At Your Service (12 page)

Safely tucked in place, I watch as Alex, Sophie, and Paisley approach a smiling woman at the check-in desk. Well, I say “check-in desk,” but really it's a giant slab of
marble even Alex, tall as he is, can barely see over. Sophie and Pay hover off to the side.

Right away Alex takes charge, as I expected. “Pardon me, but I need to have some documents printed. Would you possibly be able to help me procure them?”

Whoa. Boy has mad skills; he's talking her language. I'll bet he's also giving her flirty-flirty eyes and the grin where only one corner of his mouth goes up and it looks like he has a joke he wants to share with you.

Too bad this woman is a pro too. Plus, prince or not, Alex is a little young for her.

“Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
Say yes, say yes.
I try to send him telepathic messages, but even though we had a definite connection a few minutes ago, I guess our brain waves aren't quite aligned.

“No, I'm not. I'm staying with my parents, the King and Queen of Somerstein, at the Hotel Saint Michèle. However, I'm in a terrible hurry and the situation is a bit desperate, so I don't have time to return there at the moment. I'd be most grateful if you could find it in your heart to help.”

The thing is, most people don't actually expect to see a famous person while they're going about their regular
business, but I would think this woman would give him the benefit of the doubt about who he says he is because:

A. We're in New York City. Lots of famous people live and work in New York City, and even more of them visit here.

B. We're at the Plaza Hotel. Even though it kills me to admit it, because
I
think they should all be at the St. Michèle, lots of those famous people who visit New York stay at the Plaza.

C. I think I pretty much covered it with A and B.

But Desk Clerk Girl must not be up-to-date on her subscription to the Most Eligible Royal Bachelors newsletter. It's true the British monarchy gets way more tabloid ink, but I imagine people would at least think Alex looks familiar in a “can't quite place him, but I think he's
somebody
” way. Guess not, because her face has an expression I recognize. It's the “oh why do I always have to deal with the riffraff” look I see on our front-desk clerks' faces whenever someone is insisting she didn't eat the candy bar in her room's minibar, even though the wrapper is sticking out of her pocket and the corners of her mouth are all chocolaty.

Offer her money.
My legs are twitchy, and I have to grasp the edge of the table the flowers are resting on, because I want so badly to rush over there and resolve this. I could have those printouts in two seconds flat. I speak hotel. Actually, anyone can speak hotel. It goes like this: C-A-S-H.

All Alex has to do is slip her a twenty-dollar bill, and she'd stop looking down the tip of her nose at the three of them. The thing that's killing me is he could probably afford way more than twenty. He could even offer to name a street in Somerstein after her, probably. Or designate a holiday in her honor.

But he doesn't seem to catch on. He's probably never had to bribe anyone for anything in his entire life. What could a prince want that someone wouldn't just hand him?

“May I have your full name, sir?” Uh-oh. You don't get to work the front desk at the Plaza until you've been around the block a few times, and right about now I'm guessing Desk Clerk Girl has Alex, Sophie, and Pay pegged for a bunch of kids playing some kind of prank or something. I'll bet they get their share of that here.

Alex had been leaning in to the reception desk, but now he straightens to his full height and puffs out his chest a little bit. He looks like a rooster. A kind of cute rooster, but still.

“Since you asked, my full name is His Royal Highness, Alex Alistair Hamilton Windemere, Prince by the Grace of God, Grand Duke in Waiting of Shenkenburg, Duke Elect of Astoria, Vice-Count Palatine of the Rhine, Vice-Count of Sasr, Romitostein, Westlundair, and Chern, Burgrave in Waiting of Galenstein, Lord in Waiting of Rewerberg, Maculbaden, Bergerstein, Roslinberg, Lumburg, and Appelstein.”

Pay tries to cover her giggle, but can't. “I'll bet you don't have a lot of monogrammed towels,” she says, still snickering.

Alex looks at her and grins. “Can't ever find any of those personalized key chains at the souvenir shops either. Don't understand why.”

But Desk Clerk Chick is not giggling. She looks ready to call security.

“You could Google me if you want,” Alex offers helpfully.

She fixes him with a stern look. “That won't be necessary, Mr. Grand Du—Mr. Vice—um, sir. I'll just speak to my manager for a moment. Please wait here.”

Oh, not good. I know where this is headed and it's nowhere we want to be. We're about to be politely escorted from the premises. I need to have a Plan B before I yank everyone out of here, so I try to think of where I've seen a copy shop in this part of the city. It sucks not having my iPhone turned on. It's
practically become my brain substitute in the last year I've owned it.

And then I hear the one thing I've dreaded hearing since we set foot inside.

“Is that my Chloe I see?” echoes across the hushed lobby of the Plaza Hotel.

Oh. No.

I
step out from behind the flowers and try to look like I've been admiring the arrangement instead of hanging out in surveillance mode. For good measure I sniff one of the flowers deeply, but it smells like skunk and I end up sputtering.

“Hi (cough), Ernio (cough, cough).”

The Plaza's concierge grabs me up in a giant bear hug that lifts my feet off the ground.

“I haven't seen my favorite girl since the holidays. How's my Chloe?”

We go to Ernio's every year for Thanksgiving. Some people collect ceramic animals or snow globes, but Ernio collects people. Then he invites all of them to his apartment
for deep-fried turkey and pasta. It's super yummy.

“I didn't know you'd be here,” I say, trying to sound all casual.

Ernio looks at me like I just did the chicken dance across the lobby. “Where else would I be?”

“Oh—well—um, I don't know, I guess.”

By now Alex, Sophie, and Pay have wandered over.

“Are these your friends, Chlo?” Ernio asks.

Alex's eyebrow does that archy thing again. My stomach does that flippity-floppity thing. This could get old.

“Ernio, this is Paisley and, um, Kristoff and his sister, uh, Svetlana.” I introduce them around. It's a good thing Sophie has trained her face to be pleasant in any situation, because she doesn't even register surprise that I've just assigned her a totally fake name in case Ernio follows the news more than the desk clerk. And where I got Kristoff and Svetlana, I seriously have NO IDEA.

“Nice to meet you all,” Ernio says with an eyebrow wiggle of his own. Funny how my tummy doesn't even react.

“Um, actually, Ernio . . .” I pause. I don't want to give away anything about Ingrid because I don't want Ernio calling Dad. It's the same reason I gave Sophie and Alex fake names. But then again, I doubt we're going to get any help from the front-desk clerk when she gets back from her chat
with the manager (although really she's probably just putting a fresh coat of nail polish on before giving us the brush-off. I know how these things work).

So, Ernio might be our only hope right about now. At this point we don't have time to waste.

“I was wondering if you could help us, Ern. We're doing, um . . . um . . . a scavenger hunt. Yup. For school. And we forget where some of the things we need are. Do you think we could borrow your computer to look them up?”

“Of course. You know the concierge motto.” He waits for me to repeat it with him. “In Service through Friendship.”

“Follow me,” he says. We leave just as the front-desk clerk is returning. She waves desperately in our direction and calls out, “Prince Alex!”

Uh-oh. Guess she
was
Googling and not manicuring. Alex doesn't even break stride as we rush away, and I start chattering loudly about last Thanksgiving, so that Ernio won't notice the clerk calling, “Prince Alex, oh, Prince Alex!” across the marbled lobby.

We trail Ernio into a small, but neat, back office.

“La mia casa è la sua casa,”
he says. “Or at least ‘my computer is your computer.' ”

We all smile at him, and I sit down at his desk and reach
for the mouse. Ernio props himself on the desk edge and begins asking “Kristoff” and “Svetlana” how they like their exchange program. When they look at him blankly, he says, “Your names. Chloe said you were classmates, but surely you aren't from New York originally.”

Sophie is amazing. Right away she starts charming the socks off Ernio with stories about her “exchange program.” For someone who has a private tutor, she sure can talk good middle school. Alex accused us earlier of watching too many movies, but clearly we're not the only ones.

I quickly hit print on the list of penny machines and then, while Ernio is distracted by Sophie, a.k.a. Svetlana, I turn on my phone just long enough to e-mail myself the picture of Ingrid under the table at Serendipity and then log into my e-mail account on Ernio's computer. I print the picture out too. Golden!

I power down my phone again and slide it into the back of Ernio's desk drawer. Just in case it's still traceable even when it's off. Alex slips me his as well and manages to mime behind Ernio's back for Sophie and Pay to pass him theirs. I'll give Sophie mad credit. She gets a gold star in diverting attention.

When the printer finishes spitting pages at us, I cough loudly and push back from the desk. “Wow, Ernio, this was hugely helpful. I bet we win the scavenger hunt for sure now.”

“What else is on your list? Anything I can help with? Oh wait, who am I talking to? You don't get to be an amazing junior concierge without being exceedingly resourceful, right, kiddo?”

“Go big or go home,” I tell him. Wow, that motto comes in handy in so many instances. Good picking on my part.

Ernio walks us back through the lobby to the front door. We all try to shield our faces without looking obvious about it, just in case the front-desk clerk happens to glance up. Luckily, she's busy helping another guest. I hug Ernio, and we burst back into the bright sunshine.

“Don't be a stranger,” Ernio calls, and we wave. I grab Pay's arm and all four of us tear down the stairs, brush past the valets, and duck around the corner.

“Think he suspected anything?” Pay asks.

“I don't think so, thanks to Sophie's chattering. Nice job.” I give Sophie a genuine smile, but she just shrugs and looks away. Guess the thaw is over. Must be time for the next ice age. Whatever. Not important. The only thing that matters now is finding Ingrid.

I wave the pieces of paper. “Okay, let's figure out where she'd go. I'm thinking Times Square because there are so many clustered there, but I'm not sure if she'd know that.
This just gives street addresses, and she might not figure out how close together they are.”

Alex reads over my shoulder. Which is a little awkward because he has to stand pretty close to do it.

“The USS
Intrepid
, the Children's Museum on Staten Island, Yankee Stadium . . . she could be anywhere by now.”

Something clicks into place in my head.

“That's it! Yankee Stadium,” I say.

Alex comes around to face me. “What makes you say that?”

“Because we talked about it. I told her that would be the hardest one to get because the machine is inside the stadium, which is only open the few hours a day they give tours to the public. I remember telling her we'd have to rush to get there because the tours mostly take place at lunchtime.

“Subway's this way!” I yell, already breaking into a run. If Ingrid skipped the machine at the Central Park Zoo, she could have a good half-hour head start on us. As we run, I give a brief thought to whether Alex and Sophie will be okay on the subway versus the limos they're more accustomed to, but they aren't protesting as they tear down the stairs behind me.

Thinking about limousines makes me remember Bill. What will he do when he gets back with Frans and finds us missing? I can only hope and pray the three of them decide to
try to find us on their own, rather than running back to the hotel. I know Bill would never rat me out to Mr. Whilpers, but he likes Dad as much as everyone else does, so he might be tempted to tell him. Ergh. I can't think about that now.
Just keep moving.

Pay has her MetroCard out before we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Mom just loaded this with more money last week. Line up behind me and keep passing it back.”

We each take our turn with the card and huddle together on the subway platform. Waiting for the train to pull up is torture. I just wish this whole day had a fast-forward button, and we could zoom ahead to the part where we have Ingrid safe and sound back at the St. Michèle.

Something tells me it's not gonna be that simple.

F
ollow me,” commands Pay, skipping down the stairs of the elevated subway platform in the Bronx. Across the street is the House That Jeter Built . . . the new Yankee Stadium. Otherwise known as Pay's second home. Yeah, she doesn't just wear her pink Yankees hoodie for show. The girl is a major superfan. Her Yankees bobblehead collection is unrivaled. The last thing she does before she gets into bed every night is hit each one on the top of his head. Personally, I think it would be weird to go to sleep with Babe Ruth nodding away at me, but to each her own.

I spare a quick glance over my shoulder to the park where the old stadium used to be before they tore it down. I'm not so much into baseball myself, but I did love afternoons there
with Dad. Every so often his contact in the team's special affairs office would send over a pair of box tickets, and Dad would load us up with bags of peanuts and a foam finger and we'd hop on the subway. Back then my hand had felt so little in his big one as we walked up the ramp to our seats. We haven't caught a game in a while, and I've only been a few times with Pay to the new stadium.