Vanishing Acts by Leslie Margolis

and I’m practicing the double kiss. I guess I’m just missing you ahead of time. And speaking of time, I’ve got so much to do, and what time is it? I somehow dropped my watch in the dishwasher and now the face is flooded. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to meet my French tutor at Trois Pommes for macaroons and repartee in twenty minutes. That’s French for a cookie and a conversation.”
    â€œI figured,” I said.
    â€œBut I can’t leave until I find my other pink flamingo.”
    â€œExcuse me?” I asked.
    Isabel held up a gigantic pink flamingo lawn ornament. “My other pink flamingo.” She said it like it was obvious. “They don’t sell these in Paris.”
    â€œAnd this is relevant because . . .”
    â€œBecause I rented a lovely garden flat,” said Isabel. “And this will fit perfectly, but there’s something tacky about having just a single pink flamingo statue.”
    â€œI didn’t realize that’s what made pink flamingos tacky.”
    Isabel nodded knowingly. “They need to be in pairs. Like shoes and mittens and chocolate truffles—one will simply not suffice.”
    Sometimes it’s best to just let Isabel talk without questioning her logic, especially when one is short on time, which one—I mean
I
—was. I leashed up Preston, who seemed desperate to get out, maybe because he needed a break from the blare of French language tapes. Did I mention how loud they were? And that dogs have extra-sensitive hearing? Poor Preston!
    â€œI’m going to turn this down a little, okay?” I asked, heading to Isabel’s ancient and dusty stereo system that was made up of five components, two gigantic speakers, and not even one iPod dock.
    Suddenly Isabel looked out her window and clutched her chest. “Oh dear. Maggie, something horrible has happened! My car is gone!”
    I rushed to the window and looked at the empty spot in front of our building.
    â€œI must call the police. Now where’s my phone? Last time I saw it, I was watching
Glee
.” She looked in her potted plant. “I could’ve sworn I left it right—oh, that’s where that went.” She picked up her remote control and brushed off some dirt. Then she turned toward the kitchen.
    â€œDidn’t you sell it last week?” I asked.
    â€œMy phone?” asked Isabel. “Why would I do that?”
    â€œNo, your car. You said dealing with parking would be too much of a hassle when you were out of the country. And it’s old, and you’d rather just buy a new one when you come home next summer. I had to help you look for the spare keys and registration, remember? They were sewn into your pink satin throw pillow.”
    â€œThe one that I took from Prince’s dressing room!” said Isabel. “Of course. Now I remember. That lovely little landscape designer bought it. And I think he recognized me, too. You know—from my last great production.”
    I met the guy who bought Isabel’s car, and he was maybe twenty years old. Isabel hasn’t acted professionally in about that long, but I didn’t point this out. Instead I headed for the door with Preston following at my feet. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
    â€œ
Au revoir!
” Isabel called. “That’s French for good-bye.”
    â€œThose lessons are really paying off,” I said.
    â€œ
Oui,
” said Isabel. “That’s French for—”
    â€œI think I figured that one out,” I called, before closing the door behind me.
    I headed in the opposite direction of Second Street, still rattled from earlier this afternoon.
    Getting yelled at by a famous movie director had been bad.
    Being thrown off the movie set had been worse.
    But being accused of stalking Seth Ryan? That’s just plain humiliating. And creepy. I’m no stalker. Yet that’s exactly what his security guard accused me of being after