Red Herring
". . . and our final story tonight concerns the now notorious Sooner than Never treasure hunt. Controversy recently surrounded the nationwide contest as the two front-runners, Will Gilbert and Laura Dial, apparently leaked inaccurate information in an attempt to maintain their lead. Just today, however, the treasure hunt has taken a surprising turn. Our correspondent, David Nimoy, brings you the story."
"Thank you, Chris. David Nimoy here, reporting from LAX in Los Angeles, California. I'm speaking with Ben Singletary, the newest front-runner in the Sooner Than Never treasure hunt. Hi, Ben."
Ben nods.
"So, tell me, Ben, how is it that you and your friends happened upon this latest clue in the Sooner Than Never bonanza - scooping, it seems, the current front-runners, Will Gilbert and Laura Dial."
"It was so obvious, man. Like, totally obvious. Those other dudes are totally bogus 'cause, like, it was real . . . obvious."
Nimoy smiles nervously at the camera.
"Really? Well, tell me, how did you happen to unearth this clue?"
"Okay, so like, we're in Colorado, catching some really tasty powder, and, like, there's all these people there, and this really gnarly building, with flowers and crap on it. So we think, 'hey, party.' And we pitch a tent with everyone else. So one day, I'm totally toasted, and I just start walking, and I end up crashing in this old box car. So when I wake up, I think, 'Hey, man. What's this boxcar doing here?' You ever have that happen, where you start out somewhere and, like, then . . . you're somewhere else. Like this one time . . . "
"Uh, Ben. What about the clue?"
"Oh, yeah. So like, I'm looking at the box car, and it's like, there was something on the side that's been burnt off. Gnarly. So I'm looking around, and there's this little sign, and it's got some crap written on it."
"And that, I believe, was the clue that led you here?
Ben nods.
"Would you mind reading the words aloud."
Ben's eyes narrow, he pulls the paper close to his eyes, back out again, and starts in:
"angel's flight
deftly over water to mountains
desert sands caress to east
angels gone - metal birds remain.
do not be lax"
"And that led you to LAX in Los Angeles."
"Yah, dude, it's like, obvious."
"Where to next?"
"No way, man. I'm keeping this clue to myself!"
"Good for you, Ben, good for you! This is David Nimoy, from LAX. Back to you, Chris."
Simon Waterbury snaps off the television, chuckling.
**********
On the opposite coast, Will and Laura also snapped off the television.
"We've been scooped!" Will lamented. He leaned back against a pile of laundry that shared his seat on the sofa. "We'll never recover! Two weeks trapped here - all for nothing!"
"Calm down, Will." Laura leaned forward, furrowing her brow in thought. "At least this explains where the camera crews went. We're free to leave now."
"A fat lot of good it'll do us! That dope-fiend already found the next clue!"
"It don't think it is the next clue," Laura stated quietly.
Will, reclining with knuckle to brow, opened one eye questioningly. "Go on," he uttered, not moving.
"Think about it. We found the real clue. We searched that boxcar thoroughly. There wasn't anything else in there. And that clue - well, Simon's been a lot cleverer so far. Why would he suddenly create such a transparent and, frankly, badly written clue?"
Will sat up. "And this means . . . ?"
"It's not a real clue. It's a red herring. He must've added it after we left. We're still on the right track."
"So to speak. But why was the original clue defaced?"
"I don't know." Laura relaxed back against the pile of clothes, narrowly missing a terrier. "The real question is, who defaced it? Waterbury?"
"Maybe. Maybe he wanted to thin the ranks of treasure hunters. Or maybe it wasn't him at all . . . "
"You mean, another treasure hunter did it?"
Will shot her an affirming look filled with mystery, intrigue and drama.
"So maybe we're not the only ones who know the next clue is at the Huntington Library?"
"Ex-act-ly."
"Then we'd better get moving . . . " As Laura began to hoist herself out of the cushy sofa, Will caught her arm.
"No, I think we should find out what we're looking for first," he said, reaching for their copy of Sooner Than Never. "I know we've been over it before, but it's time to review. You read."
Laura took the book and picked up from the attempted rape of Lady Violet.
Violet felt the cold, hard marble against her cheek and recoiled at Fortescue's touch. The Violet of old would not have been able to resist - to turn her will against that of her aggressor. It was a habit too deeply ingrained - acquiescence. But her flight from her father had forged her character anew, and she found a strength from within to resist his fearsome grasp.
Fortunately for her, Fortescue had counted upon her inability to block his will. He had wagered that his psychic strength - the force of his authority and towering personality - would hold her at bay.
He wagered wrong.
Rallying every ounce of strength and anger in her tiny, avian frame, Violet thrust herself from the marble floor. The sudden force caught Fortescue off-guard. He reeled backwards and struck his head on a stern marble outcropping. Violet gasped as the blood began to seep out around his head, forming still pools of crimson on the cold, white marble. His hollow eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling.
Violet recoiled in terror. She turned to flee, to escape the vision of gore before her, and found only walls. Like a blinded bird fluttering against the bars of its cage, Violet threw herself against the blank marble slabs. The pain seemed to calm her as welts arose on her thin, pale arms.
Was it her imagination, or did she feel herself falling, falling, head over heels, as if one of the walls had sudden given way, springing back at her touch.
Careening downward, dust and cobwebs swirled in her nose and mouth. When would it end?
At last, she skidded to a halt. For several minutes, Lady Violet, once so regal and demure, lay crumpled in a heap at the base of long, steep, winding incline. As she regained her breath, she cast her eye about her, half-fearing, half-hoping. The dusty tunnel had leveled off and given way to a smallish chamber. Scrambling from her prone position, she sat for a moment, her thin arms, now bruised and battered, wrapped around her knees; her head bowed down in fear and shock. Her delicate shoulders shuddered as tears carved a liquid path down her mud-stained cheeks.
A moment or two more passed, and Violet became aware of the profound silence of the place. Heavy silence, weighing heavily on her chest. Only her sobs broke the perfect stillness, like a small pebble dropped into a glassy tarn.
As her hysteria ebbed, Violet felt a rising curiosity about this hidden retreat. Slowly, tentatively, she lifted her head and peered about. A forgotten chamber, long since consigned to the dust of solitude? Violet thought not. She saw signs of recent habitation. Burning torches lined the room, casting a smoky glow throughout the dim chamber. The crumbling corners of the chamber stood deep in dust, but footsteps marked a clear path cut through the detritus.
This path had been walked before, she realized, and recently. Did Fortescue know of this secret chamber, and the secret passageway from the Temple? Violet doubted it not one bit.
Curiosity overrode fear, and she clambered to her feet. Gazing around, she noted the chamber was not as bereft of decor as she had originally thought. Obscured by the soot of innumerable flambeaux, several gilt-framed paintings lined the walls. Violet crept toward the nearest one. Ripping a shred from her tattered scarf, she smeared the soot from the painting. What she revealed made her gasp.
The most sordid portrayal of physical love the young woman could have imagined graced the ornate gilt frame. A pink and plump young lass, held down by a fearsome beast - part swan, part man - succumbed to unearthly advances. The central couple was framed by a wild scene of bacchanalia - dancing satyrs, flitting cherubic infants, snake-haired dames - seemed in the grimy half-light to pulsate and writhe in sensual pleasure.
Violet stepped back. She moved from painting to painting, peering through the filth at spectacle after forbidden spectacle. She had no doubt that Fortescue would approve such sordid visions. But it was clear from their style and condition that the portrayals predated the current lord's reign. How far back did these paintings date? She would never know, but guessed that the ancient Fortescue - clearly recovered from the death of his young wife - had installed this chamber along with the temple that crowned it.
But to what purpose? Violet quailed and shook. Was the temple a mere pretext for this secret conduit? Where did this dusky pathways lead? Violet feared to return to the surface, and to face again to gory visage of the slain lord. The path ahead, though daunting, seemed more bearable. She decided to take the path untried - to push her way forward in this subterranean tunnel.
Taking one of the flaming torches from the wall, Violet moved from this first chamber into a connecting tunnel. Winding through the earth, the tunnel moved first up, then down, and eventually split into two divergent paths. Taking a deep breath, Violet chose one arm of the tunnel, only to find that it narrowed and shrank until, finally impassable, it dead-ended with a small, brick wall.
Doubling back, Violet returned to where the tunnels diverged and turned down the alternate path. This length of tunnel offered its own confusions. Creeping along, Violet found a doorjamb set in the wall. Slowly opening it, she discovered nothing - only a blank wall behind. Similarly, thinking she had found a side tunnel - a staircase leading upward, she followed the path only to find that it, too, terminated with an obstruction. At times the tunnel seemed to double back, only to turn again and return to the original path. At irregular distances, the path diverged, sometimes three, four or five times. Trying each path, Violet discovered the same, maddening false-starts.
After hours of stumbling, Violet exhausted the various pathways of this vast underground maze, only to find herself impeded by one final dead end - a large, solid oaken panel. Seemingly immovable, the panel stood solidly in her path, carved with the Fortescue coat of arms.
Long hours of walking, the trauma of Fortescue's attack, the shock of his sudden and violent death, and her fears for young Harlowe finally took their toll. Violet let out a fearful screech of horror. A scream from deep within her soul, it carried with it all the torment of her life - the loss of her mother, her grief at being widowed, the horror at her father's touch - all, all balled up into one single cry of terror and despondence.
As her lungs emptied, she crumpled to the ground and beat the earth beneath her. Why? Why must she endure such pain? When would she find happiness and comfort? She thought of little Harlowe, so tender, so innocent - in so many ways, her counterpart. He, too, seemed singled out for inordinate sufferings. And now, poor Violet realized, he would lose his one protector! She was doomed to die, she knew, alone and grieving in this mazelike tunnel - a grisly joke played by a sadistic overlord. Who would protect the women and children?
Sobbing despairingly, she leaned against the large, oaken panel. As her head touched the majestic Fortescue coat-of-arms, Violet felt her body buckle. The panel began to slide, triggered by some unseen lever. She would escape! she realized. The path lay before her!
As the panel slid, she found herself staring into Lord Fortescue's private chambers, his den of wanton desires. She knew she was not the first young woman, not nearly the first, to find herself led to this spot by the Lord or his cunning henchman.
But she would be the first to escape unviolated. That she vowed.
"You go, Lady Violet!" Will interjected.
"Well, that's it," Laura said. "The chapter ends. If Simon's following true to form, that passage should help us figure out where in the Huntington the next clue can be found."
Will rubbed his beard mysteriously. "Hmmmmmmm. I wonder if the Huntington has any underground passages. Perhaps Miss Aimee can fill us in when she returns from school."
**************
David Nimoy sat in his rental car, a 1998 Mazda Protege. Fire engine red. The California sun kicked up a glare that made him squint. Why was he still here? Obviously the treasure hunt had moved on. There was no point watching the house. Even if Laura and Will did leave, they weren't going anywhere he needed to go.
He'd already covered the new clue at LAX. It was fortunate for him that the next clue, when it finally did turn up, actually was in L.A. A lucky break for him. His editor was still howling at him for the Niagara snafu.
Well, if Will wanted revenge against him, he was getting it, albeit circumstantially. He wondered if Will would ever forgive him, ever move on completely. It was tiresome, it was depressing. He was sorry he had hurt Will - it had never been his intention. But people sometimes hurt each other.
He, too, had been hurt. By Will cutting him off. By the loss of a circle of friends. By the loss of his youth and innocence even. And he'd been rebuffed as well - most recently by that burly Australian. It hurt - sure - but one moved on. One had to.
In his rearview mirror, David spotted Aimee's distinctive VW van -sunshine yellow with flowers and music notes hand-painted all over the exterior. Cheery orange and white curtains hung in the windows. David slid down in his seat to avoid detection.
Miss Aimee leapt from the driver's seat and skipped to the front gate, a flurry of lanky arms and legs. At the sound of the gate, the small army of terriers threw themselves from the front door, prancing to meet her. David relaxed as the door closed behind her.
David sighed noisily as his hand slid to the ignition. As he checked the traffic behind him, he noticed another car, just behind him, maybe twenty feet back. Oh, God, he muttered. Now I'm seeing things. A handsome young man seated behind the wheel of a sleek Corvette, midnight black. The spitting image of Sebastian Moffat. David was not generally give to hallucination, but lately he seemed to be seeing Moffat everywhere. Maybe he had gotten under his skin after all.
Shifting his gaze forward, he started again. A third car had just parked, facing David on the other side of the street. He squinted. Can't be, David thought. It looked like the geologist. Laura's geologist. In a 1975 Ford Mustang. Primer red. What was he doing here? And why was he staying in his car?
This was too weird.
That's it!, David thought to himself. I'm outta here. Nothing to see folks.
Before he could go, his attention was riveted back to the cottage by the noisy scraping slam of Miss Aimee's screen door. Aimee, Will and Laura tripped out to the curb and piled into the bus. As they sped off, the Corvette followed, surreptitiously trailed by the Mustang.
Oh, this I gotta see, David thought, and put it in drive.
*******************
"Isn't this beautiful?" Miss Aimee sighed, gesturing ethereally to the gardens surrounding them. "Sometimes I feel this must be what Eden was like . . . " She trailed off, humming to herself.
Will agreed, but a cloud of concern flickered across his face. Sebastian had warned him of a trap. Should he trust him?
"So where do we start?" Laura had no such reservations.
Aimee turned back to her, her eyes still alight with Wordsworthian pleasure. "Oh, we could start anywhere. Pick anywhere on the extended tour of the grounds. The cactus garden, the lagoon, the art museum, the rare books and manuscripts museum, the tropical garden, the Japanese garden, the rose garden, the Shakespeare garden, the tea room. . .
"Wait!" Will stopped dead in his tracks. "There's a tearoom?"
Aimee nodded.
"Do they serve high tea? Like in Jolly Old England?
Aimee nodded again, excitedly.
"Then we're off! Just like Alice and the Mad Hatter! To have a spot of tea!"
They linked arms and trotted off to the tiny Queen Anne cottage that served as the tea room, just adjacent to the rose garden. Laura followed resignedly.
"At least I'll get some pastry," she consoled herself.
And pastry they had. Small finger sandwiches. Cream cheese on delicate white bread, encrusted with fresh herbs harvested from the herb garden. Tiny, cream-filled eclairs. Steaming Earl Grey tea. Plump and flaky jam tarts.
"Not too bad, after all," Laura admitted. "And we do deserve a break."
"Here, here!" Will clinked his tea cup against hers and breathed a silent prayer of thanks for escaping the endless train of tofu hotdogs and rice milk.
"So, where to next?" Aimee interjected brightly. "I snagged us a guidebook. Here, oh mystic one," she said, handing the book to Will. "What catches your eye?"
Will thumbed through it, staining the pages with jam and cream. Running down the map, he ticked off on location after another. "Hmmm, Rare Books. Nope. The Australian Garden. Nope. Mmmm, succulents . . . Nope."
Suddenly, he stopped. "Ooooh, how delicious. There's a mausoleum. Let's go there!"
Laura leaned to see. "Do you think it's a clue?"
"I don't know, but it's deliciously creepy! Who puts a mausoleum on their estate?"
"Well," Laura leaned in significantly, "Lord Fortescue did . . . "
"Ah, HA!"
They scurried along the winding paths, cutting through the Shakespeare Garden and into a shaded glen. Making their way up a black asphalt roadway, they caught a glimpse of the mausoleum just ahead. A large marble structure, it glimmered in the sun.
Meeting the asphalt road, a landscaped pathway, lined with trees, branched off at right angles. To the right was the mausoleum. To the left, a short path leading to an ornate marble bench, placed to provide an optimum view of the mausoleum. The parking lot lay just beyond the bench, separated by a chainlink fence.
"Land sakes, but it's warm!" Will exclaimed. "Let's set a spell and make our plans." He plopped down in the marble bench, and stretched his legs out before him. "What a tranquil spot. I could recline here for the rest of my life!"
"Will." Laura nudged him.
"Yes?" He fanned himself with the guidebook.
"I think we are definitely in the right place. She pointed. He looked. On either side of the mausoleum, a colorful garden had been planted. The flowers spelled out two letters: S. W.
"A clue!" Will leapt up. Arms flailing, he ran down the tree-lined path and barreled up the steps that encircled the temple.
Nothing. No doors. No windows. No inscription. No nothing. Just 4 blank marble walls, topped by a marble dome. The glory of the structure was its setting, with lush gardens and shady trees ringed round.
"I don't understand!" Will hollered back to Laura and Aimee, who were still making their way up the path. "What are we looking for?"
"Hold your horses!" Aimee called back. "We're coming."
Will seated himself on the steps, chin in hands, despondent.
"So there's nothing, is there?" Laura asked. "Well, what do we know about this thing? Just that it's called the mausoleum. But who's buried here? And why?"
"Time for the magic guidebook!" Aimee chimed.
Will took it from her and read aloud:
The large marble structure located just north of the library is commonly called the mausoleum. It is the final resting place of Arabella Huntington, wife of the H.E. Huntington, the founder of the Huntington Library. Based on classical models, the structure took 2 years to complete, and is wrought in fine Italian marble. The mausoleum offers a spot of quiet solitude in the gardens, carefully landscaped and lovingly maintained. For years, rumors circulated that secret tunnels connected the mausoleum to the main house, but no such tunnels have been located.
Laura's eyes widened. "I think we're in the right place." She walked a few steps up, and stopped. "But where to now?"
"Well, what else can we learn about Arabella?" Aimee asked. "Check the history of the library. I used to hang with one of the curators here, and I kind of remember something scandalous about the family. Can't recall what."
Will buried his nose back in the guidebook.
"Let's see . . . . Collis P. Huntington, owner of the Central Pacific Railroad . . . his nephew Henry worked for him. Henry (the nephew) managed his uncle's Southern Pacific Railroad. Visited and finally bought the "San Marino" estate. Moved to Los Angeles, expanded railway lines, blah, blah, blah. Retired at age 60; turned to collecting books and art and landscaping his enormous ranch. Okay . . . here's Arabella. Married her in 1913 . . . . Land sakes! Arabella was the widow of his uncle Collis! Bad nephew! Naughty nephew! "
"Well, that's certainly odd." Laura craned over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the guidebook.
"Ah-ha! There's more about Arabella below, in the description of the estate. Apparently, she frequently retired to her private sitting room for solace. She was a woman given to fits, vapors and spells! The room's still intact - Huntington's mansion now houses most of the art displays. It's called "The Arabella Room" and currently houses one of the featured historical displays."
"To the Arabella Room!" Amy crowed.
Racing through the crowds of leisurely tourists, Will, Aimee and Laura finally pushed their way into the Arabella Room. A large spacious salon, it boasted high ceilings, huge windows festooned with white crepe curtains, and a sparkling parquet floor. A carefully-lettered placard announced the display:
Will groaned. "Bad display name. Bad, naughty display name."
Miss Aimee declined to enter the room. Shaking her head, she said grimly to Will, "Bad karma in here. A lot of death and sorrow. I'll wait outside."
Wandering among display cases, Will and Laura browsed model after model of Winchester rifle. Photos of Theodore Roosevelt, Wild Bill Hickock, Admiral Byrd, all sporting Winchester rifles. Early advertising posters. Statistics on sales. Everything one could ever want to know about the Winchester rifle.
"Well, this is all very interesting, but I don't see what it has to do with a treasure hunt!" Will sniffed.
"But this has to be it. There must be something we've missed. Have we seen all the cases?"
"Not those," he pointed to a far corner, shaded and forgotten. A less popular part of the exhibit, those cases contained information and artifacts from the Winchester family proper. Diaries, bank statements, family portraits.
Perusing the contents of the case, Will stopped in his tracks. "Oh," he half-sighed. "Oh."
"What!?" Laura scurried over to him. He pointed.
Following the psychic's advice, Mrs. Winchester moved to San Jose, California, bought an 8-room farmhouse and began building. Working without an architectural plan, Mrs. Winchester oversaw continuous building, around the clock, for 38 years (1884-1922). The resulting structure is a chaotic maze of dead-ends, misshapen rooms, false doorways, and staircases that lead nowhere - a nightmare landscape to mirror her tortured mind. After her death, the building was declared a historical monument, and is currently known as the Winchester Mystery House.
Will sighed with satisfaction. "All aboard for San Jose!"
Be sure to Tune in Thursday, May 20
for the
low cholesterol, high-fiber
Chapter 27
of
THE WEBSERIAL
Get your own Free Home Page