Read Online Lost in Paris by Cindy Callaghan - Free Book Online Page A

petmobile meant. Tourists photographed the wheeled bird, but the locals didn’t seem to notice or care.
    Brigitte took a while to find the perfect parking spot, just like she seemed to do everywhere in Paris. “Bonjour!” she called to me. She had on a green lab coat today, which was equally as dirty as yesterday’s black one. This one was speckled with white and black droplets that I suspected were bird poop. On her head she wore a hat with a long beak.
    â€œGood morning,” I said. “How about we talk in the van?” I thought that would get us away from the ­onlookers—including Knit Cap, now strumming—who had gathered.
    â€œI would love some tea,” Brigitte said, and walked toward the lobby.
    She said hello to Étienne and briefly discussed the bashful personality of his pet turtle. Then he made her a cup of tea and placed a scone from the complimentary breakfast bar on a china plate. She and I sat on a sofa in the lobby. It seemed that everywhere we went, Brigitte was treated like royalty. It’s true: people like people who care for their pets.
    Henri joined us with a plate stacked a foot high with scones, muffins, and mini bagels. He was such a boy!
    â€œThe book of tricks worked,” he said.
    â€œWhat book of tricks?” Brigitte asked.
    We filled her in on what we’d done while trying to spy on Beef, who sat in a leather armchair with her feet propped on an ottoman, toggling between her watch and her smartphone.
    â€œI bet she’s looking up stuff about the airport,” I said.
    â€œNo, thank you. I do not like bets,” Henri said. “Usually someone loses.” I really needed to watch my expressions around him.
    Beef put her phone down and whipped a pocketknife out of her fanny pack. She twisted a toothpick out of it and went at her teeth—poking and picking.
    I touched the key around my neck and felt each groove and bend. When my fingers felt a small nub at the end, through which the ribbon was looped, I took it off. I rubbed the nub and, squeezing a little, turned it. It twisted like a cap on a tube of toothpaste.
    It opened.
    â€œLook,” I quietly said to Brigitte and Henri, but they were already watching. I turned the key upside down, and a tiny piece of rolled paper slid out. I screwed the top back on and unrolled the paper.
    â€œIt says: ‘ I leap off is written here.’”
    I looked at Henri and Brigitte for a reaction but gotnone. Brigitte shook her head like I don’t know, and Henri shrugged his shoulders.
    Henri said, “La bibliothèque?” The library? “Everything is written there.”
    â€œI guess it could be. Or a plaque somewhere?” I suggested.
    Neither of them had any idea. I keyed the phrase into the search engine on my phone. Nothing.
    â€œI guess we should go to the library,” I said.
    â€œThat is good,” Brigitte said. “I can drop the Cliquots’ pets off at the groomer on the way.”
    â€œI thought you were a groomer too.” We headed out to a beautifully sunny Paris day.
    Henri lagged behind.
    â€œNot for this kind of pet,” Brigitte said. Based on the feathers and beak I had a feeling I was going to find some kind of bird in the mobile.
    I got into the front seat and turned to look behind me, and I did in fact find a bird. Correction: birds. Blue and orange parrots. Three cages full.
    Brigitte hopped into the front seat, buckled up, and checked the rearview, each side mirror, and the rearview again. When Henri came to the mobile, his pockets were stuffed with something. I knew what it was because I had brothers. Food.
    He climbed into the backseat and Brigitte asked, “Ready to go?”
    Then every bird, all twelve of them, repeated, “Ready to go?” “Ready?” “Go?” “Ready to go?” They weren’t in unison.
    Henri jumped back in shock. “They talk ?”
    â€œThe best kind of feathered