Ulterior Motives (6 page)

Ross intended to begin questioning Charles about some of the inconsistencies in the accounts, so he was rather surprised to hear himself say, “Tell me what you can about Michelle Baird.”

“Michelle Baird?” Charles repeated with no change of expression.

“And the Babel Language Center,” Ross added, feeling slightly ridiculous. He knew damn well that it wasn’t professional interest that had prompted his request. On the other hand, Shelley was not only the first thing on his mind at the moment, but she was also his chief competitor in this city, and Charles had known her professionally for over a year.

“She calls me Chuck,” Charles said with the first flash of irritation Ross had seen in him.

Ross suppressed a smile. “What else?”

“What else does she call me?”

“What else do you know about her?” Ross clarified.

“She’s single, twenty-eight years old, studied languages and linguistics at college, worked as a tour guide in Europe for several years after college and took a minor job with the Babel Center in Chicago when she came back to the US. Considering her lack of experience or qualifications, I don’t know how she got promoted to her current position. Of course, she’s a very ambitious young woman, and she’s rather pretty, too. Presumably she found a way to attract the attention of the man who was her immediate superior in Chicago...” Charles trailed off, letting the innuendo dangle between them.

Ross found the insinuation offensive when applied to the woman with whom he had hoped to spend the weekend. He reminded himself that this was a business discussion and considered the implications from that angle. Objectively he knew it was possible, but he was still skeptical; it would be foolish to put Babel’s entire Cincinnati operation in the hands of a woman in payment for her sexual favors. On the other hand, men were foolish over women with amazing regularity—particularly a woman as alluring as Shelley. Any sensible man who knew her intimately would no doubt soon realize that it wouldn’t be a mistake to put her in charge of a language school...

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, Ross approached the question from another angle. “If she’s so unqualified and inexperienced, how do you account for her impressive success during her first year in this city?”

“How would you define success?” Charles asked with a touch of condescension.

“I define success as having virtually monopolized all new business within the past year, not to mention having drawn away some of our old clients,” Ross said.

“Well, if that’s your only criterion for success—”

“Is there another one?”
 

“Bien sûr,”
said Charles. Ross tried not to wince. “Surely professional integrity should be taken into consideration.”

“Oh?”
 

“Miss Baird, as I have said, is a very attractive and ambitious young woman...”

Ross spoiled Charles’s dramatic pause. “Go on.” He heard the harshness in his tone and reminded himself to be objective.

“I wouldn’t want to be accused of spreading rumors, Ross,” said Charles hesitantly.

“Nothing you say will go beyond these walls,” Ross assured him. Confidentiality had always been part of his job, whether dealing with fact or fancy.

“Very well, then...”

Chapter Three

Relaxing that weekend would obviously be impossible, even impractical. All Shelley could do was sit around and wonder what Ross was doing—and whether or not it was too late to change her mind about spending the weekend with him.

So she threw herself into a frenzy of activity, cleaning the whole apartment, scrubbing down the kitchen, even braving the inside of her refrigerator, washing the car, running her errands, doing her laundry, writing to friends abroad, and finally refinishing an old chair she’d acquired from her mother’s basement on her last visit to Chicago.

By Monday morning she was exhausted enough to need another weekend to recuperate, but she still hadn’t succeeded in banishing Ross Tanner from her thoughts.

She arrived at the office early Monday morning to organize the previous week’s figures before the business day began. From nine o’clock onward, though, she was so busy that she finally asked Francesca to fax the figures to Jerome in Chicago and to have him fax her any information obtained on Ross Tanner. She wouldn’t have time to study it until the evening.

Early in the morning, students and teachers started arriving at the Babel Language Center. Shelley greeted everyone by name as they passed by her office or bumped into her near the coffeepot. She kept close track of her clients’ progress. Although policy recommended that she make regular appointments with them, most clients got along well with Shelley and stopped by her office frequently for informal chats.

She liked to maintain close contact with Babel’s staff of part-time teachers, too. Nearly everyone sat down with Shelley once a week or so to say hello and exchange news.

Pablo Gutierrez, a medical student from Venezuela, came into her office in a panic, explaining in frantic Spanish that he was having trouble with the immigration authorities even though his visa was valid. Shelley’s own Spanish was rusty, since it was her fourth language—after English, French, and Italian—so she finally had to stop Pablo and insist he explain the situation in English.

She spent the next half hour on the telephone with various local government officials and agreed to write letters on Pablo’s behalf to the necessary authorities. It took nearly another half hour to assure Pablo that everything would be all right and that there was no need for panic.

After that, Mr. Powell entered her office. He was displeased with his progress in Greek and wanted to try another language.

“But, Mr. Powell,” Shelley reminded him gently, “this will be the fourth language you’ve tried since your first visit here only five months ago.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Shelley,” Mr. Powell said. “I am in no way complaining about the teachers or the Babel teaching method. I just don’t seem to have a knack for Greek.”

“Well, you felt that way about Spanish and French, as well. I don’t think the problem is an inherent inability to learn any of these languages.”

“Then why haven’t I made any progress? I still have trouble saying the simplest little thing,” he said in frustration.

“Speaking another language is like playing a musical instrument,” Shelley said patiently. “There isn’t a theory you can look at and immediately put into use. I speak from experience when I say that in order to speak a language comfortably, you have to practice it for a long time, just as you would practice the piano for a long time before you would expect to play a Chopin nocturne without stopping every three measures.”

“But I practice at home every night!”

“Mr. Powell, how long did it take you to learn to speak English?”

“I... well...”

“I would estimate that you were at least four or five years old before you became able to communicate on a sophisticated level with almost anyone. Although you’re older and wiser now, you’re less flexible than you were then, and you’re attempting to learn a new language under artificial circumstances. You really need to give it at least a year before you start expecting to communicate without strain. Time and practice, Mr. Powell,” Shelley concluded with an encouraging smile.

Mr. Powell mulled this over for a moment before his face broke into a wide grin. “In that case, Shelley, I’d like to go back to the French, which is what I came here to learn in the first place. It just sounds a lot prettier to me than this Greek stuff. No offense intended to the Greeks.”

“And this time you’ll stick with it?”

“Yes, this time I’ll stick with it. I think,” he added.

“All right. You tell Francesca when you want to have your lessons this week, and we’ll call you later today after we’ve booked a teacher.”

“Thank you, Shelley.”

After his departure, Shelley recalled with amusement that he conducted decision-making seminars for top-level businessmen all over the Midwest.

“Shelley,” Francesca said, sticking her head into Shelley’s. “Washington is on the line.”

“Washington?”

“Coordinator of interpreters.”

“Oh, right.”
 

“Vuoi un po’ di caffè?”
Francesca asked.

“Yes, coffee would be wonderful, thank you, Francesca.” She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Shelley, it’s about that job for the courts next week. Have you found an interpreter yet for the witness?”

“No, not yet.”

“No?”
the woman said accusingly. “Why not, may I ask?”

“I’m in Cincinnati, remember?” Shelley said patiently. “Where do you expect me to find a native speaker of Pashto who speaks English fluently enough to give simultaneous translations in legal proceedings, and who happens to be a US citizen, too? You don’t just find hordes of people from Afghanistan standing around in Fountain Square waving their citizenship papers in your face.”

“Well, have you made any effort at all?”

“Of course, I’ve made an effort. I’m still making an effort,” Shelley said, beginning to dislike the new coordinator. It was evidently a nerve-racking job, since no one had lasted in it more than six months.

“May I inquire
what
effort?”
 

“I’ve contacted the Islamic Association of Cincinnati, the foreign students’ organization of every college in southern Ohio, Traveler’s Aid, Immigration, and some ethnic restaurants. Since I only received your message Friday afternoon, I think it’s fair to say I gave it considerable attention before the weekend began,” Shelley replied, her patience becoming a little forced.

“If you
fail
to find someone, you could jeopardize a very important contract, my dear,” the woman warned.

Shelley winced at the word “fail” and scowled at the words “my dear.”

“If there is an American Pashto speaker in all of Cincinnati, I will find him and, if necessary, I will personally drag him kicking and screaming to the law courts. Satisfied?” she said with barely concealed annoyance.

“Just find one. I’ll phone again tomorrow,” the woman said, and hung up.

The phone rang again almost immediately. Shelley regarded it with loathing.

“Shelley,” Francesca said as she carried a cup of coffee in, “some of that information from Jerome in Chicago is coming through now on the telefax machine.”

“All right.”

“Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”

“Let Wayne get it,” she said.

“Wayne is on the line to New York.”

“Well, then you get it.”

“I am making more coffee.”

Shelley sighed and picked up the phone. “Babel Language Center. Can I help you?”

“Shelley, this is Mike Paige over at Keene International.”

“Hello, Mike. How are you?” Shelley took a deep breath and crossed her fingers. He was the man she’d been negotiating with for Keene’s sizable contract.

“Shelley, you may have heard that there’s a new man over at the Elite Language Center, a guy named Ross Tanner. Well, he came in and spoke with my superior this morning, who was very impressed with him. So it looks like we may be farther from a decision than I thought.”

“I see,” Shelley said. Ross certainly worked fast, didn’t he? She was disturbed but maintained a calm tone. “Does your boss still want me to meet with him tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes, certainly...”

“But?” Shelley asked, sensing the man was debating a whether or not to tell her something else.

“But he wants me to meet with Tanner tomorrow to see what I think of the man’s proposal.”

“Oh.”

“I’m telling you this because I like you, Shelley. I was hoping we’d go with your school. Maybe we still will.”

“I intend to do my best to see that you do,” Shelley said evenly. “Thanks for calling, Mike.”

“Shelley,” Francesca called just as she was putting down the receiver. “Can you come out here please?”

Shelley went into the hallway, where a delivery man was piling up a dozen or more large boxes.

“What’s going on here?” Shelley asked.