“That’s right. He started out in Cancun. From there he moved inland.”
“Is he still moving?”
“No.”
“But you don’t know exactly where he is?”
“I know that he’s living in a small Mayan village somewhere.”
“A Mayan village?” Chelsea echoed, wanting to laugh but squelching the urge. She saw definite signs of a time warp. Had it been twenty years before, she might have believed Beatrice London’s rich and proper boy had escaped the confines of his rich and proper life to reside with a guru in India. But that particular mania had passed, and Samuel Prescott London was nearly forty years old. “What’s he doing in a Mayan village?” she asked meekly.
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have hired you,” Mrs. London snapped.
“But I haven’t said I’d accept the job!” Chelsea retorted, helpless to stop herself. Even she wasn’t immune to such snobbery after a time. But the satisfaction she felt at momentarily having the upper hand was erased with her adversary’s next smug statement.
“You will. You need the money.”
For an instant, silence permeated a room that suddenly seemed closed in to Chelsea. “Another tip from your investigator?” she asked quietly.
At that moment, Beatrice London appeared to be in her element. Power was obviously something she savored, which perhaps explained why her son’s refusal to return to Boston rankled her. It was also a possible reason, in Chelsea’s mind at least, why the elusive Samuel refused to return.
“My investigator was thorough. I know precisely how much money you earn from your searches, and how much you earn at Icabod’s. Of course, a woman like you must do very well in tips, particularly working as a bartender in a place that caters to wealthy businessmen after hours.”
Chelsea found the elegantly scrolled armrests of her chair to be wonderful braces. She promptly used them to lever herself to her feet. “I think you should find someone else to do your bidding, Mrs. London. If your son is anywhere near as presumptuous as you, I’m not sure I care to go looking for him.” Purse in hand, she was turning to show herself out when Beatrice London spoke again.
“I also know precisely how much it will cost you to go back to school to get that degree you’ve got your heart set on.”
Chelsea stopped under the archway to the hall. She didn’t turn, simply dug her neatly trimmed fingernails into the crisp canvas of her purse.
“You see, I really know quite a bit, Miss Ross. I have to say that I admire you for what you want to do. You already have a bachelor’s degree, but you want a Ph.D. in psychology. Hoping to treat some of those confused young runaways?”
“Actually—” Chelsea gritted her teeth“—I was hoping to counsel their families. A runaway always has reasons, and nine times out of ten they relate to the home.”
The implication she was trying to make was promptly ignored by the indomitable Beatrice London, who remained sitting in her chair with her hands crossed in her lap. “I’ll pay you what you need, Miss Ross. I’ll give you half now and the other half when you retrieve my son. I’ll cover your tuition for the three-year doctoral program, plus add a generous amount to cover your living expenses during that time. I’ll even secure your acceptance in the program at Harvard.”
Chelsea whirled on her heels. “I don’t need your help with that, Mrs. London. I can get in on my own!”
“I know,” the other said with an icy smile. “You graduated third in your class from Mount Holyoke, on scholarship all the way, which would have made my job that much easier. But if you won’t let me pull strings in the admissions office, the least I can do is to give you a glowing reference.”
“If I retrieve your son.”
“If you retrieve my son.”
Chelsea hadn’t reentered the room; rather, she held her ground as she considered the bait Beatrice London dangled before her.
For six years she’d scraped by, working daily out of her tiny apartment and nightly at the bar, saving her pennies so that she might return full-time to school. She’d assumed it would take at least another three years to save what she needed. But if the fee on this job would cover it all, plus expenses—she made rapid mental calculations—she’ d be able to use what she’d saved for investing in an office when she finally got her degree.
Chelsea had no doubts about being able to locate Samuel London. What troubled her was whether or not she’d be able to convince him to come home.
“Your offer is generous, Mrs. London,” she said, “and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want the money. But your son is a grown man. Aside from my being female and blond, what makes you think that I can get him back here?”
“You left out the attractive part. My son is a good-looking man himself. And he’s not blind. You also left out the actress part. Well, perhaps actress is too strong a word. Let’s just say that, between your looks and your intelligence, I think you’d be able to trap him.”
Germs of suggestion were flitting through Chelsea’s mind and she had the sudden feeling they might be injurious to her health. “I’m not sure I follow you, Mrs. London,” she said stiffly.
“You do, Miss Ross, but if you want me to spell it out, I will. I want you to use your bloodhound instinct to locate my son. Then I want you to use your feminine wiles, and any other wiles you may have up your sleeve, to lure him back to Boston.”
“You want me to seduce him!”
“I never used the word ‘seduce.’ I’m not suggesting anything tawdry, and even if I were, Samuel’s not the type. He’s far from inexperienced, but I assure you he’s not a playboy. No, what I’m suggesting is something more subtle, which is where your innate intelligence comes to play. I want you to enchant him, to wrap him around your little finger, so to speak. I want you to give him good reason to follow you when you finally fly home—”
“Finally? How long do you expect me to stay in Mexico?”
“Only as long as it takes.”
“But I’ve got a business here, and a job—”
“Neither of which you’ll need, given the fee you’ll be receiving from me. Of course,” she went on in a patronizing tone, “it’s for you to decide where your priorities lie. You’re not getting any younger, Miss Ross. The way I see it, if you spend another three or four years saving up money for ever-rising tuition fees, then four or five years working for the degree—naturally, it will take longer if you have to earn your living expenses as you go—you’ll be nearing forty before you’ll be able to start work as a therapist. My way, you’ll be barely thirty-three.”
“The timing is actually perfect for you,” she went on, ignoring Chelsea’s cheerless expression. “This is June. You’ll have the entire summer to get Samuel out of Mexico. You can be back well before classes start in the fall.”
Chelsea didn’t know what to say. She’d never had a proposition quite like the one she was now being offered. But then, she’d never been manipulated by the likes of Beatrice London. “You’ve got everything worked out, haven’t you?”
“Not everything. You’re the one who’ll have to deal with Samuel, and I’m afraid I can’t be much help on that score. If anything you do smacks of me, he’s sure to become suspicious. He’s not to know I’ve hired you.”
“Then I’m to come up with some far-fetched excuse?” Chelsea was used to dealing with the truth, not fabricating it. Once more, doubts were surfacing.
“Not far-fetched. Plausible. It shouldn’t be too difficult. You could pose as a student of Mayan culture, or a bored young lady who’s run away from the city, or simply a tourist who’s fallen in love with the Yucatán.”
Chelsea took a deep breath and slowly shook her head. “I don’t know, Mrs. London. Despite what you think, I’m really not an actress. I may have faked my way through situations in the past, but it would be nothing like this. To purposely lead a man on for days, maybe weeks—I just don’t know if I can do it.”
“What if I threw in a wardrobe bonus on top of
everything else? You could skip the basement and go directly to Neiman Marcus.”
“It’s not a matter of money—”
“Isn’t it? If it weren’t for the money, you would have already turned tail and run.” With great care, Beatrice London rose from her seat and walked slowly toward a small marble-topped table. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing you for it. If I were in your situation, I’d accept the offer in a minute.” Lifting a photograph, she turned to Chelsea. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t care for, if only to get to those things that truly mean something to us. I do believe you want to be a counselor, Miss Ross. You certainly have good reason to want to be one.” In the unhurried gait of the confident rich, she approached Chelsea. “Is spending a few weeks, maybe a month or two, with this man too much of a price to pay to gain the means of achieving your personal goal?” With that, she held out a picture of her son.
Chelsea studied the formal black-and-white shot. Samuel Prescott London looked as unapproachable as his name sounded. He had dark, immaculately clipped hair, a pale, lean face and glasses. Though his skin was free of wrinkles, there was a sternness about him that made him look old and tired. Had she not already been told otherwise, Chelsea would have guessed him to be at least forty-five.
“When was this taken?” she asked, taking the photo from Mrs. London’s hand for a closer study.
“Two years ago. It’s standard publicity fare, but I’m afraid it’s the best I have.”
“Nothing less formal?” Chelsea was searching the face in the photograph for some hint of character but found none.
Mrs. London hesitated for just a moment. “I suppose I must have something in the den. Excuse me, please.” She sidestepped Chelsea and entered the hall.
Chelsea held the photo gingerly. It wasn’t heavy, yet it weighed her down, for it represented an unexpected passkey to her future. She knew, as did the shrewd Beatrice London, that she couldn’t possibly turn down the older woman’s offer. Nor could she deny the bad taste in her mouth that came with the thought of what she was being asked to do.
“Perhaps these will help.” Mrs. London was back then, offering three smaller unframed snapshots for Chelsea’s study. The first was of Samuel in black tie and tails, standing with his exquisitely gowned mother. “That was taken at my niece’s wedding four years ago.” The second was of Samuel sitting with four other people on the gleaming deck of a yacht. “Those are family friends. It was taken the summer before last in Newport.” The third was of Samuel with a pleasant-looking woman. “Linda,” was Mrs. London’s lone comment.
Chelsea slipped each snapshot behind the others, rotating them slowly until she’d seen them at least twice. In every shot Samuel Prescott London wore the same glasses, the same clipped hairstyle, the same formal expression. In none of them did he look particularly happy.
“May I keep this one?” Chelsea asked, taking the publicity shot and handing the others back.
“If it’ll help.”
“It should.” She tucked it into her purse, then withdrew a small notebook and a pen. But Beatrice London was already returning to the marble table, presenting her this time with a slim manilla folder.
“I think you’ll find all the pertinent background information here. I’ve included his vital statistics, plus the name and address of the hotel where he stayed in Cancun.”
Chelsea tucked the folder beneath her notebook. “I’d like the names of some of his friends. It would be a help if I could talk with them.”
“I … think not. They’re apt to tip him off.”
“I can get around that,” Chelsea murmured. She didn’t particularly like what she was going to do, but once committed—and she knew she was—she felt confident. “I can pose as a friend of any old friend of his. Perhaps you can give me a name—someone he may have known in college but hasn’t seen since?” When Beatrice remained skeptical, she added, “I can say that I’m headed for the Yucatan and heard he was there, perhaps even that I’m a writer researching the modern day Maya. If Samuel’s been there for six months, he’d be a logical contact.”
“And what kind of useful information do you think you could get from his friends?”
“At best, the exact spot where he is. At least some idea where to start looking.”
“And if no one knows that?”
“Then I’ll have learned something about Samuel simply by meeting his friends. You’d be surprised how many subtle things can emerge from a seemingly innocent conversation.”
“Is that how you usually work?”
“Not always, but often. It depends on the case. In this case, I think it would be wise for me to learn anything and everything I can about your son well before I hit Mexico. If I’m to … enchant him, as you say, I’d better find out what he likes.”
Mrs. London considered for just a minute, then decided to cooperate. For the first time that morning, Chelsea was grateful she was with a businesswoman. Like a dutiful secretary she raised her pen and took dictation, albeit in scribbled longhand.
“David McGee is his partner. One Beacon Street.” She dictated the phone number. “Norman Schialli is at the same address and number. Samuel’s golf partner is Hal Washburn, a lawyer in the Exchange Building. Neil Grant is a longtime friend. You’ll find him at Harbor Towers, but I don’t know his phone number offhand.”
“I can find it. What about Linda?”
“I’d rather you didn’t contact Linda. She’s a perceptive young woman. If she sensed too much interest on your part, she might be hurt.”
Too much interest … in Samuel London? Chelsea wanted to laugh. “Not if I handle it gently. Please, Mrs. London. You’ll have to trust me. Linda might be more help than all of the others combined … unwittingly, of course.”
“It had better be ‘of course,’” the other woman stated firmly. But nonetheless she yielded. “Linda Huntington. She has her own place in town, but I believe she’s already joined her parents at their summer home in Osterville. That’s on the Cape—”
“I know. Have you a number?”
“Yes.” She quoted it.
“Good. Now, about the name of an old college buddy …”
“Come with me.”
Chelsea followed her through the large hall and down a corridor into the family library. An ornate leather-covered desk stood at one end, surrounded by neatly filled bookshelves. Mrs. London approached one, withdrew a volume that proved to be one of Samuel’s college yearbooks, and thumbed through.
“Harcourt … no, here, Ingram. Jason Ingram. This should do it. The fellow was from the West Coast and I believe he went on to graduate studies at Stanford, so the chances are good he’s still out there. He and Samuel weren’t the closest of friends, but they must have known each other, judging from the message Jason wrote beside his picture.”
Chelsea took the book and read aloud. “‘To a fellow survivor of Madame LaFarge’s needles. Best of luck, J.’ Madame LaFarge?”
“I believe she was a professor of French literature. Samuel was good with languages.”
“Ahh. See, there’s something I’ve learned already. If he was good with languages, he’s probably been able to pick up Spanish easily in Mexico.”
“I’m sure that’s the case … unfortunately. Samuel is very bright.”
“May I borrow this yearbook also? There may be other things I can pick up from it.”
With a curt nod, Beatrice London moved behind the desk, withdrew a checkbook from one of the drawers and began to write. With a snap that rent the silence, she tore off the check and handed it to Chelsea. “I’ll expect you to keep me informed of your progress right up until the time you leave. After that, I’ll simply have to trust that you’re doing your best.”
Chelsea didn’t bother to look at the check. She prided herself on being a good judge of people. Though she didn’t care for Beatrice London personally, she knew that the woman wouldn’t cheat her. The check would cover half of the tuition rate for the doctoral progr
am, plus half of what Beatrice estimated to be her living expenses for three years. And since Beatrice’s standard of living was far, far higher than her own, Chelsea was sure the sum would be more than she would have allowed herself.
“I will try, Mrs. London. You do know, though, that I can’t guarantee success. I have no idea what I’ll find when I locate your son. It may be that, short of actual abduction, I’ll be unable to get him back here.”
“That check,” Mrs. London stated, dropping her gaze to the small paper Chelsea held, “is yours in any case—unless, of course, I learn that you made less than a serious effort to bring Samuel back. The second half of the check will be forthcoming once you both return.”
“I understand,” Chelsea said softly.
“I think you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way to the office.”
Chelsea nodded and turned, retracing her steps down the long corridor and through the hall to the front door. She’d reached her time-worn Chevette, which waited awkwardly on the curve of the well-landscaped circular drive, before she realized she was still holding the check in her hand. Without looking at it, she stuffed it in her purse, slid into the car and headed off.
Driving back to her small Cambridge apartment, Chelsea found herself in an increasing state of shock. The enormity of what she’d undertaken, of what it would do to her life, hit her with startling force. She was going to spend the next weeks chasing after a man. Then she was going back to school!
Among other things, she felt guilt. Searching for Samuel Prescott London, formerly of Wellesley Hills, was a far cry from looking for Antonio Rodrigues of the North End or Chastity Watson of Roxbury or Peter Kolados of Somerville. Samuel was no innocent child who’d been abducted while on his way home from school. Samuel was no starry-eyed teenager running away from home in search of bright lights and glamour. Samuel hadn’t left a heart-torn mother behind, a woman who cried herself to sleep at night with worry even while she struggled to hold the rest of the family together.
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