Free Lost in Paris by Cindy Callaghan Page B

This time I ran as fast as I could, but I couldn’t catch up. I wasn’t trying to be girly; I seriously couldn’t keep up. Was I getting slower? It was one thing to pretend to be slow; it was another to actually become slow.
    Henri stopped at the Shock Value rep. It was the same girl from the Louvre.
    â€œBonjour,” Henri said.
    â€œHi,” I gasped. “Are we first?”
    â€œYes, you are. You really are a comeback story,” she said.
    â€œWhere is Murielle duPluie?”
    â€œOn another story,” she said. “Here is the last clue. Don’t get too comfy with first place; this one is really hard.”
    â€œJeez, can’t Murielle duPluie send someone else?” I groaned. “This is major music news.”
    Brigitte caught up with us. Totally out of breath, she asked, “What does the clue say?”
    I read:
    â€œXX marks the spot. Number eighty-three is the place. In the Garden of Names.”
    I looked at them. “Do you guys have any ideas?”
    They both shook their heads.
    I looked off in the distance. I could see the Eiffel Tower, and dark clouds starting to roll in. They looked nasty.
    Brigitte saw them too. “Let’s get the birds home,” she said.
    We hustled to the petmobile, where our feathered friends were still snoozing. We closed the doors as quietly as we could.
    I read the clue out loud again. “‘ XX marks the spot.Number eighty-three is the place. In the Garden of Names.’” Still no one had any ideas.
    One of the birds said, “Eighty-three! In the garden!” in its sleep.
    Another answered, “Okay, Sammy,” in its sleep. “Deliver the flowers.”
    â€œThey talk in their sleep?”
    â€œYeah. They say some funny things sometimes. Stuff they’ve overheard. Their owner is a florist. So they say stuff they hear from the store or the cart.”
    â€œWhat cart?”
    â€œThe owner has a flower cart. The birds who are well behaved get to hang out on it on nice days. They love it,” she said.
    The rest of the afternoon we spent my lunch money on crepes smothered in Nutella and took the birds around the city. As the afternoon turned into evening, we planned to take the tired flock home.
    Brigitte drove at her usual glacial speed that I was starting to get used to when rain started hitting the windshield hard.
    â€œOh no,” said Brigitte.
    â€œWhat is the matter?” Henri asked.
    â€œI do not like driving in the rain.” Brigitte’s hands trembled on the wheel.
    Henri said, “It is okay. Take your time. We can stop at the hotel if you turn up there.”
    Just then a car flew past us and splashed water onto the windshield. Little tears formed in the corners of Brigitte’s eyes.
    â€œAlmost there,” I said to reassure her. I could see the hotel up ahead.
    She coasted into her preferred parking space and turned off the ignition. “I cannot drive anymore in this weather. I will have to call the Cliquots to come and pick up the birds and they will probably fire me.”
    â€œYou can bring the birds inside and wait for the rain to let up,” I said.
    â€œI do not think birds are allowed in the hotel,” Henri said.
    â€œWhat if no one knows they are there?” I asked.
    â€œI have heard them. They are very . . .” Henri made a beak with his hand and mimicked the birds. “Go! Guys! Clue!” Just as he started yelling “Baaa—” I put my hand over his beak.
    â€œBut there is a room where they can stay,” I suggested. “A very quiet room where no guests will see them. Can’t we go there?”
    â€œWe will have to”—he tucked his head into his neck and made a swaying motion from side to side, then hidhis face behind his hands—“around so that no one will see the birds in the lobby.”
    â€œLike, sneak?” I asked.
    He nodded.
    â€œPiece of cake,” I said.
    â€œ Le