A Spy Like Me (14 page)

I held my breath on the stairs, afraid of
creaks, but then let it out at the bottom. A narrow hallway, dingy
and filled with cobwebs, led to a door at the end. And it was open.
I crept down the hallway but stopped abruptly at the smell curling
from the open door. I shuddered at the dank atmosphere that
reminded me of scary movies and zombies. What did a pastry chef
like Pouffant keep in his basement that was worth thousands and
smelled like that? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Voices echoed from beyond the doorway. One
voice stood out in particular, a voice that I’d grown accustomed
to, one that had nudged its way into my heart. Malcolm’s. I knew he
worked here but what the hell was going on? What did Malcolm know?
Was he the chef who’d sneaked into the shop?

Their voices drew closer, and I sprinted back
the way I came. I hightailed it up the stairs, and back in the
shop. I had two paths. Out the front door, entering my life as a
fugitive, or hiding in the shop and finding answers. Crouching low,
I darted across the room and ripped open the nearest door and
slipped inside. Man, it was heavy.

A shock of freezing air engulfed me. Hairs
instantly stuck out across my arms and down my legs. An endless
supply of signature cakes frosted to perfection waited on shelves
to be delivered to some gala event. I turned to open door number
two, but voices filled the room.

I was stuck in the freezer.

With the door open a crack, I held onto every
wisp of warmth I could get. I kneeled and peered out the opening.
The
maitre d’
, dressed like a butler with a ponytail and
narrow face, smoothed the collar of his tuxedo with precise
movements. He stood by a pillar with ivy wrapped around it and
faced Malcolm. Wasn’t the butler always guilty? If he found me, he
could smother me with decorated cakes. Or worse, he could lock me
in a freezer.

“
Zut alors
!” he said, and then a flood
of French spewed from his mouth.

Malcolm spoke in low tones, his voice barely
reaching me. I couldn’t hear the words, never mind understand the
French.

The butler’s voice rang out, harsh and angry.
Did he work for Jolie, too? Did either of them know about Jolie?
Images of him unmoving on his bed of pastries sneaked into my
conscience. I might’ve killed a man. In cold blood.

They continued to talk. Columns of my smoky
breath rose in the air and dissipated in front of me. I searched
boxes on the shelves, and they all had the same name embossed on
the sides. Jolie Pouffant. The guy was the French version of Betty
Crocker.

The butler eventually had to stop and take a
breath, and when he did, Malcolm interjected, speaking more
clearly. And in English. “Trust me, she’s an innocent in the whole
thing.”

They knew? But how? My heart contracted so
fast it pounded against my chest. I was sure it would echo into the
other room and possibly down the street. Even in the freezer, a hot
flush spread across my skin, causing goose bumps to rise on my
goose bumps.

The butler spoke, “
Oui, oui
.”

Their words shot through the air like
gunshots pinging back and forth at each other. Then he switched
over to English. “And what about the prisoner?”

Prisoner? As in Aimee? My spine tingled. Or
my Mom?

Malcolm growled. “I’ll persuade the prisoner
to talk. Isn’t that why you hired me?”

The butler responded in English. “Wasn’t this
Peyton fellow supposed to keep the girl distracted, and away from
here and Jolie? You planted the fake evidence. You led her to the
cliffs. Yet she is here.”

My body turned rigid. My fingernails dug into
the palms of my hands, breaking the skin. Peyton? Everything rushed
back. In Peyton’s apartment, it was Malcolm who brought me the
rope. At Parc des Buttes, it was Malcolm who found the prisoner
site with the same frayed rope. Had he set me up? I remembered his
brush off. Was that guilt?

They switched back to French, and I
desperately wished I’d paid more attention to my French lessons. I
tried to pick out what few words I might recognize. With my eyes
closed, my brain struggled to understand and remember. One word
repeated.
La mere
. As in mother. Were they still talking
about me? And my mom?

My mind whirled, and I had to suck in air in
shallow gasps so they didn’t hear me. I pressed my head against the
icy metal of the door. The numbing cold spread. I wished I could
turn off my heart and hide it in layers of ice.

What would they want with my mom? Or me?

The butler spoke again, in a cold clear
voice. “Get the information from your girlfriend and then get rid
of her. Or I will.”

My teeth chattered. My fingers and toes were
slightly numb. The walls of the freezer seemed to close in on me.
If they didn’t leave soon, I’d have to open the door and reveal
myself. And if I did that, I shuddered to think. They’d probably
stick me in a box labeled cream puffs and leave me to
freeze
.

Please, please
, I prayed.
Leave
.

As mini icicles formed off the tip of my
nose, chairs scraped on the floor. My eyes flooded with tears and I
sent a silent message to my pinky toes to hold on for just a bit
longer.

At last, when they left through the front
door, I clumsily crawled onto the wooden planks of the floor. Heat
wrapped around me, but the shivers came from deep inside. I rubbed
my stiff hands across my arms and legs, but I didn’t have time to
lay here and thaw. I had to run. Fast.

I stumbled through the streets for home.
Moments with Malcolm tore at me. Tender moments, laughing, and
flirting. He’d acted like he liked me when clearly it was all a
ruse. Anger rose above my fear. My eyes widened, breaking the
frozen tears that were still in my eyelashes.

Malcolm had transformed from cute waiter to
clueless spy to double agent, hired to gather information on me.
And they must have kidnapped Aimee to do it.

The next day, I was downing my fifth cup of
coffee when someone knocked on the door. On a normal day, a knock
at the door wouldn’t freak me out. But yesterday someone had hinted
I was getting troublesome. And he didn’t seem to be the type of
person to fool around. I grabbed the largest frying pan we owned
and crept toward the door.

With one hand on the doorknob and one on the
ultimate weapon of death, I called out in a shaky voice, “Who is
it?”

“Hey, it’s Malcolm. Open up.”

Sweat sprung on the back of my neck like
morning dew. Did I welcome in a cute guy who might also be trying
to snuff me out? Duh, no. But if I didn’t act normal, he might
suspect I knew and snuff me out early. And he had information I
needed. I gripped the pan.

A blast of cold air followed Malcolm through
the door. I quickly shut it out and gulped.

“What’s up with the pan?” he asked.

I flipped it around, a gigantic smile on my
face. I looked back and forth between the pan and Malcolm. “Eggs.
Scrambled eggs. I was hungry.”

“Right.”

Totally lame answer, but it was better than
the truth. If he pulled out anything that looked sharp or
dangerous, I’d take him out with one swing.

“What brings you here? Did my dad ask you
over again?” Still gripping the pan, I positioned myself behind the
kitchen table. Distance. I needed to keep our distance.

He showed me his stuffed backpack. “Thought
we could head to a quiet little park somewhere.”

What if this was a set up so someone could
aim a sniper rifle at me?

“Yeah, not in the mood. Sorry.” I stepped
closer to him in case he pulled a weapon from his pack. One hit and
he’d be knocked flat. “And we don’t have a real good history in
public.”

“True. We can stay here.” He reached into his
backpack. I froze and tightened my grip on the pan.

He blew into a party horn, the loud blast
knocking apart my suspicions.

“Heard you made it through to the
Extravaganza finals,” he said with a grin.

I loosened my grip. What? Surprise must have
showed on my face.

“You didn’t stick around long enough to hear
the results?”

“No. Not with the big commotion going on. I
got out of there.”
And
I was freezing my ass off while
learning you were a spy. That was all
. “So what happened
anyway?”

My voice cracked. Images of Pouffant landing
on top of his pastries popped into my mind, the squished cakes, the
smeared frosting, and the gasping crowds. This was where I’d learn
if I was a cold-blooded murderer or not.

Malcolm lowered the party horn and plopped
his pack down.

“Oh, right. Pouffant. I guess someone in the
crowd shot him with a tranquilizer gun.” He zipped open his pack.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know you’d won.”

Won? The words floated, hovering nearby, but
I couldn’t quite catch them to speak. Relief flooded my arms and
legs, and my body sagged. I wasn’t an assassin. Better yet, my mom
wasn’t an assassin.

Malcolm caught my arm and gently pulled the
frying pan from my grip. “Are you okay? Honestly, winning that
contest is about impossible. You beat out top pastry chefs.”

“Just luck,” I murmured.

“No such thing as luck in that contest.
Congrats.” He pulled a soft blanket from his pack.

Of course he was right. I certainly hadn’t
created my entry. Someone with the skills had helped me win. But
why? What would I have to do at the Extravaganza finals? Not sure I
wanted to know.

He grinned. “The finals are in two weeks. For
now, let’s celebrate.” He pulled out grapes, bread, cheese, and
champagne. Hopefully it wasn’t drugged.

I moved closer to the kitchen table where
he’d put the frying pan and watched with a keen eye as he set up
everything on the floor of my living room. My fingers itched to
hold onto the smooth metal handle. If he were to kill me would he
wait until before or after the champagne?

He patted the blanket. “Come on. I promise I
won’t bite.”

I’d heard those words before. “Are you sure
you want to do the whole blanket/picnic thing? It didn’t work out
too well for us the last time.”

“I thought we were past that. I’m offering
you a chance to redeem yourself.” A crafty look played across his
face. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and smoothed the edge of
the blanket.

I half-smiled at his show of nerves, while
forcing my fingers not to grab the pan. I left it on the counter,
just in case. Recalling every defense move I knew, I was like a
robot sitting on the farthest edge of the blanket.

Malcolm popped a grape in his mouth. “So,
Savvy Bent, tell me about yourself.”

Obviously he was going with the not-so-subtle
approach to questioning. “What do you want to know?”

“What about your family. I know your dad. How
about your mom?”

I was right. They had been talking about Mom.
I could play his game.

“In ninth grade, she was a state-champion in
Chinese checkers. She tried to teach me the higher levels of
strategy for the game, but I never had a real interest.”

I took complete pleasure in watching
Malcolm’s facial expressions go from excited to frustrated at my
trivial answers.

He flashed me a fake smile. “What else did
she like to do? Any hobbies?”

I bit into a hunk of bread and held up my
finger, so he had to wait while I chewed. After sipping on
champagne, I finally answered. “She wasn’t like normal moms. She
was extreme about her exercise regime.”

“Really?” He tilted his head and gave me his
full attention.

“Oh, yeah. She got up before the crack of
dawn to run like fifteen miles.” I tried to act as sincere as I
could. “She’d sprint across the nearby cow pastures and hurdle hay
bales. I swear she was psycho. I loved her but I would’ve
appreciated more chocolate chip cookies straight from the
oven.”

And that was true. But it wasn’t because she
was playing leapfrog with hay bales. It was more like business trip
after business trip. Malcolm did a fairly good job of hiding his
excitement at the info, but his hand trembled as he downed his
glass of champagne. I poured him another.

“What else?” he asked, ripping off a chunk of
bread.

I tapped my head. “Let’s see. My friends
always thought she was kinda weird because she’d spend hours in the
backyard, shooting at targets. I had to stop inviting them over
because she’d scare them away. I don’t even want to talk about the
knife throwing.”

He moved behind me and put his hands on my
neck. I tried not to glance at the frying pan. He rubbed my
shoulders. “Sounds tough. I know a little bit about obsessive
parents.”

I bet he did, if his story was true about his
year on his own to prove himself. As he rubbed my back and ran his
fingers through my hair, I didn’t know how terrified to feel. As
long as his hands didn’t actually wrap around my neck, I was
safe.

I continued my story. “It was all good until
I figured out the reason behind her obsessions.”

He stopped rubbing and slid his hands down
the sides of my arms. Again, they were trembling a bit. I wondered
how much he was getting paid.

“And what was that?”

“Oh, I don’t want to bore you with details.
Let’s talk about Jolie. I can’t believe someone knocked him
out.”

Malcolm stiffened for just a second then
leaned back into a casual pose, one leg crossed over the other.
“Probably some jealous competitor.”

“Yeah, probably. But I think he’s bad.” It
was my turn to pump him for information.

“Savvy, he’s one of the most loved figures in
France. Why would you think he’s bad?”

I turned and faced him. “I’m serious. And I
don’t think Peyton had anything to do with Aimee disappearing. I
think Jolie did.”