Charlotte in Paris (11 page)

LOST AND FOUND

T
he next morning, I filled Sophie in on the connection between the owner of the sketch—Mr. Doyle—and Mr. Peckham. “But I still don’t believe he’s a cold-hearted criminal,” I told her.

“What does it matter?” Sophie asked. “A thief is a thief is a thief.” Sophie was a no nonsense girl—just like Katani. They would probably be high-fiving each other right now.

At least we agreed on one thing: We needed to return the painting before anything happened to it. I didn’t want to risk losing it—or, more important, be accused of stealing it myself! We were both afraid that the police might keep us captive all day long asking questions, so we decided it would be best to take the sketch directly to the Picasso Museum. After all, they were the experts—they would definitely know what to do.

We packed up and rushed through the narrow, historic
streets of the Marais until we were standing in front of the Picasso Museum. I stamped my foot in frustration—it was closed. I looked nervously around, hoping no one had followed us. We waited outside for what seemed like forever. When the doors finally opened at nine a.m. Sophie and I rushed to the information desk, where I asked to speak to the director. The woman behind the counter asked what it was regarding and Sophie replied authoritatively, “It’s a matter of extreme urgency,
Madame
.”

The woman’s raised eyebrow and icy glare told us she didn’t believe a word we were saying. Nonetheless, she ushered us into the director’s office a few minutes later.

“
Excusez moi
, I won’t take up much of your time,” I told the director, a man in a gray suit with a long, thin face, as my palms sweated and my heart thumped. I took the coloring book out of my messenger bag. “You know the missing Picasso sketch that was taken from Boston earlier in the week?” I purposely didn’t say the word “stolen.”

“
Oui
, I have read the reports.
C’est une tragédie!
Such a tragedy in the art world.”

“I believe that this might be the sketch,” I said, gingerly placing the sketch on the desk in front of the director. “I found it in a Picasso coloring book my friend bought for me on Saturday in Boston, the day after the robbery. I wanted to make sure it was returned to the rightful owner.”

The museum director picked up the sketch and looked at it intently for a few seconds before hitting the buzzer on the desk.

“Yes?” answered a voice from another room.

“Ask DuBon to come here immediately,” the director said. Then he looked up at me suspiciously. “Tell me where you found this again?”

Remembering how confident Sophie had been in the jewelry store, I gathered up all my courage and repeated in a very strong voice what I had just told him. Maybe too strong, as he raised his eyebrows at me when I spoke. “It was in a coloring book my friend bought for me at a store in Boston. The store is only a few miles from where the Picasso sketch was taken,” I added.

Sophie nudged me with her elbow and I pushed her arm away. I knew what she was getting at. I made it seem like the sketch had been in the coloring book all along. I just couldn’t bring myself to get poor Mr. Peckham into trouble. After all, I wasn’t
positive
he was the one who stole the sketch. And the important thing was that the sketch was being returned to its rightful owner. I crossed my fingers and hoped that I wouldn’t get in trouble either. By the look on the director’s face, I wasn’t sure that I would be so lucky.

Another very serious-looking man entered the room. The two museum experts examined the sketch carefully and whispered to each other.

I nervously stood up to leave. “I just wanted to make sure it was safely returned—if it is the real missing sketch.”

The director assured me he would take care of it and asked me to leave my name, U.S. address, and French address. Sophie wrote everything down in French for me.

The day suddenly seemed so much brighter when we walked outside.

I took a deep breath, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted. Still, I didn’t feel like it was over. There were too many unanswered questions.

“Charlotte, you made it sound like the sketch was in the coloring book BEFORE you flew to Paris. Why did you do that?” Sophie asked.

I didn’t answer, but Sophie could read my face.

“Why are you protecting that man anyway?”

I shrugged. The truth was I didn’t know why. I just felt that
if
Mr. Peckham did take the sketch…it was for reasons other people might not understand.

“Charlotte! I’m
très serieuse
. Why are you protecting him?” a clearly exasperated Sophie asked again.

“I’m not sure…,” I told her honestly. Maeve always said I was a softie. Was I too much of a softie? Was I protecting a dangerous criminal? “The important thing is that the sketch will be returned to its rightful owner.”

I thought Sophie might be angry with me, but she just shrugged her shoulders and let the whole thing drop. That was why we were friends. Even if we didn’t always agree, we somehow understood each other.

“Maybe you’re right, Charlotte. Now what?” she asked. I had forgotten how practical Sophie could be. It was a very reassuring quality in a friend.

“Let’s forget about criminals. Time’s running out. We have only two days left to find Orangina. Let’s go!”

THE CLOCK IS TICKING

W
e walked quickly back to the river. The day was gray, but not wet. I was grateful it wasn’t raining. As we strolled slowly along the quay, the traffic on nearby streets increased. Today there were cats everywhere we looked—black cats, white cats, cats with long bushy tails, cats with short stubby tails. One or two fat cats and lots of skinny, hungry-looking cats.

St-Germain was covered with plaques honoring all the Americans who had been there before us: John Paul Jones, Benjamin Franklin, John Jay, and John Adams from the Colonial days. There were also the writers, like Gertrude Stein and James Baldwin. I loved Gertrude Stein’s famous quote, “
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
.”

“Charlotte, maybe someday there will be a plaque down by the quay that says, ‘Pulitzer Prize–winning author Charlotte Ramsey once lived on a houseboat on the River Seine,’” mused Sophie as she grabbed my arm.

There are hundreds of narrow, winding streets throughout Paris. I’ve always loved the blue-and-white street signs and the colorful names, too—rue des Mauvais-Garçons (Bad Boys’ Street), rue du Chat-Qui Pêche (Fishing Cat Street), rue des Quatre Vents (Street of the Four Winds), and so on.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we found Orangina on Fishing Cat Street?” I asked Sophie.

“Yes…we’d have to get our picture taken with Orangina in front of the street sign.”

I began laughing and then stopped and frowned. The search was getting desperate. I had gone from thinking about “when” we would find Orangina to “if” we would ever find him.

It was noon by the time we worked our way back to the houseboat. I felt as hungry as one of those skinny cats we’d seen wandering around. We had lunch at a small café and then headed upriver for a change of scenery. Le Quai Malaquais was full of people heading to and from class at the beautiful École des Beaux-Arts, the most well-renowned school of fine arts in France. We wandered about the sculpture garden next to the art school, hoping we might spot Orangina prowling around a statue there.

Even though the day was gray, the sidewalk that curved through the sculpture garden was full of activity. Some people walked, while others skated by on rollerblades. Students had decorated some of the sculptures with pieces of clothing or draped them in exotic fabrics. One statue even had on sunglasses. It was
good to see that people could have a sense of humor about art.

On our way back toward the houseboat that evening, we stopped at Square du Vert-Galant. This small square—it’s a triangle, really—was tucked beneath le Pont-Neuf. It was hidden from the view of the traffic above. Benches lined the grass, and there were great views of l’Ile de la Cité and l’Ile St-Louis. After another long, disappointing search, Sophie and I sat silently soaking in the final light of the day.

And then I had to ask…“Sophie…are you sure that you saw Orangina? Do you think maybe it was a look-alike?” I asked gingerly, glancing over at my friend.

“I
know
it was him, Charlotte. I know it! I would never have said something to you if I was not sure. He was still wearing that collar we bought for him at the pet store.”

“I’m so sorry.” I looked down and shook my head. “I didn’t mean to doubt you, it’s just that I’m losing hope.”

“
Je sais
, I know. And you weren’t doubting me, just…checking.” Sophie smiled.

The clouds opened up and the sun peeked through. It had been a long, exhausting day of walking, but somehow seeing the sun shining made up for it. That was the thing about Paris—the beauty of the city always snuck up to surprise you.

ONE LAST CHANCE

I
t was Friday, my last full day in Paris. My last chance to find Orangina and bring him home. My last day with Sophie. I could tell by her eyes that she was sad that I was leaving. It was like we had been sisters for the week—living in the same bedroom, sharing parents, eating together, hunting for Orangina. The two of us were quiet as we walked down to the dock and stood once again in front of the houseboat.

“What if we don’t find him?” I asked softly.

“We will look hard today,” Sophie assured me. “Do not give up yet, Charlotte.”

“You don’t think something happened to him?”

“No. Of course not!” Sophie said. “Orangina is a smart cat…wise. He knows the streets. You can see it in his eyes. He found you, didn’t he? He knows how to take care of himself.” I gratefully squeezed Sophie’s hand.

I was on edge that morning. I hadn’t slept much and
was nervous about finding Orangina, but there was something else too. Something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

It was raining again for our final search. I made a mental note to make my next trip to Paris in the springtime! Sophie and I decided not to venture too far from the houseboat this time. The two of us split up, each walking a half hour in the opposite direction and back again. That way we could cover more area in a shorter amount of time. I stopped at every alleyway and called out to Orangina. At one stop, a little gray cat came bounding out from behind a can. I bent over and offered it a few of the nibbles I had stashed in my pocket. As I wandered on I could feel my frustration building. At one point I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Orangina, you naughty cat, come out, come out wherever you are!” No response except for an ornery old woman who yelled out of her window for me to be quiet.

“
Pardonez moi!
” I called quickly and scurried on. My father’s voice rang in my ears that no one should be rude, especially in a foreign country where you were a guest. I walked on past a shop with the most delicious looking pastries, but I wasn’t even tempted. The realization that I might never see Orangina again had completely ruined my appetite.

Sophie and I met back at the houseboat just before noon.

She insisted that we grab a quick lunch of tuna sandwiches. “
Tu dois manger
. You must eat, Charlotte. You need to keep your energy going for our final push.” I laughed
and gave her a salute. Sophie had sounded like a French general marshalling her troops.

After lunch, we wandered aimlessly down le Boulevard St-Germain and turned on la rue de Buci to where it intersected with la rue de Seine. We stumbled across le Marché Buci, an open-air food market. Crowded into a small area were hundreds of food stalls full of the best fruits, vegetables, breads, meats, fish, and cheeses in Paris. The smell was overpowering. For a chef, going to that market would be like landing in heaven.

We carefully threaded our way through the crowd. The voices of the merchants followed us everywhere. “
Regardez mesdames, mademoiselles, messieurs!
” one woman chanted. Another woman across the way sang out, “
Deux euros pour trois, deux euros pour trois
.”

The dairy stands were piled high with huge wheels of cheese, baskets of eggs, and giant crocks of creamy butter. The women that worked in the cheese booths wore white smocks and tied their hair back with white kerchiefs.

At a vegetable stand across from the largest cheese stall, a scraggly looking farmer in a red sweater caught my eye. He wore a green apron and a cap pulled low on his brow. He scowled at a man who disturbed his tomato display. As soon as the offending man left, the farmer rushed to rearrange his tomatoes. Then he grabbed a broom and swept the floor with intense, angry jabs, almost bumping into a woman looking at cucumbers. I thought for a moment he was trying to sweep her away from his vegetable stall.

“We call him
mauvais Caractère
—Sourpuss,” Sophie whispered in my ear. “He never has a kind word for anyone. He is successful only because his vegetables are the best in the market.”

I smiled and thought of Yuri, who ran the fruit stand in my neighborhood at home…how underneath his gruff exterior, he had a heart of gold. Maybe it was the same with
mauvais Caractère
, the Sourpuss.

We continued on through le Marché Buci past stands of fresh fish, stalls stacked with dry goods, blooming flower stalls, and colorful fruit stands. Instead of looking at the wares the vendors were selling, I kept my eyes low, watching for the tip of a stiff, proud tail.

“I don’t know where else to look,” I said helplessly to Sophie as we left le Marché Buci.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s take a break and do some shopping of our own. You still have one gift left to buy, no? For
la petite
Avery?”

“But Sophie,” I protested. “Time is running out.”

“Charlotte,” she answered firmly. “We are doing our very best. Paris is a huge city.
Une très grande ville!
Orangina could be anywhere.”

I nodded sadly. I knew she was right. Orangina was probably lost forever to me. I brushed a tear from my eye and followed Sophie down into the
métro
.

We traveled four stops, and when we came up there were people everywhere. Groups of women chattered as they shopped. Grandmothers pushed strollers. Mothers held onto toddlers’ hands. Dogs big and small tugged on their
leashes…I’d forgotten how Parisians adore their dogs. Marty would love walking around the streets of Paris, stopping to sniff at all the pastry crumbs and running around and around in the grassy park by the Eiffel Tower.

“Welcome to the ‘Attic of Paris,’” Sophie said, gesturing around her. “They have everything you could ever imagine—paintings, antique furniture, mirrors, silk fabrics, crystal vases, porcelain figurines, costume jewelry, toys, recycled clothes, handbags, luggage. There has to be something here for Avery.”

As we pushed our way through this market, I kept my eyes open for two things—a gift for Avery and any stray cats wandering around. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to give up on Orangina. It’s hard to give up on something that you want with all of your heart. Perhaps, if I crossed my fingers and wished with all my might…. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a man in a yellow raincoat and hat. I took a few steps closer to get a better look, but he disappeared behind a noisy group of people.

Now that was interesting, I realized. I hadn’t seen a suspicious man in a raincoat and hat since my messenger bag was stolen. Was the man in the raincoat really Harold G. Peckham, Esquire? Was he
still
following me through the streets of Paris? If so, why?

I didn’t say anything about it to Sophie. I knew she would immediately call Mr. Peckham a thief again and then insist we should alert the police. I wasn’t sure that it was him anyway. After all, I reasoned, it was raining and there must be a zillion French men in raincoats. Besides,
I still wasn’t ready to turn in Mr. Peckham. My instincts told me that there was more to this story. And I just had to find out what it was.

But first, I needed to find a gift for Avery. As usual, Sophie came to the rescue and spied a French World Cup Soccer T-shirt. It was perfect. I was sure Avery would love it! When I found out it only cost five euros I was ecstatic. There was nothing like a bargain. Now all the Beacon Street Girls would have mementos from the trip. I only wished that I could have my souvenir—a fuzzy, orange souvenir to be exact. I sighed. Hope dies hard.

We started walking back to the docks in silence. The light was fading on my last full day in Paris. I knew in my heart that I would have to return home without Orangina.

Sophie could sense what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I will keep looking,” she said softly.

I swallowed and nodded. For a moment I thought I might cry. I’d been hoping with all my might to find my precious Orangina. And in whatever spare moments I wasn’t thinking about my poor cat, I couldn’t help but wonder about poor Mr. Peckham, who might end up in jail. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I had to find him. If I couldn’t find Orangina, I could at least solve the mystery of Mr. Peckham. I needed to understand why he did what he did. That way, I could finally put together the missing pieces of the puzzle. I explained this to Sophie as we slowly, solemnly walked back to my old houseboat one last time.

“Well,
mon amie
, as much as I think you should not have sympathy for that man…I will support you. And, of course, you will not go alone to find him. I’ll be with you the whole time…just in case.”

“Thanks, Soph. I knew I could count on you. Besides, I don’t think anything will happen to us. We will figure out how to talk to him in a safe place. Don’t worry, okay?”

Sophie nodded but she gave me a funny look. I don’t think Sophie enjoyed detective work like I did, but she was trying her best to be a good sport. That was a nice quality to have in a friend.

As I stood in front of the houseboat, I could hear the traffic sounds drifting over from distant streets and the constant creaking of the ropes as boats bobbed in the water.

“I can’t believe my week in Paris is over. It went by in an instant.”

“I wish you could stay longer…”

“Me too. It’s been so much fun! I just wish I had seen Orangina. I didn’t even get a glimpse of him.”

Sophie grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I promise you I will keep looking for him,” she reassured me. “I will walk along the Seine and call for him, ‘Orangina, you naughty thing, come out wherever you are!’”

I had to laugh, and I was surprised that Sophie was a combination of Katani and Maeve. Orderly and organized and dramatic all at the same time.

I looked out onto the steel gray waters of the Seine and took a deep breath. The light was fading fast, and a low, misty, swirling fog was forming over the surface of
the river. I heard the
putt-putt
of a motor and looked up as a barge appeared under the bridge. “Oh my goodness!” I gasped and squeezed Sophie’s hand as hard as I could. I couldn’t believe it. For there, on the front of the last barge of the day—the barge filled with vegetables, was a spot of orange fur glowing through the fog. I was so stunned, all I could manage to do was continue to squeeze Sophie’s hand and point.

“Orangina!” Sophie cried.

That wily cat was sitting proudly at the front of the barge, as if he was the captain of a great ship, steering it wherever he wanted to go.

“It is him! It is truly him!” Sophie exclaimed, pointing toward the barge.

“ORANGINA!” I yelled out.

Orangina meowed loudly at the sound of his name. He looked at me for a moment, blinked, and I swear, that crazy cat smiled. Then he turned his face back to the wind as the barge slid under a low bridge and continued its way up river.

“
Regarde! Regarde!
Charlotte! See who is at the motor? It is him. It is
mauvais Caractère
, the Sourpuss!”

Sure enough, there, operating the motor, was the same grouchy farmer from le Marché Buci. He’d taken off his green apron, but he had on the same red sweater and cap pulled low over his eyes. I squinted to get a better look at his face. Was it just my imagination, or had a slight grin replaced his signature scowl?

“Come on!” I yelled. “Let’s go!”

I ran by the river trying to follow the barge. I had come this far, I was not about to give up yet. Breathing hard, I watched as Orangina made his way along the edge of Sourpuss’s barge. He was calling out to me. My heart leapt at the sound of his distinctive howl. But just then the barge made its way under another bridge and I ran into a gate that would not open. I jiggled frantically at the latch, but it was stuck. I stamped my foot in frustration as I witnessed Orangina promenade down next to the farmer, who tossed him a scrap of something to eat. After one last howl, Orangina and the barge passed around a bend in the river. In an instant, Orangina was gone.

Sophie and I stood in silence, panting as the wake of the barge sloshed against the dock. I didn’t know what to think. Orangina was alive. Alive and healthy. I hated to admit it, but he really looked happy with the Sourpuss. And the Sourpuss looked happy with him. I smiled. Orangina was obviously a survivor. Who knew where that cat would end up? I had a sudden vision of him traveling all around the world—maybe even to India and China. I had a funny feeling that I would run into Orangina again.

“Now we know where to find him, Charlotte!” An excited Sophie clapped her hands. “The Sourpuss is at le Marché Buci every day. I will go there tomorrow after school. Perhaps I can send Orangina on a plane to you tomorrow. The next plane after you! You could wait for him at the airport.”

I looked at Sophie and grabbed her hands. It was at that moment that I knew the truth. “Sophie,” I said, “Orangina
belongs to the Seine with its barges and fish, just the same way I now belong back in Brookline in the yellow Victorian with my dad and Miss Pierce and Marty.”

Sophie stared at me, tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “But Charlotte, you and Orangina are both Parisians…how can you…?” Sophie was struggling for words.

“Sophie, that’s the point. Orangina is a Paris cat. I hope you visit him and give him bits of fish for me. But I am an American girl now. I can’t bring a Paris cat to live in America. He just wouldn’t be happy.”

“But…,” she protested.

“Don’t worry, Sophie,” I assured her. “A piece of my heart is in Paris, and I will always come back to visit you and Orangina.”

Sophie smiled. That’s all she needed to hear—that I would always be her friend, and that I would never forget our wonderful adventures together.

I gave Sophie a huge hug and then looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. We have to find Mr. Peckham soon…it’s my last chance to get to the bottom of this.”

Sophie and I headed back to her apartment to come up with a plan. No one else was home when we arrived, but Sophie’s parents would be back in another hour or so. That meant we would have to move quickly.

“Where will we find him?” Sophie asked.