anne produce a male heir (she failed, you know, that's where we get Elizabeth I), and the fact that he literally kills her, beheads her, suggests a sort of brutal and graphic parallel to the story about Fortescue recounted in your little story." He sighed in satisfaction.

"And like Persephone," Laura added, "Anne was made the property of her husband . . . ?" She looked puzzled. "It's not a great parallel, but still valid, I think. In either case, it's about the destruction of a woman, her loss of power, in the face of a much greater power - a male authority, a titled man, whether he be the god of the Underworld, the King of England, or a local nobleman."

"Exactly," Hoffstettler smiled enigmatically. "But all that goes toward demonstrating is that this clue is relevant to this project. Which," he shut his eyes meditatively, "is none too surprising, considering the strangeness of the Beaver Creek shrine and the box car. I haven't recently seen a box car inscribed with an English sonnet, so we could have assumed it was connected anyway. The question remains, where is this sonnet pointing? Where do you go next?" He waved his hand in air in a vague questioning gesture.

Again the uncomfortable pause. Time ticked by, and just as Will was about to speak (mainly to break the silence), Hoffstettler launched in unbidden. His eyes snapped open, "We turn to the sonnet itself, of course."

Taking the notes from Laura, the professor peered at the words, and mumbled under his breath. "Hunt. Ton. The West. Sunny shore. Earth's great cracks." He chuckled. "It couldn't be. . . "

Will and Laura snapped towards him. "You know?" Will exclaimed. "You know where it is?"

"Well, I could be wrong, but Hunt . . . Ton. . . Huntington. The Huntington Library? It's in the west - San Marino, California, to be exact. A suburb of Los Angeles. Not quite on the 'sunny shore' but close enough. 'Deep in earth's great cracks' - well, all of Southern California is threatened by 'cracks' - earthquake faults."

"Of course," Laura mused. "Of course. And a mecca for book lovers. Waterbury must have visited."

"Wait, wait," Will interjected, "Fill me in."

"The Huntington Library," Hoffstettler started in, "is a private research institution - a private library. They house many excellent collections of rare books and manuscripts. The entire grounds were originally the estate of H. E. Huntington, a railroad magnate. His former mansion now houses the art gallery. A newer building houses the library."

"What about 'crystal mossy waters'?" Will asked.

"The grounds of the estate are quite extensive, and include a number of carefully tended 'specialty' gardens - including a tropical garden - which I imagine is mossy."

"And that makes sense of 'track'" Will interjected triumphantly. "A railroad magnate . . . track . . . get it?!"

"Quite." Hoffstettler sipped his coffee.

"Well, I guess we're set then. I mean," Laura paused, "I think we should do a little research before we head out to California, but at least it's a lead."

"Quick! Call the GWG!" Will said, fairly leaping out of the booth.

Laura started to go, then stopped, looking thoughtful. "Professor Hoffstettler, before I go, I have one more question. What do you know about Tiresias?"

Will stiffened. He had dodged Laura's attempts to delve into his little 'psychic spell,' and particularly resented her bringing it up to a third party.

"Well, Tiresias . . . you should know that Laura. The blind seer in Sophocles Oedipus Rex. The classic paradox of blind sight."

"Yes, yes, I know. But are there any other parts of the story. What else is remarkable about Tiresias?"

"Well, there is the story of his gender-bending."

Laura looked at him quizzically.

"It's a lesser known myth. According to the tale, Tiresias once came upon two snakes copulating. He struck them, and as a punishment, was transformed into a woman. He was transformed back after later encountering a similar sight and once again striking the snakes. The suggestion is that full wisdom, full power, comes only from experiencing life both as male and female. Is that what you wanted?"

"I don't know," Laura answered.

*****

"First wake-up call, Ms. Shillington."

Vesper heard the voice, and dimly wondered where she was sleeping and who had the unholy temerity to rouse her. Then, she remembered. She was back at home in New York, and Shilah was performing her wake-up ritual. From deep within the rose damask pillows, Vesper growled threateningly. Her maid giggled and quietly stole from the room.

Vesper rolled over and groggily considered the day ahead. Today was to be her first day back at Waterbury Publishing in over two months. Simon's Thanksgiving Day heart attack had sent her to the ungodly wasteland of Arizona for six weeks, and her month-long vacation was officially over. The gray February sunshine peeped in around the velvet curtains at the windows, and a little twinge of dread fluttered through her stomach.

The doorknob turned. Shilah peeped her bonneted head into the room, beaming broadly. "Second wake-up, Ms. Shillington." The maid's irritating cheeriness grated on Vesper's anxious mind. She slid a slender, pale hand out from under the comforter, and fumbled about on the nightstand until she found a heavy, cut-glass ashtray. She weakly hurled it in the direction of Shilah's voice, and it cracked the mahogany doorframe with a loud thunk. Shilah had already closed the door.

Vesper snuggled down into her pillows. She couldn't face the day. Perhaps, she thought pointlessly, she could remain forever happy if she could just stay in this bed for eternity. She sighed a long sigh.

So much had happened since she had last seen Simon: her disastrous meeting with Takamoto, her flurry of phone calls and her scrambling to investors, her discovery that the Beaver Creek clue read on national television was a hoax. Simon was on to her. She no longer had any doubt about that. She was sure he knew everything. Now, it was simply a matter of time. Either her hostile takeover of Waterbury Publishing would come swiftly and successfully, or the Sooner Than Never prize money would be found, bankrupting the company and leaving her unemployed, penniless, and, very possibly, jailed. She shuddered at the thought.

What would Simon's reaction to her be? Would he continue his maddening charade? Would he make a false step and allow her to move in for the kill? Would she unlock his secrets before he destroyed everything she had worked for?

The doorknob turned again, and Shilah waltzed into the room, humming to herself. Vesper and Shilah had an unspoken agreement: if Vesper wasn't out of bed by Shilah's third-wake up, Vesper was not allowed to swear, upbraid, or throw small pieces of furniture at her servant.

"Third wake-up, Ms. Shillington." Shilah crossed to the windows and parted the heavy draperies. Light flooded the room. "The groundhog didn't see no shadow this morning, Miss. The winter's gonna end early!"

Vesper slowly sat up in bed.

"Ooo, Ms. Shillington! Your hair! It's so short!" Shilah's eyes bulged from her head. Since Vesper's January appearance as Christian Redding at Takamoto, her hair had grown in some, but it was still radically shorter than she had kept it in years. She had had it styled into a cunning bob that was half Angelica Houston and half Betty Boop.

"It is much easier to care for," Vesper replied wearily, running her fingers through her limp locks. "This look is all the rage in the islands." She had already programmed herself to continually make false references to her aborted tropical vacation. As far as anyone in New York was concerned, she had been in a secluded island bungalow since leaving Simon's sickbed.

"You look lovely, Miss Shillington, just lovely," Shilah worshipped. "I drew your bath water, and put in one of those nice bath fizzes from Enfleurage , and there's a pot of sweet tea steeping on the--"

"Thank you, Shilah." For a brief moment, a flicker of warmth passed through Vesper's heart, a pang of gratefulness for her scatterbrained maid. At times such as this, she seriously considered the fact that Shilah was her one true friend. "That will be all for now, Shilah. Go lay out my chocolate brown suede suit and the amber necklace in the dressing room." It would be good to get back into her old clothes.

Shilah curtsied saucily and left.

Vesper went to the window and stared out at the city. She could perceive the Waterbury building, poking up amidst the mass of midtown skyscrapers.

No matter what the day held, she swore to herself, she would come out on top. She always had.

Ready or not, Simon Waterbury, here I come.

******

Mr. Yemeshigi's ass was cold. The rails were absolutely freezing, and their chill sliced through his mattress-like parka. He turned back toward the boxcar, where Professor Hattamaki was busily typing the sonnet into his laptop. The computer was wildly incongruous in the snow-covered wilderness.

"Professor," stated Yemeshigi, "we will need to start back soon if you would like to attend your seminar on having sex with food."

The Professor blandly ignored him, and made a low, guttural sound in his throat. During their two weeks together, Hattamaki had perhaps spoken a total of twenty words to him. But Takamoto had insisted that the Professor was a brilliant linguist and scholar; methodical, patient, and ridiculously over-educated. If anyone could unravel Simon Waterbury's clues, Hattamaki would be the man to do it.

Yemeshigi was rather enjoying his special assignment on the Sooner Than Never treasure hunt. Since their meeting with Christian Redding, the panicked Takamoto had become obsessed with the contest, and his own personal need to prevent anyone else from winning it. In Yemeshigi's mind, trekking across the country on the company's expense, even with the reclusive Hattamaki, was better than board meetings, acquisition accounts, and project planning presentations any old day. The Professor had even cheered somewhat when he discovered there was some sort of literary convention in Beaver Creek.

Hattamaki snapped the laptop shut and rose. "You will want to call Mr. Takamoto," he said dryly to Mr. Yemeshigi, "and book us flights to Los Angeles."

Yemeshigi stood and wiped the snow from his backside. "Los Angeles?! We can't go back empty-handed! Takamoto will hit the roof! I thought you were going to take one look at this thing, and--"

"Mr. Yemeshigi," spat the Professor, "the next clue is in Los Angeles. Or rather, close to it. At the Huntington Library."

*****

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