The Telegram, Chapter III. Wedding Reception at the Fairmont*
“Ladies and gentlemen! Shall we begin-“ the maestro raises his arm up with an open-faced palm as on-stage, instruments follow suit like puppets on strings- “the first dance!”
A voluminous swell of violins thus marks the commencement of a grand reception that echoes the matrimonial ceremony in its extravagance, then proceeds to consummate it ten-fold with the vim and excitement that comes inherent to such a symbol of modernity as San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel.
The evening trots along at a steady gait. Mr. Brady Gough and his luminous bride prove excellent hosts as they circle the Ball Room20 in graceful cadence, parlaying between guests and encouraging new liaisons-no individual is let awkward and idle, nor any coterie allowed to remain without fresh introductions at appropriate intervals-a marked effort, present in every Wilson event, to mix up a crowd that is more often than not all-too complacent.
To Sam’s impregnable wonderment, over the course of time between the last gala he’d attended and that of to-night’s, he has somehow seized the role as one of the more sought-after bachelors of San Francisco Society. This aberration may have arisen from the bit of information, circling the room in spirals as dizzying as those taking place on the dance floor, that Sam is-coming as a great shock to his person-in the market for a pretty, young bride to call his own. Seeing as how this information is unexcelled in its calumny, Sam would gladly amputate the limb of the culprit who has spread such slander; however, in the small club of San Francisco’s elite, rumours and gossip fly from rouged lips faster than a steam-powered engine, thus rendering any such tracking of information dismally moot.
Nevertheless, this is the course of Sam’s evening: if not the flash of a pale, silk-stockinged ankle or the ever-so-subtle, lingering touch, it is the daring appraisal as a feminine prospect looks Sam up and down, sin dripping from her demeanor.
He has hitherto diminished such attacks of visual violation by buffering himself with fellow lawyers and associates. Unfortunately, the last peg of his defence-Archie Keates from just down the hall-excuses himself to greet an old chum, leaving Sam no choice but to fend for himself. Affecting nonchalance, Sam wanders over to the side of the room and leans against the nearest surface where he slowly nurses his drink, all the while plotting his Great Escape. However, his derriere has naught even time to warm the mirrored wall before a familiar voice cuts into his thoughts:
“Sam Winchester, do pick up your long face off the floor and try to be gay, just for to-night?” Ava whisks into view, picking up her skirts as she marches steadily towards him. Sam quakes. “There are so many good men and women of Society for you to make connections with, that I should take it as a personal affront to my being should you return home prematurely, sans a new client or associate, or more importantly, an influence from the fairer sex.”
“Ava, dear, I was considering no such thing,” Sam lies. His friend is not so easily fooled, however. She halts in front of him and tilts her face up to widen her fawn-like eyes in the lowest form of entreaty-the little devil knows precisely the effect this impresses upon the male species, and Sam is no exception.
“This is a momentous night for me, Samuel,” Ava pleads, melancholy permeating her speech. “I couldn’t possibly be happy knowing my dearest friend may very well seclude himself into an early hermitage while I’m off cavorting about my own business. It would be an utter failing on my part. I do simply wish for you the same love and joy that I feel to-day, Sam.”
A dismissive, jocular remark rests at the tip of Sam’s tongue but as soon as Ava emits a long-suffering sniff, her eyes pooling with empathic pain, he cannot find it in him to ruin his best friend’s mood on the day of her wedding. He heaves a sigh and with it, a knowing sparkle graces her expression-Ava has succeeded once more, damn her feminine wiles.
“Just one introduction-“ Sam attempts, holding up a finger to emphasize his point, but Ava easily knocks his arm aside and takes it giddily.
“I know the perfect-oh, you’ll simple adore her, Sam, I just know you will!”
“Now look here, I won’t make any promises-“
Sam’s protestations slip away unnoticed as he is jostled through the crowd of well-dressed gentlemen and handsome women in every state of relation (and inebriation, as the hotel boasts a wide selection of liquors and wine). Corpulent businessmen cluster within their respective occupations; young ladies are paraded off their mother’s arms like porcelain dolls in splendid gowns of silk and chiffon. The more audacious young men and women gambol about in groups of mixed sexes, while neighboring persons watch on with ill-disguised suspicion. All the while, a lively mazurka continues un-ceasingly on the center floor, where couples spin around each other in perfect, lilting time.
Ava drags him across the room like so much luggage when a veil of brushed wool suddenly curtains over Sam’s face as an older woman spreads her arms wide in exuberance. He paws it off single-handedly, only to have Ava pull him headlong into a solid obstacle, wherein he trips over a beaded train of cloth and lands against said obstacle, hands braced against a distinctly feminine form.
“Oh, what is the meaning-!”
“Excuse me-“ Sam splutters, extricating himself from a tangle of limbs as he attempts-with mounting heat in his cheeks-to separate his feet from the mess that is the train of a lady’s gown. By the time he regains himself, however, his leather pumps have stamped her lavish robe with mud-brown tracks. Reluctantly, Sam raises his eyes.
The lady is clearly incensed. Her brightly rouged lips-almost scandalously so, were they not off-set by her ethereally milky skin-are twisted up into a sneer. Blue eyes spark at him, betraying volatile intelligence that demolishes the effect of her plump, attractive face by lending it a sharp severity. The woman opens her mouth to reveal straight, white teeth:
“Ava, darling, would you be so kind as to communicate the name of the fine fellow who has ruined my Worth21 commission? This way, I shall know precisely where to direct the bill of charge.”
Sam cannot decide whether he is appalled or intrigued by the quick-tempered mistress, so he settles for an odd mixture of both, even as he transmits a helpless look to Ava in hopes that she’ll take pity and defend him. He is perturbed, however, to find an embarrassed countenance on his friend’s face; Ava rarely loses her composure, yet in this instance she looks as sheepish as if she had stomped on the Parisien gown herself.
“I apologize profusely for the mis-hap, Jessica. I may have been over-eager in my haste to locate you through all the guests,” she explains with humility. Sam’s misgivings strengthen at his best friend’s words-Ava had actually been seeking her out?
“Are you informing me that I am to make the acquaintance of this long-legged clod?”
Sam bristles.
“Good heavens, Jessica, we are in polite company, here. Now, this is my good friend, Samuel Winchester; the fellow I’ve been telling you about.”
A flicker of recognition loosens the tense muscles of the lady’s face. “The lawyer-friend?” she asks.
“Right, Sam practices law right here in the city,” she confirms, turning to him. “Sam, this is Jessica Lee Moore. She was a school-mate of mine, from college. She’s a sharp one, too-graduated top of her class, just like you.”
“What did you study, if may I ask?”
“Liberal law,” Jessica states, crossing her arms. “I specialize in women’s suffrage.”
“Oh,” Sam responds, wracking his brain for something more to add. Yet, no witty adage strikes him. He pockets his hands uneasily.
“I trust you not to scare the poor boy off with your radical ideas, Jess,” Ava smiles, even as she edges away, clearly preparing for her exit. “Nonetheless, I imagine the two of you could share some ideas, perhaps whip up a good, rowdy debate, since your interests lie in such relevance. Now-“ Ava ducks her head apologetically as the other two shoot her imploring looks, which she guiltily ignores- “Excuse me, dears, I must make the rounds. You know how it is.” With a flick of her skirt, Ava ducks into the crowd like a slippery fish.
In the ensuing breadth of her gaping absence, during which the orchestra finishes their number in an untimely silence, Sam clears his throat. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Ms. Moore.”
Jessica purses her lips, and only after an interminable pause that makes her displeasure entirely plain, does she lower herself into a wan curtsey. Sam sighs inwardly, bowing his head in return.
-----
It must be the liquor. Then again, Sam has only had two champagnes and a Martinez22…very well, it isn’t the liquor. Perhaps then, the cloying decadence of a thousand perfumes? Indeed, Sam’s sure of it now-the stuffiness of the Ball Room and its amalgamation of aromas has gone quite to his head, causing him to hallucinate so.
The thing is, Sam believes he perceived the Stranger (or so he has been labeled in Sam’s mind). In fact, were it not so wholly inconceivable, Sam would stake his reputation on it; he had spotted the recalcitrant man from the cemetery rather near-by, in the midst of dancing guests, and replete with a golden-haired partner of his own, who had been slim and boyish in build. For a brief moment they had been close enough for Sam to crane his neck for surety-however, with the progression of the waltz, the pairs had compulsorily danced apart, like spreading ripples in water.
Sam frowns in thought, even as he turns and glides in time with the music, sweeping Jess along with him. Perhaps he is treating his optical slip with too much esteem; it would do well to remind himself that the enigmatic Stranger’s materialization is only the cumulative effect of airborne toxins clouding his senses. Why else would a grave-robbing scoundrel appear in this opulent house? All the same, the uncanny head of close-cropped hair (though properly slicked down, in this instance) and distinguished profile of a straight nose and strong jaw has Sam as fidgety as a buck. After a few more minutes of dance, during which Sam wracks his brain for all the permutations of chance that the Stranger could possibly turn up at Ava’s wedding reception, the mental strain of it becomes so tiresome that eventually, Sam resolves to identify the doppelganger of the evening, if only to put to ease his discomfited mind.
On the next half-turn, Sam hikes his eyesight over Jess’ high pile of curls and scans the dance floor in attempts to verify one of the following: he is either witness to a highly improbable circumstance, or simply in need of repose and a stiff drink to clear his mind of any further imaginary visions. Minutes later, his painstaking survey uncovers nothing but a stiff neck and Jess’ thinly-cloaked annoyance, so Sam, defeated, postulates that it is time for a fourth visit to the bar-tender come dance number’s end.
The orchestra’s rendition of Blue Danube soon concludes to boisterous applause. While the musicians indulge in a hard-earned respite and guests enter, leave, and in general reposition themselves for the next dance, Sam places a hand at the small of Jess’ back and leans in close.
“Before I let the next gentleman in your dance card23 sweep you away, shall I fetch you an alleviator?” Sam asks. Jess considers for a moment, then nods demurely.
“I should like…” she halts, as if unsure how to proceed. She throws a hesitant look over to where her parents are seated with their friends from the club. “A cool glass of water will do,” she eventually finishes, with little enthusiasm.
Sam smiles, then says conspiratorially, “I’m having another Martinez myself-or actually, I think I’d prefer a Boothby24 this time around. You know, it would be simple as nothing to have the mixologist whip up two of them-could even ask for one in a water glass, if you like.”
His casual endorsement seems to do the trick; Jess lights up, her features becoming all the more attractive for it. “Well in that case, if it isn’t any trouble…”
A mustachioed man suddenly cuts in, apologetic. Noticing that the guests have stopped shuffling about on the floor in anticipation for the Viennese Waltz to commence, Sam quickly tells Jess where to locate him after the number has ended.
The arrangement works out perfectly. Sam had been grasping for an excuse to perch nearby and scrutinize the dancing couples for sign of the green-eyed guest in solitude without the stigma of seeming anti-social; with Jess’ Cocktail in hand, he shall look the part of a dutiful gentleman, and if all works out, the implicit presence of a female counterpart, absent as she may be, should be enough to keep even the more vulture-like of the women at bay.
At the bar in the front of the Ball Room, there is a bit of a wait while the two mixologists scramble to keep up with the latest wave of thirsty guests coming fresh off the floor. Sam patiently situates himself at the end of the counter, turning around and propping his elbows up as he faces the room to idly watch the partakers of the Viennese Waltz. If he is taking pause at each dark-haired coif or broad-shouldered fit of a coat, he means little by it-a search is a search, but Sam emphatically tells himself that if nothing comes by it, it is only to be expected, and not a matter of which to feel disappointment by.
A rude shove at his left shoulder displaces his quietude, and Sam spares a dirty look at the unheeding culprit before returning to the fanciful view. Nonetheless, another push comes from the other side-no doubt the product of over-eager men for their Cocktails and wines. While it nettles him, it seems hardly worth the effort of rebuking, so he overlooks it.
Over on the dance floor, the smoothly sailing figure of a man in his prime-hair just the right length-catches Sam’s interest. He straightens up to peer closer when a third shove, and what will most certainly be the final shove, digs into his side in a manner that feels distinctly pointed. Sam whips around, hackles raised.
“Now look here,” he exhorts. “We’re all adults here, is it so beyond us to behave as such-“
His words sputter to a jarring halt when before him, the illustrious-and presumably corporeal-Stranger blinks up at him, bemused expression gracing his features. It is the strangest sense of discontinuity, however, in that the man before him stands transformed: he is now attired in a gentleman’s skin. Gone is the ill-cut, Sears Roebuck25 suit and with it its air of banality, only to be splendidly replaced with a fitted swallowtail coat, beneath which a white silk shirt provides brilliant contrast to his daring ascot, dyed a deep, suggestive red. An impeccably matching boutonnière-a simple red rosebud-is affixed to his lapel, completing the ensemble.
“Apologies-my left elbow seems to have discovered a liking for your side,” the Stranger says easily with a devious smile, as Sam frowns, absently rubbing the soreness on his rib-cage. It is a shame that the man’s new outfit does not come with a new set of manners.
“You, ” Sam finally musters out, accusingly. The situation is ludicrous-what earthly purpose would this ruffian have at a closed guest-list reception in the affluent neighborhood of Snob Hill? A swarm of nonsensical thoughts stampede to the forefront of his mind, preventing any sort of pithy or witty rebuttal, yet desperate to fill the expectant void, Sam angrily repeats, “You. ”
Unfortunately, Sam’s elementary level of mud-slinging serves only to elicit unfiltered delight across the other man’s face, his eyes beguilingly sweet as he lights up in mute laughter. Sam frowns at the excessive mockery.
“Oh, that’s cute. That’s real cute,” the man chuckles, thumping Sam on the bicep with a strong palm, at which Sam acerbically snatches his arm back and glares. The man’s smile grows wider as he says, “There’s no need to get nasty, now.”
Sam ducks down, leaning close to the Stranger in order to ensure his audibility over the orchestra and din, and seethes, “What are you doing here? Are you following me?” The very thought of it strikes Sam belatedly, long moments after the words have left his mouth. In its wake, a tremor of panic travels through his chest, clotting his throat uncomfortably. “Oh Lord, you are following me. Are you-does this have anything to do with the missing dossiers?”
As soon as the words fly out of his mouth, the Stranger’s emerald eyes sharpen with interest. Sam instantly regrets it, damn his loose tongue-he resolves to keep a tighter leash on his speech to-night, if the damage done is not yet irreparable.
“Missing dossiers? Sounds like quite the caper, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Stranger states, though the solemnity etched upon his brow references a deeper understanding than he lets on.
“Never-mind, then,” Sam quickly replies. By a convenient hand, it appears to be his turn at the bar; with pointed dismissal, he turns his back on the Stranger and, finger raised at the bar-tender, orders a Boothby Cocktail26 (at which he is spared a dirty look and some mutter about the Palace Hotel)-hastily doubles the order when he remembers he is to supply Ms. Moore with one as well. He refuses to acknowledge the Stranger’s presence (never-mind that contrarily, Sam had spent the better portion of the last hour seeking him out). Irritated with the Stranger-and with himself for being so-Sam rucks his sleeves up and leans forward, elbows tight on the counter, to watch the bar-tender assemble drinks, with a concentration so fierce that a second Great Earthquake could swallow up the hotel, and still Sam would not tear his gaze away.
Not all the concentration in the world, however, could conceal the sudden pressure on Sam’s wrist as it is painfully jerked aside. “Oh, what now-?”
No verbal answer is communicated; instead, the Stranger pulls so hard that Sam is very nearly catapulted into an embrace. Yet it seems not Sam’s physical company that is sought after, but a closer inspection upon his left forearm where the scribbled words from his previous discovery remain in livid blue ink against Sam’s winter-pale skin.
“These words-where did you find them?” the Stranger demands.
“It’s no business of yours-I don’t even know who you are,” he flashes out bitterly, all the while attempting to reclaim his tightly ensnared arm. “Let-go-“
The hold is grudgingly released. Sam tugs his sleeve down over the words, yet he feels the Stranger’s lingering gaze like a burn.
“Look,” the Stranger eventually interjects. “If you tell me why you’ve got that written on your arm, I’ll…I’ll tell you my name.”
“I didn’t realize a man’s name substantiates collateral-if I had known, surely I wouldn’t have given you my own without a dollar or two, at the very least,” Sam says sarcastically. But he is ignored, for the Stranger remains occupied by the matter at hand. He points to Sam’s forearm and asks:
“The other ones-Do you have the other words?”
At this, a deep feeling of apprehension makes its way into Sam’s consciousness. With careful enunciation, Sam cautiously feigns, “Other words?”
Given a moment to weigh the veracity of Sam’s alleged ignorance, the Stranger flattens his lips in consideration-it only takes a moment for him to call Sam’s bluff. He surges forward and roughly grabs Sam’s shoulder, shaking him as he insists, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. If you know them-“
Quite suddenly, their heated discussion is interposed by the bar-tender, who appears from seemingly nowhere to lightly ask, “Is there a problem, sirs?” His eyes flit between the both of them as Sam looks about, noting that the two of them had, indeed, been causing a bit of a scene at the bar, if the wide berth they have been given is any indication.
“No, no problem,” the Stranger replies. A pregnant pause stagnates, so he goes on, “We’re having a little dispute concerning the…feminine variety-“ He leans in towards the bar-tender, conspiratorially- “A common mix-up in localities; this man’s wife found her way into my bed the other night. A purely platonic mistake, of course,” he explains, with a wink. The bar-tender relaxes visibly, nodding in the shared joke as he hands Sam two clear Boothbys.
“On the house,” he adds, with a sympathetic grin. In turn, Sam glowers at the Stranger, who only smirks in response.
Sam purses his lips. “If that’s everything, I’ll be leaving then.”
“Right, wonderful plan,” the Stranger agrees, deftly stealing a drink out of Sam’s hand as he grabs Sam’s elbow, steering the both of them towards an empty table; mid-trajectory, his mind apparently changes, and he marches them instead towards the back of the Ball Room, Sam swept along as he wrestles with whether he should break away-it’s the principal of the matter, he thinks indignantly-or if he should capitulate and allow his curiosity to consume him.
He glances down-the Stranger’s fingers are pressed tightly against the skin of Sam’s inner wrist, visible where his sleeve cuff has ridden up. He feels his veins pump hotly against the thumb and curl of forefingers there.
It would be folly of Sam to refuse fresh information, he slowly reasons-the Stranger unexpectedly turns around, as if aware he is the subject of great cogitation, and Sam automatically jerks his gaze away from the hold on his wrist. He is spared only a suspicious look, yet it is no longer required, for Sam has decided that he will not fall prey to such arrogance as to spurn good intelligence simply on the pretense that it will bequeath him with some degree of righteousness. No, righteousness will come after-and only after-Sam has uncovered the truth and returned legitimacy to his mother’s death.
The two men soon reach the white wooden doors that lead out to the courtyard, which give way to an unexpected shock of cold air-having been enclosed in a body-warmed room for the previous several hours, Sam shakes his head out like a stamping horse upon entry outside, drawing his jacket closer unto himself. The other man affects nonchalance-nonetheless, the minute shrug of his shoulders and slight tightening of his gloved fists do not escape Sam’s shrewd observation.
The courtyard is, unsurprisingly, barren of all others. On a warmer night, perhaps, this picturesque garden, with its carefully-tended seasonal blossoms, lovely stone seating, and its commanding water fountain, off which the bright moon is reflected in its kinetic surface, would play host to any number of romantic couplings; but for the moment, only the mystifying Stranger proves brave (or stupid) enough to subject them both to probable pneumonia at the risk of being overheard indoors.
Ringing laughter, orchestral cadence, and all other auditory signals of the lively party that progresses behind fallen-shut doors collapse to a redolent murmur, and only the crisp splashing of the water fountain remains. The brisk, inert air only serves to magnify all noise, causing a lurid fit of self-consciousness to slowly, suffocatingly, wrap itself around Sam. Rather desperately, Sam breaks the oppressive silence to ask, “What are we doing out here? The mercury is supposed to dip below twenty to-night, and neither of us have our overcoats.”
The other man sets his drink down on the flat of a marble bench. He answers, “Look, Sam, let’s just cut to Hecuba. I know what you were doing at Caleb’s tomb, the other day. I know you’ve noticed the words. Now, I just need you to-“ He pauses, licking his lips, before continuing, “The third set of words-do you have them or not? Tell me the truth.”
“I…” Sam falters. He has too little information with which to fully understand the situation he has unwittingly stumbled into. For the first time in a very long while, Sam is ill-equipped-he lacks his research. The simple act of knowing, which has been his comfort at all other times of uncertainty, is painfully absent at this juncture. Still, he has no choice but to scramble with what reconnaissance he has obtained:
Of everything he knows, at the very least, is the fact that what he has stumbled upon is no trite affair. What began as a windy night’s telegram has unraveled into an impenetrable web of intrigue, and Sam is no blithe idiot; he realizes that he is treading dangerous waters, meddling with dangerous men-men who have already proved themselves capable of murder. It would be unwise to place trust in any-body, much less the highly questionable character that is the chameleonic man from the mausoleum who stands before him.
At length, Sam answers, “No, I have not come across any such triplet; just the two phrases-Mr. Warren’s, and the words you saw on my forearm. Now, would you mind telling me what this is all about? I think I deserve to know.”
The Stranger appraises Sam, large eyes sweeping his frame up and down, before exhaling noisily out his nostrils. He says, “All you need to know is to stay away from this.”
“It’s too late for that. My mother-Mary Winchester was my mother, ” Sam replies passionately. “There is not a chance in hell you’ll find me backing away, tail between my legs, just because you told me to. Now, if you truly care for my safety, then tell me what is going on. I’m not useless; I can aid you in whatever it is you seek.”
“The final code, then?”
Sam takes a deep breath at the man’s admission-so they are codes. No doubt precious ones, if the related acts of murder have anything to contribute. The Stranger, impatient at Sam’s dithering, clarifies: “In exchange for what’s going on. I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you give me what I want.”
Sam’s eyes darken. He is tempted to ask-the words teeter at the tip of his tongue: What is it that you want? This is not the time, nor the place, however, to play mind games that are entirely dreamt up from within the chambers of Sam’s own cranium. He replies simply, “Fine. I shall divulge Abigail’s code. But first, it’s only proper…”
The Stranger reads his intentions, then deflects it easily. “My name is of no matter to the situation at hand. Now, say, if you wanted to know who’s behind the murders, I could tell you that. I can tell you what the codes unlock, or how they came to be. I can perform any ilk of these services, if you’ll only beg the right questions.”
If there is any hint of personal invitation-of lidded eyes fixated on the downturn of Sam’s mouth, or the double-entendre insinuated through roughly-spoken words-Sam decides, firmly, that now is not the time to indulge. In all likelihood, he is alone in perceiving anything beyond what is at face value. And so, he asks: “What do the words mean?”
The Stranger visibly relaxes, seemingly partial to discussing murders and codes over personal bavardage. “They mean nothing by themselves. But there is a song…a lullaby…” he trails off, recalling this silent song within his own ears. “If you know the lullaby, and the three codes-you know where to find him.”
Well, now. Now they’re getting somewhere. Sam takes a smile from his drink, relishing the heat that unfurls from his belly, and encourages, “Him…who?”
“Him. The…the demon.”
“The demon?” Sam says doubtfully.
“This is why I wanted you to have no part of it-“ the Stranger suddenly cries, with vehemence. “You don’t understand, Sam. This isn’t one of your…your cases from work. This isn’t a game. You open this up, there’s no going back.”
“All right then, so there’s no going back,” Sam agrees. Eager to douse the flicker of challenge so evident in flaring green eyes, he resolutely steps forward and stares straight down into the unblinking depths, refusing to be cowed.
The Stranger blinks first. His lashes paint long shadows across his cheekbones. When he re-opens his eyes, pupils dilated in a thin ring of emerald, Sam braces himself for a truth that he is fairly certain that he is not ready for.
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20“Fairmont Hotel Ball Room.” www.alamediainfo.com. 09 July 2008.
21“Charles Frederick Worth.” 04 July 2008. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 09 July 2008.
22Fagan, Kevin. “Old-time Drinks in Mission - On the House.” 14 Dec 2007. San Francisco Chronicle. 09 July 2008.
23“Dance Cards.” aeroport_art. 09 July 2008.
24The World’s Drinks and How to Mix Them by William “Cocktail” Boothby, 1907. 09 July 2008.
25“The Greatest Catalog Ever.” 11 Apr 2006. The 1902 Sears, Roebuck Catalog. 09 July 2008.
26Bonné, Jon. “Sipping News: A toast to our spirited history.” 14 Dec 2007. San Francisco Chronicle. 09 July 2008.