“Pardonez-moi…j’ai un petit problème!” I sprang off my seat and raced out to the taxi stand. There were about twelve people waiting in line in front of me. When my turn finally came, I was so nervous I’d miss my train, I could barely return my driver’s snaggletoothed smile. With my eyes darting between the window and the dashboard clock, I kept reminding him how little time we had. “Vite! Vite!” I cried as he drove me to the hotel.
I ended up making the nine-twenty train, but the passport ordeal still took its toll; I could barely stop sweating during the three-hour train ride.
We pulled into Waterloo Station a little after noon. London was gray and rainy, nothing like the mild and sunny Parisian weather I’d left behind. I had no idea where I was—or where I was going.
I went to a drugstore and bought a map and an umbrella. With two hours to kill, I decided to take a little stroll, hoping my suede shoes wouldn’t be ruined by the rain. I made my way down crowded streets, passing stately-looking buildings and pubs. Most of the people I walked by were blond, or at least dirty blond. It was almost liberating—for once, I was in the majority! Was it possible they told dumb brunette jokes here?
An hour later, I sat on a wet park bench and tried to locate Claridge’s on my map.
“Need any help?” asked a bag lady who was feeding the pigeons.
I doubted she’d know where the hotel was, and barely enunciated its name.
“A lovely hotel, that. Best to take the tube,” she declared, scattering crumbs at my feet. “Bakerloo line to Mayfair. Just a hop away.”
“Sounds right,” a passing man said. “And watch your shoulder,” he said, which I guessed was his way of saying “Take care”—I’d heard about English people and their weird sayings.
“Okay,” I said, smiling at his wacky parting words.
It figured that Mayfair was a fancy-beyond-belief neighborhood, with flowerpots outside every doorway and store windows filled with cashmere and five-thousand-dollar—and pound—trophy handbags.
I found the hotel on a quiet street, and a valet in a top hat guided me through the front door. The lobby was the polar opposite of my own apartment building’s, with sweeping ceilings, a spiral staircase, and a black and white marble floor that looked like an oversized chessboard. I settled into a plush armchair and smelled something funny.
Crap!
Literally, from a pigeon. All over my right shoulder! So that explained why the guy in the park had told me to watch my shoulder.
I felt my face turning bright red and I dashed to the bathroom and used one of the hotel’s monogrammed washcloths to scrub away the yuck. By the time I’d successfully cleaned my shoulder and drenched the entire top half of my body in water, I realized Becca’s mom was probably looking for me in the lobby. Kiki would be appalled that I’d kept her waiting.
I raced to the hotel’s main hall and looked everywhere, but Becca’s mom was nowhere to be found. A film of sweat was moistening my palms when I finally spotted her standing next to a bowl of lemons. She must have just come in from the rain; her hair was covered with beads of water. Fastened to her cashmere sweater was a jet-shaped pin. It was made of diamonds and it looked like an incredibly ritzy cookie cutter.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I cried, rushing over to her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, combing her fingers through her hair. “There’s no better place for people watching than a hotel lobby.”
“I could not agree with you more.” My thoughts traveled back to all the hours I’d spent sitting in Kiki’s lobby.
“Now are you ready for the best tea on earth?” She lightly touched my back and led me down a hallway, under a succession of the most gorgeous chandeliers.
As we were being seated, we watched a waiter bring a triple-tiered stand of sumptuous miniature sandwiches and confections to the next table.
“We’ve all become addicted,” Becca’s mom told me. “Even Rye’s been eating the cucumber sandwiches…well, without the bread.” She smiled. “And leave it to D.K. to have already discovered the bite-sized hamburgers. He’s not really a tea sandwich kind of guy.”
“Do you think that’s a ketchup-related thing?” I asked.
“What isn’t?” Her green eyes sparkled.
Becca’s mom was a master at conversation, so despite the foreign setting, I didn’t feel all that weird sitting across from her sans Becca until she asked me what school was hosting Dad’s conference.
“Oxford,” I said, naming the first English university I could think of.
“And they’re putting you up in London? Oxford is hours away.”
“It is,” I said, pretending to search for something in my new bag. “But it’s at a satellite campus.”
God, was I an imbecile!
“I didn’t know there was one,” she said without the slightest trace of suspicion. “If you have a chance, I recommend making it out to the real Oxford. It’s just beautiful.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I needed to change the subject. “And how was your niece’s wedding?”
“It’s not until tomorrow. We’re all looking forward to it, though Andy’s developed a little problem. His tux seems to have grown a little too small around the waist.” Her voice held an edge of amusement. “Oh—speak of the devil!”
I turned around to see Andy and the rest of the gang sailing into the room. Becca’s dad was wearing a Big Bird yellow blazer and a huge, crooked smile. Rye was in all black, except for a maroon tasseled handbag. My stomach was in a knot. It was all happening faster than I’d expected.
“They took a field trip to D.K.’s British offices,” Becca’s mom informed me. “I find it so boring, but Rye was terribly interested in seeing them.”
I’ll bet.
“How did you get here?” Rye asked me by way of greeting.
“I took the train,” I said.
“You mean the London tube?” she asked in a pretentious English accent.
Andy rolled his eyes at me and I felt a wave of warmth.
After about ten minutes of small talk, the table was brimming with porcelain teapots and minihamburgers and a tower of scones and sandwiches. I hungrily eyed the cluster of chocolate chocolate chip cookies on the middle tier and waited for somebody else to start.
“Do you want anything, Claire?” Andy pointed at the tower. Was it that obvious?
“Yeah, thank you.” I took a watercress sandwich and two chocolate chocolate chip cookies.
“I’m going to have half of a cucumber sandwich,” Rye said, “and then I really have to go upstairs and take a nap. I’m so knackered from today.”
“Hard day?” I asked bitingly, but she was too busy taking apart her sandwich to understand my meaning.
I had to hurry up and get to the point before she excused herself.
“Say,” I said to Becca’s mom, “I love your pin.”
“Thank you,” Becca’s mom replied. “It is special, isn’t it? D.K. picked it out for me yesterday. I never would have thought to buy it myself.” Her tone suggested she was still coming around.
“Yes, you would have,” Andy said through a mouthful of cake. “You think to buy everything.”
“Now, now.” Becca’s dad shot his son a stern look.
Before I knew what came over me, I turned to Rye. “I bet you like it, too. You’re a big fan of airplanes, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t used to being so bold, but I had to say, it felt good.
She glared at me. “Sure, I like planes.”
My cheeks starting to heat up, I devoured a chocolate chocolate chip cookie in one bite.
“We were looking at some planes today,” Andy filled in, his green eyes glowing kindly.
I set my focus on Rye. “Is that all you did, look at them?”
Rye blinked hard and turned the color of a tomato.
I took in a deep breath and clenched my fists. Was there any subtle way to tell a table of people that somebody they’re taking tea with is assisting in their
murders?
I fished the evidence out of my bag.
“I know Otto Soyle was hoping you’d have a more hands-on experience.” I stared hard at Rye. “According to this diagram that I witnessed you draw, it was the Dassault Falcon 7X he was interested in you getting to, right?”
“Let me see that!” Rye shrieked, but I’d already passed the napkin to Becca’s dad.
“Why—that sort of resembles the plane hangar!” he said, clearly confused.
Andy read the napkin over his father’s shoulder. I’d never seen anybody look more shocked. “That looks sort of like your handwriting, Rye.”
“Otto Soyle showed her the lay of the land,” I explained. “He gave her a map of the hangar and she sketched it on the napkin.”
I gave Becca’s mom the picture of the couple scheming at the steakhouse. “If you look closely, you’ll see another familiar face in the background.”
“It’s not possible,” she denied, pushing the picture back at me.
I didn’t flinch. “Take another look.”
She put on her reading glasses and stared harder. “You’re with Lazarus?” she asked Rye. The corners of her mouth were trembling.
“I have no idea what any of this is,” Rye growled at me, “other than evidence of your insanity.”
Becca’s dad rose from his seat and placed his clenched fists on the table. The only one to keep her cool was Becca’s mom, who picked a piece of lint off her pantyhose and asked Rye, “Did you go on the plane today, yes or no?”
Rye hiccupped and squealed. “We all did.”
“What is wrong with you?” Becca’s dad demanded. I could see that he was becoming livid. “And what on earth were you trying to do to my plane?”
“I wondered the same thing,” I cut in. “Of course, there’s no way to be sure what she was told, but I went online and I’m guessing it had to do with the control computer. Any nitwit could press a few buttons and throw off the entire system.”
“I am not—” Rye protested.
“Shut up.” Becca’s mom’s tone was icy. “Just tell me this: did you go near the computer?”
“She did!” Her husband seemed astonished by his own memory. “She must have been setting it up for a crash.”
“That’s not what I was doing!” Rye broke down. “I swear, it’s not.” Now she was sobbing. “They said it would just destabilize the plane so it wouldn’t take off, okay? Nobody was going to get hurt. The Soyles found out through their spies that your family planned to take over their steakhouse empire, I don’t know, something about shares and a hostile takeover, and Andy, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but Otto pushed me into doing it.” Here she broke down, not bothering to wipe the black mascara tracks under her eyes. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
Andy shot Rye a disgusted look and moved over to his parents’ side of the table. “You try to kill my family and all you have to say is ‘sorry’?”
“I wasn’t trying to do that!” Rye wailed, reaching out to grab a handful of cookies. “They told me it was a little prank. Just a stupid prank.” She stuffed three cookies in her mouth and swallowed them whole.
“And what about the text messages?” I asked her.
“What text messages?” She sounded so dumbfounded I actually believed her.
“The ones to Becca. The ones about whatever she was wearing. The ones that scared her shitless.” I looked over at the Shuttleworth parents. “Pardon my French.” They didn’t seem to mind. Or notice.
“They did that?” Rye blinked hard and shook her head incredulously. “I was supposed to tell them what Becca was wearing every day, but they said it was so they could start a fashion line based on her look. They said it was their one chance at recouping their los—”
“And just how did you find out about all of this?” Becca’s dad asked me, speaking over Rye.
I took another deep breath. “Last week I was in Rogerstown, New Jersey. That’s where I saw Rye kissing a guy on a bench in front of Emilio’s pizzeria. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized it was Otto Soyle. I Googled him and I found his picture from the Post story on the steakhouse fire.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Becca’s mom was sheet white.
“Because I didn’t have proof, and I was afraid nobody would believe me. I’d look like a jealous idiot.” Whoops. I hadn’t meant to say that. I glanced at Andy, who didn’t seem especially startled, then down at the floor. I went on, “A few days later I was biking through Jersey City with my friend Louis. I saw Otto get out of a car and go into Rumps and Humps Steakhouse. A sign in front said there was a private party, and I was curious, so I snuck in and poked around. I found a private room where Otto was showing Rye something in a folder and she was taking notes on a napkin. I assumed it wasn’t a curriculum-based meeting.” I glanced in Rye’s direction—I couldn’t help myself—and continued, “Lucky for all of us, she discarded the first try, and I made sure to get my hands on it. I could tell it was a map of something, and when I saw ‘DF7X,’ I realized that it was your plane. Becca had told me about it.”
Andy’s green eyes started to melt and, like an idiot, I began to cry.
His father, who hadn’t moved a muscle thus far, suddenly began typing something into his BlackBerry. Then he waved a waiter over to the table. He stood up and said something in a low voice. In less than a minute, hotel security had arrived and the Shuttleworths all fell back.
It seemed like a good time for me to leave as well.
I was in such a state of shock as I walked out of the restaurant, I barely felt connected to the blond girl who was walking away from the Shuttleworths’ table. My heart was on the verge of breaking. Even though I knew I had done the right thing, and everyone was safe now, I was sure the Shuttleworths would send Becca away again, and maybe Andy, too. On the outside, I was just a crying and trembling Claire, but I had changed far more than that. In only one day, I’d aged many years.
I still needed to get back to Paris in time to make my pilgrimage to Fauchon. A shiny pink bag of the world’s most incredible chocolates would keep my story straight with Dad, and never had a girl been in such need of truffle overdose.
{ 30 }
Rocky Rentrée
“Ma chérie, ma chérie!” Dad cried when he returned that night. He took off his jacket and started twirling it around as if he were a ballroom dancer.
My first thought was that he must be drunk, but when he sat down on my cot and removed his shoes, I was sure the only thing he smelled of was duck à l’orange.
“So? It went well?”
“More like…superbien. Magnifique! And guess the best part. An editor from Université de Sorbonne Press said he is interested in seeing my book. He tells me Zola is in vogue again.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“And you knew he would be all along!” I said. “That’s terrific!”
“Pas mal.” He padded off toward the desk. “Let’s call your mother.”
After he’d been murmuring sweet French nothings into the headset for a few minutes, he handed it to me. Mom immediately launched into a monologue about how much she wished she were in Paris.
“So how’s it going in Florida?” I asked at last.
I heard her take a glug of water. “Not exactly the French thirty-five-hour workweek.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “They’re slave drivers down here.”
“They are?” All along I’d been picturing her sunbathing on the docks and getting ogled by leathery fishermen.
“You would not believe how seriously they take things at the Planet. I’m glad I’m coming home soon. When I get back, all I want to do is take a few days off and play housewife, just help Henry with his homework and cook seven meals a day for my family.”
“Anytime,” I said.
“Oh, stop pretending you don’t miss me.”
Yet again she’d mistaken my raspy voice for sarcasm.
“Mom.” I tried not to sound peeved. “I do.”
My business in Paris
over and done with, I was ready to get back home and see Becca.
Our flight was at six the next night, meaning we had a Sunday in Paris to ourselves. After our morning newspaper and croissants, I dragged Dad to Ladurée to pick up Kiki’s macaroons, and then to the Lanvin boutique, which was just around the corner. Some of the gowns were made of nothing but tulle and bows. They looked like spun sugar, and as far as I could tell, their only flaw was that my derrière would never fit into them.
The last thing on my list was a French haircut. Dad and I found a cute-looking salon, and before I knew it, a man named Sylvestre was hovering over me. And within less than an hour, I had said au revoir to four inches of hair and had suddenly grown Emmanuelle Seigner–ish cheekbones. The look was going to take some getting used to, but I knew it had been a good call when Dad got misty-eyed and started rambling on about my growing up so fast.
Flying back home is always less fun than starting out on a trip, and this time was no exception. The flight felt twice as long as our previous one, and instead of Hitchcock, the movie was some cheesy melodrama about a supermodel who puts her career on hold to teach at an inner-city school. Yeah, right.
Everything felt kind of weird when we got back to New York on Sunday night. My three days sneaking around Paris and London had been a whirlwind, and now the adventure was officially over.
A small creature popped out from Henry’s bedroom to greet us. He was wearing a pillowcase with a green extraterrestrial face drawn on it.
Douglas smiled at Dad and me. “He overheard me discussing a paper I’m giving on existentialism and alienation in Camus, and he whipped this up.”
“I got alienated today!” Henry whirred around and made a beep.
I planted hello kisses on Douglas and my alien brother and went back to my room. I hadn’t even unzipped my suitcase when the phone rang.
“I bet it’s Becca!” Douglas called out. “She’s been looking for you.”
I raced over to the phone. I couldn’t wait to hear her voice.
“Hello?”
“Well, there you are, Nancy Drew!”
“Hi! I tried calling you from Paris but it went straight to voice mail.”
Dream Girl Page 24
