Chapter 34

Special Note: all links within the chapters open up a new browser window. To return to the chapter, simply close the new window!

Will cranked up the radio as the sleek Saturn purred across the limitless prairies of western South Dakota, and the sound of the announcer filled the darkened car.

". . . and thousands of would-be treasure hunters have descended on the Hudson River Valley, 40 miles north of New York City, in search of the next clue in Simon Waterbury's Sooner Than Never treasure hunt."

"Shit," Will murmured.

"Be quiet," Laura hissed as she gripped the steering wheel. They listened.

". . .The clue discovered last week at the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction in Walt Disney World in Orlando seems to unmistakably point toward what New Yorkers call 'Sleepy Hollow Country,' an area of Westchester County which was home to writer Washington Irving, as well as his memorable characters of Ichabod Crane, The Headless Horseman, and Rip Van Winkle."

"They've figured it out," Will whined, his lower lip pouting out, "we may as well just give up now!"

"Will, shut up!" Laura snapped, turning the radio up louder.

". . .Many treasure seekers are also attempting to reach Pollopel Island, site of Bannerman Castle, a turn-of-the century arsenal built by a New York City department store tycoon. The State of New York, which owns the island, has deemed it unsafe, due to deteriorating structural conditions in the castle and dangerous currents in the surrounding waters. Any trespassers on the island, which many believe to be called 'Lopellop' in the Waterbury novel, will be arrested and served with heavy fines. In other news, a strong earthquake rocked Southeast Asia today--"

Will snapped off the radio. They sat in silence for a few moments. Then, Will screamed:

"Drive, Miss Tessmocher! DRIVE!!!!"

Laura jolted at his verbal assault. "Jesus, Will! Do you want me to drive right off the road? You almost scared me to death!"

Will rummaged on the dark floor near his feet. "I've got to find that map. We've got to get out of here. Right away. We haven't a moment to lose--"

Laura ignored Will's soliloquy and stared out at the moonlit prairie. Somehow, the prairie here was less offensive than at her parents' house in Iowa.

Will began throwing AAA guidebooks, fast food containers, and empty Snapple bottles over his shoulder into the back seat. "What's the closest city to here?" he demanded suddenly.

"How about Chicago," Laura replied dryly. Will's theatrics were not impressing her.

"Very funny. What was it. . .Sioux Falls? At the entrance to the Black Hills?"

"Sioux Falls is in Iowa, darling. Rapid City is at the entrance to the Black Hills."

"How long till we get there?"

"It's behind us, about two and a half hours."

"Behind us?!" Will gaped. "Why didn't we stop there?!"

"Umm," Laura paused delicately, "perhaps because you've been screaming, 'Drive, Miss Tessmocher, drive' at me since 6 am this morning."

"We should go back there," Will commented, as he found his long-sought map of South Dakota on the floor, unfolding it so quickly that it tore down the center. "I bet they have an airport there. In Rapid City. We could be in New York by tomorrow morning."

"What are we going to do with the car, Will? Leave it at the airport? We'll need it later, you know. Or perhaps we should just flush all that money down the drain."

That was met with a stony silence. Their tony new wheels were the result of the Benefit Performance of the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus, which Chloe Horton had organized. The concert, a smashing success, had given Will and Laura enough cash to purchase the car, as well as some to put away for future crises. The only stipulation from the chorus was that Will and Laura would have to donate a portion of the Sooner Than Never prize money to the organization when--and if--they won.

Will studied the map by the light of the digital clock. "Have you ever heard of Mitchell, South Dakota?"

"No."

"Neither have I. But they have the world's largest building made of corn. Perhaps they have an airport as well."

"Will, we're not going to any airports."

Will sighed, crumpling the map into his lap. "My nerves are shot," he lamented. "I wish I had a cigarette."

"Not in this car. Not while I've got breath in my body."

Will looked out the wide window at the night flashing by. "You know, I don't think it hit me until recently."

Laura glanced away from the road at him. "What didn't hit you until recently?"

He shifted in his seat. "That we could very possibly win this thing. That we could very possibly get our hands on a fortune of one billion dollars."

"Will, Simon Waterbury has a pretty checkered past. Don't forget that. That prize money could all be dirty money. It might not even be his."

"Fiddle-dee-dee," Will countered. "I'm sure we'll get to keep at least some of it, if we find it."

"I'm not sure of anything, anymore," Laura replied soberly.

"Are you sure we shouldn't go to an airport and fly to New York?"

"I'm positive."

"What if someone finds the clue at Lollipop Island?"

"'Pollopel' island, dearheart."

"What if they do? It seems to me that clue in Florida was way too easy. All that stuff about headless foes and slumbering for twenty years. . . you don't need a PhD. in English lit to puzzle that one out."

"Will, it took over three months for someone to find the clue at 'The Pirates of the Caribbean.' I'm sure we have plenty of time to get to the Hudson River Valley."

"I hope you're right."

"Even if I'm not, we'll be fine. For pity's sakes, Will, we're working for the Federal government."

"I still don't trust Mike," Will said, daringly. "It still seems like he's holding back something from us."

Laura rolled her eyes. "He's just doing his job, Will. You heard what he said. This whole Sooner Than Never thing might include some sort of national security crisis. He said that even he doesn't know what's going on."

"That's what he said."

"May I remind you, Miss Marple, that if it weren't for Mike you would probably be in some sort of maximum security prison?"

"I saw a movie about that once."

"Don't be gross."

"There was something Mike said. . .the night he came and released me. He asked me about amber waves of grain."

"What?"

"He just asked me, 'What do you know about amber waves of grain?'"

"Will, I'm sure that everything is going to make sense, in time."

Will regarded her in the darkness. "Look at you," he mused, "I'm as nervous as a witch and you're just sitting there like I don't know what. I think I'm more freaked out now than you, knowing that they're both after us."

"Who?"

"Who?! Are you nuts?! Sebastian Moffat, nee Philip Huffmann, and his trashy sister Vesper Shillington, nee Louise Huffmann!"

"Will, we can't prove that Vesper Shillington is Louise Huffmann--"

"I bet we could! I bet--"

Laura cut him off. "Mike said that Louise Huffmann killed herself, and she is buried near Centralia. That's exactly what Gertie Huffmann told Fern Findlay."

"Yeah, and Philip Huffmann is dead, too, except for when he shows up pretending to be Australian and breaking my heart!"

"I have a feeling," Laura mused, ignoring him, "I have a feeling that old Simon Waterbury is just going to keep unraveling all the mysteries, until we reach the end of the hunt."

"But I've unraveled the mystery," Will proclaimed airily. "I've sorted it all out in my head." He took a deep breath. "Philip Huffmann, of Centralia, PA, and his whore-sister Louise, also of Centralia, killed Simon Waterbury's wife Lily almost thirty years ago. Soon after her the murder, Philip faked his death in a shipwreck off the coast of Australia, and Louise staged her own suicide in New York City. Philip hid out in Australia for several years, living under an assumed name and simultaneously picking up an impeccable accent and a gorgeous tan. Louise, in reality, dropped out of sight for a few years and returned as Vesper Shillington. With the publication of Sooner Than Never, the psychotic siblings have teamed up again to protect their anonymity and their fortunes."

Laura sighed. "Very nice theory, Will. Very nice. But there is absolutely no way to prove any of it. . .yet."

"Vesper Shillington bears a striking resemblance to Sebastian Moffat. Sebastian Moffat is Philip Huffmann. Vesper and Philip Huffmann have got to be siblings."

"That will hold up very well in a court of law: 'Your honor, please note the similarities in persons A and B--'"

Will fumed. "We could go dig up Louise Huffmann's grave. I bet it's empty! It's empty because she's Vesper Shillington!"

"I absolutely, unconditionally refuse to participate in ANY exhumations."

"Spoilsport."

"Will, we can't prove that the Huffmanns killed Lily Waterbury. We don't have a shred of evidence. We can't prove that Philip Huffmann is Sebastian Moffatt, or that Sebastian Moffat even exists. We just have to follow Simon's clues--"

"--and whatever help we get from Agent M and Faye," Will interjected.

"And sooner or later," Laura continued, with a wicked little gleam in her eye, "we're going to win this thing."

They drove eastward into the night.

*****

The cab driver was rude. He wouldn't wait for her while she went upstairs and delivered her reports.

Asshole, she spat through clenched teeth as the cab sped away down the deserted street and into the night. Nina Kellogg glanced at her watch: 12:30. Well, Vesper wanted her reports, so Vesper would get them. No one would be able to accuse Nina of not doing her job. She vaguely wondered where the closest subway was, and how she would get home. SoHo was always so confusing to her.

She looked up and assessed Vesper's building. She was surprised. Vesper really was slumming it. In comparison to her former digs in a well-appointed luxury high rise on the Upper East Side, this converted warehouse--where monthly rent in gigantic, airy lofts were most likely between ten and fifteen thousand dollars--was a garbage pit.

Nina straightened her shapeless trench coat and went up the short flight of concrete steps in front of the building. She glanced at the list of buzzers, and pressed the unlabeled button for Vesper's apartment.

The intercom clicked on. No one spoke.

"Hello?" said Nina uncertainly. "Hi. I'm here from Waterbury Publishing. I have a delivery for Ms. Shillington." Nina thought it best not to identify herself. In all likelihood, Vesper's simple-minded maid would never admit her to the building, nor would Vesper herself.

Nina gripped the front-door handle expectantly. It remained firmly locked.

She pressed the buzzer again. Again, the intercom clicked on.

"Hello!" Nina shouted into it. "I'm here from Waterbury. I have some reports that Vesper requested earlier today, and I'd like to drop them off for her."

A quiet, high pitched whine answered her. It sounded like an unhappy dog.

Did everything surrounding Vesper have to be such an enormous pain in the ass?

"Shilah?" Nina shouted into the intercom, assuming that Vesper's servant was playing games with her, "Shilah, open the door. I'll just set the reports inside in the hallway if you like."

Whoever was on the intercom sighed, and then a strange, strained male voice stated:

"Shilah's asleep. Vesper's not home."

Who the hell was in Vesper's apartment?, Nina wondered with frustration. A homeless derelict?

"Sir," she bellowed into the intercom, "please buzz open the door. Vesper requested these reports earlier today."

The squeaky voice tentatively answered. "I'll open the door. Please bring them up."

His tone suddenly turned pleading. "Oh, please, bring them up!"

The door clicked open, and Nina began her ascent of the wide, well settled staircase in the hallway. She reached the sixth floor rapidly, scarcely short of breath or fatigued by her climb.

She rapped on the loft's sliding door with her thick knuckles. "Hello? Sir? I'm here. With the reports. Open the door."

The door slid open a fraction of an inch. She heard that strange voice again:

"Shh! Don't talk so loud," it implored. "Shilah'll wake up and make me take one of my pills!"

The door to the loft slid fully open. In the entryway stood a man, bald as a ping-pong ball, pasty white, and nearly naked, except for a pair of red satin V-cut panties and a lacy, expensive-looking peignoir. He had drawn all over his head and chest with plum-colored lipstick. Nina almost laughed out loud.

"Please," the man whispered frantically, reaching out toward her. "You've got to help me. I know the solution of Sooner than Never. Vesper Shillington has been holding me prisoner."

Nina's logical, orderly mind swam. She shook her head and regarded the freakish man, her pug nose wrinkling. "Who are you?" she demanded, with more than vague distaste.

"My name is Chad Bismarck."

*****

Gertie Huffmann sat in her vinyl-upholstered easy chair in the midst of her well-worn living room on Main Street in Centralia. The summer's heat had finally abated; the room's wide windows were open to the cool, early-autumn breezes which stirred the Pennsylvania air.

The last few days had been nothing short of puzzling. First of all, that woman from New York City, who claimed to be a private investigator, had shown up, badgering Gertie with all sorts of questions about Philip and Louise, opening old wounds and dredging up old memories. The thought of it made tears smolder in Gertie's cloudy eyes.

Then, just yesterday, those four men had shown up, asking for similar information. They hadn't even told her their names. One, in a very expensive looking suit, oddly kept asking her about someone named "Vesper," much to the chagrin of his colleagues. The second, with platinum blond hair and startling good looks which reminded her of Philip, seemed a trifle embarrassed by their intrusion into her home. The third, who would've been called "lantern-jawed" in Gertie's younger days, had demanded to know where Louise was, and when Gertie began to weep, the fourth one, a fat, piggish-looking man, had sworn a blue streak and begun speaking to her as if she were a toddler.

She had told the four men everything she had told the so-called detective and the charming young man who had accompanied her. Philip was dead; he had died in a boating accident off the coast of Australia while on vacation in 1977. Louise was dead, too. . .both of Gertie's children had had their lives so tragically cut short. After running away to New York City to pursue a career as a fashion model, Louise had become a heroine addict. When her waitressing job couldn't support her habit, she resorted to prostitution. Philip had tried to get Louise back on track several times, but she was too far gone. In a drug-induced haze, Louise had hung herself in her Lower East Side apartment shortly after hearing the news of her brother's untimely death.

Gertie sighed. Why would so many people suddenly become so interested in her poor children? Why couldn't they just let her alone? She was just a simple old woman, hoping to live out her last years peacefully in her rickety house in Centralia. Others had come before, too, telling her that the town was unsafe and her house would sooner or later be consumed by the fires raging under the village.

But Gertie couldn't leave. All she had left was the house, and her memories of times gone by.

She sighed, and looked glumly down into her bowl of applesauce, sprinkled withcinnamon. Sadly, she realized that nothing in her life had turned out the way she thought it would. Nothing.

She resolved to bolster her sagging spirits by watching "Dolls of the World" on the Home Shopping Network. She picked up her remote control and clicked on the television. A glassy-eyed bisque face beneath a cunning, tilted velvet chapeau stared stupidly out at her.

The unseen Home Shopping Network hostess rhapsodized about the doll's merits. "Just look at the detail in little Annabelle's face. That's hand-painted porcelain, ladies and gentleman. Hand painted. No two dolls are alike. Now this doll comes to us out of Madame Christoffa's 'Dolls Love New York' series, and as you can see, Annabelle is all set for her night at the theater. Clasped in her tiny hand is a miniature Playbill, created with the express permission--"

Gertie suddenly thought she heard the squeak of the back screen door, two rooms away in the kitchen. She muted the TV, and listened.

Nothing.

"Hello?" she called out. "Is someone there?"

There was no answer. The house seemed to be waiting, holding its breath. Her limp window curtains swayed in a sudden breeze.

Gertie's mind raced. Had she locked the back door? Had she left it wide open? Who could be calling at such an hour? It was nearly nine o'clock!

She heard the familiar creak of the floorboard by the rust-stained kitchen sink. There was no mistaking it. There was definitely someone in the house.

Gertie fumbled on the end table beside her for her teeth, which she had removed for her evening of relaxation. She'd be damned if she would meet a robber toothless.

Her vinyl chair exhaled and whined flatulently as she got up.

"Hello?" she called again. "If there is someone here, I want you to know that my husband left me a gun."

Nothing.

"And I know how to use it!" she croaked out, her confidence ebbing away. She glanced around the room, searching for something, anything she could use as a weapon. She picked up her remote and held it against her sagging bosom defensively.

The kitchen floorboard creaked again.

Gertie's rheumatic knees began to shake uncontrollably. Someone was in her house. A rapist, perhaps.

She had to call the police.

She had to get to the phone.

The only phone in the house was in the kitchen with the mysterious intruder.

"Please get out of my house!" she called out toward the kitchen door. "Please! I'm just an old lady! Take whatever you want, but leave me alone!"

Suddenly, a voice called to her from the kitchen. Softly, almost a whisper, oddly soothing despite her terror:

"Mother. . . ."

A sob escaped Gertie's cracked lips. Dear God in heaven, what was happening?

She walked forward, though the darkened dining room, and pushed open the swinging door which led into the kitchen.

The kitchen was ablaze with light and empty. The screen door and the storm door were solidly closed. The door to the mud room was open, its interior hidden in shadows. Beside it, the door to the cellar stood open. The cellar lights were on.

Gertie stepped into the room, uncertainly.

"Phil? Louise? Was that you?" her voice came now in a choked whisper. "Hail, Mary, full of grace. . ."

She crossed the kitchen and stood at the top of the cellar steps, peering down at the landing and the rough stone wall abutting it. Her knuckles were white around the remote control.

Gertie Huffmann took a deep breath, and two fat tears slid down her sallow cheeks. "Hello? Hello? Is there someone down there?"

She never saw the figure step out of the mud room behind her. With a mighty heave, Gertie Huffmann was sent sailing down the cellar steps.

Midway through her brief flight, the remote control slipped out of her grasp, shattering the bare bulb which illuminated the treacherous steps. She hit the landing--and the rock wall behind it--with a lethal-sounding crunch.

Odd, Gertie thought, as a blessed, velvety darkness descended on her, that you can hear your own neck break.

You are visitor #

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page