At Your Service (11 page)

“You could fit seven Somersteins inside New York City.
We're the fifth-smallest country in the world. There are probably more people in one city block here than there are in Saint Mert, where our castle is.” Sophie's voice loses its raggedness. In fact, she sounds a little defensive. Whoops.

“Sorry, Princess Sophie.” It won't do me any good to annoy my guests now. With one missing, I need to make doubly sure to keep the other two extra happy.

She smooths her not-a-strand-out-of-place hair. “My mother set up a hotline and people call in when they spot her. Then my father sends a bodyguard to trail her after the first phone call comes in. Ingrid doesn't know that. But of course, that's back home, where no one would harm her. She knows she's not allowed to behave like that here, and Mother and Father talked to her about it before we left. She swore she understood. They have all sorts of punishments lined up for her if she gets up to mischief here.”

What I want to know is why didn't we hear about this ahead of time? Why weren't there ten more Hanses and Franses assigned to us? Why would Frans have left us at the Apple Store knowing Ingrid's past history of escape acts? If he were still trailing slushy footprints behind us, none of this would have happened. If
I'd
known, I wouldn't have taken my eyes off her, not even for a second.

But I hadn't known.

I turn to Alex, even though Sophie was the one talking. “I picked up on the fact that Ingrid liked to hide, but I didn't know she actually takes off. Why didn't you tell us so we could have kept eagle eyes on her?”

Alex looks sheepish. Good. I'm sure I've already crossed a line with the way I've just challenged him, but at the moment, I couldn't care less. Forget protocol.

“We didn't think it would be a problem,” he says. “We had the bodyguards with us, and she really did seem like she understood how dangerous New York City is, so we didn't imagine . . .”

I bite my tongue. Seriously, people. One of the safest big cities in the United States. That's right. But I guess maybe not for a nine-year-old all alone. Now I'm starting to get even more worried about her because reality is settling in.

“So what do we do now? We have no idea where she's going next, or even if she came this way to begin with,” Sophie asks, and now she's moved on to twisting strands of hair around her finger. I really wish Queen Caroline could have skipped the hotline and gone straight for implanting Ingrid with a homing device, like a nice, responsible parent.

Wait. Homing device.

Dad's been letting me watch
Law & Order
ever since I got a guest a walk-on role while they were shooting in Madison Square Park. On that show they're always triangulating cell phone signals to figure out where the bad guy is. I don't want to involve the authorities, but at this point, if it means an easy fix . . .

“Hey, does Princess Ingrid have a cell phone? Maybe we could trace the signal and figure out where she is.”

Alex and Sophie just look at me. “She's only nine!” says Sophie.

Okay, so how am I supposed to know King Robert and Queen Caroline follow the pretty standard “no phone until your twelfth birthday” rule? Geez, for royalty, they sure are really . . . normal.

Alex groans. “But
we
do. If we don't want Hans and Frans on our tails in five minutes, we'd better turn ours off. I don't think they'd call in the authorities, but we've never actually all taken off like this, so I'm not totally sure what measures they'll take.”

I taste something like acid in the back of my mouth. This is getting way out of hand. I probably shouldn't even be worrying about my future as a concierge. I should probably be worrying more about my future as a person. Because Dad? Is going to kill me.

Alex can tell the rest of us are on the fence. “Please, everyone! Trust me. We can do this. We just need to be smart and think like Ingrid. Turn off your phones.”

Pay reaches into the front pocket of her hoodie and pulls out her flip phone. She hits the power button without a word. Then she goes right back to cranking pennies through the machine. It suddenly registers with me what she's doing.

“Pay,
what
are you doing?”

“Mostly, I'm just trying to stay out of the way while you guys figure out what you want to do. But I figure,
when
we find Ingrid, I can give her these in case she didn't actually beat us here.”

When
we find Ingrid. I really, really like the sound of that. But do I actually think we can do this on our own? Should I just call Dad and let him take over? I mean, I'm definitely in over my head, and I obviously don't want anything bad to happen to Ingrid. But at the same time, I know New Yorkers, and we're a lot nicer than our reputation. Half the time, even those “ripped from the headlines” cases on
Law & Order
are taken from newspaper stories in Detroit or Poughkeepsie or something. I honestly do believe she'll be safe. I just hope she isn't too scared. Can we actually figure out where she's headed next?

My thoughts spin around like they're on the Zenobio ride at Coney Island. For every point I come up with, my brain comes up with an “on the other hand.” I just don't know. If we can find Ingrid safe and sound and get her back to the St. Michèle, everything will take care of itself.

And if we can't . . .

I don't even want to think about it.

I face Alex. “I think we should call my dad and yours.” I make my decision. This is definitely the responsible thing to do.

Alex places his hands on his hips. “We're
not
going to do that.”

“Princess Ingrid's all alone in the city. She doesn't know where she's going, and she's just a kid.”

“Of the two of us, which of us knows Ingrid better? Which of us knows how clever she is and how well she takes care of herself?”

“Of the two of us, which one of us is in charge of today?” Now
my
hands are on
my
hips. Two can play this game.

Alex arches an eyebrow as if to suggest that I might only think I'm running this show. In a way he's right. The guest is actually always the one calling the shots. Crud. I narrow my eyes so he won't think he won that point. He is seriously so
annoying. He's all obsessed with his hair and being in charge. How did I ever think he was so cute?

He barely blinks before talking again. “And of the two of us, which one of us is related to the missing person? She's
my
sister. Don't you think I'd be the one arguing hardest for whichever solution would keep her safe? Here's the thing. When you run a country, you're responsible for the people of your country even more than for your own family. We can't embarrass our father and therefore our whole country by causing a citywide search for a little girl on a penny spree. Imagine what CNN would do with that.”

“So what, we just sacrifice Princess Ingrid's safety so you can save your reputation?” Some brother. But I can already see on Alex's face that he's all torn up about this. He might be annoying to argue with, but it doesn't seem like he's totally heartless.

“Of course not. If I truly thought Ingrid was in actual danger, I'd already be ringing the authorities. But I don't. I think she's on her quest and she's fine. And I think we're clever enough to scoop her up and get her back home before anyone is the wiser. Actually, I don't
think
we are; I
know
we are. You just have to trust me. Now please, we can't waste any more time. If we're going to find her, we must get searching.”

I stare at him for a long time, my thoughts still all topsy-turvy. Paisley and Sophie are wisely staying out of things. Pay continues cranking penny designs, even though I can tell she's listening to every word, and Sophie has abandoned her hair twirls for biting her cuticles.

So it's up to me. My belly feels all hollow, like when I know I've done really badly on a history test, only this is even more serious than a grade.

Then I remember who I am and whose city this is. I am
the
best junior concierge in town and this is
my
city. We can do this. Ingrid will be fine because we'll find her in no time at all. It's barely lunchtime. We'll have her home for tea. I'm not actually sure what time tea is usually served, because the St. Michèle doesn't do high tea, but I do know it's sometime in the afternoon.

Failure is not an option. Mr. Whilpers said that the last time the AAA reviewer stayed at the hotel and we were vying for our five-diamond rating. Without a word to Alex, I pull out my phone and power it down. Sophie does the same.

He exhales. “Okay, now we need a plan.”

I jump in. He might have decided what we're doing, but Capable Chloe is calling the shots on how we're doing it. “We need a hard copy of that list of penny machines. We could go
back to the Apple Store and get another printed. We also need a picture of Princess Ingrid we can show people. I have a few on my phone, but if you don't want me to keep turning it on and off, we'll have to get one of those printed too.”

Alex pushes his hair out of his eyes. “We can't go back to the Apple Store. Too risky. Hans could still be there searching for us or thinking we'd be coming back. And Frans could have returned too by now.”

Think, Chloe, think.
Where can I get access to a computer around here? I look up to the sky as if an answer will come floating down, but when I peer above the treetops, my eyes hit on the roofline of the first building I see, and I know exactly what to do.

The Plaza!

Hotels can solve any dilemma.

Or at the very least, any dilemma of the “I need something printed” variety.

“I know where to go. Follow me,” I order, taking off in a half run/half walk back up the pathway.

T
he Plaza Hotel is what everyone imagines when they think of a fancy New York City hotel. Partly because of the Eloise books, and partly because it's always showing up in movies.

Of course I might be biased, but I think the St. Michèle is way,
way
better. Though I will say this, the Plaza has us beaten hands down in one category: location, location, location. The St. Michèle is only a couple blocks from Central Park on the Upper West Side, but the Plaza is right on top of it. Plus it has all this cool history—like it's an actual National Historic Landmark and the Beatles stayed there once. But who cares? We have rock stars as guests too. And kings and queens now. So there! Obviously, you'll never get me to be disloyal to my own hotel.

I come to an abrupt stop as we stand in front of the entrance. The Pulitzer Fountain is to our backs and behind that, across the street, is the Apple Store. I hope we're far enough away that Frans and Hans can't spot us if they're still there. Ahead of us are red-carpeted steps and lots of polished brass.

“Let me hide between you guys,” I say.

“Pardon?” asks Sophie.

“The concierge here knows me. He'd ask a bunch of questions and probably call my dad. Hopefully, he's not even working today, but just in case, block me with your body.”

Alex gives me an amused look out of the corner of his eye. My heart gives a little squeeze, and immediately I'm totally disgusted with it, because,
Hell-ooo, heart? We're annoyed with him, remember? Plus, we're supposed to be worrying about a missing girl here, not falling apart at looks from her conceited brother who thinks he's in charge.

“Just do it, okay?” Luckily, Pay slides right into place at my side. Love that girl.

Sophie stands close on the other side of me, but not too close. Alex takes command (of course!) and steps out front. His tall body blocks mine completely. Except now I'm only an inch from his back and I can smell his boy scent. It's not a
boy smell like gym socks and day-old cheese either. More like root beer and dryer sheets.

Focus, Chloe. He probably bottles that scent and rolls around in it just to have this effect on girls.

We shuffle inside. It's pretty awkward trying to walk like this. We go up the carpeted steps and through the glass revolving doors guarded by a doorman. If he thinks it's totally weird that we're moving like our legs are tied together, he doesn't comment. We enter the ornate lobby. Seriously. It looks like a museum or a villa in Rome or something, with the marbled floors and velvet-curtained windows so tall that even if all four of us stood on each other's shoulders, the person on top probably still couldn't see out the highest pane. Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from the golden ceilings. A wide staircase curls up to a second floor, but we move away from that and toward the check-in desk beside it. As Paisley's arms move front to back, I can see between the gaps. Several people in the lobby are giving us weird looks. Not good.

“Psst!” I hiss.

Alex comes to an abrupt halt and I crash into his back. He spins around and puts both arms around me to steady me. WHOA! If anything, that makes me even more off balance.

“Are you okay?” he asks. I nod. He looks into my face,
and I go all blank for a few seconds, like I've been touched in a game of freeze tag. Up close, his eyes are as blue as dark-wash jeans.

Pay tugs on my arm, and I realize we're attracting attention. Time to find my voice . . . and fast.

“Why'd you stop?” she asks.

“Oh. Um, I'm gonna hide behind that flower arrangement. We look too silly to go up to reception like, uh, like
this
.” I manage to croak out the words while tearing my eyes away from Alex's. Well, hello there, frog. Hope you're enjoying hanging out in my throat.

Alex drops his arms.

Before it can get any weirder, I duck behind the table holding the arrangement and maneuver my body so that the giant vase of flowers is camouflaging as much of me as possible. You wouldn't think I'd be such a natural at this, but this enormous bouquet of fresh flowers isn't a lot bigger than the one in our lobby, and if you knew Mr. Whilpers, you too would be a master at hiding behind elaborate floral arrangements.