A Spy Like Me (13 page)

I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, letting
my mind drift. Maybe if I relaxed and stopped trying to figure it
out, the answer would come to me.

Minutes passed.

Memories faded in and out of the few times
Aimee and I had spent in her room, which granted wasn’t a lot
because she lived outside the city. The faded smell of her perfume
barely lingered. I remembered the laughter and her crinkly smile.
This was where the clues I was missing would magically appear. But
nothing.

Except for the creak downstairs, which wasn’t
part of any memory.

My meditation came to an abrupt end, and I
sat straight and listened.

Another creak. Was Marie home? Wouldn’t
someone walking into her house make more noise? This intruder
sounded like me. Sneaky.

Damn
.

Somehow I had to leave the house, and I
couldn’t use the stairs. Why didn’t I think to bring rappelling
hooks? I crept over to the window and pushed it open. A breeze
drifted through bringing fresh air to the stale room. It was my
only escape route.

Slowly, so I wouldn’t make any noise I
brought one leg over the windowsill and let it dangle. This was
crazy. I wasn’t the kind of girl to jump out of second story
windows. Maybe I should hide in the closet?

Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. My
heart raced. I threw the other leg over. If I hung from the window
and then dropped, the fall wouldn’t be that big of a deal. I hoped.
Gripping the bottom of the window, I let my body scrape against the
wood as I slowly lowered it. I had no idea how far of a drop it was
but the cottage wasn’t that tall. Right?

Then the bedroom door creaked. I couldn’t
drop. What if the person heard me? I held on for dear life and
hoped the person couldn’t see my hands. Sweat broke out all over my
body in a rush of heat. What were they looking for? Aimee wasn’t a
criminal who stored cocaine or top military secrets in her closet.
I prayed the person would leave because my fingers were cramping. I
couldn’t hold on much longer.

The door creaked again. Whether or not that
meant the intruder had left the room, I didn’t care. I let go.

The impact shot up through my legs and forced
a groan from my chest. My feet ached but I dove into the nearest
bush and cowered in fear. I sat in a quivering mushy heap and
massaged my fingers while waiting for my body to stop shaking. But
spies don’t stop in the middle of a mission because their fingers
hurt. I crawled along the side of the house until I got to the
kitchen window. If the intruder was leaving they had to come this
way.

Inch by inch, I raised my head until I could
peek into the kitchen window past the ruffled curtains. But the
intruder seemed to have vanished. I sank back down and stayed
crouched by the side of the house. Could the intruder have been
Malcolm? What could he possibly want with Marie?

Unless he was stopping by for some cookies.
Highly unlikely.

I didn’t dare move. Mysteries swirled around
me as if all I needed to do was reach out and catch the answer like
it was a leaf on a windy day. Marie’s front door slammed, and I
jumped up to run like crazy. A middle-aged woman with mousy hair
rounded the corner. I couldn’t catch one word of her French it was
flowing so fast. I nodded. The woman grabbed my arm and dragged me
to my feet, while continuing the scolding.

“Sorry.” I breathed deep and tried to call up
a smooth response. I’d seen enough spy thrillers with my dad. I
should be able to get out of any situation. “Just visiting Marie’s
granddaughter, Aimee.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. Then glanced to
her left and right and brought her face inches from mine. Her eyes
held a hint of fear. She spoke in choppy English. “No one lives
here.” She let go and turned abruptly.

“Wait!” I called out and caught up to her.
“What are you talking about?”

She slowly faced me and shook her head no,
then hurried into her house.

“What about Marie and Aimee? You must be
mistaken!” But the lady was gone.

Her words stayed with me. And then it hit me.
Knickknacks. Framed photos. Dirty clothes. That was what was
missing. The lived-in feeling of a teenage girl’s room. But I had
no idea why. And I wasn’t any closer to figuring out what had
happened to her.

Except, I knew there was more to Aimee and
her life then she’d led me to believe. And that was never a good
sign.

Finally, the big day arrived. Pouffant’s
Pastry Extravaganza. I’d not only find out the secret behind Mom’s
secret assignment but I’d see her again. And trust me, I had a list
of questions. A long list.

I lied to Dad about needing a day of shopping
then slipped out. The crisp morning air kissed my cheeks in the
typical French greeting, and I headed off to the Extravaganza,
backpack slung over my shoulder, balancing a covered tray of
cupcakes on my right arm. I know. Lame.

I walked the streets, a pile of nerves. The
mystery of Aimee and Marie and their house gnawed away at the back
of my mind. And what about the piles of money stashed in the back
of my closet? What the hell was my mom getting paid to do? Why was
taking a picture of Pouffant worth that much money? I wasn’t sure
if I wanted to know the truth.

Leaving the main traffic area and entering
the blocked-off side street used for the Extravaganza was like
entering a different time, like I’d been transported a hundred
years into the past.
Les Pouffant’s
was transformed. Men
with berets and women with their hair rolled up in buns stood by
their carts of freshly baked bread, hunks of homemade cheese, and
fresh tarts. A group of older men with beards and violins played
classical music. Excitement pulsed.

But no sign of Mom. Yet.

Important-looking men strode through with
clipboards, ruining the romantic atmosphere. TV cameras flooded the
place, setting up around the big, sure-to-win chefs. I approached
the registration table. The smell of sweet frosting and cinnamon
laced the air. I bumbled through beginner French to get my number,
then searched for the corresponding table.

“You, little girl.”

I ignored this statement because why would
anyone call me a little girl? I guess older men consider
seventeen-year-olds to be little.

“
Excuse moi
! Girl.”

I stopped and turned. No way. Pouffant, with
his grey hair curling at the sides, peered down at me from atop his
throne. His big old belly protruded out and if he swung at the
right time he could take someone out with it. But his eyes freaked
me out. I’d never noticed them before. Crystal-clear blue eyes as
translucent as the Mediterranean Sea. A creepy chill crawled across
my back. He seemed to look right through me as if he knew all my
secrets. I forced myself to remember how he took care of the upset
customer in his shop, and that he had kindness inside somewhere. I
hoped.

“Are you stupid, girl?”

I should whip out my camera and snap his
picture, but my cupcakes were already in danger of slipping and
crashing to the ground. I glared then turned my back to him, which
caused a rippling gasp to spread throughout the crowd surrounding
him.

A female reporter nudged me. She spoke in
French, so I just nodded my head and said, “
Oui
.”

“
Vien ici
. Come here.”

I was content to ignore him, but the gap in
the crowd closed and people inched forward, pushing me back toward
him until there was nothing to do but turn around.

Pouffant leaned close. “I applaud your
efforts, girl. Entering a contest this big with professionals.” He
said professionals as if the word was synonymous with royalty.

“Whatever.”

He stepped in front of me and put his cracked
and stubby fingers on my collar. “Do you know who I am?”

“Kris Kringle?”

He burst out with a jovial laugh, and I swear
his belly jiggled like a bowl full of my dad’s homemade grape
jelly. The throng of adoring fans all laughed too. He pulled me
close.

“You can joke, girl, but I promise, no one
pulls a fast one on me.” He dropped his voice low so only I could
hear. “I know your family secrets. I know who you are and why you
are here. A word of warning. No one crosses Jolie Pouffant and
lives to tell about it.”

And then he let me go like I was a street
urchin. I backed away. He knew about the camera? And the money?
Shaken, I stumbled away until I found my table. The layout was
simple but breathtaking.

On top of a white paper tablecloth spread
from one side to the other were different pastries and cakes in the
layout of a small village. Small tarts were cars. Larger square
cakes were in the shape of cottages, and it was all for me. I
double-checked my number against the table number. Yep. It was
mine. The instructions had failed to mention that I didn’t have to
worry about my entry. I shoved the cupcakes under the table.

With a silly grin, I stood behind my
masterpiece. It didn’t take long for my smile to fade as people
pretty much ignored me. I didn’t care. The judges had to taste my
entry—even though I hadn’t made it—and that was all that mattered.
My hardest trial was not snacking on the tasty tidbits spread out
in front of me. And keeping my mind on my mission. And waiting for
Mom.

Every older female who walked past with
longish brown hair wearing a scarf or a hat, I hoped would signal
for me to follow. Or drop a note by my side stating a time and
place to meet.

But it never happened. Was she okay? Maybe
she wasn’t just paranoid. I gripped the bag over my shoulder,
feeling the lumpy form of the camera against my side. My palms grew
sweaty, and I fiddled with my ponytail. Why a special camera? My
heart rate increased exponentially. Is that so the film couldn’t be
traced back to anyone? Why the secrecy? My mission became a
reality. Just a picture. I could do this.

I grabbed the camera from the bag and headed
toward Pouffant. The crowds drifted around me. I breathed in the
heavenly scents, wishing I could dip my finger and sneak a swipe of
a delicious-looking cake, but I didn’t want to get kicked out. I
neared Pouffant’s table and lifted the camera to my eye. My vision
blurred and my hands shook. I zoomed in on his table overflowing
with samples from his bakery. An army of tarts and croissants
surrounded his entry. Frosting of multiple colors decorated the
tops with fancy lettering and ribbons. Special glazes glinted in
the sun.

Then I focused on Jolie, his curling hair,
wiry beard, and old-man nose. I pressed the button on top of the
camera.

The force of something leaving the camera
pushed my body back.

Two seconds later Jolie Pouffant fell
headfirst into his pastries, obliterating the tower of flaky
goodness and the surrounding army.

Oh, crap.

The flood of television crews swung their
attention to Jolie spread-eagled on a bed of pastries, and it was
all I could do to swallow the vomit rising in my throat. I shot
someone. Holy crap! I murdered a famous pastry chef in a foreign
country. Or I seriously hurt the guy. I didn’t want to stick around
to find out.

My legs gave way, and I stumbled backward. If
someone had noticed my presence and the backfire from the
camera-turned-weapon, I could end up in prison. All my dreams of
college, becoming a rock star, and someday baking the perfect
chocolate chip cookie disappeared. The cold reality of prison bars,
orange jumpsuits, and stale bread crusts sank into my bones. I
shivered. But I had my answers.

Mom was possibly a cold-blooded assassin.

My mom, the one who baked cookies on
occasion, the one who put Band-aids on my cuts, the one who’d left
a year ago. She was a killer. And now I was too.

Like mother like daughter.

No wonder she wasn’t here. Or if she was, it
was just to make sure I finished the job. Not to chat with me.

I needed to take the money and run. Far away.
But where? I had no clue. I only knew I couldn’t stay here. I
turned and strolled back to my table, arms swinging like I was
taking a walk in the park, like I didn’t just possibly murder a
man. Back at my table, I shoved the camera into my bag and slung it
over my shoulder. So far, no one was after me.

Except my highly trained Spy Games eye caught
a man slithering through the crowds. He wore a white apron, a poofy
chef’s hat, and he carried a tray. When he neared the entrance to
Les Pouffant’s
, he slipped inside. Extremely suspicious,
since the shop was closed.

Maybe killing Pouffant was a distraction so
he could break in. If I was about to go into hiding, I wanted to
know why. Someone had used me. Did Mom know about all this? Or was
she an unsuspecting pawn simply following directions? After a quick
glance around to make sure no one was looking, I hurried away from
the chaos and toward the shop, following the man in the apron.

I ducked under the flowered trellises hung
over the doorway. The shop was closed due to the Extravaganza, and
the man wearing the apron had broken the lock. I slipped inside
after him.

The succulent, sweet smells were deceiving. A
place that held such wonderful pastries like cream puffs, layered
cakes, brioche, and macaroons couldn’t be the backdrop for murder.
The shop was quiet and dark. I crept into Pouffant’s lair and
searched under tables and in the cleaning closet but nothing seemed
out of place. Where did the man go?

I walked around the glass cases and into the
kitchen. A door to the right was cracked open. I tried to convince
my heart to leave my throat and go back to my chest, and then I
opened the door all the way. Stairs. A musty smell tingled my nose.
The hairs along my arm rose. With light footsteps, I went into what
felt like the underworld. And I had no clue what demons I would
find.