by Kerstin Gier
“But back to the grand hotel kidnapper,” he went on eagerly. “Naturally, the guests are also potential suspects.”
“Like you, for example,” Ben countered, rolling his eyes.
The thriller writer nodded approvingly. “Yes, that would be an excellent red herring. If I’m the first person to mention the kidnapper, the reader won’t see me as a suspect. But for one thing, I’m too young—I’d only have been six years old at the time of the first kidnapping—and for another thing, this isn’t a novel. Not yet, anyway.”
Ben muttered something that sounded like: “And if it was, it would be the second-worst novel ever written, right after The Bleeding Room,” but his words were drowned out by shouts from the first floor.
“They’re here!” That was Amy.
“We’ve found them!” And Gracie.
Thank God! I could have cried with relief. Instead, I grabbed Ben’s hand and squeezed it tight.
“Well, that puts an end to your kidnapping theories, doesn’t it?” I said to the thriller writer. “Which I never believed for a second, by the way.”
“Me neither. Not seriously, anyway,” he quickly replied. “I just thought I’d better mention it. So nobody could say they hadn’t been warned.”
“He is such a poser,” Ben muttered as we headed downstairs. “I read his last book, and it was crap. Full of implausible coincidences. And at the end of every chapter, there’s some fake moment of suspense that all gets resolved two pages later.”
We weren’t the only ones making a beeline for the music room where Grace and Amy had found the two runaways. Viktor Yegorov was there before us, relief etched all over his face.
“I knew it; I knew it,” he murmured, more to himself than to us.
Gradually everyone else arrived and marveled at the children’s hiding place. It was simple but very effective. Don and Dasha were lying curled up on the built-in shelves to either side of the huge fireplace, hidden behind boxes of sheet music, piles of heavy books, and plaster busts of famous composers, and they were fast asleep. Well, Dasha was—Don, I was certain, was just pretending.
“If he hadn’t been snoring, we’d never have found them,” said Gracie proudly.
“And if the cat hadn’t scratched at the door we’d never have come back in here,” Amy added quietly. “We’d already searched this room.”
Viktor Yegorov solemnly shook both the sisters’ hands and thanked them in at least three languages. Then he knelt down in front of the shelf and carefully cleared everything off it. Ben and I helped him.
“There you are, little one.” Very gently he lifted his daughter out and cradled her in his arms. She didn’t wake up, just nestled against him and smiled.
The gaggle of onlookers sighed at this touching scene, and we watched him carry Dasha out of the room.
“That little rascal!” All of a sudden, Don Burkhardt Sr. came marching in. He was a tall, burly man with sharp, pale blue eyes, a low forehead and an unpleasantly booming voice. Don had clearly inherited his cute little voice, pretty face, and doe eyes from his mother. Don Burkhardt Sr. looked at his son and shook his head, but with a certain amount of pride. “Well, in that case I suppose I won’t have to sue anyone for negligence, eh?”
Don let out a little snore, and everyone laughed. Ben offered all the helpers a drink on the house and ushered them downstairs to the bar. Carolyn was finally free to leave her post and set off home through the snow.
But Amy, Gracie, and I stayed with Don and his dad in the music room, intrigued to see how Don was going to talk his way out of this one. He was still pretending to be asleep—very convincingly, too—and his impression of an innocent little boy waking up without any idea what had been going on was even more realistic. When his dad shook him awake, he opened his eyes very slowly and looked around as if completely disoriented. “Where am I?” he asked. “How did I get here?”
His dad laughed. “Trust you, Junior! You had everyone going! Just what we needed on such a dull afternoon.”
Hmm. Personally, I’d rather have spent the afternoon sticking glitter on cardboard unicorns. No wonder Don didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, if his dad actually praised him when he should have been telling him off.
Don rolled slowly off the shelf and rubbed his eyes. It was a shame he was destined to take over his dad’s waste-disposal empire. He could have had a career on the stage. “How…? What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is taking little Snot Nose down to see her mother. What happened then? And why do I feel so tired?”
“Because you’re my little rascal, and you’ve worn yourself out making mischief,” said Burkhardt Sr. “Come on, I’ll carry you, just this once, okay?”
But however tired Don supposedly was, there was no way he was going to let his dad pick him up, especially not in front of Gracie. He did consent to lean on his arm, though. Burkhardt Sr. may have been an unpleasant character with shady plans and suitcases full of dirty money, but he did seem to genuinely love his son. I just couldn’t bring myself to spoil this sweet little father-and-son moment by going into responsible adult mode and giving Don the telling-off he deserved.
But in the end, Gracie did it for me. As the Burkhardts passed us on their way to the door, she said sternly: “That really was horseploppish of you, Don. Everyone was worried sick. And plus it was totally against the rules. We were supposed to stay on the third floor and not go into the rooms … But I still found you, you horseplop.”
Don, of course, didn’t understand a word, though he could tell Gracie was insulting him. But to my surprise, he didn’t insult her back (which was very unlike him)—he just smiled wearily and murmured, “See you tomorrow, beautiful Gracie Barnbrooke from South Carolina.”
And then it suddenly struck me that perhaps he wasn’t acting after all and that he really didn’t know what had happened to him.
18
“Please don’t tell me you believed that idiot’s kidnapping story,” said Ben.
Unfortunately that was exactly what I was telling him, only not in so many words. I just couldn’t shake the idea that Don might really have been asleep. Of course, we were talking about Don here, and there was no denying Don was a devious little so-and-so who knew every trick in the book. And yet … I leaned over the polished countertop of the reception desk and whispered, “But what if he wasn’t pretending? What if he really was asleep and woke up all confused because he didn’t know what had happened? What if someone drugged him and Dasha?”
Ben looked at me, aghast. “What, drugged them and then hid them on a shelf? Why would anyone do that, for heaven’s sake?”
Yes, that was the problem. I didn’t know why anyone would do that, either. It didn’t make any sense. But I still had this niggling feeling that … oh, I don’t know.
“Sophie?” Ben smiled at me. “Would I be right in thinking you’ve had a very long day?”
I nodded at once. “Yes, definitely.” It had been such a stressful and exhausting day, in fact, that I hadn’t even thought about kissing once. But I was making up for it now, as I gazed at Ben. He was so cute when he smiled. And it sounded so good when he said my name.
“Maybe you should just tell Heffelfinger you’re not feeling well today and take the evening off,” he suggested. “I think you’re working way too hard. And I finish at nine. We could have dinner together.”
That was tempting, extremely tempting, but I couldn’t leave poor Mr. Heffelfinger alone with the guests. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown as it was. And I was the only one who understood that you couldn’t burn jasmine-and-patchouli-scented candles in the same room as vanilla-and-orange-blossom candles; it created an unholy olfactory mess.
“You know what?” Ben picked up the phone. “I’m going to call in sick for you. I know you won’t do it yourself. And I—er—we have a responsibility for your well-being. Ah, Mr. Heffelfinger?” He ignored my wild gesticulations. “Ben Montfort at Reception here, good evening. I’m just calling
on behalf of Sophie Spark, the intern. She’s not very well, I’m afraid, so she won’t be able to come in this evening. But I’ll try and organize a replacement for you.”
“Poor guy,” I said when Ben had hung up. But secretly I felt rather relieved. It was ages since I’d had an evening off.
“Pff—he’s not a poor guy,” Ben scoffed. “He caused a crisis in the kitchen today—ordered a whole tray of banana, arugula, napa cabbage, and chia seed smoothies this morning. When it got to lunchtime and the chef realized he didn’t have any arugula or napa cabbage left, he was furious with Heffelfinger and the sous chef who’d made the smoothies. He was about ready to stab them both with his best vegetable knife. He said the only alternative was to fire them on the spot. It took me a lot of time and energy to get everyone to be friends again.”
“You’re a pretty good manager, aren’t you?” I smiled at him, trying not to look at his mouth so he wouldn’t realize what was going through my head:… and I bet you’re pretty good at kissing, too.
Luckily, he misinterpreted my expression. “You look really tired. How about you chill out for a bit while I finish up here, and then we’ll go and get something to eat?” he asked, putting his hand over mine for a second. He quickly withdrew it when a guest came over with a question about Wi-Fi access.
I went to join Monsieur Rocher. He was going through a list of all the chandeliers in the hotel and putting elegant ticks in fountain pen beside the ones Jaromir and Old Stucky had already inspected.
“Were they all okay?” I asked.
“Of course they were.” Monsieur Rocher added one last tick to his list. “None of them would even dream of falling down. The chandelier outside the old study, on the other hand … let’s say it has a habit of putting on dramatic performances. And an unfortunate penchant for self-destruction.” He eyed me over the top of his glasses. “Is there something on your mind, Sophie?”
I glanced quickly over at Ben. “Have you ever heard of the grand hotel kidnapper?” I asked quietly.
Monsieur Rocher shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”
“The writer from Room 106 was telling me about him. Over the last thirty years, the grand hotel kidnapper has abducted six children from luxury hotels and demanded huge ransoms. He’s never been caught.”
“Hmm,” said Monsieur Rocher, drawing the right conclusions as usual. “And today, when the children went missing, you thought this kidnapper might have struck again?”
I nodded. “Old Stucky said recently that something bad was about to happen. What if that something is the grand hotel kidnapper?”
“Hmm,” said Monsieur Rocher again. “There certainly are plenty of children here to abduct, and plenty of rich parents to pay ransom demands.”
“Exactly!” I was very grateful that Monsieur Rocher didn’t seem to think I was being foolish.
“Although—Don and Dasha did turn up again, didn’t they?” he said kindly.
I sighed. “Yes. But … Don was behaving really weirdly. What if somebody drugged the children, intending to kidnap them … and then the weather threw a wrench in the works?” Even I realized how utterly ridiculous that sounded. It wasn’t as if the snow had come out of the blue. “It’s just that I’ve got a really funny feeling about it all,” I added lamely.
Monsieur Rocher gave me a benign smile. “I think it’s perfectly natural to take funny feelings seriously,” he said. “Most of the time, our instincts are trying to tell us something, even if it’s not always what we think they’re trying to tell us.” He looked over at Ben, who was talking on the phone. “Perhaps you should call in sick tonight and spend the evening with a cup of peppermint tea and a good book. Or a good friend.”
I sighed again. “Yes, that’s what Ben said, too. He called Mr. Heffelfinger and told him I wasn’t coming to work tonight.”
“Very good. And don’t you go fretting about Old Stucky and his gloomy predictions. He’s always been rather prone to exaggeration.” Monsieur Rocher straightened his glasses. “Of course bad things do happen sometimes, Sophie, even here at Castle in the Clouds. This is an honest place. It can bring out the worst in people but also the best.” He smiled warmly at me. “When I look at you, for example, I’m not worried about the bad. Because as long as there are people like you in the world, good will always triumph in the end.”
All of a sudden, I found I had a big lump in my throat. Only Monsieur Rocher could say sappy things like that without sounding silly. He always knew how to make me feel better.
I went up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I think you’re lovely, too,” I said quickly, then ran up the stairs with a new spring in my step. For the time being, I was simply going to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach. Perhaps it was just hunger after all.
In the bathroom in the staff quarters, someone had left the window wide open again. Whoever it was clearly didn’t understand the principle of ventilating a room; my hand nearly froze to the window latch as I closed it. But I hadn’t had a shower that morning, just a quick scrub with a soap and flannel, and if I wanted to transform myself into someone really worth kissing, then I had to have a proper wash. As I shampooed my hair and rinsed it hurriedly under the lukewarm water—which seemed to be all the boiler could stretch to today—I wished for the first time that I wasn’t one of the hotel staff but one of the guests. How wonderful it would be to stay in one of those spacious rooms: Room 110, for example, which had not only a balcony but two windows (one south-facing, one west-facing) and an open fireplace as well as a big bathtub. I could have ordered a hot chocolate and perhaps a little slice of apple and cinnamon cake from Room Service, and after a long bubble bath I could have wrapped myself in the fluffy bathrobe, sunk into the soft sofa cushions, and listened to the crackling fire …
A surge of cold water put a brutal stop to my reverie. I must have used up the last of the lukewarm water, and I had to rinse the rest of the shampoo out of my hair with water straight from the glacier.
Back in my bedroom, I crept into bed to warm up and covered myself with all the blankets I could find. Straightaway my body went into sleep mode—it never took me long to fall asleep once I was horizontal. But I tried to keep myself awake by checking my messages.
Naturally Delia had sent me some more hearts and kissing emojis, this time accompanied by links to articles such as: “Worried about the First Kiss? Try These Top Tips,” “Can Your First Kiss with a New Man Ever be Perfect? Ten Tips for Lowering Your Expectations,” and—particularly insidious—“Missed Opportunities—the Art of Finding the Right Time.” As I scrolled through the articles, my eyelids began to droop and my last thought before I fell asleep was that this must be exactly how Don had felt lying on his shelf in the music room.
I’d probably have slept until morning if the old pipe in the wall hadn’t made a loud harrumphing sound just after 9 p.m. I woke with a start and, when I realized what time it was, I leapt out of bed. As I hurriedly pulled on some clothes, I reeled off Gracie’s entire repertoire of swear words. So much for making myself look pretty. There was no time for that now. The hair on one side of my head was sticking out all over the place while the other side was still damp and flat. And my little nap had left my face looking sadly asymmetrical, too: the cheek that had been resting on the pillow was bright red, while the other cheek was still its usual pale color. The eye on the red side was all small and puffy; the other eye was wide open and stared reproachfully back at me from the mirror. I could only hope my face would go back to normal before I saw Ben. I drew my hair into a loose braid, applied some eyeliner and mascara, and brushed my teeth again (you never knew what might happen), all in record time. But when I eventually got down to the lobby, Ben was gone.
Gutless Gilbert had taken over at Reception. He was very surprised to see me. “I thought you were having dinner with my nephew,” he said, his face glum as usual. “He’s just gone to fetch you.”
That was the downside of all the staircases in this place—you cou
ld never be sure which way someone had gone. It wasn’t until I was back on the first floor that I realized it would probably have been more sensible to wait for Ben downstairs. We could spend all night chasing each other around the hotel. One of us would get to the top of the stairs just as the other one arrived in the lobby, and vice versa. So I spun round—and promptly bumped into Viktor Yegorov, who’d just come striding around the corner.
We both started apologizing at the same time and couldn’t help smiling.
“I wanted to say thank you, too,” he said, serious again now, “for your patience and help earlier and for allowing my daughter to have such a lovely day with the other children. She’s been talking about it nonstop, and she can’t wait to come back to the playroom tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll have to think of something else to play rather than hide-and-seek.” His words made me feel a little uneasy. We’d lost his daughter—that wasn’t something you’d usually thank a babysitter for. Without warning, the queasy feeling in my stomach returned, even queasier than before. “I’m so terribly sorry about what happened today,” I said. “We’ll keep a closer eye on her tomorrow, I promise.”
“I’m sure you will.” He smiled his melancholy but very kind smile. “I lost my head for a little while earlier, but I know from experience that nothing bad can happen to a child here. That’s the special magic of this place.”
Yes, I wanted to believe that, too. But the words Old Stucky had murmured on Christmas Eve and the story of the grand hotel kidnapper were still floating around in the back of my mind. Even Monsieur Rocher had admitted that bad things did sometimes happen at Castle in the Clouds. But I couldn’t tell Yegorov that, of course, any more than I could tell him about my theory that the children had been drugged. Perhaps I could encourage everyone to be a bit more vigilant, though, at least, in the unlikely event that this kidnapper really did exist and had his sights set on Dasha.
“I won’t let Dasha out of my sight for a moment tomorrow,” I said, keeping my tone as light as possible. “And perhaps you could tell your bodyguard to keep a closer eye on her than usual. Children can vanish so quickly.”
