The Princess and the Page Page 13

  “I found my climbing shoes.”

  “That’s so weird! Why would they be up here?”

  “They weren’t the only thing I found.” He swoops his hand. “Look around you.”

  The room mirrors the room I just checked out. Except that here all kinds of junk are strewn across the floor, perched on the fireplace mantel, and hanging over a lone chair parked in the center of the room.

  “But why?” I walk to the mantel and eye the clutter on it. “Wait a sec. Look, binoculars! These look exactly like Ms. Jones’s.” Then I pick up a sparkly bracelet. “My mom’s bracelet!”

  “Does this look familiar?” Chet sticks a set of earbuds into his ears.

  “That’s my music player, isn’t it? Give that to me, silly!”

  He wags his head side to side as he listens to music. I snatch it out of his hands.

  “Why is all this stuff up here? Chet, are you even listening? All this belongs to us. The people staying here. It’s been stolen.”

  Chet knits his brows, finally seeming to take the situation more seriously. “I think it was the ghost.”

  “Really?” I roll my eyes. “Ghosts can’t carry things.”

  “Anything is possible.” He shrugs. “But I think it’s time to go to the police with this information. Hey, it’s more than a figure floating through the halls. It’s a thief!”

  “No one’s going to believe us.” I rummage through a pile of clothes on the floor. I dig up a pair of my shorts and Bella’s purple dress. “I mean really, what do we say? ‘Mr. Policeman, a ghost took random stuff of ours and put it in the attic.’ Hello! We’d be like the laughingstock of the French police. What we need is evidence. The real deal.”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  Hugging my newfound possessions, I wander to the front window.

  I sigh in frustration as I rub a hole through the grime and gaze below to the castle grounds. The storm has passed, leaving behind puddles, glistening trees leaves, and baby-blue skies. Two figures catch my eye, hurrying down the oak-lined road toward the castle. Mr. Jones is lugging a large package in the shape of a mirror.

  “Hey, Chet. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Jones. What are they doing now?”

  Chet scrubs a hole for himself. “He must be strong to carry that big a package.”

  “That or younger than we think. But the question is, what’s in that package?”

  “You really don’t trust anybody, do you?”

  “I’ve been training myself to be a detective ever since I snuck a copy of a Nancy Drew book and read it,” I say. “It might be proving to be more helpful than I thought it would be.”

  “We should get back before Madame catches us here.”

  I take one last look at the thin rectangular package in Mr. Jones’s arms. “I’m going to find out what that is.”

  Back on the second floor, Bella nearly tackles me.

  “You’re still alive!” Bella says. “I didn’t know if you’d survive! Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No, but look, I found a bunch of your stuff that you said had gone missing.”

  “In the attic? Now, that’s weird.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Fact: When conducting a stakeout, observe any and all

  suspicious activity. Record your findings, preferably

  with photographs or video.

  “If we hurry,” Chet says, “we can confront Mr. Jones!”

  Bella and I fly down the stairs, trying to keep up with Chet. But when we reach the first floor, Mr. Jones is nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did he go?” I search the surrounding areas.

  “I say we split up,” Chet says. “I’ll do reconnaissance out front while, Bella, you take the back, and, Keira, you scout around the house.”

  “Since when did we join the military?” Bella crosses her arms as Chet sprints toward the front doors.

  The butler calmly opens a door to let Chet out and then shuts it again. Not once did his expression change. But just before he closes the door, I think I glimpse my mom walking up the lane.

  “Mom!” I bolt for the front door, where once again the butler opens it just at the right moment so I don’t even have to slow down.

  Sure enough, it is Mom clipping up the pebbled path. This morning she’s wearing a simple pale green dress, a thin belt cinched at the waist, and tan Skechers. That is something about Mom. Her clothes are always practical and simple, but she manages to look pretty in whatever she wears.

  Curtains of sunlight filter through the oaks onto the path. The trees appear as if they’ve been hosed down with emerald dye, they’re so rich and bright, and alongside the path, flowers bloom in rainbows of colors.

  “Keira!” Mom’s voice quivers, breaking the magic of the world around us. Once again I’m reminded that things aren’t quite right at Chenonceau. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. We found a bunch of the stuff that had gone missing in the attic. And we think Mr. and Mrs. Jones are up to something. They’re acting awfully suspicious. Did you get the tickets?”

  “Yes.” Mom wraps her arm around me. “The soonest flight I could get was tomorrow at noon. I would’ve liked to leaver earlier, but it will have to do. We’ll have to tell Bella. She’ll be devastated. But what I’m really concerned about is I think I was followed.”

  I glance over my shoulder, but nothing moves along the path except some leaves flittering down from the trees.

  “You don’t look so good, Mom.”

  “Yes, well, I haven’t had a chance to review today’s fact.” Mom digs through her purse until she finds her fact book. “Here it is: ‘Outside North and South America, the only alligators found in the wild are in China.’ There. That’s rather interesting, don’t you think? I feel better already.”

  “Riiight. No gators here!” But I most decidedly did not feel better knowing that there aren’t alligators in France. Because there are ghosts and people following us and strange guests at the castle.

  “I think I’m going to lie down now,” she says as we stride past the butler and into the castle. “I’ve got a headache coming on.”

  * * *

  “Did you find them?” Chet is panting and sweating like a horse.

  “Who?”

  “The Joneses!”

  “Oh! Yes,” I say. “They’re in their room. I tried listening outside their door, but the Wicked Witch of the West walked by and told me how impossibly rude I was. I’m embarrassed to say I was compromised.”

  “That’s a bummer. Because a stakeout is a really great idea.”

  “Police do stakeouts. Sleuths infiltrate or complete covert operations.” I groan at how I seem to be failing left and right. “I really need to work on my skills.”

  “Speaking of skills, I’m going to do a little rock climbing.” Chet pats a big black bag slung over his shoulder. “Got all my gear now that I’ve got my shoes back. Want to come?”

  “Rock climbing? Where?”

  “On the castle.”

  “Madame will murder you if she catches you.”

  “Guess I better not get caught, then!”

  Fact: In France, it is unacceptable to eat

  pommes frites with your fingers.

  Candlelight flickers on everyone’s face as we sit around the dining room table for dinner. Mrs. Jones apologizes for her husband’s tardiness.

  “He’s feeling a little off today,” Mrs. Jones says in a shrill voice.

  “Would that be because he was carrying such a large package?” I ask nonchalantly as I butter my roll.

  Mrs. Jones’s fork freezes midway to her mouth. “Why, yes, perhaps it is. Or maybe it’s from all of the horrid noises at night and so many things that have gone missing. I am convinced that this castle is haunted!”

  Chet spits out his water, while Mom chokes on her steak.

  “Perhaps we should call the experts to deal with these thefts,” Mrs. Jones says. “I am quite terrified for all of ou
r safety!”

  “Then perhaps you should consider leaving?” Madame says.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mom says hurriedly, patting her chest and clearing her throat. “Just today, Keira and Chet found all of the missing items in the attic. Someone must have been playing a prank on us.”

  Mom is right. The last thing we need is any media attention on us or an association with strange events. That would be a great way to alert the men who had been trying to steal the pen to our location.

  “They were in the attic?” Madame clucks her tongue. “That is forbidden area.”

  “We were only trying to find our stuff,” I say, omitting the part about the secret room.

  Mr. Jones hobbles into the dining room, waving his hands about. “Dreadfully sorry!” he says. “I had a business call and then my leg was acting up a bit and I had a time of it getting down for dinner.”

  “You are excused,” Madame says gravely. “Do sit and join us.”

  A servant brings an entrecôte steak for him and dessert for the rest of us, which Madame calls profiteroles au chocolat. I spoon up a mouthful of the ice-cream puff. The hot chocolate sauce mixed with the cold ice cream creates the perfect palette combination. Too bad I’m so upset that I can’t totally enjoy it.

  “I hope you found deenner delicieux?” the cook says in her gravelly voice, seeming to appear out of nowhere. She looms over the group at the far end of the table, holding something behind her back.

  “It was divine.” Bella claps her hands.

  “It was suitable,” Madame concedes. “Now, if you’ll serve the coffee.”

  “Bon,” the cook continues as if Madame had never spoken. “Zis ees the last meal I cook een le château. I am quitting!”

  “You cannot do this!” Madame shoots up from her chair, her face as red as a hot pepper. She switches to French, rattling away as fast as her mouth can flap.

  My mind spins. The cook can’t leave! I haven’t had the chance to talk to her again. There’s still so much I want to ask her.

  “Cook, please,” I beg. “You must stay until we leave.”

  “At least until after the ball,” Bella says.

  “Mademoiselle,” the cook says. “Zis ees why I leave. Too many deesappearances and strange ghosts lurking about. And zis Friday—eet weell not be me!”

  “What is she talking about?” Bella says.

  Chet’s dad chuckles. “She’s a crazy loon.” He lifts his glass in the air as if for a toast.

  “And you.” The cook thrusts a gnarly finger at Mr. Parker. “You lie. You are zee famous Canadian actor, Shan Valrose.”

  From behind her back, she withdraws a tabloid magazine and tosses it onto the table. Then with a smirk on her face, she stalks out of the room.

  Everyone leans over the table to peer at the magazine. The page shows the latest celebrity happenings. At the bottom is a photograph of a man stepping out of a limo, waving to the paparazzi. The article beside it is titled: “Shan Valrose: Actor Turned Spy?”

  Mrs. Jones clucks her tongue. Mom gasps, her fork clattering onto the table. Quickly, I skim the article. The cook is onto something here. Apparently, Valrose wasn’t getting any new movie deals, so he turned to becoming a hired spy for extra income.

  “An actor?” Mr. Parker clears his throat and chuckles. “There’s a first for everything.”

  I study Mr. Parker. There’s no doubt that the two pictures are similar. Except in the photo, Mr. Parker’s hair is bleached blond instead of black, and he doesn’t have a mustache. Whether or not Shan Valrose and Chet’s dad are one and the same, they sure look oddly similar.

  “Oh, so exciting.” Bella digs through her purse and withdraws a pen. She turns to Chet’s dad. “Can I have your autograph?”

  But I snatch the magazine and slap it in front of Chet. “Is it true? Are you really a spy? And if so, who are you working for?”

  Chet’s face crumples as if he has been told a comet is about to destroy the Earth. Slowly, he slides under the table, disappearing.

  But Mr. Parker merely shrugs, saying, “Complimentary of course, but total blasphemy.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but a nightmarish scream erupts from down the hall.

  Fact: The first known waltz was at a peasant dance in

  Provence, France, in 1559.

  Everyone at the table jumps and rushes toward the sound. It came from the ballroom. Turning the corner, Chet nearly runs over Renee, one of the maids, who is screaming. She wears a black dress and white apron. Her eyes are wild and her cap hangs askew on the side of her head. She clings to Chet and rattles off something in French, her breath coming out in heavy gasps.

  “She says she saw a ghost,” Chet tells the group.

  Renee faints and collapses in his arms. I roll my eyes at the maid’s dramatics. Really, she couldn’t have been that scared. But Madame’s face hardens. She pushes through the dazed group to march into the ballroom.

  Madame cries out. “Oh là là!”

  The group follows. Every window—over a dozen—has been smashed. The tapestries, shredded, now flutter around the ballroom. If what Renee says is true, then this ghost is capable of destruction. Or threatening the living.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs. Jones cries, fanning herself. “Whatever has happened? Is this the workings of the ghost?”

  “My beautiful ballroom!” Madame staggers down the steps and across the ballroom floor. The rest of the group hurries after her. My shoes crunch on broken glass. Madame stops at a painting. Its canvas is ragged and torn from what appears to be claw marks.

  “This painting doesn’t belong here.” Piecing it back together, Madame studies it closer. “In fact, the painting that belongs here is missing!”

  “What painting is missing, Madame?” I say.

  “King Henry IV.” Madame sets the painting aside and rubs her forehead. This is the first time I’ve seen Madame lose her cool. “It must be found. She will be furious to find it missing.”

  “She?” I say.

  “I mean ‘he.’ Monsieur, of course.”

  I pick up the painting and patch together its tatters. It’s a landscape of hills dotted with flowers. Wait a second. I bet this is what Mr. Jones was carrying today. It isn’t a mirror. It’s a painting! Swiveling around, I face Mrs. Jones.

  “This countryside painting is yours,” I say. “You bought it today!”

  “What poppycock is this? Of course we bought a painting, but ours is safely tucked away in our room.” Mrs. Jones steps closer to the painting I’m holding and inspects it. “My, my. There’s quite a resemblance.”

  “If what you say is true,” Madame says, “you won’t mind showing us your painting.”

  “I’ll go check,” Chet offers.

  “Hurry.” Madame hands him a key.

  “Do you think it was the ghost who did this or a person?” I ask Madame.

  “What does it matter?” Madame snaps. “Despite my protests, Monsieur is determined that there is to be a ball tomorrow in this very room and somehow this place must be presentable. Monsieur will not be pleased and if he is not pleased—”

  She trails off and I realize the truth. She could lose her job over this. Which means there’s no way that she had any part in this destruction.

  “Oh, the ball!” Bella cries. “Do you think it will be canceled?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a shame,” Mrs. Jones says, yet she almost looks gleeful.

  “I found it!” Chet yells a few minutes later from the top of the ballroom steps. He lifts up a painting, and then hurries down the steps. It’s a portrait of a man, probably wealthy, I guess from his gray receding hairline and pointed beard and the white sash crossed over his silken clothes.

  “So.” Chet smirks. “Looks like the torn countryside painting is yours, after all.”

  “Indeed,” Madame says. “For what you hold, Chet, is King Henry IV of France. Once we tidy up this room, all will be as good as before. Or nearly. We are saved from Monsi
eur’s wrath.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Mrs. Jones huffs, her face blotchy and red. “Are you insinuating I’d steal a painting, replace it with a French countryside, hide the original in my room, and then tell you where it was?”

  “She’s got a point,” Bella says. “Why would she do that?”

  Chet’s dad steps in front of Mrs. Jones. “We should call the police.”

  “We were set up!” Mr. Jones shouts. “Can’t you see that?”

  The adults hurl accusations at each other. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to block out the shouting and curses. Are the Joneses responsible for destroying the ballroom? But they couldn’t have, since they were at dinner the entire time. Weren’t they? And the maid did say she had seen a ghost.

  “Silence!” Madame practically screeches, raising her hands into the air. “No one is calling the police. If they come, they will only ask questions, which we do not need.”

  “Agreed!” Mom says.

  Laughter echoes through the ballroom. Everyone whirls around to spy the cook at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips.

  “Protecting secrets, Madame?” The cook laughs again, her bulk shaking. “No more. I tell zee world about all who disappear from zis place.” She jabs her forefinger at her chest proudly and then she smiles hauntingly at Mrs. Jones. “Police do not like zieves.”

  “Thieves?” Mrs. Jones looks appalled.

  “You wouldn’t,” Madame says with a gasp.

  “Good,” Chet’s dad says. “It’s only right.”

  “Ah! Shan Valrose,” the cook continues. “Paparazzi will be pleased to see you.” She tosses her apron on the steps, lifts up her chin high, and leaves.

  Mr. Parker’s face pales. “Someone get her!” He takes off across the ballroom and up the steps. The rest of the adults join him in the hunt.

  Chet, Bella, and I stare at each other.

  “Is your dad really an actor?” Bella says.

  “Is he really a spy?” I say.

  “Do you really believe everything in the tabloids?” Chet says with a huff, and then he takes off as well, leaving the two of us alone in the darkness.

  “This place gives me the creeps.” Bella crosses her arms over her body. “Let’s get out of here.”