First Things First Page 3

Chelsea wondered if she could truly turn her back on the dozens of people who’d needed her in the past years, who’d seen her as their only hope of surviving a nightmare.

  Then she thought of the degree she’d be able to get, of the work she’d subsequently be able to do, of the good in it, and she felt better.

  And excited. And just the slightest bit afraid.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK was as hectic a one as Chelsea had known, and since her life had always been one of long working hours and little sleep, that was saying a lot.

  She tied up as many knots in ongoing searches as she was able to, guilt-ridden when she had to explain to one client or another that a new case would be taking her out of the country for a time.

  She made frantic phone calls to each of the universities in the Boston area, filing applications in person, with silent prayers that it wouldn’t be too late in the season to find a single spot for a doctoral candidate in psychology. Intellectually she was on a par with the other candidates, she knew, but time was against her. She could only hope that the work she’d been doing for the past six years would strike a sympathetic chord in one admissions officer or another. Pride kept her from calling Beatrice London, on that score at least.

  She did call and subsequently meet with each of the people whose names Mrs. London had given her. Though her cover worked like a charm, she learned little of Samuel London’s whereabouts other than that the Mayan village in which he was staying was somewhere between Cancun and the ancient Mayan city of Chichen Itza. Given the fact that one hundred twenty miles separated the two, and that there were numerous Mayan villages along the way, she knew she would have some searching to do once she arrived in the Yucatán.

  Equally discouraging was the information she gleaned from the interviews with Samuel’s friends—that they were friends only in the most formal sense of the word. It seemed that Samuel’s work was his life. He had few outside interests, no hobbies to speak of. He was, for the most part, a loner, as straitlaced and somber an individual as his photographs suggested. Chelsea was beginning to wonder how she was possibly going to warm up to such a man. The only glimmer of hope came from Linda Huntington.

  All but breathless from the running around she was doing, Chelsea nonetheless forced herself to drive down to the Cape to meet with Linda, whom she found to be surprisingly approachable.

  “So you’re headed for the Yucatán,” Linda said, offering Chelsea a tall glass of lemonade from the pitcher the maid had delivered moments before. They were sitting on the lawn. Behind them was a polished stone patio, before them a pool.

  “The day after tomorrow,” Chelsea responded with what she hoped was due enthusiasm. It wasn’t that she had anything against the Yucatán; in other circumstances she would have liked nothing more than to enjoy it. Traveling for pleasure had always been impossible, given her need to save money, but it was something she desperately hoped to be able to do in the future. “As I explained on the phone, I’m writing an article on the modern Maya. Firsthand research seems in order.”

  “Who do you write for?”

  “I free-lance. Actually, I’m not sure who the article will go to, but it’s something I’ve been wanting to write for a while and I figured this was as good a time as any. When I heard that Samuel London had been living among the Mayas for months now, I couldn’t resist trying to contact him. The only problem is that no one seems to know exactly where he is. Your name came up as the one person who was closest to him before he left.”

  Linda smiled warmly. “Samuel and I have been friends for years.”

  “I was told—perhaps I’m out of place here, but I was told you two were all but engaged.”

  At that, Linda laughed softly, without malice. “That’s how the story goes.”

  “If it’s true, surely you’ve been in touch with him. You’d be able to tell me where to find him.”

  Linda raised delicate fingers to enumerate. “No, I haven’t been in touch with him, therefore I can’t tell you where he is. And no, we’re not engaged.”

  Deep inside, Chelsea was relieved. The deception she was practicing now, the greater deception she’d have to practice once she found Samuel, was bad enough. If Linda and Samuel were truly planning marriage, she would have felt all the more despicable. “That’s strange. His mother implied—”

  “Beatrice has always implied that. She’s had her heart set on it for years. So have my parents, for that matter. And Sam and I let them dream. There’s no harm to it really.”

  “But … why aren’t you engaged?”

  “We’re not in love. Well, not in the sense that would hold up in a marriage. Sam has been a friend, a good friend. He’s always been there for me, and I try to return the favor. We spent hours talking of his need to get away. He was tired and—”

  Linda stopped, leaving Chelsea hanging in the silence. She was sure Linda had been about to say more, to give some concrete reason for Samuel’s prolonged absence, until it had occurred to her that she’d be betraying Samuel’s confidence. Chelsea had to respect her, though Linda’s loyalty hampered her work.

  “What do you think he’s been doing down there all this time?” Chelsea asked with just the right amount of innocent curiosity.

  “I hope he’s relaxing. He works too hard.”

  Chelsea chuckled. “He’s probably having a grand time for himself. A small Mayan village may be awfully quiet, but Cancun is jam-packed with tourists and restaurants and discos—”

  Linda sighed. “I hope that’s the case.”

  “It wouldn’t bother you?” She studied the blond-haired woman, who was far from beautiful, though nicely groomed. Chelsea wondered why a romance hadn’t ever worked out between them.

  “It wouldn’t bother me in the least, though I doubt that’s what’s truly happening. Sam is inhibited. Like me, I suppose.” She laughed. “We make a very boring couple.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Chelsea heard herself say. It was almost the truth. There were couples, and there were couples. If Samuel London overworked himself and Linda Huntington could get him to relax, there had to be some merit to the relationship. Moreover, Samuel was supposedly bright, Linda well-spoken. They’d both been reared in the same privileged class. In the right circles they probably did just fine.

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there,” Linda was musing. “I wish I could help you more, Chelsea, but I honestly have no idea exactly where Sam is.”

  Chelsea thought for a minute, reluctant to leave with any stone unturned. “If you were to guess, based on what you know of Samuel, what would he be doing? I take it you don’t think he’d be frequenting the hot spots in Cancun.”

  “Hardly. If he were in London, he’d be sitting through session after session of Parliament. If he were in Rome, he’d be squirreled away in the Vatican museum. If he were in Tokyo, he’d be analyzing the workings of the nearest manufacturing plant. But in Mexico … the Yucatán …a Mayan village …? He was never the outdoorsy type. He sunburns too easily. I’m sure he’s visited whatever ruins are around, but … for six months?” She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture so much more human than Beatrice London’s nondisplay that Chelsea found herself liking Linda. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Chelsea struggled to make that guess, with little luck. Of what she’d learned from Linda, the only thing that encouraged her was the fact that, in Linda, Samuel had had a friend. He’d needed a friend. And Chelsea herself was adept at such a role. She was a born listener, as her boss at Icabod’s had effusively told her when she’d given him her notice.

  “You’re the best damned bartender we’ve had in years, Chels. The men love you.”

  “They should. I make great Harvey Wallbangers!” she’d teased.

  “Aside from booze. They love to talk and have someone listen. And you answer them, giving them impartial advice. They like that. If you want work when you get back, you know where to come!”

  But she wouldn’t want work … s
he hoped. At least not that kind of work.

  She thought about Samuel Prescott London constantly and too often met the stern-eyed gaze that greeted her from atop the desk where she’d propped his picture. Linda had called him Sam, yet Chelsea was unable to do so. He was a formal Samuel, from the top of his neat dark head to the tips of what she assumed would be his Brooks Brothers shoes. All six-foot-one of him. All one hundred sixty-five pounds of him. Studious, spectacled, string-bean-shaped Samuel.

  Only when she was at last airborne, headed south did Chelsea admit to herself that she was frightened. Samuel London was intelligent; he was bound to see through her ruse. Samuel London was straitlaced; he’d never fall for a tourist or writer or ruins-lover or whatever she decided to disguise herself as. Samuel London was stern and one dimensional; she’d never be able to pretend to fall for him.

  But Samuel London was the meal ticket to her future.

  With that thought in mind, she accepted a Bloody Mary from the flight attendant, opened the book in her lap and plunged into a history of the Mayan culture.

  2

  IT WAS POURING when the plane emerged from the clouds to descend over the flat landscape of the northeastern Yucatan. Chelsea thought of it as an omen. She knew this was the area’s rainy season, but she’d still hoped to have the sun on her side. Even the pilot’s cheery prediction that the skies would brighten by the end of the day did little to hearten her.

  Nor did the fact that her luggage hadn’t made it. She stood waiting for a whole hour, sweating in the oppressive humidity, only to learn that it was either still in Boston or, worse, had been put on the wrong plane and was God-knew-where at the moment.

  She also learned that the word “urgent” was not part of the Mexican vocabulary, Spanish or otherwise.

  Simmering, she filled out forms listing the hotel at which she could be reached. Gritting her teeth, she returned the ready smiles the airport officials offered. She nodded with every si she received—an inordinate number—though when she finally arrived at the Camino Real some time later she was no closer to retrieving her suitcase than she’d been at the airport.

  Mercifully, the hotel did have her reservation. And her room was beautiful, with its tiled floor, original Mexican artwork, decorative earth-toned bedspread, and a hammock strung on the balcony. Of course, it was still raining, which ruled out a quick trip to the beach; with her bathing suit neatly packed in her suitcase that option would have been futile anyway. And the rain was gusting, which similarly ruled out use of the hammock. Just as well, she reasoned. Hammocks had never been among her allies.

  Feeling decidedly sorry for herself, Chelsea plopped down on the bed and gave a voluminous sigh. No bathing suit, no hat, no suntan lotion. No shorts, no tank tops. No change of dress. No toothbrush, no makeup, no blow dryer.

  She did have her carry-on bag, which she proceeded to unpack. Its contents included travelers’ checks, her passport, an envelope with additional identification plus the picture of Samuel Prescott London; a light sweater she’d brought along in case the airplane had been cool, which it hadn’t been; a hairbrush, a small zippered case with lipstick, cologne, a mirrored compact and a pack of Chiclets; two weighty books on Mayan civilization, a spiral-bound notebook, two pens and a travel pack of Kleenex.

  “Not much, old girl, if you were hoping to charm a middle-aged workaholic,” she murmured, more than a little exasperated that she hadn’t put a change of underwear in her carry-on, which a sympathetic fellow traveler had quietly suggested she do when the luggage calamity had first unfolded. No, she simply had the underwear she wore, the sundress on her back, the sandals on her feet and a smile that was most assuredly in hiding.

  “What do I know,” she muttered. “I’m not a seasoned traveler. I’ve never lost a bag before.” Of course, in the past when work had taken her afield she’d brought nothing but the small carry-on case. This was the first time she’d anticipated staying in a place long enough to need more.

  Impatiently she picked up the phone to call the airport. But with the language barrier and the uniformly laid-back air of each of the four people she was in turn switched to, she discovered nothing. Anywhere from one day to six before her suitcase was located and rerouted, they’d originally told her. She simply couldn’t wait around that long!

  Knowing from experience that idleness was her own worst enemy, she snatched up the envelope with Samuel’s picture inside and set off. He, too, had first stationed himself at the Camino Real. Its front desk was as good a place as any to start her search.

  Each person to whom she showed the photograph had a broad smile and a gentle shake of the head. Yes, indeed, a Samuel P. London had stayed at the Camino Real, said the manager in stilted English after he’d waded through his files. But said Samuel P. London had checked out after ten days, paid his bill in full, and taken off, presumably for home.

  Braving what thankfully amounted only to a drizzle now, Chelsea dashed from one hotel to the next along the island strip, cornering managers, bellboys, tour group representatives, to no avail. She raced across the street to El Parian in hopes that one of the storekeepers might recognize the man in the photograph, but it was a pipe dream. Samuel Prescott London had the kind of face people would turn away from even before looking, she knew. Suddenly she wished she had. Oh, how she wished she had!

  With her damp dress clinging to her clammy skin and her short hair coiling in precisely the way she despised, she couldn’t begin to focus on the long-range personal rewards of this case. Cambridge, graduate school, financial solvency—all seemed light years away.

  Dispiritedly she returned to her hotel, where she found that there was still no word on her luggage. She contemplated running back to the shopping center to buy the essentials, but decided that she’d no sooner spend that money than her suitcase would show up. So she settled for buying a toothbrush in the hotel shop, returning to her room to bathe while her dress dried, then, when it didn’t, ordering her first Mexican dinner from room service.

  As she ate, she plotted her next course of action. There was nothing she could do about her suitcase for the moment, she reasoned. The airline officials had assured her they’d notify her as soon as there was any word on it, and she sensed that all the badgering in the world wasn’t going to get her bag to Cancun any sooner.

  Regarding Samuel Prescott London, she was not as hamstrung. First thing in the morning she’d go to the local police. Chelsea knew that tourist cards were a necessity in Mexico; she had her own safely tucked inside her passport. She also knew it was a relatively simple matter to obtain a tourist card for a stay of up to six months in the country. Samuel, though, was fast approaching—if he hadn’t already passed—that deadline, in which case he would have had to register in some other manner.

  For her part, she felt no need for secrecy, given the story she’d settled on. It was, in fact, the same one she’d offered Samuel’s friends at home, consistency having been a consideration. She was a free-lance writer intent on studying the Maya. Samuel had been recommended as a contact, and his mother had said that he was here.

  Yes, his mother. Beatrice London had told her not to tell Samuel that she’d hired Chelsea to fetch him. There’d been no injunction—perhaps a simple matter of omission, but Chelsea didn’t care—against using the woman’s name with others. And the closer to the truth she stayed, the better off she’d be, Chelsea felt. Any slips she made when she was finally with Samuel would be better covered that way.

  AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT—a strange bed, Chelsea told herself, and the fact that she’d been either freezing or boiling and had spent half the night adjusting and readjusting the air conditioner’s thermostat—she set off.

  For convenience’s sake, since she’d be traveling inland in search of Samuel, she rented a car. It was a weathered Volkswagen beetle, the kind no longer sold in the States, and it made her Chevette look like a late-model luxury sedan. When Chelsea questioned the beetle’s durability, the rental agent smiled—actually h
e’d been smiling all along, a habit Chelsea was finding second nature to the Mexicans—and assured her that it was perfect, that it would take her wherever she wanted to go, that it had many years of life left in it. Realizing her choice was between it and an open-topped Jeep, and given that, though the sun was shining through broken clouds today, it had been raining through much of the night, she took the beetle.

  The police in Cancun city were thoroughly attentive, though they had no visa form listing the name of Samuel Prescott London. It seemed that Cancun was in the state of Quintana Roo, while Chichen Itza was in Yucatán. If Samuel was somewhere between the two, his form might be registered either in Chetumal, the capital of Quintana Roo, or Merida, the capital of Yucatán. From the wealth of Spanish words swirling around her, Chelsea managed to sift out talk of a permit, but beyond that the best she could do was to leave the police station with phone numbers to call in each capital.

  Back at the Camino Real once more, she set to the task. Actually, she was feeling better. The process of searching for a missing person was familiar to her. Like an intellectual treasure hunt, she found it exciting.

  That was until the language barrier once again reared its head. In Cancun, which had been specifically built to cater to tourists, the majority of Mexicans had at least a minimal understanding of English. Not so in either Chetumal or Merida. After several futile attempts to make herself understood to the person at the other end of the line, Chelsea gave up and ran down to the hotel store to buy a phrase book, only to discover that the questions she needed to ask were a far cry from the more typical, “Where is the bus stop?” or “May I see the menu?”

  One phrase and one only justified her expenditure, and this she promptly used when she redialed the first of the phone numbers. “Is there anyone there who speaks English?” she asked in a choppy Spanish that she was sure bore a German accent, since that was the language she’d studied both in high school and college. But it seemed to work. Though the woman who came on the line spoke an equally choppy English, prompting numerous repetitions and reclarifications, Chelsea was at last able to make herself understood—only to learn that if Samuel had extended his stay beyond the six-month limit he would have had to file for a permit, in person, in Mexico City.