“No,” Liv lied. “I’m all about chocolate.”
Ari tucked her arm into the crook of Liv’s elbow. “You see why we’re friends? We understand each other.”
For the first time, Liv believed it was true: Ariel Kelly was her friend. She wasn’t being tolerated, endured. She’d made a friend—an awesome friend. Liv floated the two short blocks to the mall.
Ari whooped when she saw the gelato vendor. She let go of Liv to run ahead. By the time Liv caught up, the man was spooning extra-large scoops of pistachio into Ari’s cup. Liv ordered chocolate.
While she was paying, she noticed the dog. “Ohmygod. That’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.”
Ari turned to inspect the white ball of fluff. He’d missed the stick toss from a young mother by a baby carriage and was circling, trying to find the prize. “Must be a puppy,” Ari said. “Doesn’t he look just like a teddy bear?”
The woman threw another stick. This time, it landed where the puppy could find it. Twig in teeth, he streaked away from the park toward the fast-moving traffic on Arlington.
“He’ll be run over!” Ari shoved her cup at Liv and dashed toward the animal, who stood staring at oncoming cars. “Slow down!” Ari cried to drivers. Then she was in the street, stopping a van that would have crushed the puppy if she hadn’t lifted him into her arms. The van driver honked, making her jump.
Even from fifty feet away, Liv could see Ari’s fury when she marched toward the driver’s window. Traffic blocked Liv’s view, but she heard plenty of honking at the tie-up. Finally, the van drove off, tires squealing, as though the driver couldn’t get past Ari fast enough.
Except Ari wasn’t there. Cars drove by, but she didn’t reappear. “Ari?” Liv called. Abandoning gelato cups on the vendor’s cart, she ran toward the spot where Ari rescued the puppy. She searched between parked cars, yelling, “Ariel Kelly! Stop hiding. This isn’t funny.”
Liv saw a bit of purple in a wheel well—the beret, now grimy with tire tracks.
What?
Ari must have lost it when she went…where? She picked up the hat and then whirled around. Ari could be handing the dog to his owner. Liv sprinted toward the park.
The mother was gone. When Liv looked inside the abandoned carriage, she shrieked. A baby stared at her with dead eyes. No, not dead eyes, doll eyes. It was one of those dolls people bought when they couldn’t have babies, the kind they pretended were real.
Feeling sick, dizzy, confused, Liv staggered toward the gelato man. “My friend,” she said, holding out Ari’s hat, “did you see her come back?”
He shook his head. “You have problem?”
Liv gazed at the purple beret. “Big problem.” Hands shaking, she pulled out her phone to dial 911.
Day 3—Monday
Feeling the first brush of fingers against her butt, Holly Glasscock edged away. There was no personal space on the packed subway car heading into Boston. Wedged between a commuter and a student, Holly realized her life was equally wedged. A college graduate without a job, she had no turf of her own—yet. Maybe the interview today would change that; maybe she could look forward to more in her bank account than $123.16.
The second stroke on her behind wasn’t an accident; a palm slid slyly over the right cheek. Holly shot a look of venom over her shoulder at the young guy who owned the hand. He was tall and lean, with scraggly, brown curls escaping a gray knit cap. The button-down shirt looked preppy, but the long face with the pencil moustache and beard didn’t belong to any high schooler. “Hands off!” Holly hissed. The face grinned, and the hand squeezed.
Her elbow connected with his ribs just before the edge of one wooden heel smacked the instep of his green camo boots. She didn’t use enough force to break anything, but the bruises would teach him a lesson. The guy “oophed”, and then swore. Turning to face him down, Holly told nearby passengers, “Watch this guy. He’s a groper.”
A dozen or more angry faces held the groper at bay while Holly shoved through bodies toward the door. When the car stopped, she was the first one off.
She waited on the platform. If Mr. Grabby Hands wanted revenge, better to take him on when she was ready rather than let him sneak up on her. But he shuffled along with the crowd, not scanning for her, so Holly followed the press of people to the Park Street exit, her thoughts again on the interview ahead.
The ad posted online Saturday was short:
Immediate opening. Personal security, Beacon Hill. Females encouraged to apply
. Most security jobs didn’t favor women, so Holly launched her credentials into cyberspace. To her surprise, she got a call on Sunday from a Mrs. Smallwood, who scheduled an interview for 9:00 a.m. Monday. Excited, Holly called her mother.
“I don’t know, Holly,” was Lisa Glasscock’s guarded response. “This thing about wanting women… Could it be a prostitution ring?”
“On
Beacon Hill
?” Holly scoffed.
“There was that Mayflower Madam and another one out in California, I think. They ran call-girl operations in good neighborhoods.”
“They’d be horribly disappointed in me. Don’t let the boys know about the ad, though. They’re so pretty they might be recruited, but I’m the one who looks like Dad, remember?”
Both laughed; both knew it was true. Holly’s brothers were dark and handsome, inheritors of their mother’s beauty while Holly got her crinkly, red hair, blunt features and height—all six feet of it—from her paternal Highland ancestors.
Ah, well
, Holly consoled herself as she set out across Boston Common toward Beacon Street,
I don’t need beauty to be a cop.
Holly’s father had been a cop, the last of a long line of Glasscocks who protected the streets of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He’d come home to tell stories of the people he helped that day, inspiring Holly to follow his lead.
I’ll make you proud, Dad,
she promised silently while waiting for traffic to clear on Beacon.
This bodyguard job could be the start. At least it has something to do with law enforcement.
If you can pull any heavenly strings for me, do that, okay?
Using the Massachusetts State House as her landmark, she traced a path to the address. Her destination was a single family residence—that much she knew from the Internet. Not a huge house, which had puzzled Holly, who thought ‘private security’ might mean a glorified concierge job in one of the mansions converted to condos, but on Beacon Hill, size didn’t matter. Even fixer-uppers went for millions.
She was glad she’d worn the unfashionable wide-heeled boots so she didn’t have to teeter along uneven brick sidewalks. Her mother urged ‘sensible clothes’ for the interview—dark slacks, white shirt, and “a wool blazer, if you have one. Oh, and tie your hair back so it doesn’t look wild.” Holly took her advice except for the blazer. She didn’t own one, but she had a safari jacket that looked vaguely military. It would have to do.
All the homes on the street were built when America was new. Holly spotted the right house number beside white double doors. There was another door to the right, below a short flight of iron-fenced stairs—a servants’ entrance in the old days. She had to crane her neck to take in all four floors of the tall, rose-brick building. Bright chrysanthemums filled an urn by the main doorway, cheering Holly as she climbed marble steps to press the bell.
A brunette around forty answered the door. “Mrs. Smallwood?” Holly inquired.
The woman shook her head. “I’m the housekeeper.”
“My name is Holly Glasscock. I have an appointment with Mrs. Smallwood.”
“May I see some identification?”
As Holly fished through her purse for her wallet, she decided the homeowner must suffer from paranoia. What other reason could there be for checking IDs and hiring private security? Holding up her driver’s license, Holly watched the housekeeper nod and say, “Come in, Miss Glasscock. Mrs. Smallwood is waiting for you in the living room.”
She followed the housekeeper through a foyer into a room that had the feel of the early American period without the hazards of spindly, priceless antiques. Thick, white walls encased the windows. A crystal chandelier hung from a plaster medallion in the ceiling. Ben Franklin could have smiled at his reflection in the round mirror over the black-marble fireplace. The floors were dark wood and so were the slender tables, but an Oriental carpet was light, mostly gold and beige. Mocha suede armchairs faced a cream couch.
Sitting on that couch was a petite blonde probably in her early sixties. Dressed in taupe and black linen, she was an attractive woman who must have been gorgeous as a girl. Large, blue eyes dominated a fine-boned face. She rose to shake Holly’s hand, waved her toward an armchair and reseated herself. “I’m Catherine Smallwood. Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. I’m eager to fill this position. You know about the disappearances of private school students here in Boston?”
Holly nodded. The news had been running non-stop stories on the kidnapped kids.
Mrs. Smallwood pointed to a framed photograph of a teenage girl in English riding clothes. “I’m looking to hire a bodyguard for my granddaughter, Olivia. She’s fifteen, a sophomore at The Sidley School in the Back Bay. Two of the missing students attend that school. Last Friday, Olivia witnessed the abduction of her friend, Ariel Kelly. The police suggested the criminal might believe Olivia could identify him and so pose a threat.”
“
Can
she identify the kidnapper?”
“She didn’t see the driver of the van, but he wouldn’t be sure of this, so Olivia may be a target.” Mrs. Smallwood gazed at her clutched hands. “She’s my only grandchild. I can’t bear to think of anything happening to her. I’d rather be over-protective than fail to do what I should.”
“Olivia’s parents are deceased?”
Mrs. Smallwood looked up. “No. Her mother—my daughter—lives in California. We agreed that Olivia should attend secondary school in Boston.”
Clearing her throat, Mrs. Smallwood handed Holly a paper. “The details of the bodyguard position are here. We’re talking about full-time, temporary employment. Hours begin before school and include after-school activities and Saturdays. While Olivia is in class or has other supervision, your time is your own.
“There’s no telling when this criminal will be caught, so I’m setting an arbitrary limit of six months for the job. After that time, I think we can assume the kidnapper has no special interest in Olivia. Even if the situation is resolved quickly, I’d still like a person to take charge of getting Olivia to and from school during the winter months. The school is roughly three quarters of a mile from here. There are no school buses or carpools available.
“Salary for the position is a daily fixed rate,” Mrs. Smallwood went on. “Oh, and this is a live-in arrangement, so if you have commitments elsewhere, please let me know.”
Holly studied the paper. She got as far as the salary before deciding she wanted the job—a lot. She hadn’t considered living in Boston, but a three-hour commute from New Hampshire and back by train, subway and foot would get old really fast.
“Now,” Mrs. Smallwood said, “let’s talk about you. You’re a native of Portsmouth, twenty-two years old, and you have training in martial arts. You graduated this year from Franklin Pierce College with a degree in criminal justice?” She paused for Holly’s nod. “Most recently, you served an internship with the Salem, New Hampshire police.”
Holly set down the paper. “Afterward, I was supposed to move into a regular job with the force, but the funding didn’t come through.”
“So I heard. I contacted your mentoring sergeant,” Mrs. Smallwood revealed. “He was pleased with your performance. He also confirmed that you would have been offered a full-time position if there weren’t a hiring freeze. Since the internship, what have you been doing?”
“I’m still in Salem job hunting, doing fill-in work at the station, and volunteering at an after-school youth program. I teach the kids self-defense.”
Mrs. Smallwood’s face lit up. “We have that in common. I spend most of my time on volunteer work.” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You should know that Olivia is opposed to having a protector. She’s afraid of losing her privacy and of being shunned by friends. I think her safety overrides these issues.
“I’ve shortlisted three women for this job. You are the youngest, which I consider a plus because you could fit into Olivia’s environment, drawing no more attention to yourself than an older sister. I hope…” Mrs. Smallwood leaned back, hand to forehead, and yawned. “I do hope—” Voice dropping abruptly, Mrs. Smallwood’s eyes closed and her head tipped forward.
Holly stared. “Mrs. Smallwood?” She stood and went toward her, reaching out a hand.
From the hallway, Holly heard a voice stage-whisper, “Leave her be. She’s all right.” The housekeeper stepped through the living room doorway. Holding a finger to her lips, she beckoned Holly with her other hand. “She’s sleeping. Come with me.”
“Was it something I said?” Holly whispered.
Chuckling on her way downstairs, the housekeeper led Holly to a space halfway below ground on the street side but level with a back terrace visible through French doors. The former servants’ quarters were part-kitchen part-family room now. In the family room section, a couch, chairs and tables faced a wall-mounted TV.
The kitchen had an island angled toward the front windows. Along the side wall, white cabinets, black-granite countertop and stainless steel appliances looked sleekly efficient. Recessed lighting made the room bright but not glaring. It was a comfortable space.
Going around the kitchen’s island to set a copper kettle on the cooktop, the housekeeper said, “My name’s Jennifer Barnes, but Jen will do. We’ll let Mrs. S. sleep for fifteen minutes or so, and then bring her a cup of herbal tea. Do you want tea?”
Holly shook her head. “Is Mrs. Smallwood sick?”
“She has narcolepsy with a touch of cataplexy. That’s a mouthful to say, harder to understand, but it’s an ongoing condition, not an illness. And no, she doesn’t abuse drugs, swear when she doesn’t want to, or steal.” Jen turned to Holly with a stern look. “People come up with all kinds of crazy ideas when they don’t know what narcolepsy means.”