by Kerstin Gier
“It’s just that they all look so alike. It’s hard to remember who’s who,” I murmured, embarrassed.
“Oh, it’s not all that complicated,” said Monsieur Rocher in a chatty tone, pointing to the older gentleman with the big white mustache talking to Gordon Montfort (who was now smiling genially once more). “That’s Mr. Barnbrooke Sr., also known as Big Daddy, head of the family and owner of Barnbrooke Industries. His parents used to spend the holidays at Castle in the Clouds, too, and Big Daddy—who was a sweet little boy, I must say—is so attached to the family tradition that he’s threatened to disinherit anyone who dares to make alternative plans for Christmas. He won’t accept any excuses, apart from illness. And there must be a lot to inherit, because so far the whole family has turned up every year without fail, unless they really are at death’s door.”
“I can think of worse places to spend a holiday than a luxury hotel in the Swiss Alps,” I said.
Especially since Big Daddy picked up the bill for the entire family, according to Monsieur Rocher, and bought each of the female members of the family a new ball gown every year. The Duchess Suite on the second floor had been set aside for him and Mrs. Barnbrooke (who staunchly refused to be called “Big Mama”), while their sons, Hank and Tom, would be staying with their wives, Lucille and Barbra, in Rooms 208 and 209. Room 210 was reserved for Harper, Hank and Lucille’s eldest daughter, who was already married with a baby—here Monsieur Rocher floundered for a second, but then remembered that the husband was called Jeremy, had a degree in textiles and clothing technology, and was allergic to nuts. The baby’s name was Emma. Gretchen was Harper’s younger sister and was in her second-to-last year of high school, as was Ella, Tom and Barbra’s eldest daughter. Ella had three younger sisters. Amy was fifteen; Madison, ten; and Gracie, eight. We’d put an extra bed in the Theremin Suite for the five girls. Room 212 opposite was reserved for the three boys in the family: Gretchen’s twin brother, Claus; their twelve-year-old cousin, Jacob; and eighteen-year-old Aiden, who was deaf. Big Daddy and his wife had adopted him as a baby.
With a drawing or a family tree it probably would have been easy to keep track of who was who, but all I had was Monsieur Rocher’s whispered explanations, and I struggled to assign names to faces. As I went through them all again—adopted son Aiden was the only one with dark hair and a long, straight nose; all the others were blond and snub-nosed and looked ridiculously alike—an argument broke out at Reception.
“But we wanted a rear-facing room this time,” complained the girl who’d been handed the key to the Theremin Suite. Ella, if I wasn’t mistaken. “Just for me and Gretchen. We’re too old to still be babysitting the little ones. And anyway, one bathroom between five of us—it’s like summer camp.”
“Ella!” her mother, whose name I’d already forgotten, reprimanded her. “Let’s not have any more of your whining.”
“And we don’t need a babysitter anyway, Ella, you buttnut,” said little Gracie.
“And if we did, we’d rather have Amy,” Madison added. “She’s much more fun than you two.”
Amy, the fifteen-year-old sister, was standing on the edge of the group. She looked exactly like Ella, who in turn looked exactly like Gretchen and Harper, but her hair was shorter and she wore glasses. This was very considerate of her, I thought. At least I could tell her apart from the others.
“As I recall, the Theremin Suite has two separate bedrooms,” she said in an irritated voice. “And the bathroom is massive.”
“And there’s a separate toilet, a dressing room, and an open fire in the master bedroom,” Ben added cheerfully.
“Which Ella and Gretchen are obviously going to lay claim to,” Amy cut in.
“That can be the buttnut room, then,” said Gracie.
“Good heavens, Gracie,” cried her mother. “Wherever do you get these words from?”
“I make them up,” said Gracie proudly, and Madison giggled.
“But I wanted a rear-facing room,” Ella whined, on the verge of stamping her foot. “With a panoramic view. And a balcony. Why don’t me and Gretchen swap with Harper and Jeremy? They’re always busy looking after the baby anyway and they don’t have time to have sex, so it’s not like they’d disturb the kids.”
“Ella Jane Barnbrooke!” Their poor mother clearly didn’t know which of her children was more embarrassing. She cast an anxious glance at her parents-in-law, but they were still deep in conversation with Gordon Montfort and his perma-smile. The scraps of conversation that came our way were all about golf, the weather, and the strength of the dollar. “You need to start behaving. Otherwise you can spend the rest of the holidays upstairs in your room! Is that clear?”
“It’s all so unfair,” Ella wailed.
Her mother looked as though she had a migraine coming on. “I mean it, Ella. If I have to speak to you again, you’re not going anywhere near that ballroom.”
The older sister with the baby had already snatched up her room key and led her husband over to the elevator, where she was whispering something in his ear. The Barnbrooke boys were already on their way upstairs. And bellhop Jonas and ringmaster Jaromir were wheeling two fully loaded luggage carts into the service elevator.
Under her mother’s stern eye, Ella reached for the key, looking as if she was about to cry.
“A lot of our guests actually prefer the front-facing rooms—you get a wonderful view of the sunrise,” said Ben consolingly. “And the chamois on the rock faces.” (I wasn’t sure what a chamois was, but I thought it might be some kind of goat. Or perhaps a sort of moss or lichen; although in that case, Ben probably wouldn’t have advertised it as one of the highlights of a front-facing room.) “And the Theremin Suite is steeped in history. Not only did Leon Theremin, the man it’s named after, stay there in the late 1920s on his world tour, but Rainer Maria Rilke actually wrote some of his famous Valais poems there.”
“Well, technically, they were some of his lesser-known poems,” Monsieur Rocher whispered. “‘Pays silencieux dont les prophètes se taisent.’ He wrote them in French.”
“Either way,” I whispered back, “I’ll bet neither of them have ever heard of Rilke.” (Let alone Leon Theremin—even I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was.)
And it was at that moment I saw it. The dog poop. It was a big brown mound, lying on the marble floor by the pillar in the middle of the lobby, and it was a miracle no one had spotted it yet. The only reason I hadn’t noticed it before was because there’d been a suitcase in front of it. Now, as I stared at it in horror, I was sure I could smell it, too. How on earth had it gotten there?
Had one of the two poodles done its business without anyone noticing? And if so, why hadn’t we smelled it straightaway? It couldn’t have been the Von Dietrichsteins’ pug because they always carried him everywhere, and it didn’t seem very likely that Mr. or Mrs. Von Dietrichstein would have snuck into the lobby on purpose to let their dog poop. While Monsieur Rocher went on merrily reciting French Rilke poems beside me and the older Barnbrookes carried on chatting with Ben’s father, I wondered frantically what was to be done. Gordon Montfort was unlikely to hold the un-house-trained dog or its master or mistress responsible—no, he’d find someone else to blame, someone who’d have to pay for the fact that there was a stinking pile of dog turd in the middle of the lobby. Even though, strictly speaking, it was Montfort’s own fault for allowing exceptions to the no-dog rule in the first place. But that was irrelevant. Dog poop in the lobby was very bad for business, and heads would roll for this—one head, at least. The question was, whose?
“Come on, Ella!” Gretchen linked arms with her cousin. “Let’s go and freshen up. We can take a few photos from Harper’s balcony and pretend it’s ours.”
“Gretchen is superfamous on Instagram,” said Gracie to Ben, who couldn’t see the dog turd because the pillar was in the way.
“Oh, superfamous is going a bit far,” Gretchen protested modestly.
“Yes, but really only a bit.�
� Amy rolled her eyes. “She has an incredible one hundred and thirty-one followers, and she knows them all personally.”
“Yes, one hundred and thirty-one! And I’m only just starting out.” Gretchen flicked her hair, and she and Ella sashayed off toward the staircase. They were going to pass right by the poop. I had to do something—anything.
“Perhaps Ben would like to follow you on Instagram.” Amy grinned at Ben, lifted her little backpack onto her shoulder, and followed Ella and Gretchen. “It really is a very cool account. It’s called Grumpy Gretchen. Grumpy Gretchen explains to her followers why blond girls shouldn’t wear yellow, when you can get away with wearing lots of eyeliner, and how to take cute selfies with pets without them stealing your thunder.”
“Gritty Gretchen.” Gretchen stopped in her tracks, and Ella glared at Amy. “It’s called Gritty Gretchen, and as you can tell from the name, it’s about much more than makeup and fashion. It’s about giving advice. Helping people with their problems. Helping gutsy girls navigate the rocks in the sea of life.”
That was my cue. This dog poop was a rock in the sea of life, and I was the gutsy girl who was going to navigate it.
Much to his astonishment, I plucked Monsieur Rocher’s snow-white handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his jacket and swung myself up and over the counter.
“The ultimate advice for life: how to use contouring to make your nose look smaller and the only proper recipe for rainbow cupcakes,” scoffed Amy.
“Come on, Gretchen.” Ella drew her cousin away. “Amy’s just jealous. As usual.”
I slid out in front of the two girls, missing them by a hair, knelt down in front of the pillar, and draped Monsieur Rocher’s handkerchief over the turd. It was just about big enough to cover it. But it looked a bit weird, hovering a few inches above the floor like some kind of magic handkerchief.
“Whoa,” said Gretchen—as loudly as she could, of course. Amy, Ella, Madison, Gracie, and their mother also looked at me curiously.
“Sorry.” I tried to block their view of the handkerchief-covered mound with my body. “That was … er … is a little puddle of meltwater. Very bad for the floor.” I reached courageously for the handkerchief; for a brief moment, I hoped I’d merely been taken in by one of those trick plastic dog turds, but unfortunately the stuff felt soft and—here I had to stifle the urge to retch—positively creamy. And there was too much of it to scoop up all at once in the handkerchief. I’d have needed two or three handkerchiefs. Or something else to wrap this unspeakably disgusting mess in. I was temporarily immobilized, at a loss as to what to do.
To my great relief, though, the Barnbrooke women soon went on their way toward the staircase. And the grandparents were now being escorted toward the elevators by Grouchy Gordon. I lowered my eyes and held my breath, trying to stay invisible until they’d all gone past me. Hopefully Gordon Montfort would go up to the second floor with them, then I’d have enough time to sort this business out.
Annoyingly, though, I realized when I looked up again that little Gracie hadn’t moved and was still standing there staring at me. I must have looked very strange, kneeling by the pillar with my hand over a little cloth-covered mound that was supposed to be melted snow. Monsieur Rocher, in the concierge’s lodge, was also looking over at me in bewilderment.
“I like your dress,” said Gracie, and you could see she was trying to find something nice to say to me. She probably felt sorry for me. “I like the buttons and the crown.”
“Thank you. I think it’s pretty, too,” I replied. “And your cat hat is great. I love the little fluffy ears.” Then I was struck by an audacious thought. “Hey, Gracie—would you mind lending me your hat until tomorrow morning?”
Gracie’s eyes widened with curiosity.
“My name is Sophie,” I added quickly. “I’m the babysitter here, and I promise I’ll get your hat back to you by tomorrow.” Washed and perfumed. “I need it for an important mission.”
Gracie didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Of course!” She pulled the hat off her head and handed it to me. Then she turned and ran up the stairs after the others. Oh, if only all children could be so generous and uncomplicated! I waited till I heard the rattle of the elevator grille closing and then, hurriedly, without looking (or breathing through my nose), I shoveled the dog poo into the hat with the aid of the handkerchief. It was a sticky business, but by some miracle I managed to keep my fingers clean. Gracie’s hat, on the other hand …
“What are you doing, Sophie Spark?” I felt someone tap me on the shoulder from behind. It was Don, who naturally had to appear at this precise moment—out of nowhere, as usual.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I snarled.
Don folded his arms. “Well. It looks like you’re stuffing a disgusting brown glob of something into a hat you just nicked off a little girl. Clever idea, by the way. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” He giggled softly.
The suspicion suddenly dawned on me that he’d been here the whole time, watching me. I clearly wasn’t the only one who was good at hiding.
“Did you … is this your doing, you little…?” I stared at him, aghast.
“Quick on the uptake, aren’t you, Sophie Spark?” Don grinned, managing to look fiendish and outrageously cute at the same time. Then: “Oh dear, oh dear!” he said, in a stage whisper even Gretchen couldn’t have bettered. And in a lilting childish voice that was most uncharacteristic of him, he added: “Is that little Gracie Barnbrooke’s favorite hat? What are you doing with it?”
“I … cut it out, would you?” I hissed, but it was already too late.
“What’s going on here?” Gordon Montfort came striding toward us. He hadn’t gone up in the elevator with the Barnbrookes.
That was it, then. It was clear now whose head was going to roll. All the way back to my parents’ front door, just in time for Christmas.
I leapt to my feet, clutching the cat hat against my chest. “N-nothing,” I stammered.
Gordon Montfort looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Are you one of Fräulein Müller’s temps?”
“No.” I swallowed hard. I’m the intern, don’t you remember? You shook my hand when I arrived here in September, I was going to say, but Don beat me to it.
“That’s Gracie Barnbrooke’s cat hat,” he said, sounding deeply perturbed. “The lady put some strange brown stuff inside it. Why did she do that, Uncle Gordon? I’m sure Gracie still wants that hat.”
“I beg your pardon? What strange brown stuff?” The dreaded vein on Gordon Montfort’s forehead was bulging. Close up, it looked even more terrifying than usual. I realized my teeth were about to start chattering.
“Give it here,” he yelled at me.
I kept the hat pressed to my chest. “It’s … I can explain,” I stuttered. “Don…” Yes, what had the scheming little Bambi done? Collected a dog turd and placed it right in the middle of the lobby out of sheer malice, just to see what happened? Nobody was going to believe that. And they definitely weren’t going to believe anyone was stupid enough to try and dispose of said dog turd in a child’s woolly hat.
A wave of self-loathing washed over me.
“Poor Gracie,” lisped Don. “That’s her favorite hat.”
Gordon Montfort grabbed me by the elbow. “Why have you stolen this hat?” he asked, very slowly and clearly, as if talking to a deaf person. “And what’s this brown stuff you’re hiding in it? Drugs?”
Oh, crap—now I could feel a highly inappropriate fit of the giggles bubbling up inside me. And at the same time I felt like crying. I clutched the hat without saying a word, wondering frantically what I should do. What would Jesus do?
Gordon Montfort turned his head without letting go of my arm. “Hello? Could somebody please tell me who this person is? What is this madwoman doing working in my hotel?”
I heard the door to the concierge’s lodge opening, and I knew Monsieur Rocher was hurrying to my rescue. At the reception desk, at the same moment, Ben opened h
is mouth to speak. But Nico the bellhop got there first.
“That’s the epaulet,” he said, nodding smugly.
“The what?” Gordon Montfort snatched the cat hat off me in one rapid movement.
“Epaulet,” Nico repeated, pleased with his own knowledge.
“She’s the intern,” Ben chimed in. “And she’s doing a brilliant job. She’s been down here helping us out even though her shift hasn’t started yet.”
“I’ll second that,” said Monsieur Rocher, slightly out of breath. He smoothed his suit. “Sophie Spark is the best intern we’ve ever had.”
“And what is she hiding in the favorite hat of one of our guests?” spat Gordon Montfort, but in a slightly hushed voice. I knew he would have liked to shout, but he didn’t dare because of the guests on the staircase.
I looked on in horror as he opened up the hat. “What the hell is this?”
Everyone stared into Gracie’s hat. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Don was the first to speak. “It looks like squashed chocolate cake,” he said, dipping his finger in and licking it, to my horror. “Yep. It’s chocolate cake. The only question is, how did it end up in Gracie’s hat?”
I felt as though my knees were about to give way beneath me. I’d been taken in by a piece of chocolate cake, sculpted by skillful little hands to look exactly like a dog turd. I’d even convinced myself it smelled like a dog turd.
“I don’t think we really want to go into that, Don, do we?” Ben said. He must have realized who the culprit was, too—Don’s mega-cute, ultra-innocent look didn’t seem to impress him in the least. “I saw you with a piece of cake just now, standing right there.” He turned to his father. “Sophie was just trying to cover up Don’s little mishap. That’s all.”
“With a hat?” growled Gordon Montfort, still glaring at me but looking less sure of himself now. I stared back, my teeth chattering. Then, luckily for me, another car pulled up outside.