DANGER IN THE JEWELED CITY
By
Mary Tomasi Dubois
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Mary Tomasi Dubois
Discover other titles by Mary Tomasi Dubois at
Smashwords.com:
The Mariner’s Secret at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1408
Raising Harley at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1529
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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DEDICATION
To Enzo and Alessandra—remember, reading can magically take you to whole other worlds.
I love you -
Nonna
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my dear friends, Pat Lang and Jan Ewers, for there dedication to reading and editing the story; my stepson, Paul Dubois VI, for researching Naval history; my step granddaughter and her husband, Barbie & Matt Miranda, for their valued suggestions; to Aunt Lorraine Melino for her encouragement and suggestions; as always, to my son and daughter-in-law, Mike & Chris Cignetti, for their encouragement; but most of all to my husband, Paul Dubois, for his ideas, suggestions, and moral support—I love you!
I would like to acknowledge the San Francisco Public Library History Center for its wonderful collection of digitized photos of the Exposition and for permission to use the photo of the Tower of Jewels on the front cover; to The Palace of Fine Arts for their continued efforts to preserve one of the few remaining structures left from the Exposition; to The Swanton Ranch for the preservation of, and for providing rides on, trains from the Overfair Railway; and, finally, to The Vans Restaurant for lovingly preserving the Japanese Teahouse as part of its facilities.
FORWARD
My fascination of quantum physics and time travel, along with my husband, Paul’s, vivid imagination and promptings, led me to write a story about a brother and sister who were orphaned at a young age.
It all started one Fourth of July weekend, when we stopped to have lunch in Tiburon on our way from the South Bay to my stepson’s home in wine country for the festivities.
Somehow over lunch, we got on the subject of how much things have changed in the two short decades since our parents’ deaths. “Wouldn’t it be something if our parents could come back? I wonder what they would think of things today?” Paul casually asked while munching on his sandwich. Suddenly he stopped chewing, and his cheek still swollen with the remnants of his last bite, said, “You should write a time travel story about that.” We immediately began exchanging ideas, while I hurriedly tried to make comprehendible notes on the butcher paper that covered the table cloth.
Weeks later, notes in hand, I began to write. But I wanted a story that while fictitious, would seem plausible. So I decided to do extensive research. I even made a visit to the Marina District to pick out the home my characters would be raised in, and searched the internet for bus and train stops and schedules. With my late-blooming love of history, a year later my time-travel story, The Mariner’s Secret, was complete and on its way to the publisher.
Among many of my discoveries that year was the captivating pull of The Panama Pacific International Exposition.
I have always loved art and architecture, and like everyone else, the romantic beauty of the Fine Arts Pavilion near the Presidio played with my imagination. I had heard something about it being part of the Exposition, but left it at that. Now, though, every turn of my research of the Marina led me to websites and books about the “Last Great World’s Fair;” I had to write a book using it as the backdrop!
The great City by the Golden Gate has a rich and varied history not lost on school children, but not much is remembered about the Exposition where many firsts were showcased. I aspired to create an exciting story that would awaken the reader’s imagination and awe of the Fairgrounds, while giving a little flavor of the background and history taking place at the time.
I hope this next story in the Matt & Heather series raises your curiosity about the Exposition and prompts you to pick up a book, look up the websites I’ve listed in the bibliography, and visit those remaining edifices that give but a hint of what that great San Francisco event was like. Enjoy!
CHAPTER 1
“Heather, get up, come on; they’re getting close.”
Matt was pulling on Heather’s hand in an effort to help her to her feet. She looked up at him, a little dazed and confused. Was she really reliving past events of their first visit to this grand exposition, and was it possible that they could both actually be children again?
There was no time to figure out whether or not this was real. The point was, it certainly felt real. Even though she was dizzy and confused, Heather pushed herself from the pavement with her free hand, finally managing to get up. Her knees were scraped and bleeding, but she knew she had to move through her pain—two men were in hot pursuit.
Being alone with no chaperon at a huge public event made the two of them vulnerable to being kidnapped; and the sheer size of the throng allowed for a kidnapping to take place without the slightest bit of suspicion.
At eleven and a half and thirteen, respectively, Heather and Matt had been wandering through the amusement area of this world renowned fair. But, being as precocious as they were, they had decided that before their trip they should make a visit to their local library to check out some books covering the Panama Pacific International Exposition.
They had even decided to do some extensive research on the internet and had found an old map laying out the orientation of all the venues, inspiring Matt to make a list in his trusty old notebook of all the sites they must see.
Heather and Matt had been orphaned at a very young age, as a result of their parents’ death in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake that struck the San Francisco Bay area.
Their closest living relative was their Great Aunt Estelle, and after their parents’ death, the two were brought to live with her.
Aunt Estelle loved to be the center of attention and there always seemed to be an air of drama about her. She had never had children of her own, so by the time Matt and Heather had become her wards, she hadn’t a clue as to how to deal with them.
As a child prodigy, Estelle Furgeson had a demanding schedule of private piano lessons, constant practicing, many recitals and tours, and found herself surrounded only by adults. Consequently, coupled with the fact that she had no children of her own, she was uncomfortable around Matt and Heather and distant and stiff with them. Although the three of them did, at times, have quiet dinners together, there was generally no laughter, only polite conversation, with a sprinkling of prodding by Mrs. Furgeson to “remember your manners.”
In fact, Great Aunt Estelle’s idea of a good time for children was to take Matt and Heather to the symphony or the ballet. And, when she found the subject matter intelligent, she occasionally took them to see a children’s play. Fortunately, at the time, neither Matt nor Heather knew their aunt also had plans to introduce them to the opera when they were ‘of appropriate age.’
Because of her successful career as a concert pianist, with everyone oohing and aahing at her brilliant talent, Aunt Estelle had been in great demand, and as a result, had built up a tidy sum in her bank account before marrying.
When they met, Hubert Furgeson, Aunt Estelle’s husband was serving in the diplomatic corps. His position required him to travel extensively throughout the world, and it was on one of those travels that his untimely death occurred, some fifteen years after their marriage. He was aboard the infamous Flight 007 to Korea in 1979, when the plane went off course and was shot down by the Russians who believed it to be on a spying mission.
The news came as a severe shock to Estelle. But, after a year’s bereavement, she regained her strong will and determination, and within a short while, was her old self again, throwing and attending parties, and enjoying her life as a socialite.
Mr. Fergusen’s estate was quite huge and the inheritance Aunt Estelle received upon his death, coupled with her already significant amount of assets, left her one of the wealthiest women in San Francisco. Consequently, she had continually been courted by politicians and foundations alike for her generous donations and influential support.
Upon their arrival at their aunt’s mansion, Matt and Heather had enjoyed exploring the old house and found all the alcoves and rooms to be perfect for playing ‘hide ‘n seek’ but, as they grew older, their lives seemed to be filled only with routine and boredom and the house no longer held the same fascination as it had when they first came to live there. Fortunately, though, Matt and Heather would discover an intriguing secret that would change their lives forever.
They had been told stories of the house and how it had been built by an unscrupulous mariner whose painting still hung in a dark corner of the library, and who, it was rumored, had used indentured Chinese laborers to do the building. There were even rumors that one of the older Chinamen had some how bewitched the house.
Heather remembered the first day she and Matt saw the majestic row house perched on a rise in the wealthy Marina District. They had been driven to their new home directly from their parents’ funeral. It was a gray and dreary day, reflecting their mood. They sat in silence in the big, black limousine. Remnants of the earthquake’s devastation were still evident in parts of the neighborhood. The driver had to take a circuitous route to avoid the police barricades set up to protect citizens from the potential collapse of structures. Parts of the area looked as though they were a war zone. Their great aunt’s house, however, was one of the few that had miraculously remained untouched.
When they finally reached the home’s entrance, they were escorted to the front door by their aunt and the limousine driver. As they slowly approached the house, the two large, leaded-glass doors mysteriously opened, revealing the foyer and grand staircase. Matt and Heather just stood there looking up in awe, and they both shivered, wondering what fate lay before them.
On Matt’s thirteenth birthday, just as he thought he would go stark raving mad of boredom, the two siblings discovered the house’s secret—a hidden doorway to time travel.
The two had both been in their favorite secret spot, a tunnel-like space behind the sofa, lying head-to-head, talking of their drab lives when Matt, who was lying very close to the wall, suddenly discovered a feature that started at the baseboard and went up the paneled wall. It looked like an opening of about two square feet. Matt had never noticed it before. It was a chink in the paneling.
His heart began pounding in excitement and anticipation, hoping he had discovered a secret trap door to a passageway, possibly added by the Chinese laborers who built the house long ago.
He had tried to pry the door open with his finger tips but couldn’t get a good enough grip to open it. It wasn’t until Heather had backed out of the tunnel-like space and ran to the desk to grab the sterling silver letter opener that the solution would be close at hand. Matt stuck the blade end in on the right side, but still couldn’t get enough leverage to pry the door open. But, as he slid the blade around the top and over to the left, they both heard a click and the panel opened, revealing a small passageway barely big enough for an adult.
Both their hearts began pounding this time. Matt poked his head through the opening, but it was so dark he could hardly see what was beyond the threshold. He decided to venture further, prodding Heather to come with him. But she was too afraid of the darkness that lay beyond, and they decided it was better that she stay behind anyway. After all, there should be someone keeping guard to make sure no one caught them.
After warnings to take care and promises that he would, Matt had finally maneuvered his body around to sit at the opening rather than have only his head poking through. He was sitting on what felt like a ledge with his feet dangling in air. As he scooted forward, to his surprise, he began sliding down a 45º ramp.
Once at the bottom of the ramp, Matt discovered he was in a counterpart library of the one he had just left.
Because of the novelty of the hidden door and because of their excitement of finding it, neither had noticed the Mariner’s clock that hung on the left-side panel just inside the opening of the secret passageway. On further examination, though, they realized it was an instrument for time travel and the passage was a portal to other times.
Inscribed on the wall just beneath the clock was a riddle.
Tic toc, Tic toc.
Time is in the hands of this clock.
Whether to go forward
Or whether to go back,
Whichever you choose
Will determine your track.
Never tarry longer
Than when the next watch is struck,
Or wherever you are,
You are sure to be stuck!
It took them a little while to decipher its meaning, but they eventually learned that the length of a ship’s watch was four hours and that they couldn’t stay any longer than four hours in one place or the consequences could be disastrous—they could be stuck between dimensions and possibly dissolve into thin air.
Matt was enthusiastic about the adventures that awaited them. But at first, Heather was reluctant to leave the safety of her familiar surroundings, even if things were a bit stuffy and boring in the old house. Once Matt had convinced her that it was safe enough, and once she was comfortable and familiar with its use, she was as eager to travel to as many places and times as the four-hour allotment would allow—and so, the two had visited the Bay Area not only in times past but in the future as well.
Everything began when Heather and Matt ventured through the passageway on their first time-travel visit to the 1915 Exposition. They found themselves close to the amusement area and began wandering through it, discovering that there were recreations and working models of the Panama Canal; the Grand Canyon; the Dayton Flood of 1913, that had killed over 300 people and prompted the advent of modern flood control; the Battle of Gettysburg; and an imaginative diorama of Creation itself, illustrating the first few chapters of Genesis in vivid detail - it was a representation of the world.
The Zone, as the area was called, also included numerous eateries, among them fine sit-down restaurants such as the Old Faithful Inn, with its working model of the geyser, and the Alt Nuremburg, with live music and dancing.
There were recreations of foreign villages and camps, including the Camp of 49, showing visitors how the early western settlers and gold miners had lived. And since Matt and Heather had been studying about different countries in their geography classes, it was fascinating to them to see the Japanese, Chinese, Samoan, Somalian, and Tehuantepec villages firsthand.
As the two walked by the mock Samoan Village, several young women and men, scantily clad in their native costumes and adorned in necklaces and strings of beads and rings, began their native dances while singing their island songs. Their voices were soft and musical and they seemingly moved every muscle of their bodies. Heather could have sworn they even moved their fingers and toes. The dancers’ skin, where it was not tattooed, glistened a beautiful golden color, and Heather enjoyed every bit of their performance.
There were representatives from many other countries too, who performed their native dances and played their unique instruments for the fair goers throughout The Zone.
Then there were the rides. The Bowls of Joy was an exciting, but considered by many people of the day, a dangerous attraction. Riders were seated in small roller-coaster cars, which spun at break-neck speeds around the inner circles of inverted cones. The Safety Racer was another popular destination that featured two roller coasters speeding against each other. And the Scenic Railway was not only part sightseeing excursion but part roller coaster too, with riders traveling through imaginary scenes that used elaborate and dramatic lighting to enhance the rider’s experience.
But Matt’s and Heather’s favorite ride was The Submarine. Foreshadowing Disney’s attractions, visitors entered through the wide open mouths of sharks, wandered through coral caves, and then visited the seven seas aboard a life-size model of a U.S. Navy submersible, as it was called. At the end, a violent storm battered the submarine before returning it and its passengers safely back to home port.
Finally, there was the exposition’s answer to the Ferris wheel, The Aeroscope. Built by Joseph Strauss who would go on to design the Golden Gate Bridge twenty-two years later, it had a two-story observation booth, mounted to a 200-foot-long steel arm that lifted passengers high above the fairgrounds for a panoramic view of the city and bay.
As Heather looked at the gigantic contraption, it began rising above the tops of the buildings. Its car, outlined by hundreds of electric lights, held five hundred people. The slender, metal-framed arm that the car sat atop had been lowered for the passengers to board. Once the car had been filled to capacity, the arm began rising, and as it rose, it looked to Heather like some giant with a square head, craning his long neck up to see what stirred along the horizon.
Wide-eyed at all the sites and sounds, the two children had been wandering through the Chinese village in The Zone when Matt had convinced Heather to visit the Chinese Pavilion at the opposite end of the grounds. There would be more artifacts on display there, and since his seventh grade class had been learning about the transcontinental railroad and of the Chinese immigrants whose labor helped build it, at the time, Matt was naturally interested in everything Chinese.
So, with his well-worn notebook in his inside vest pocket for impromptu note taking, he and Heather had jumped aboard one of the Fageol auto trains, reminiscent of today’s theme-park trams, to be quickly transported to the foreign pavilions.
It was while they were looking at all the exotic artifacts and Matt had just pointed to an oddly-shaped object, about to make a sketch of it, when a very old, mysterious looking Chinese man, dressed in elaborately embroidered silken robes, stepped out from behind a display cabinet and stared at them intently. He was speaking Mandarin, the official language of China, as if to himself; but just as Heather and Matt excused themselves in an attempt to walk around the man, two other men appeared from behind the case. One was young and Chinese too. He was short and slight of build, and definitely looked agile. The other man was of mixed ancestry and had some Asian features, but he was taller and bulkier and looked like a thug. The two men were dressed all in black. Their cloths weren’t as elegant as that of the old man’s, but were rather coarse and peasant-like.
With six eyes glaring down at them, the two children had begun to slowly step backward. When they had exited the exhibit hall their instincts told them to run. They were right. Sure enough, the old oriental shouted what sounded like orders, and the two other men began sprinting after them.
And so, it was from sheer panic at being chased by two complete strangers that had caused Heather to stumble and fall to her knees. As she stood up from her fall, she and Matt began fleeing again, adrenalin pumping, giving her new strength. Still panicked and running on instinct, Heather suddenly realized they had run down the Avenue of Nations, turned right at Lafayette Avenue, and were now approaching Pizarro Way. Ahead lay the Inside Inn, the only hotel within the exposition grounds.
“C’mon, Matt, maybe we can lose them in there.”
The lobby was grand. The amber-colored, marbled columns stood 16’ tall, topped by Corinthian capitols covered in gold leaf. The coffered ceiling was detailed with intricate plasterwork and moldings that were also gold leafed. Some walls were a pale, warm yellow, while others were cream colored. The marble floors were a paler yellow still, and topped here and there by carpeting in deep amber and gold tones. The furnishings were rich and ranged from shades of cream to deep golds, with touches of warm browns. Here and there, strategically placed pedestals were topped with parlor palms, typical of the day. The whole impression was one of inviting opulence.
In an effort to look nonchalant and trying not to rouse too much suspicion, Heather and Matt fell onto a settee, out of breath. But, since their behavior was not in keeping with what was expected of children of the time, the adult patrons gave them stern glances.
The lobby was bustling with activity. There were guests checking in; ladies having late afternoon tea; men enjoying cigars and brandy, discussing world events; and visitors just admiring the ambiance of the surroundings.
“May I help you young miss? Young sir?” asked a tall thin man in a tuxedo. The man bowed slightly, and Heather noticed he had a white linen towel draped over his arm and was holding a silver tray.
“Uhh, we’ll have two sarsaparillas, please,” Heather said, remembering she had read that that was what children liked best in the early 1900’s. (Sarsaparilla was originated as a tonic in much the same way that Coca Cola was when it first appeared on the market - its taste is very similar to root beer, but with a little more spiciness and a slightly bitter aftertaste.)
“Right away, miss,” the waiter said, and bowed again as he backed away from them. Wonder whose children those two are? the waiter thought to himself.
Bad enough got to deal with the old pompous misers here. Got to deal with their young too. The man held the same viewpoint as many of his class. He was eager to please and serve the wealthy—not out of dedication to service, but because that was how one of his meager background fed oneself. He couldn’t help despising his patrons the whole time. It wasn’t necessarily because of their money but more because of how he disliked his own disingenuousness.
Meanwhile, the two oriental assailants had rushed in a few moments behind Matt and Heather, but paused just inside the doorway. Their sudden entrance had caused everyone to look in their direction now. When the men realized they were inside a hotel lobby, they slowly backed up, deciding to wait for Heather and Matt outside. Men of their obvious status weren’t allowed inside the public areas of a hotel of this stature, especially if not accompanying a person of importance. Instead, they would have been expected to go to the servant’s entrance.
“What’ll we do, Matt? They’re waiting outside.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you staying with us at the hotel?” The waiter’s sudden reappearance startled Heather. The man set the two mugs of sarsaparilla down.
“Uhh, no, we’re just resting and waiting for our parents,” Matt answered.
“Then that will be ten cents, please, young sir.”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out three nickels. He placed them on the silver tray.
“Thank you young sir!” the waiter said, obviously pleased at the large tip Matt had given him and oblivious to the fact that the coins weren’t minted in his own time. He had temporarily forgotten the contemptuous feelings he had had towards the children just a few moments earlier.
The waiter’s appreciation of the tip could be understood, though—after all, the average annual income of the day was only $1,267.00.
“Let’s just sit here for now and pretend to enjoy our drinks, and decide what our strategy should be,” Matt said in a whisper after the waiter had walked away. Matt’s comment about pretending to enjoy their soft drinks was a reference to his trying to enjoy a peanut butter cookie on one of their earlier time travels to the counterpart home of the sea captain. Heather had cautioned him about eating something from another dimension, but, ignoring her warnings, Matt bit into the cookie anyway. To his surprise, he experienced only a fleeting whiff and taste of peanut butter. And, for a moment, he thought he could feel the morsel on his tongue, but in an instant it had vanished like a snowflake.
“Matt, I think we should go back home to our time. We can always come back later.”
“Well, we need to get to the ramp to do that, and it’s clear across the grounds. How’re your knees doing?”
Heather lifted the skirt of her ruffled, white dress. Her and Matt’s clothing had been their costumes in a school play and proved useful for their time-traveling excursions. Heather pushed the torn and stained legs of her pantaloons up to get a better look at her knees. This of course caused gasps from the ladies at a nearby table, and one made a comment at how immodest young girls were becoming these days.
Noticing the woman’s glare, Heather quickly lowered her pantaloon legs and straightened her dress. “I’ll be alright. What do you suppose those men want from us? Why on earth are they chasing us?”
“They probably want to kidnap us for child labor,” Matt said. “I read that in old San Francisco those kinds of things happened a lot, especially in the poorer neighborhoods.”
Matt was right. Children in the early twentieth century, as young as eight to ten years of age, were hired to tend cotton looms, or to stand all night before the ‘glory holes’ of glass factories, or to work as breakers and mules in coal mines. Almost always the children of the poorer underclasses, they were employed because of their size and agility, able to reach spaces an adult couldn’t easily get to.
So profitable was this practice that unscrupulous men took to kidnapping children off the streets. In many cases this was easy to do since there were many children forced to sleep huddled in alleyways, alone and orphaned by life’s unhappy circumstances.
“Matt, I’d really like to get home. What if we went through the kitchen? There must be a delivery door there. We could slip out that way and those two won’t know where we’ve gone.”
“That’s a good idea. But we’ll have to be nonchalant and do it so we don’t attract attention.”
The two continued to slowly sip their drinks, pretending to enjoy the refreshing taste, waiting for the right time to leave.
Their settee was near a group of four club chairs, three of which were occupied by men who had an air of importance about them. A rather distinguished looking man sat across from the other two, one with a very distinct Russian accent and the other so soft spoken, his words were almost indiscernible.
“Well I must say,” the distinguished looking man said in a perfect British accent, “in spite of the fact that England’s political view was one of disdain over the United States having strategic reign over the Panama Canal and its potential dominance in oceanic trade, I think this is the most splendid celebration of such an occasion I have had the pleasure of attending!” The man was slender and about fifty-five with graying temples and a moustache, which he kept ‘combing’ with his left, index finger. He was impeccably dressed, and the diamond stickpin holding his ascot in place sparkled in the light as he moved.
“And, I might add, it has been refreshing to be free of the worries of war - at least for a time - and immerse one’s self in sheer fun. Other than the bellman misplacing my valise, which I am pleased to say held nothing of significance, this has been the most pleasurable diplomatic mission I have been sent on.”
“Da, Da. Is wary nice to bee ear—zo enjoyable. Is magnificent building—not nice as Tsar’s palace, but nice neverzaless. And, I ham gled our countries are allies. Wee ware wary afraid you and Chermany wood join forces, zo opposed ware you both to Amereeka building kanal.”
The Russian was a huge man, much bigger than his comrade, making him look as though he had been stuffed into his suit. His weight caused him to sweat profusely, and he constantly pulled his dingy handkerchief from his chest pocket, shaking it out to its full length to wipe his face and bald head. When he was through, he would stuff the damp cloth haphazardly back into his pocket.
This, of course, caused the British diplomat to wrinkle his nose and remove his own handkerchief, which, by contrast, was neatly folded and discreetly stuffed into his inside coat pocket. Each time the Russian went through his theatrics, the Englishman would hold his folded handkerchief to his nose to avoid any whiff of musky body odor being wafted through the air.
“Well, that’s all ‘water over the locks’ shall we say,” the Englishman quickly added with a wry laugh.
The men were commenting on both England and Germany’s resistance to the United States building and having control over a canal at the Columbian isthmus. Both countries reasoned that whosoever governed the passage would dominate commerce through a shortened trade route—and neither liked the idea.
With the onset of war, though, England and Germany had become bitter foes.
“Our hope is that America will soon be an ally. And what of your country?” the Englishman asked, directing his comment to the important looking Russian, trying to be cordial as well as interested. “I understand you’ve enjoyed a minor victory in the Carpathian Mountains.”
The Englishman didn’t generally like Russians. He mistrusted them somehow. He merely tolerated the two that now sat opposite him, mainly out of his overwhelming sense of duty to king and country. After all, England and Russia were on the same side. And, at times like this, one didn’t question who one’s allies were.
In asking his question about the Carpathian Mountains, the Englishman was referring to the eastern front of World War One, at the Austro-Hungarian border. At the time, Austria-Hungary was an adjoining region in central Europe that lay between Switzerland, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Slovenia, Croatia, and Yugoslavia.
When a conflict as large as the First World War emerges, many people are sometimes caught unaware, wondering how it all happened so suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere. But, the truth is, that is rarely the case. Instead, tangled webs of political intrigue have likely been spun, and sometimes with their threads anchored in decades past. Like playing blocks, these webs build, layer-upon-layer, until from sheer weight of all the contributing factors, fall apart, and war is the inevitable result. Such was the case with the First World War, ‘one thing had led to another.’
The spark that had ignited the whole affair was the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne. It happened in Serbia on June 28, 1914, at the hands of a fringe militant group. This set in motion a series of events that would eventually lead to the world’s first global war. And global it certainly was.
Angry and reacting to the death of their heir, the Austro-Hungarians decided to use that unfortunate event to stamp their authority upon the Serbians. Their plan was to crush the nationalist movement and cement their own country’s influence in the Balkans. This was done through an ultimatum to Serbia, demanding that the assassins be brought to justice. Those demands would, in effect, nullify Serbia’s sovereignty.
But, the Austro-Hungarians surmised that the Serbians would reject the severe terms of their ultimatum, giving them the perfect pretext for launching a war. However, reasoning further that Serbia had long-standing ties with Russia and afraid that Russia might be drawn into the dispute, the Austro-Hungarian government sought assurances from her own ally, Germany. Germany quickly agreed. And it all began!
France, bound by treaty to Russia, consequently found itself at war against Germany too.
Britain, allied to France by treaty, in turn declared war against Germany. Her reason, she was obligated to defend neutral Belgium. Britain’s colonies and dominions: Australia, Canada, India, New Zealand, and the Union of South Africa, offered military and financial assistance, bringing them into the war too.
Japan, honoring a military agreement with Britain, also declared war on Germany.
Italy, on the other hand, even though she was allied to both Germany and Austria-Hungry, was able to avoid entering the battle.
So too, the United States remained neutral. It wouldn’t be until 1917 that she would feel herself compelled to enter the fray as a result of Germany’s policy of unrestricted submarine warfare, stating that “neutral ships armed or unarmed that sail into a German war zone will be attacked without warning.” This, in essence was a verbal threat to America’s commercial shipping, and on February 3, 1917, the American steamship, the Housatonic, was sunk without warning.
This, then, was the tangle of alliances. But these alliances weren’t a recent phenomenon either. They had been begun in the 1860s when Bismark, the first Prime Minister of Prussia was consumed with a desire to achieve the creation of a German Empire out of the collection of smaller German states. He succeeded in ousting Austria from the Prussian alliance and unified the north. His next step was to unify the south; to do that he declared war on France. Winning that war, a unified Germany was finally born. It was these factors which played prominently in the outbreak of war some 43 years later, in 1914.
This new global war was sometimes called “a family affair” because many of the European monarchies were inter-related. But, in spite of these family ties, European politics was all about power and influence, and of protection and encirclement.
Now, answering the Englishman’s question about the Carpathian Mountains, the important Russian said, “Da, da zis wary drew. And, wee ware also able to, achem…” he cleared his throat and looked around, “zhall wee zay, ‘take possession’ of zome wary fine Titian art pieces during Count Andrasay’s trek zrough Carpathian Mountains. Ztill, I understand Austria had enough left for an excellent representation of its remaining ztate art for display ere at exposition. Za trick, of course, wood be to determine how wone wood obtain zuch display. Ha, ha, ha.” After the man regained his composure, he raised his empty glass and called to the waiter for “moor wadka,” content that the Englishman would think his comments witty.
“Matt, did you hear that?” Heather whispered, leaning over the table, almost knocking over her empty mug. “Those men were talking as though America could become their enemy. And that Russian, he openly admitted stealing important artwork. Not only that, it sounds as though he’s planning on trying to steal again from one of the exhibits here! We should tell someone about it.”
“We don’t have time for that now, Heather. Didn’t you say you thought we should get home? And besides, this is history. Remember, America did enter World War One, and we and the English and Russians were all allies. We can’t mess around with history.”
Matt took Heather’s hand and pulled her around the table toward the double doors he had seen the waiter go through at the far end of the lobby. The two walked arm-in-arm, trying to act nonchalant, pausing from time to time to look at statuary or artwork.
Finally, they were at the double doors and were about to slowly walk through when a commotion ensued. The waiter had just pushed the doors from the opposite side with his extended hand, holding his silver tray over his head with the other. The three collided, causing the waiter to fold at the waist and fling the tray and its contents of ornate glasses filled with a clear liquid high into the air. The tray and glasses landed with a loud crash, disturbing all the lobby patrons. Everyone was looking in their direction, including the two mysterious Chinese men who were peering in from just outside the entrance.
“They try to get away,” the burly looking half-breed said in broken English. Determined to follow his master’s orders, and, without further regard, he burst into the hotel and ran through the lobby, causing all the patrons to look in his direction now. Following close behind was the smaller man, mumbling indistinguishable words to himself.
Heather and Matt untangled themselves from the waiter and paused only long enough to see their two assailants closing in on them. They practically trampled over the waiter in their desperation to get through the kitchen and out onto the grounds.
There was a frenzied flurry in the kitchen as they bumped into cooks, and knocked over pots and pans and trays of dishes. The kitchen hands were as stunned as the lobby patrons had been. But, no sooner were Matt and Heather through the outside service doors when the commotion started all over again by the two men in hot pursuit.
How did this all start? Heather thought to herself as Matt pulled on her arm, forcing her to keep up with his pace. Vague images of her adult self flashed through her mind as though she were looking through a dark, mysterious mirror. Was she really a child again, running to save her life or was she merely dreaming it all?
CHAPTER 2
“Heather, you’re my star pupil.” Professor Huntington’s voice was authoritative, yet the tone was somehow motherly, causing Heather to feel a surge of pride at hearing the words.
At eighteen, Heather was standing in the office of her theatre arts instructor wondering why she had been called in. Professor Huntington usually called students into her office only if their grades weren’t up to par or if they were working on a project. Heather didn’t believe either to be the case for her.
Having lost her mother at a young age gave Heather an unconscious need to seek out the approval and even the affections of older women. Her great aunt and guardian had not filled that role very well, and the only real mother figure Heather had had in her childhood was her governess, Manar. That role had now been unconsciously transferred to the head of the Theatre Arts Department.
There must have been an unconscious desire to fulfill that role too, because Professor Huntington took an unusual interest in Heather’s progress at Northwestern. She identified with Heather’s social situation at the school, and could remember herself at that age and what a book geek she was, spending most of her hours lost in the pages of texts in the library.
Poor child, she thought. What some parents do to their children! I’ll bet she’s not even been allowed to chew gum in her aunt’s presence. ‘Always little Miss Manners.’ Well, guess it didn’t do you much harm. I mean, you’ve
been happy with your life—haven’t you?
Charlotte Huntington was an attractive woman of indeterminate age. She wore her long, sandy blond hair tied back in a severe bun whenever she was teaching. That, coupled with her wire-frame, reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose added years to her appearance. But her slender body and mode of dress counterbalanced that effect, causing one to constantly guess at her age. Sometimes, on that rare occasion when she helped work on a set for a play or came in to tidy up her office after hours, wearing jeans and her hair in a pony tail, she could actually be mistaken for one of her own students.
Now a feeling of gratification began washing over Heather as a result of her professor’s recognition of her efforts. Being so young in a class full of older students was awkward. Granted, the difference in age was only a year or two, but to Heather it might as well have been a whole generation. Her classmates had all been polite enough, yet she hadn’t been able to form any close friendships. Goodness knows she had tried to fit in, but as a young child living in her aunt’s household, manners and the proper use of the English language were demanded of her and her brother. And, because neither had close friends from among their schoolmates, neither had developed the mannerisms nor language typical of teens. In fact, they both often felt awkward in social situations with people of their own age. Consequently, at eighteen and being away from home for the first time, Heather felt most comfortable around her theatre arts instructor. So, she had decided to volunteer wherever she could, and ended up spending most of her spare time in the theatre arts lab.
“Now, I suspect your classmates are a little jealous of you,” Professor Huntington continued, no longer feeling pity for herself or Heather (after all, feeling sorry for oneself was a waste of time)—“not only for being the prettiest and most talented, but also for being the youngest. Yes, it’s true Heather,” the professor continued, sensing that Heather was about to protest. “And there’s no sense in being ashamed of it either. I’m afraid, though, that what I’m about to offer you will probably make you the most unpopular too.
“I know you’ve been working hard at trying to be ‘just one of the gang,’ but I hope you’ll give what I’m about to suggest some thoughtful consideration.”
Heather stood there, fidgeting with the back pockets of her jeans, trying to act nonchalant. She pushed a lock of loose, golden hair behind one ear, her brown eyes staring at no particular point in space, as though she were looking inward instead. What’s she going to do, ask me to be class proctor? Gees, that’d be too awkward.
“Heather, certainly you’ve heard of the Millennium Park project.”
“Yes professor. It’s going to be like nothing Chicago has ever seen. Why?”
“Well—now this is of utmost importance, what I’m going to tell you is completely confidential. And, even if you say you don’t want to participate, you must assure me you won’t share this information with anyone.”
“Y-yes, Ms.Huntington. But wha…?” Heather’s curiosity was definitely piqued. If that had been Professor Huntington’s intention, she had certainly accomplished it.
“Heather, the gala for the grand opening of the park is planned for July 18, and will be a three day event. There have been rumors to that effect for nearly a year and almost everyone knows about it. But what no one knows is that on the following weekend, after opening, there will be another gala. The planners want to assure the public that the Millennium Park venture is not going to be an ongoing tax burden to the city. So, they’re planning a fundraising spectacular and will be inviting the wealthiest and most influential people to a full evening of dining and entertainment. Their hope is to get those attendees to open their checkbooks and give generously.
“They’ve retained some of the country’s most talented and successful event production companies just for that celebration. What those companies are doing is inviting theatre arts students to participate as interns. Heather, I’m recommending you as Northwestern’s representative.”
Heather couldn’t believe what she had just heard. To have been accepted at Northwestern at such a young age was reward enough for all her diligence and hard work at the college preparatory school in San Francisco. But now she was being offered ‘a place in history’ really. She would be involved in of one of the country’s most spectacular events. How could she say no?
I can’t wait to tell Matt and Aunt Estelle, Heather thought to herself on the way to the library. Her plan was to gather as many books covering large-scale outdoor productions as she could get. She reasoned that the more information she had under her belt, the more she’d fit in with the professionals she’d certainly be mingling and working with.
She had checked out several books, stuffing them into the small rolling suitcase she used to cart her belongings to and from classes. (Heather had stopped carrying a backpack in junior year at prep school.) She headed for the privacy of her dorm room, pulling the bulging case behind her. Even though it was rare, not having a roommate was fine with Heather, she liked her privacy. Tonight she’d have the whole evening to delve into this fascinating subject without having to listen to chatter about who was dating whom or how to do the latest dance moves.
When she got to her room, she carefully unloaded the books and placed them on her bed. Since childhood, bed was her most favorite place to read, that is, except for the sofa or floor in the grand library of her aunt’s old mansion. She and Matt loved to lie on the Persian carpet in front of the mahogany and green marble fireplace. They would spend hours lost in the plots of great stories, with the flames of the fire flickering and casting their dancing shadows across the room, adding to the intrigue, and the aroma of the crackling logs filling their senses.
Like most every other college student, Heather had improvised a small kitchen, complete with an electric, single-burner hot plate, a toaster, and a small refrigerator. She could prepare a whole meal if necessary. Tonight, though, like most nights, she’d simply warm up some soup, place a slice of cheese between two pieces of toasted bread, then settle in with a cup of hot cocoa after her meal and lose herself in her books.
As she sipped her steamy drink, letting the rich chocolaty aroma soothe her senses, one book in particular held a certain fascination for her. Its subject was the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition, located at the bay of San Francisco. Heather opened the book; staring up at her from the inside cover was a colored photo of the Tower of Jewels, the centerpiece of the exposition.
Shivers went up and down Heather’s arms, and a rush of memories flooded her mind. She remembered time traveling as a child to the Exposition through the hidden door and seeing the tower for the first time—right there, in person. Neither this picture nor any other could accurately depict the impression it gave as one stood, viewing it from Scott Street across the enormous plaza of the South Gardens. She and Matt had actually gone back in time to visit the expo on several occasions and had enjoyed it every time—all but the very first time that is. In fact, so terrifying were their experiences on that first sojourn that it’s amazing they decided to visit the expo ever again.
Heather flinched. A frown knit across her brow hardening her pretty features.
The German had been relentless in his chase of her and Matt. Now, he was stopped only by a large, Chinese rag doll that hung from the dome like a gigantic piñata, blocking the man’s attempts at grabbing them.
Instead, the German cocked his arm and threw something. It was as though Heather stood watching the whole scene unfold, even though she was right in the middle of all the action.
The sound of the knife whizzed passed her ear. It was aimed right at the center of Matt’s back. “Noooo,” she heard herself yell. The sound of her voice was muffled and drawn out as though it were an old recording that was played at the wrong speed. She tried to yell again, she wanted to warn Matt of the danger he was in, but this time no words came out at all – her mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton.
Suddenly, the old sea captain grabbed the two of them and flew them to safety, just as the knife landed with a thud, deflating the nearby mountain.
Heather was about to roll over when one of the books fell off the bed, bringing her to full consciousness. She had fallen asleep and had been having fitful dreams of her and Matt’s first childhood visit to the grand exposition commemorating the Panama Canal opening.
Heather swung her legs over the side of the bed and shook her head to clear her mind of the life-like dream she had just had. In spite of its effect on her and its reminder of her first visit to the fair, she reached for her cell phone, deciding to call Matt and tell him of her plans.
“Hey guy, how ya doin?
“Yeah it’s me. You got some time over spring break? How would you like your sis to pay you a visit?
“What do you mean ‘do I have an ulterior motive’?
“OK, OK. Yes, I’d like for us to go through the secret door. Huh? Well, are you sitting down? Because I’ve got some fantastic news. I’ve been submitted for an internship for the Millennium Park project. What do you think of that?
“Yeah, it’s going to be just about the biggest thing to hit Chicago in ages!
“Well, I want us to go through the hidden door and visit the Pan Pacific Expo again. I think I can get some great ideas from it—first hand.”
CHAPTER 3
The plane trip had been uneventful, but, as usual, too long. Fortunately, having taken the ‘red eye’ to San Francisco allowed Heather to get some sleep, as uncomfortable as it was. She certainly had enough money in her trust to fly first class. But, her youth embarrassed her - every other college student she knew flew coach and she wanted to be no different. Now, standing in the cramped plane, stretching and waiting to get to the overhead bin to retrieve her small suitcase, she wished she had overcome her embarrassment and purchased the first class ticket.
“Matt, hey.” Heather yelled as she walked through the terminal entrance, just past the security check point.
Matt watched his sister as she broke into a sprint to get to him all the quicker. The two siblings had been best friends since they were toddlers and even more so after the death of their parents. They really had no one else to confide in except one another, and since they were both in the same situation, they understood perfectly what the other was going through.
Matt had even taken on the role of protector since there were no real male role models in their lives. Roger Hill, their governess’s first husband and Aunt Estelle’s butler had been the only constant man in their life, but he certainly wasn’t anything close to a father figure.
Heather ran to her brother and gave him a long hug, happy to see the loving expression of her best friend.
“Got any luggage?”
“No, I’ve learned to travel light - just this carry-on.”
“I called the house after your phone call,” Matt said, as they drove from the airport to their old home. “Aunt Estelle was out as usual. She’s amazing. At 81 she’s still a gadabout. Bless her. Hope I’m as agile at that age. Manar was glad to hear we’ll both be spending some time with them, and said she’d ‘let madam know as soon as she’s in, because she’ll certainly want to make reservations for Sunday brunch,’ Matt said, trying to mimic Manar’s formality. I think the plans are for us to have a light dinner at home tonight so we can catch one another up on what’s been happening in our lives.”
Manar Jibari was born, raised, and well educated in Teheran, Iran. She came from a moderately-wealthy merchant family and her life had been very similar to that of American children—that is, until the regime change and the overthrow of the Shah.
After the overthrow it had become more and more difficult to adjust to the lifestyle changes imposed on everyone. But even more difficult for Manar to bear was the death of her father. He had been killed as a suspected conspirator against the Ayatollah, further shattering Manar’s life. She just barely managed to escape to Turkey with her mother and brother—and from there, eventually to the United States.
She had been hired by Matt and Heather’s parents to serve as the children’s governess. But, when the two were sent to live with their Great Aunt Estelle, her duties eventually included attending to Estelle Furgeson’s needs as well. At first, her and Mrs. Furgeson’s relationship was strictly businesslike. In time, though, as many of Ms. Furgeson’s friends passed on, Manar became more and more of a confidant and companion. This was especially true after Heather and Matt had left for college.
“Well, I hope we have some free time to get to the hidden door this week,” Heather said. “I hope Aunt Estelle doesn’t want to spend the whole time with us.”
“You don’t think she’s going to give up her regular social activities for us do you?” Matt answered. “She’ll probably suggest that we go along with her, though. But, we can explain that we want some quiet time alone and I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Once Heather was situated in her old room, it felt to her as though no time had passed at all since she was last there. The pale yellow on the walls had aged a bit over the years, but it gave them an old-world patina that comforted Heather. She lay on the bed of the 1930s white reproduction French bedroom set Aunt Estelle had purchased from an estate auction shortly after Heather and Matt had come to live in the old mansion. Some of the paint had worn off the edges, but that only added to the set’s charm.
Her room had always made Heather feel like a princess and that old feeling rushed back to her now. Yes, she had felt sad and even angry at having lost both her parents, and there were times she wished she and Matt hadn’t been sent to live with their aunt. After all, it hadn’t been a particularly happy experience, especially with The Crypt Keeper, as she and Matt had referred to their aunt’s former butler. Thank God he was no longer on the scene!
Her thoughts eventually drifted to their thrilling treks through the secret passage, visiting different historical times and places as well as their ventures to see what the future would be like. She wondered what destiny lay before her, and of the exciting internship she had just been granted.
“Miss Heather, are you asleep? Wake up. Dinner will be served in ten minutes.”
Manar’s soft voice and knock on the door awakened Heather and she yawned and stretched. “OK, I’ll be right down. Thanks.”
Heather entered the dining room. It was still as beautiful and elegant as ever. Being in an almost hundred year-old mansion, the ceilings of the room were the typical twelve-feet-high, with curved eight-inch coping all around. When she had first moved in, Estelle Furgeson had had the dated wall paper removed. In its place she had the walls plastered with a smooth finish and painted a light, antique bronze metallic that gave the room a candle-lit glow even in the daylight.
The tall windows were swagged and draped in dupioni silk in the same color as the walls, and they puddled on the floor in dramatic elegance. The dark mahogany furniture and white molding contrasted nicely against this glowing backdrop.
Surrounding the large doorway were deep niches on either side. The niches housed large Baccarat crystal vases in which Aunt Estelle insisted that fresh, seasonal floral arrangements be present at all times of the year.
Mrs. Furgeson had left the domed ceiling as she had found it. She had seen similarly painted ceilings in her travels abroad, and thought that it added an old-world-charm to the room. As a child, Heather remembered looking up at the ethereal blue of the simulated sky, with its billowing white clouds seemingly floating by. She imagined that the angels peeking down from behind those clouds were her parents watching over her and her brother.
Heather remembered the many dinners they had shared as a family. When she was home for the evening meals, Aunt Estelle had insisted they sit down to a formally set table and that Heather and Mathew, as she called Matt, remember and use their manners and that they carry on only polite conversations.
Tonight, the evening was filled with good food and laughter and, unlike their opinions of their aunt’s household as children, as adults, Matt and Heather had discovered how enjoyable an evening there could be.
Terri, Aunt Estelle’s little toy poodle and miniature fox-terrier mix was entertaining everyone at the table with her antics.
Estelle Furgeson had been watching the local news one evening, when the local affairs reporter announced a story she had uncovered regarding puppy mills and how the humane society was dealing with the problem of poorly-cared-for dogs who were ‘churned out’ for quick profits.