by Kerstin Gier
For a while we folded, rolled, and stacked in silence, and then Amy said suddenly, “Gretchen and Ella told Aiden I’m learning sign language. And now he thinks I’m in love with him.”
Thanks to Monsieur Rocher I knew exactly who she was talking about. Aiden was the boy the Barnbrooke grandparents had adopted as a teenager, which meant he was Amy’s adopted uncle and not a blood relation. So I guess it was okay if she was in love with him.
“Hmm,” I said, hoping I sounded as understanding and supportive as Monsieur Rocher always did.
It seemed to encourage Amy to go on, anyway. “Aiden’s been really weird with me since they told him that. He hardly looks at me. And…” She sighed. So deeply it almost made me want to sigh, too. “We always used to get along so well. Even without being able to talk to each other. The only time I’ve ever been annoyed with him was two years ago, when Ella and Gretchen used him as a guinea pig and he went along with it.”
“As a guinea pig?” Now I definitely didn’t sound like Monsieur Rocher, just like myself.
“Yes—they wanted someone to practice kissing with.” Amy snorted angrily. “Apparently Aiden is particularly good at kissing. Gretchen thinks it’s because of his … because he can’t hear, so he’s unusually sensitive and perfect for practicing with. I gave her a slap when she said that. Well, two slaps. One on the right cheek and one on the left. I slapped her so hard I actually hurt my own hand.”
“Good for you,” I couldn’t help saying.
Amy gave a wry smile. “I was grounded for three weeks and banned from watching my favorite TV series.”
“It was worth it,” I said.
“I agree.” Amy gave me a grateful sideways glance. Then she sighed again. “That’s why I don’t understand why Aiden’s being so weird with me. He knows I never … and even if … after all, you can learn sign language without being in love … I mean, I’m the same person I was before.”
Gradually, a clear picture was emerging from the confusion.
“My friend Delia had a good friend called Paul,” I told her. “Paul lived next door to her and when they were kids he rigged up this miniature cable car between his bedroom and Delia’s, that little Playmobil characters could ride in. They used it to send messages to each other. Their families went on vacation together, and they got along superwell and told each other everything. Until one day Paul started acting weird. He basically stopped talking to Delia, and whenever they ran into each other at school he just blanked her and looked the other way.”
Amy looked at me wide-eyed. “But why?”
“That’s what Delia asked him, which wasn’t easy given that Paul kept avoiding her. But in the end, he admitted he’d fallen in love with her.”
“Oh,” said Amy. “And what happened then?”
The truth was that Delia had felt flattered but sadly didn’t feel the same way about Paul. It had been the end of their friendship. Paul hadn’t spoken to Delia again for a whole year. We still called him Sulky Paul. I decided not to tell Amy about this sad ending to the story. “The reason I brought it up was that it just shows you can know someone for years and then suddenly realize the other person’s not a kid anymore and you want them to be more than just a friend. Perhaps it’s the same for Aiden as it was for Paul.”
Amy chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “And what if it isn’t? What if he just thinks I’m in love with him and it’s making him feel really awkward?”
“Are you in love with him?” I asked, then stopped short. That was probably a bit too direct. But Amy didn’t seem to mind.
“Maybe,” she said hesitantly. “If your heart starts beating faster when you look at them and you go weak at the knees, does that mean you’re in love?”
It wasn’t like I’d ever been in love, but I’d read enough books and seen enough movies to answer “Yes!” with profound conviction. Or rather, I would have if Mr. Heffelfinger hadn’t appeared around the corner at that very moment. Amy immediately put down the towel she’d been folding and fled in the direction of the swimming pool.
“I couldn’t understand a word of what she said, but I think Mrs. Smirnov enjoyed her massage,” Mr. Heffelfinger whispered happily.
“Has she gone?” I whispered back.
“No. She wants to look around the rest of the spa.” He wrung his hands again. “I couldn’t stop her. I’ve got another massage client now, so please could you make sure the children behave themselves while Mrs. Smirnov is down here? And could you do something about that old lady who keeps staring at the poor woman as if she’s Beyoncé?”
“That’s because she thinks Mrs. Smirnov is actually called Mrs. Yegorov,” I said.
“Like the Russian oligarch?”
Of course, everyone knew the name apart from me. “Isn’t an oligarch always Russian?” I asked. “Like a raven is always black?”
But Mr. Heffelfinger was already hurrying off to his next appointment.
I found Mrs. Smirnov, or whatever her name was, at the pool. Mrs. Ludwig had followed her there; she wasn’t letting this unexpected celebrity guest out of her sight for a moment. Mrs. Smirnov, on the other hand, only had eyes for Tristan, who was currently drying himself off and putting his bathrobe back on. The scene was a bit like a body-spray commercial; all that was missing was music and some slow-motion camerawork. Everyone, myself included, gazed appreciatively at Tristan until he’d finished wrapping his perfect torso in white terry cloth. Gretchen even ran her tongue around her lips.
Mrs. Ludwig, however, was far more interested in Mrs. Smirnov. She hurried over to me in great excitement.
“It’s definitely her,” she whispered to me, perhaps a touch too loudly.
Mrs. Smirnov, aka Yegorov, gave Mrs. Ludwig a puzzled look for a moment but then smiled graciously, leaving Mrs. Ludwig beaming with joy.
Tristan set off toward the exit, and naturally the two elder Barnbrooke girls now saw no reason to stay in the pool any longer. Gracie and Madison followed hot on their heels, and the presumed oligarch’s wife left via the spa, although not before booking five more massages and a facial for the coming week. Only Amy lingered—I guessed she wanted to continue our conversation from earlier. But we didn’t get the chance because when Mrs. Ludwig returned to the sauna she realized she’d lost her ring. Her beaming smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of despair.
“I put it in the bowl you gave me, along with the rest of my jewelry,” she said with tears in her eyes. “But now I can’t find it anywhere. It’s my engagement ring, you see. It’s of great sentimental value to me.” Her lower lip trembled, and I felt so sorry for her that I could have cried. Her engagement ring from Mr. Ludwig, of all the things to lose!
Amy and I searched every nook and cranny for the ring, but in vain. After he’d finished his appointment Mr. Heffelfinger came to help us. He turned on the bright lights so we could see better, but still the ring was nowhere to be found. We looked in all the beige-tiled corners and turned the pockets of all the bathrobes inside out, and I rifled through the laundry basket and shook out all the towels one by one. No matter hard we searched, the ring stayed lost. Eventually we gave up in frustration. It was already past eleven o’clock.
“Perhaps one of the children hid it,” Mr. Heffelfinger mused once a thoroughly dejected Mrs. Ludwig had left the spa accompanied by a sympathetic Amy. “Children love playing tricks.”
Either that, or the ring had been stolen. But why would anybody do such a thing? Mrs. Ludwig had said herself that the ring wasn’t worth much and was purely of sentimental value.
“I don’t think so,” I said firmly. “I’m sure it’s just fallen on the floor and rolled somewhere where we can’t see it. First thing tomorrow, I’ll get Jaromir to take the drain covers off so we can search the filters. We’ll find it.”
“I hope so.” Mr. Heffelfinger blew out the scented candles with a sigh. “Otherwise that old lady is going to report us for theft—and then we’ll all be suspects.”
10
I was completely worn out by the time I finally left the spa that night. I was so hot you could have fried an egg on my forehead, and I felt as though my tights had melted onto my legs. And I was worried about Mrs. Ludwig. I hoped the poor woman wasn’t going to lie awake all night fretting.
The Forbidden Cat was sitting in the middle of the corridor. She stood up when she saw me, as if she’d been waiting for me, then curled herself around my legs, meowed, and padded over to a narrow cellar door from which a few steps led outdoors.
The key was in the lock, so I obliged and opened the door for her. Mr. Heffelfinger used this spot for his cigarette breaks, so the first few feet of snow, although not properly cleared, were neatly trodden flat. A welcome blast of cold air rushed in through the open door. I grabbed the key—the door tended to close on its own and lock you out—then stepped outside and breathed in deeply. As the icy night air flowed into my lungs, I immediately felt better.
Snow had been falling steadily until late that afternoon, but now the sky was clear. Stars twinkled between the scattered clouds, and the almost-full moon peeked over the tops of the fir trees, bathing everything in a cool white light. The Forbidden Cat sat in the snow and stared up at the wall of the hotel. As my body temperature gradually returned to normal, I followed her gaze. We were standing on the lowest side of the hotel, seen from the outside; the only rooms on this level with windows were the spa and the kitchen below the restaurant. On the other three sides of the building the basement floor was set deep into the mountainside. Above the spa, the moonlight was reflected in the huge arched French windows of the ballroom. And above them were the rooms of the south wing. But all the windows on that floor were in darkness now except the third one from the left. That must be Room 117, where the Smirnovs’/Yegorovs’ bodyguard was staying. The last two windows on the right were the bathrooms of the Panorama Suite.
And right there, between the window of Room 117 and the bathroom windows of the Panorama Suite, there was something moving—that was what the Forbidden Cat was staring at. My heart stood still for a moment when I realized it was a human silhouette moving up there, twenty or thirty feet above me on a narrow ledge that jutted out of the wall. Quickly and very nimbly, the figure slid past the illuminated window. As the light from inside fell on his face, I recognized Tristan Brown. It was him, no doubt about it.
All sorts of thoughts raced through my head, but none of them made any sense. What kind of person went clambering about on tiny little ledges at dizzying heights in the middle of the night?
Bored circus performers. Superheroes. People contemplating suicide. Santa Claus, a day early. And hotel thieves, of course.
At that moment, the light went out in Room 117 and Tristan, who’d almost reached the window of Room 118, froze against the wall. A cloud passed slowly in front of the moon, but I could still see him quite clearly against the pale facade. A moment later, someone opened the window of Room 117. It was too dark now to see whether it was the Yegorovs’ bodyguard standing there, but I could see the red glow of a cigarette and smell the smoke from it. I wondered whether Tristan and the smoker could see me when they looked down or whether I just looked like a dark patch in the snow to them. Either way, I had no reason to feel guilty. I wasn’t the one standing on a ledge where I had no business being or smoking in a nonsmoking room. Nevertheless, I stayed perfectly still. The Forbidden Cat, too, sat motionlessly as if rooted in the snow.
After what was maybe a minute—it was hard to say, though, the seconds seemed to pass so slowly—the cigarette came sailing down into the snow and fizzled out, and the smoker closed the window.
Tristan immediately continued on his way.
The most sensible thing for me to have done would probably have been to stay quiet, keep watching him, and make a note of where he climbed to. And then report the incident.
But instead of doing that, I decided to clear the matter up there and then. Otherwise I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep because of all the unanswered questions running through my head. When he was directly above me, at the window of Room 119, I meowed—loudly, and without even trying to sound like a real cat.
Tristan froze again, his body pressed to the wall. He was probably staring down at me just as I was staring up at him, but I couldn’t tell in the dark.
I waved at him, then heard a soft laugh and watched, flabbergasted, as he leapt down onto the gutters and swung himself down the wall at lightning speed, like a real-life Spider-Man. When he was a few feet from the ground, the moon came out again and now I could see more clearly how skillfully he was moving, hand over hand, down the ornate stone facade. He was wearing fingerless gloves. He let himself drop the last six feet and landed softly and smoothly on his feet, like a cat.
The real cat then turned and trotted away through the snow, and for a brief moment I thought perhaps I should do the same.
“Hello,” said Tristan. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight.
“Well, yes. Hello,” I replied. “Sorry to disturb you, but I did just want to at least say hi. It’s not every day you meet Spider-Man.”
“I thought you were going to arrest me.” To judge by his tone of voice, Tristan was finding this all wonderfully amusing. He was standing with his back to the moon, so his face was in shadow. I couldn’t make out his expression.
“Why—were you up to no good?”
“Not as far as I know. Do you still think I’m a hotel thief?”
No! Of course I didn’t! I wasn’t falling for that trick. On the other hand … “Yes,” I said sharply. “I can’t think why else you’d be climbing up the side of the building in the dead of night, all in black and wearing special gloves.”
Tristan laughed. “And what am I supposed to have stolen?” He looked down at his slim form.
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “Perhaps I spotted you before you had time to steal anything.” Then I added in a softer tone: “That’s why I … er … meowed at you. So you wouldn’t do something you might regret.”
“Oh.” Tristan’s voice was serious all of a sudden. “That’s very kind of you, Sophie. You seem to be not only an exceptionally pretty person but an exceptionally nice one, too.”
Yes, I was. Or an exceptionally stupid one, because I found myself feeling deeply flattered.
“I can assure you,” he went on, “that I haven’t stolen a thing. I solemnly swear to you that nobody in this hotel is missing any of their belongings.”
“Well what exactly are you doing climbing the walls, then?” I pointed to the facade. “Is this your standard evening workout after you’ve been for a swim?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “Climbing walls is something of a hobby of mine. But people always get so terribly agitated when you do it during the daytime. Especially my grandpa. He’s got a weak heart. I had to promise him years ago that I’d stop doing dangerous things.” He paused for a second. “Unfortunately, I have a penchant for dangerous things.”
I could easily believe that last bit. As for the rest, I wasn’t so sure. But I half believed it.
“Mrs. Ludwig is missing her engagement ring,” I said slowly, wishing he’d turn his head so I could see his face better. Was he standing with his back to the moon on purpose?
“The old lady who was in the swimming pool earlier?” he asked. “The ring with the pink stone?”
“You know what the ring looks like?” There really was only one explanation for that. A wave of emotions washed over me, a mixture of disappointment and anger. “You did steal it! How could you?! We’ve been looking for it for over an hour, and Mrs. Ludwig is crying her eyes out. And why did you take it, anyway? The ring isn’t even worth anything!”
“Hey!” Tristan grabbed my arm and shook me lightly. “Sophie! I haven’t stolen anything. I just noticed she had a very nice ring on, that’s all.”
“A boy who’s interested in old ladies’ jewelry?” A likely story. “Is that another hobby of yours?” I crossed my arms. I was gradually starting to notice how c
old it was. Standing around in the snow when it’s 5 degrees below zero and you’re drenched in sweat must be a surefire way of catching pneumonia. My arm felt warm where Tristan was holding it, though. It was practically on fire.
“I like looking at people’s hands,” he said quietly. “You, for example, have cute little hands with slim fingers and short fingernails. You don’t wear any jewelry, and you sometimes bite the skin around your nails when you’re nervous.”
That was true, unfortunately.
“I’m sorry the old lady lost her ring,” he went on, gently. “I can help you look for it, if you like.”
I took a deep breath. “You really didn’t steal it?”
“No.” Tristan loosened his grip on my arm, and I could hear from his voice that he was smiling again. “I swear on my grandpa’s life. And apart from that, I can assure you I’m far too well educated to be a hotel thief.”
I couldn’t help sighing at his arrogance. But this time I believed him. Eighty percent of me did, anyway. The other 20 percent was just exhausted and wanted to go to bed. “It would have been a bit silly, seeing as the ring isn’t worth anything.” My teeth started chattering with cold.
Tristan let go of my arm. “Exactly! If I was going to be a hotel thief, I’d at least be a clever one. You’re freezing cold! Do you want my jacket?”
“No. I’m going inside. I need to get to bed—it’s been a very long day.” I pointed up at the roof, my teeth still chattering. “But I’m too tired to climb. I’m going to take the stairs just this once.”
“Well I had a four-hour nap this afternoon. I need a bit of exercise,” said Tristan. In the blink of an eye, he’d leapt up onto the wall again and was suspended six feet above me. “I hope to see you tomorrow, Sophie.”
“Unless we have to send out a search party and find you lying frozen stiff in the snow with a broken neck.”
“I appreciate your concern for my welfare.” He was already another few feet higher. This time he headed left and, hanging from the gutter by one hand, he launched himself out over the buttress below the restaurant window and around the corner of the building. At least he wasn’t as high up now as he had been before. I waited until he’d swung himself up over the railing onto the restaurant terrace, then I went inside.
