Hard to Find: A Tillgiven Romantic Mystery

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  My phone buzzed. Dani appeared to be just as cranky via text in the morning as in person. “Too early. Want to die.”

  I laid down the paper and stuffed my phone in my pocket. There was no time for delay, so I was just going to have to cheer the kid up. I smiled at the desk clerk, but he wasn’t watching me, which was great, since I walked straight into the breakfast room and helped myself to a few pastries and a cup of what I hoped was better coffee.

  Then, I went to Dani’s room.

  I knocked gently and stood for a full minute. Then I knocked again. And waited more.

  Then I texted.

  Another minute passed, and Dani let me in, propping the door open with her shoe. She was lovely. Her damp hair hung around her face, a bit frowsy like it had been towel dried. Her face was shiny, and her cheeks pink. She smelled like she had had a shower—as opposed to me. There was no way I actually smelled good at this point in our adventure. She had the same clothes on as she had yesterday, but they looked like she had pressed them, or at the very least not slept in them.

  She was basically a sight for sore eyes. I handed her breakfast.

  “Ahhh. Thank you.” She gifted me with a tremendous smile that seemed to start at her toes and go all the way to the top of her head. “Do you need the bathroom or anything? I can go grab a paper or something if you want some privacy.” She took a big bite of her cheese Danish.

  I hadn’t calculated time for hygiene, but the bathroom door stood open, and the steam-covered mirror seemed to beckon me.

  “You won’t regret it.” Her dimples seemed to be telling the truth.

  “Thanks.” I stepped into her room.

  “I’ll be downstairs checking messages. Text me when you’re ready.” She let the door swing shut as she walked out.

  I praised God for his mercies and cleaned up as quick as I could.

  I wouldn’t say I felt like a million dollars when I got out, but I felt good. At least until I checked my phone. One message from Dani. “Think I saw Si on the Prom. Meet me outside.”

  Grr.

  Not that there was anyone around to hear me grind my teeth and growl, but this was worse than herding cats. How was I ever going to get the three of us in the same place at the same time?

  I pulled my less-than-fresh T-shirt over my head, shoved my feet into my Converse, and ran downstairs as fast as I could. As soon as the door swung behind me, my phone rang.

  Tillgiven.

  “Yes?” I crossed the street and scanned the Promenade for Si and Dani. It had just turned seven, so you would think I could find them easily enough. I shivered. It couldn’t be sixty degrees out yet, and I was still damp, and coatless. But then, so was Dani.

  “Ah, Isaac. Are you on your way?” Stina’s implacable voice with the accent that made her sound like a European supermodel broke through my thoughts.

  “No, not yet.”

  “I don’t have time for this, you know.”

  “And I do?”

  “What is taking so long?”

  “They’re both rotten brats, that’s what.”

  “I have to be in Caracas for a photo shoot tomorrow morning.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “It just came up, but I have to go. A big campaign for Vogue Venezuela.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  She laughed lightly. “You did not know that I model?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But what does your photo shoot have to do with me?”

  “I have to leave this evening to get to work in time, but I can’t if you’re gone. I can’t leave the school to the RAs and the cooking staff, can I?”

  “No, of course. But what about the Hoffens?”

  “I spoke with them this morning. They have decided to take the whole week off, since Steve isn’t teaching. They will meet El Jefe at the airport in Stockholm and drive him back to the school. They won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” In the far distance I thought I saw two young people talking near the water. They were silhouetted against the early morning sun, and I couldn’t tell for sure that they were my people. And there was no surfboard. “But what can I do about it?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Since when are you a model?”

  “Since I was thirteen.”

  “But then, why work at the school?”

  “Why not?”

  I couldn’t argue with that point, but later, when I had time or maybe more actual interest, I’d have to find out, because an international model with at least a decade of experience acting as the office overlord for a tiny Christian school just didn’t equate.

  “Get the kids, Isaac, and wait for my call. I’ll give you instructions.”

  “Sure.” I hung up. Then I ran to join the couple chatting by the surf.

  The couple didn’t appreciate my company, since they were not Si and Dani. The woman, who looked to be Eastern European and in her early thirties, gave me a look that implied I should walk off and die somewhere. I took the hint and walked the other direction, texting Dani as I went. “Where R U?”

  Dani Honeywell 5

  The professor put me up in a hotel room, slept in the car for the sake of my honor, and brought me breakfast. The least I could do was give him a little time with the bathroom. After all the sights—and smells—we had encountered going room to room at the hostel, this bathroom, while nothing more than a perfectly standard chain hotel accommodation, felt like paradise.

  I took my coffee and Danish downstairs. The breakfast room was fairly full, but the windows looked out across the highway and the Promenade with a peekaboo view of the ocean beyond.

  A couple wandered from the Promenade to the beach. They slowly disappeared from my sight as they got closer to the water. It was early yet, and the auto traffic was far worse than the foot traffic. I imagined that in the season, the Promenade des Anglais was something else altogether. Like Disney World in June.

  There was a certain kind of fun that could only be had with masses of other people, but visiting a popular tourist destination was not one of those. Nice, in October, in the early morning while the sun was still thin and the air looked cold out the windows, was about my idea of perfect. When Isaac came downstairs, it would be hard to steer us away from the beach and to the surf shop, even though it was the right thing to do.

  Another couple wandered into sight, followed by a family that crossed the street headed to Old Town. I doubted American kids would be happy to be wandering Old Town at seven in the morning, so these folks must have at least been European, if not actually from Nice.

  In the distance a loner walked along the Promenade, hoodie over his head. He paused and leaned on the low, white metal rail, gazing at the ocean. He was too far away for me to notice any pertinent details, like his face or shoes, but I had seen Si lean on the rail of the boys’ dorm balcony too many times to count. I knew that lean. I grabbed my coffee and sent a text to Isaac as I left. I owed Isaac big-time for my good night’s sleep and all the rest. If I could drag Si inside before the professor was done with his shower, we’d be well even.

  Si was farther away than I thought from my view in the breakfast room, and he had started to wander even farther into the distance before I got all the way to the Promenade. I ran after him, gasping as I went, wishing I had my Nikes instead of my leather-soled ballet flats.

  When Si was close enough that I could see he was wearing maroon cargo pants, I hollered out his name. He didn’t respond. I sped up. Then I doubled over, fist to my side. Then I ran again, and caught up almost directly behind him. “Si, what are you doing?”

  Si turned, pulled down his hood, and smiled. Except, obviously, it wasn’t Si. “Allo.” His smile was cute, and he really was a lot like Si, but I wasn’t after a look-alike. I only wanted the real thing.

  I laughed. “I’m so sorry.” I turned and walked back toward the hotel.

  The Si-like guy caught up with me. “Wait! Good morning.” Something about
the clipped tones made me think he was practicing his English, which would be a first. Most folks my age I had met while on this side of the planet were perfectly fluent already.

  “Sorry, I was mistaken. I need to go.”

  “You’re an American girl?”

  “Yup. An American girl in a hurry.” I hated to be rude; he had a kind of puppy-dog look thing going on, and I have a weakness for puppies and puppy-dog types.

  “Can I have a picture with you, American girl?” He held out his phone.

  He reminded me of the Japanese exchange students I had had growing up. Apparently American girls were a novelty. “Oh, sure, why not.”

  He put an arm around me and held out his phone to take an “ussie,” a picture type as old as the Polaroid but with a fun new name.

  Then he kissed my cheek, laughed, and took off down the stairs from the Promenade to the beach. I hadn’t been gone long, so I started back to the hotel, hoping I could get back before the professor came downstairs.

  Then I remembered the warnings against pickpockets and double-checked that I still had my phone and my wallet.

  I didn’t.

  The Si look-alike was still in the near distance, down on the beach loitering, kicking rocks, and generally acting like he had gotten away with it.

  If I ran after him, I was fairly likely to fall over dead, but I gave it a shot.

  He seemed to notice and started running as well.

  I sped up.

  He hopped over a low white picket fence into a sea of rental chairs, royal-blue umbrellas with wide white stripes, and low white loungers with cushions that matched the umbrellas. It was early, so no one was lounging just yet. The pickpocket ducked under umbrellas and crawled over chairs like he was hiding from me, but really he was just slowing himself down. I skirted the chairs, ran along the waterline, and met him on the other side.

  “Phone, jerk.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His previous accent and lack of ability in English had disappeared, replaced with the tones of a snotty German teenager.

  “Give me my stuff, idiot. It’s against the law to steal.”

  He laughed, hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy pants. Big, deep pockets he probably kept stuffed with tourists’ money. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why is my picture on your phone?” We were on the inside of the private rental beach still, and a man in a white polo shirt with a superior air was headed our way. I inched toward the white picket fence, wanting to hop over it to the free side of the beach but not wanting to lose everything of value I had on the face of the earth.

  “Get lost.” The pickpocket smirked and ambled toward the water.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle, this is a private beach.” The waiter smiled gently at me, as though I was a child.

  I narrowed my eyes. “That boy stole my wallet and my phone.”

  He offered a Gallic shrug. “You must find a policeman, then; I am only a waiter.” He did that thing where he walked closer toward me, sort of pushing me out of the private beach by encroaching on my personal space.

  I backed up as quickly as I could, but tripped over a chair and landed on my bottom.

  The waiter frowned. “Mademoiselle…”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I scrambled up and shook myself off, not that there was sand anywhere on the pebbly beach.

  I turned and scanned the shore for the pickpocket. He was about thirty feet down the beach, talking to a girl in a bikini.

  I ran, again.

  When I caught up to him, I grabbed his arm, wrapped it around me, kissed his cheek, and squealed. “Ooh, you were so right! It’s absolutely perfect! I will never, ever, ever sleep in again, babe!” I kissed his cheek a second time, since he was trying to disentangle himself from me.

  The bikini girl rolled her eyes.

  I stuck my hand deep into his pants pocket and pulled out a phone. It had a nubby rubber cover, so it wasn’t mine. I dropped it and scooted around behind him like I was going to give him a bear hug, but really, I stuck my other hand down his other pocket. I felt my wallet right away, pulled it out, and tossed it as far as I could behind me.

  He managed to spin around and grip one of my arms. He hissed something in my ear, in German. I was glad I didn’t know what it was. Since we were face to face, I whacked him in the nose with my forehead. When he doubled over, I dropped to my knees and pulled hard on his pants. I wasn’t really trying to pull them off, but I wanted him to not be able to run off with my phone.

  From behind me, I heard the professor shouting my name.

  The pickpocket was fighting back, even though I was pretty sure he had at least a bloody nose. He had better have had, since my head was really hurting.

  I clung to his pants belt and twisted.

  He fell over, grappling for his leather belt.

  While he writhed, I plunged the depths of his cargo pants side pocket and found my phone.

  I could hear the professor stop behind me. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “What on earth is going on?”

  I had my phone in one hand and noted that the professor had my wallet.

  The pickpocket jumped to his feet, and I was very glad to see he did have a bloody nose.

  But before I could explain the situation to the professor, a Nicois policeman, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt just like the waiter, wobbled across the pebbly beach on a pair of Rollerblades.

  I was impressed he could ride them on the rocks.

  “What is the problem?”

  “That American girl attacked me. I think she is drunk.” The German pickpocket sneered.

  “That German kid picked my pocket! I chased him down and got my stuff back.”

  The policeman frowned at me. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Of course not! It’s only seven.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s now almost eight.”

  “I met this guy on the beach, and he asked for a picture. He got up next to me, took the picture, and picked my pocket.” I watched the policeman’s face for any sign of sympathy, but there was none. He was, in fact, less friendly than the waiter.

  “And I was talking to a beautiful French girl when this crazy American ran up to me, started kissing me, and then hit me in the nose with her head.”

  The policeman regarded the pickpocket’s bloody face.

  Then the pretty girl in the bikini, who had been watching, amused, spoke. “It is as he said. I was talking to this boy, and the girl just came running to him. She started hugging him and kissing him and talking about sleeping together.” She shrugged with a laugh. “Then she went crazy like a cat and hit him and tried to take off his clothes.” She scanned the length of beach and laughed again, a throaty French sound. “Americans.”

  The policeman nodded. “You can come with me.”

  I opened my mouth, but the professor shook his head, so I didn’t speak. The Rollerblading officer dragged me off to the police station, basically by the power of his will and personality, and because I wasn’t in the mood to get shocked by the Taser in his holster.

  The pickpocket was free to wander off.

  The police station was a long walk. I could tell the officer was annoyed to have to take us all the way there, since Rollerblading slowly is no fun. I tried to walk as fast as I could, but since I appeared to be under arrest, I didn’t run.

  The station was in the same direction as our edge-of-town chain hotel, but up in the city a couple of blocks. It had a dirty socialist feel, kind of like the elementary school in the town near where I lived as a kid. I only played there once because the tall, gray windows scared me. They made me think I would get arrested and stuck inside the school forever.

  A posse of motorbikes were parked out front, and two Segways. The ugly, dark windows on the main floor of the police station popped out at an angle, I assumed to let the fresh beach air wash away the stench of crime and paperwork. I reached for the professor’s hand. He wrapped my hand in
both of his and squeezed.

  The officer led us into a waiting room, where a man behind a desk took our passports. Then, they took us to a small, ugly, dirty room. Isaac and I sat on one side of the only table, and the officer sat on the other.

  “Here in Nice, we have very peaceful town.” The policeman sounded tired. “And we don’t let our visitors fight in public.” He sighed. “It is very early in the morning, yes?”

  I nodded. Isaac stroked the back of my hand with his thumb.

  “I could fine you for fighting. Or, arrest you for assault, a delit, you understand this?”

  I shook my head no.

  “A…misdemeanor, yes? It is very dangerous to attack a criminal. You should not do that, anywhere. Not in France or in America. I will only give you a warning, this time. But you must not do it again.”

  “But if he was a criminal, why didn’t you arrest him for picking her pocket?” Isaac’s jaw worked back and forth, and he squeezed my hand again. His voice rose in anger on the last words.

  The police frowned. “I found a man assaulted by this girl on the beach. I did not find a man with her property on him. There was a witness.”

  “But Dani’s a good girl. She’s a long way from home right now—she’s a Bible school student.” Isaac’s description of me didn’t bode well for a future romance, but it was exactly the way I hoped the policeman saw me.

  He waved it away as though it were no matter. “Good girls don’t fight on the beach.”

  There was a polite knock on the door. The man from the desk handed our passports back to the officer, and the two spoke for a moment in French. “Okay. You are in Europe on a student visa to Sweden, yes?”

  “That’s what I was telling you,” Isaac said.

  The officer glowered at Isaac. “Then let this be a warning to the child, oui? You must take more care in the future; it is not a comfortable thing to be arrested.”

  Isaac narrowed his eyes but seemed to appreciate the officer’s point of view.

  “Do you now have your wallet back?” the officer asked me.

  “Yes.” I had found my voice at last, but it squeaked.

  “Then go back to school now, and study your Bible very hard, and do not fight any more pickpockets. Next time, we won’t be in the mood to give you just a little warning. You understand?” He stood up and opened the door for us to leave.