Lost in Paris

by Cindy Callaghan

  “Well, it is amazing.”

  “Masterpiece,” she said. “It is large and most magnificent.”

  “It is.” I wanted to stay longer—I could’ve spent the entire week in this one spot—but the hunt . . . the hunt. We had to move quickly. We made our way to the ticketing lines and were immediately sucked into crowds of tourists and what looked like other Shock Value hunters.

  “Mon Dieu!” Brigitte said. “This line will take all day.”

  “Isn’t there a shortcut?”

  “It looks like Beef has already found one.” She craned her neck to indicate Beef riding on the back of the wheelchair to the spot where people needing extra assistance didn’t have to wait in line. The nurse lady, whose backpack had been replaced with Beef’s fanny pack, held a clipboard and ran to keep up with the speeding chair. Beef seemed to have thought this all out.

  “What are we gonna do?” I asked.

  “I have an idea of my own.”

  Brigitte struck me as a person who followed the rules exactly, so I was skeptical. “You do?”

  She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a little black book that said ADRESSES on it.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s the list of clients for Boutique Brigitte—Pour les Petits Animaux.”

  “How is that going to help?”

  “People love their pets. . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “They love people who take good care of their pets. . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “And they are willing to help them. . . .”

  “All right.”

  “One of them works here,” Brigitte said.

  Now I caught on. That little black book was like a list of secret helpers. I didn’t know how many clients Brigitte had, but I hoped she had one who could help us with every clue. That was something Beef didn’t have.

  Brigitte dialed her phone. “Bonjour, Monsieur Willmott, c’est Brigitte,” she said. Then she explained that we were on the hunt for Shock Value tickets and needed to beat the crowd to the clue—Monsieur Willmott must have interrupted her, because she suddenly stopped talking and listened. Her expression was serious like it wasn’t good news, but then she grinned.

  “Merci! Merci beaucoup!” She hung up. “We’re in!”

  “We are? How?”

  “Follow me. We need to make a little . . . how do you say? . . . delivery.”

  “Delivery?” I followed Brigitte back to the petmobile. “We don’t have time to make a delivery.”

  She threw open the back door and tossed an empty brown cardboard box out. She scribbled over the label that said SHAMPOOING POUR CHIEN and wrote the address for the Louvre. And added Attention: M. Willmott. Then she climbed in the back of the van and took out two black lab coats. They were covered with pet fur.

  “This is the closest thing we have to a delivery uniform.” Then she put a baseball hat on each of our heads.

  There was no way this was gonna pass as a delivery company uniform. She said, “Make a business face, like this.” She pushed her smile down, squinted her eyes a bit, and forced wrinkles onto her forehead. Then, in a lower voice, she said, “Delivery for”—she glanced at the box—“Monsieur Willmott.” When she was done with the little charade, she laughed with a snort.

  She was actually a pretty good actress, but I didn’t believe the act would work, especially if she let a snort slip out.

  She closed up the petmobile and ran ahead with the empty box. “What will you say to Shock Value when you meet them?”

  I hadn’t had time to think about it. What would I say? Before I could answer, we were at a door that said LIVRAISONS. I knew that meant “deliveries.” Brigitte pushed a button. A security guard answered the door.

  She wasn’t gonna fool this guy.

  He looked at the box, glanced up at a security camera that probably made sure no one other than real delivery people came through the door, and asked, “Livraison?”

  Brigitte nodded.

  He winked, moved aside, and let us pass.

  We were in!

  The security man took the box and directed us down a corridor with another wink. Maybe he could tell I was American, because he directed us in English, “Go that way and turn right.”

  Brigitte gave him a tiny hug and said, “Merci, Monsieur Willmott.”

  We raced down a small hall and turned right as he’d said. When we emerged into the museum, we were among a smaller crowd heading up the stairs to admire the famous statue of Venus de Milo:

  You cannot make me laugh nor cry. If you touch me, you will find that I’m cold. I cannot embrace anyone to get warm. People travel far and wide to see me, and despite my flaws, they’re awed by my beauty.

  Venus de Milo couldn’t embrace anyone, because she didn’t have arms. They’d been broken off and lost somewhere in time. Clearly, the guitarist in the knit cap wasn’t the only one who knew this answer, because a bunch of what had to be other fans crowded around a girl wearing a royal blue Shock Value shirt, but I just stared at the statue. She was so pretty, chiseled perfectly from marble, yet she looked like she’d be soft if I touched her. She had been sculpted in the likeness of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty. And she really was beautiful.

  I snapped back to the contest and realized that the girl in the Shock Value shirt was explaining the next part. “The first ten teams get the next clue. Go stand on a number.” On the floor sat round rubber pads, each with a number—one through ten. The spaces numbered one through four were occupied. I jumped for number five only to be beaten by a girl who had pierced everything on her face. I didn’t want to mess with her. As I stepped on number six, the tip of my new sneaker squished as it was run over by a speeding wheelchair.

  “Ow!” I yelped.

  “Too slow,” said Beef.

  “I was here first,” I said.

  Beef, Professor Camponi, and the nurse lady squarely occupied space number six. I suppressed the urge to clobber them like I would if Charlie blocked the last piece of pizza from me, but Brigitte calmly pulled my furry lab coat to space number seven.

  “All ten people get a clue,” she said. “Space number seven is okay.”

  “It was the principle,” I said. “She is pushy and bossy and I don’t like her.”

  Once all ten spaces were filled, the Shock Value representative handed each team a small royal blue gift bag. “Welcome to the contest,” she said. “You are the ten teams competing for the three front-row seats and passes to Shock Value’s special one-night engagement in Paris this Friday. You’ll get to see all the backstage action during the concert and maybe catch a glimpse of Winston, Glen, and Alec themselves.”

  Glimpse?

  I wanted more than a glimpse. I wanted to meet the band.

  “A Shock Value rep will meet you at each clue’s location to give you the next bag. The first team to successfully follow all the clues and make it to the end of the trail will get the epic treasure!”

  Everyone on the ten teams clapped.

  She continued, “So, good luck. The next clue is in that bag. Make sure you give me your names and cell phone numbers; then you can take the bag and go!”

  Everyone opened their bags except Beef, who tossed a business card to the Shock Value rep, fired up the chair, hopped on the back, and whizzed away from the beautiful Venus de Milo.

  7

  Brigitte bent to tie her shoe. “What is it?” she asked me without looking at the clue.

  I held it up. “It’s like a little model of a building.” I looked at it. “Not a building, really, because there aren’t windows . . . it’s like a monument, maybe. We have one in Washington DC called the Washington Monument. There are words on the side.” I turned it. “ ‘It’s time to fly’ is etched along the side.” I put the little building in my pocke
t.

  Brigitte stood back up. “It’s time to fly,” she repeated, and thought.

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Nope. Nothing.” She looked at her watch. “We’ll think about it on the way.”

  “Where?”

  “Fifi. Pee-pee. Remember?”

  I didn’t like the idea of disrupting our search now, but since we didn’t know where to go next, “To Fifi,” I agreed.

  On the short drive over, we brainstormed different ideas. “It’s time to fly.” I put it in Google, but didn’t get anything useful. “These are harder than I thought,” I complained.

  “Which one is your favorite?” Brigitte asked me.

  “Which what?”

  “Band member. Alec, Winston, or Glen?” she asked.

  “I can only pick one?”

  “Only one.”

  “Winston,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Alec.”

  “Why Alec?”

  “He is British! I love the Brits!” she said. “Why Winston?”

  “He’s the cutest. And the youngest,” I said. “And I love his French accent.”

  The Shock Value members were a mix of ages. From youngest to oldest there was Winston (16), Alec (20), and Glen (26). Clay was thirty when he disappeared. The two oldest, Glen and Clay, were also the two Americans of the band.

  Shock Value won a big TV talent contest three years ago and came out with an awesome (with a capital A) song. When Clay disappeared a year ago, they stopped recording and touring. Everyone was surprised they didn’t replace him. Then a few months ago they released a new album without Clay. The music sounded a little different, but it was still fab.

  Brigitte drove past a huge church. I could see the giant spires and what looked like little monsters etched into the sides. Based on pictures, I could tell it was Notre Dame Cathedral.

  “Look at those scary statues,” I said.

  “We call them gargouilles,” Brigitte said.

  “Sounds exactly like what we call them, gargoyles,” I said. “Isn’t it convenient when French and English words are the same, or almost the same?”

  “Oui.” Brigitte giggled, and we made a list of words that were the same in both languages: ski, bizarre, important, zoo, menu, garage. And, most important to me, boutique!

  “We’re here.” Brigitte pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building with beautiful iron balconies that looked très chic. A doorman came to the pet­mobile and opened my door for me. “Bonjour,” he said in a husky voice, “Brigitte pour les petits animaux. Fifi is waiting for you.”

  “Merci, Philippe,” Brigitte said. “We won’t be long. We’re on the hunt for those Shock Value tickets. Did you hear about the contest?”

  “Of course!” Philippe said. “If I had more time, I would try it myself.”

  “Ask him if he knows what the clue means,” I whispered to her.

  “Ah, Philippe, do you know what ‘It’s time to fly’ means? It’s our clue.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Time to fly . . . time to fly . . . l’aéroport? The time of a flight?”

  Hmmm. That sounded possible.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Merci.” I followed her to the elevator, which was like none I’d ever seen. We stood on a platform, and Brigitte pulled a caged wall down in front of us. The elevator rattled as it brought us to the fourth floor. I held on to the waist-high railing for support. “Orly is one of our airports,” Brigitte said. “Very big.”

  “It may not be a big airport.”

  “True.” She lifted the cage and walked to the first door in the hallway. She pulled a gigantic key ring out of her lab coat pocket. The rounded end of each key had a rubber cap. And each cap had a name written in slim black letters. She found Fifi’s key.

  A white, puffy, fluffy, yappy pup ran to the door. When it tried to stop, it slid across the hardwood floor until it hit the wall with a little thud. Fifi didn’t seem to mind. She redirected toward us and yapped more.

  “Bonjour, Fifi!” Brigitte talked in a baby voice. She pulled a leash out of another lab coat pocket and put it on the pooch. “Comment vas-tu? Est-ce que tu étais une bonne chienne? Allons-y,” she said to Fifi.

  We went back down in the elevator and walked down the boulevard, which was lined with many more buildings like Fifi’s. We turned a corner at La Boulangerie Moderne, a French bakery whose outside walls were painted brick red and trimmed in gold paint. The red-and-gold awning was decorated with the name and phone number in beautiful cursive.

  With the smell of croissants in our wake I saw a brilliant building that made me think I was suddenly in Italy, not France. “Wow! What’s that?”

  “The Panthéon.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is one of my favorite places in Paris. Actually, it wouldn’t be fair to all of my other favorite places if they heard me say that. But I like it a lot.” She lowered her voice. “It holds the remains of important people. You know what I mean by remains?”

  “Like, the bodies?” I asked.

  “Corpses,” she added to make the idea of it more gruesome.

  “Maybe we won’t go in there,” I said.

  She perked back up. “Besides the remains, it is a very beautiful mausoleum. And I love the story of why it was built.”

  “I like a good story,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “King Louis the Fifteenth was very sick. He made a vow to God himself. He said that if he recovered, he would replace the ruined church that used to be here with a magnificent building. Then, he did recover! And built this. It looks over all of Paris.” As quickly as she’d given me the brief history lesson, she refocused on Fifi, baby-talking more in French. She was more interested in the dog than in the incredible historic building in front of us. Maybe she was used to walking around seeing ancient stuff and buildings like this, but I wasn’t.

  While I thought the Panthéon was beautiful and I wanted to learn about it, it didn’t have anything to do with “it’s time to fly.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Gargoyles fly, don’t they? Maybe ‘a time to fly’ is sending us to a gargoyle in Paris.” I googled “gargoyles in Paris.” Hmm. “There are hundreds across the city. Way too many to check out.”

  “Maybe it’s about telling time. Like a watch,” she said.

  “Of course!” I yelled. “That’s brilliant. Is there a famous clock tower?”

  “There is! Gare de Lyon, but maybe that is too . . . like, too easy . . .”

  “Obvious?” I asked.

  “Right. Obvious,” she said. “I was thinking that Paris is home to the most famous watches.”

  “Is there a factory?”

  “No, a store,” she said. “Cartier!”

  8

  “What about Fifi?” Brigitte asked.

  “This is a race, Brigitte! Bring her. Hurry!”

  We ran to the petmobile. For having such little legs, Fifi could run fast.

  Brigitte retrieved a gadget from the back of the van and strapped it into the backseat. She set Fifi into the thing, which was very like an infant car seat, secured a harness over Fifi’s fluffy paws, and clicked the seat belt. Fifi could only be more protected if we wrapped her in bubble wrap, but I didn’t mention that because it wouldn’t have surprised me if Brigitte had bubble wrap in one of her pockets. Brigitte got in the front and ever so cautiously pulled out into traffic, checking her mirrors over and over, rolling the window down, and pointing to the spot she was moving to.

  I thought about explaining the part about the race again.

  She drove with both hands firmly clenched around the steering wheel, and she leaned in close to the windshield. I didn’t want to break her concentration and I didn’t want to make her angry. After all, the only reason I was able to participate at all was because she’d agreed to be my
“babysitter.” And it was pretty awesome that she had a car and was interested in this hunt too. If she quit on me, I’d be in a major jam.

  Even at our snail’s pace it didn’t take long to arrive at the Cartier store in la place Vendôme. Brigitte parallel parked right in front of the Cartier store. When she backed up the petmobile, it made a Beep! Beep! Beep! that attracted even more attention than the average minivan dressed like a cat-dog.

  There was no sign of the Hôtel de Paris bus. Either Beef had already been here or, hopefully, we’d beat her. I had a good feeling about this place. Beef had probably gone straight to the obvious clock tower.

  I glanced around for some sign of a Shock Value rep; I didn’t see one. Maybe she wouldn’t be dressed in a blue shirt at each location. Maybe she’d even be hidden or undercover, like as a store employee.

  Each of the windows was decorated with white lights and displays of watches on black velvet wrists. A half-moon awning covered every window, with the word Cartier written across it in posh script.

  In a word, this place looked fancy.

  Brigitte examined me, and then herself. “Wait. We can’t go in like this.” She opened the back of the petmobile. She scavenged around and found a purple sequined beret, which she put on my head, slightly off to the side. If you looked at it closely, you could tell that it had two ear holes. Then she took three leashes, braided them together, and wrapped them around my neck like some nouveau fashion statement. She took her lab coat and tied it over her shoulders like a cape of sorts, unbuckled Fifi, and tucked her under her arm like an accessory. If you didn’t look too closely, we could possibly pass for two chic gals shopping for an upscale watch. For a last touch I grabbed a pair of postage stamp–shaped sunglasses with wire frames from the bottom of a box of junk. I wiped off the smudges that were probably from the last dog who’d worn them, and set them on the end of my nose.

  We marched into the exquisite watch store like we totally belonged. I walked to the counter, glancing down at the bejeweled watches.