A Spy Like Me (17 page)

“I admit nothing.”

“This is for Aimee.” I jammed my knee between
his legs.

With a groan, he rolled off the table and
curled into the fetal position on the floor.

I scrambled off the table, straightening my
hair and doing my best to smooth my shirt, so it didn’t look like
I’d just had a hot and heavy make out session on a guy’s kitchen
table. I poured a cup of coffee, while Malcolm squirmed on the
floor in serious pain. Okay, I felt a tiny bit bad, but he totally
deserved it. It had been the most enjoyable part of my short career
in espionage.

“Savvy,” he mumbled.

“Skip it, Malcolm. I’m not interested.” I
sipped the coffee, the most rewarding, best tasting coffee in all
of Paris.

“You don’t understand.” He got to his knees,
gripping the edge of the table.

“Oh, I understand everything. You’re a
man-whore and all that word implies. And I mean in more ways than
in the bedroom sense. You also whored yourself out to Jolie for
pay, while pretending to help me find my friend.”

I needed to leave before I hurt the poor guy
again. I grabbed the last few bites of the pastry from the table. A
bit smushed, but I didn’t care.

“I’m so outta here,” I said.

Halfway through the doorway, I heard him
shout out, “The girl. She used to work for Jolie.”

I stopped. That sick feeling I’d gotten my
facts wrong sat in my gut. “What do you mean?”

“I hung out with her tonight and brought her
up here to sneak in some questions about Jolie.” He stood on shaky
legs, still hunched over a bit. “For Aimee. I’d hoped the girl knew
something about her or had seen her on the job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did she?”

He lowered his head. “No.”

“Pfft. Right. I’m sure it was torture for
you, cross-examining her.”

I turned my back and let his words run
through my mind. It was hard to believe his night of seductive
words and groaning had turned out to be nothing more than a spy
mission. On my behalf. Should I believe him? I wasn’t that stupid,
but he didn’t need to know it.

He crossed the room and grabbed my hand.
“Listen, I want you to drop this. All of it.”

Malcolm caught my eyes in his gaze. He didn’t
say anything at first but ran his fingers through my hair to tuck
it behind my ear. He lowered his arm to his side.

“I’m afraid you’ll take it a step further,”
he said. “And try to spy on Jolie by yourself. I want you stop the
games and work with me.”

“Hmm.” I was willing to play along and see
where this went. But I couldn’t say I trusted him.

He rubbed his thumb over the skin of my wrist
then kissed the red marks the ropes left behind.

I gulped. “Um, sorry about, you know.”

He wiped the last of any sort of grimace off
his face. “I’m glad you tried to defend yourself.”

“I still have questions before I can trust
you.”

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Did you have anything to do with Aimee being
kidnapped?” I asked.

“No.”

“Are you working for Jolie?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to be spying on you, but
it’s to gain his trust to figure out if he has Aimee.”

“How come you didn’t tell me this before?” I
shot out.

“Honestly?” He slid into the chair. “I didn’t
want to scare you.”

“Hmm.” His story had more holes than Swiss
cheese. “How did he trust you so quickly?”

“I’m a good worker. I earned his respect
quickly.”

I rubbed my chin. I didn’t trust him for half
a millisecond, but I needed him to believe I did. I needed to find
out more about Jolie. And why they were talking about my
mother.

“Okay, fine. Deal.” I stuck out my hand, and
we shook on it.

He really shouldn’t have believed anything I
said. Guess I’m a liar too. Because the only way to get to the
truth was to spy on the big guy himself. Jolie Pouffant.

The next afternoon, I sipped my latte,
letting the creamy hot liquid calm my nerves. I pulled my hat low,
to hide my face. The atmosphere at
Les Pouffant’s
was just
what I needed to think about Aimee: the chatter of French, the
smell of cinnamon, and the presence of my enemy.

Peyton hadn’t kidnapped Aimee. Malcolm and
Jolie had purposely led me to believe he had. In
Les
Pouffant’s
there was a musty smell coming from the basement.
Possibly a good place to keep prisoners. Jolie didn’t want me to
focus on him. Bingo!

My only lead was Jolie. What mysteries was he
hiding? Was he possibly connected to my mom and the money? What did
he know about Aimee? Thoughts swirled in my mind like creamer in
coffee. It was time to get to know the person behind the name. And
I could only do that by shadowing him, spying on him, hoping he’d
get careless and expose information.

So I moved across the street from
Les
Pouffant’s
, waiting for Pouffant to leave for the day. He must
live in a grand mansion out of the city, so I was prepared. I had
money for the Metro or to hire a cab if I needed to.

After my fifth or sixth latte, Pouffant
exited with his coat and hat. He chatted with customers, instructed
a new waiter, and then took off down the street at a brisk stroll.
Time for action. He must be off on some devious mission of
death.

With 007 music playing in my head, I slipped
in and out of the crowds, just far enough behind the target that if
he looked over his shoulder, I’d melt in with the masses. I tracked
him from the streets to the Metro and then back to the streets
until finally he stopped before a house. It wasn’t too big or too
small. White shutters at the windows winked at me in a friendly
sort of way. Pansies lined the walkway up to the front door. And
the grass needed to be cut. Quite normal.

I stopped and hid behind a tree with my legs
crossed because the five lattes had caught up with me. This did not
look like the residence of a master criminal. There had to be some
mistake. I pulled the binoculars from my bag and narrowed in on
Jolie as he approached the front door. I almost could see the
confectioner’s sugar still lingering in his twisted beard.

The door opened. But before I could see who
welcomed him, he quickly stepped into the house and shut the door.
Was this his house? Or was he visiting someone? Only one way to
find out. And I’d never felt like such a criminal.

After waiting a few minutes, I sprinted
across the street to a hedge of bushes dividing the house from the
neighbor’s. When my breathing got back under control, I dashed
across the small yard until I reached Jolie’s house. I leaned
against the siding, expecting his voice to ripple across the yard,
yelling at me. But I didn’t hear anything like that. His stern
voice echoed from the backyard. Feeling the need for stealth, I
crawled along the side of the house. Huddling next to a bush, I
wrapped my coat around me, wishing it could completely hide me,
wishing I could steal inside and use their bathroom without them
knowing.

I leaned my head against the house, not
looking, just soaking in the sounds. Their stream of French washed
over me. No English. As I sat wondering why I thought this would be
helpful and feeling totally useless at solving the mystery of
Aimee’s disappearance, I listened more carefully. The voice of his
companion was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. They didn’t
seem to be having a friendly conversation. They were debating,
words pinging back and forth at each other. The door slammed and
someone went inside. I dared to peek around the corner.

Jolie squatted low to the ground and held his
hand out with some crumbs on it. A chicken pecked at the ground. A
chicken? Who has chickens for pets? But then I looked past Jolie. A
tiny henhouse stood in the back of the yard, and several hens with
brown speckled breasts were wandering free. He spoke to it in
soothing tones and tried to get it to eat from his hand.

“Squawk, squawk,” Jolie imitated the hen.

I choked on my saliva. This was the man
behind the name? In his own environment, he seemed human, almost
normal, other than acting like a bird. The door shut and an older
woman walked down the steps. On the top of her head was a bun of
white hair, wisps hanging down. Her back was to me. I held my
breath, waiting for her to turn. She poured him tea and placed a
plate of cookies on the table, and then she stood off to the side
as if waiting for a command.

Her voice plucked my heartstrings. My body
froze. It couldn’t be. How could I not have recognized it? She
turned and confirmed my worst fears. Marie, Aimee’s grandmother was
Jolie’s house slave, a servant, feeding him gingersnaps and mint
tea. I clasped my hands together to keep myself from hurdling the
bushes, grabbing a potted fern and knocking him out. How dare he
keep an elderly lady captive? And someone as sweet as Marie? The
lines on her face seemed deeper, and her shoulders hunched over a
bit more. He’d better be treating her right. Images of her locked
in her room with barely any food made me dig my fingers into the
ground. Were those the same clothes she wore when I visited her
with Malcolm? Maybe she was kidnapped later that day?

I fought the urge to sneak through the window
for proof. Was Aimee inside? Only yards away from me? While Jolie
munched on cookies—and hopefully pulled out a filling or something
terrible like that—I could be sliding in between the shadows of the
house, saving my friend. But wait. Dad would never believe me
without proof.

I had proof! I pulled my phone from my pocket
and with one touch put it on camera mode. Without looking, because
that’s how good spies do it, I aimed my phone around the corner of
the house to capture Jolie and Marie together. Proof. Or the start
of it. I’d come back tomorrow, rescue them both, and head to the
police with evidence. I’d be a hero.

A strong hand grabbed my wrist.

With a quick but strong yank, someone pulled
me from my hiding spot. I tumbled and landed on my stomach, face in
the grass, right next to a hen pecking at seeds. Would Jolie
believe I was lost? He kicked out a black wrought iron chair.

“Please, join me.”

Should I make a run for it? Use the potted
plant? Or stay calm and draw on my Spy Games experience to pull
information from him without him even knowing it, like taking candy
from a baby.

His voice held fake enthusiasm. “How nice of
you to drop by. How timely. We have cookies and tea.”

I pushed onto my knees and squinted up at him
through the glare of the setting sun. His full, curly beard still
held crumbs from his day in the kitchen. His clear blue eyes were
smart and didn’t miss anything. Like the picture I took. He held
the phone in his chapped hands and flipped through my pictures,
including ones of Aimee. I searched his face for any
recognition.

He nodded and smiled then tossed the phone on
the table. I had a feeling the pictures of him and Marie were
deleted. I sat on the edge of the chair and tried to catch Marie’s
eyes but she stood off to the side, looking at the ground. He spoke
to her in French, and without a glance in my direction, she walked
inside. How dare he? But then I remembered my mission. I needed to
be suave, gentile, and sophisticated.

“These cookies look delicious. Is that your
neighbor who baked them?”

He waved his hand. “Pfft.
Non
. We have
always had this tradition. Meet after work and sip tea while
talking. Do you have such traditions with your family?”

“Um. Yeah, sure.” I racked my brain.

We used to. Back when Mom lived at home in
Pennsylvania, and we were a family. But since we’d arrived in
France it was all about Spy Games. Our traditions revolved around
the latest gadgets for listening in on a conversation or how to put
the biggest scare into clients. The last words Mom spoke to me were
directions to burn the package, which I didn’t do. I did miss one
tradition I’d started in Paris.

“I used to meet my close friend Aimee for
croissants every morning.”

His mustache twitched before he stroked it
into obedience. “Ah yes. At my café. You two met at
Les
Pouffant’s, non
?”

“
Oui
. I mean yes. We used to.” My
determination slipped a bit.

“Traditions, meeting with friends and family
that is the
joi de vive
. Nothing more important than family.
You agree?” His eyes narrowed in on me.

“Yes. I agree. I’d do anything for a friend.”
Was he threatening me?

He pushed the plate of cookies closer. “You
see. We are not that different.”

A chilly night breeze ruffled my hair,
carrying the smell of late-blooming flowers from the edge of the
yard. He and I? Not that different?

“What happened to your friend? I have not
seen her there.”

What happened? How dare he? Any resolve I had
to be 007 disappeared.

“I thought you might know something about
that. Considering you’re making her grandmother be your
servant.”

“
Excuse moi
?” He puffed his belly out
a bit more.

I gripped the sides of the table and stared
him down. “Yes. I know the truth. I know Marie. I would know her
gingersnap cookies anywhere.” I stood up and inched toward the
side. “I know Aimee, her granddaughter. I know the two of them
disappeared last week. And now I know you’re a liar.”

Tinges of red appeared on his neck and
cheeks. He spluttered a bit. “Girl, you do not know what you are
talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I demand you release them. Now.
And my name is Savvy. Savvy Bent.” My voice quavered a bit, and my
threats seemed silly as the hen pecked at my feet.

Jolie roared with laughter, great big bouts
that dwindled down to chuckles. When he finally stopped, tears
streaming into his beard, he took one look at me and burst out
laughing again. “My dear. You are quite amusing.”