Chapter 6 #2
Armand’s mother had her arm hooked through his father’s. She was smiling. He stood with his shoulders back, his expression unreadable, holding a pocket watch in his hand.
“Is that—” Amelie pointed at the photo.
“The watch Luis showed us?” Maurice pulled out his cell phone and brought up the images he’d taken when they’d been with Luis. “It’s the same one.”
“So, we know Armand’s father had the watch when he lived in New Orleans and have proof it belonged to him.” Amelie shrugged. “What does it mean?”
“Maybe nothing,” Maurice said. “Or something. We don’t have enough information to even speculate.”
Amelie flipped the screen to the next photo.
Armand’s parents posed in the living room of what once must have been their estate, before the German occupation.
His father sat in a wingback chair, wearing a dark business suit.
His mother stood beside him, wearing a classy skirt suit with broad shoulders, the waistline cinched in with a wide matching belt.
Maurice studied the room in the background.
A fancy white mantel surrounded a wood-burning fireplace. On either side of the mantel were what appeared to be porcelain plates on stands with a small bouquet of flowers between them.
Over the mantel was a painting of a stream or river with a path alongside it. On the path was a woman, carrying a parasol. Maurice couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be an impressionistic painting.
“Could that be a Monet?” Amelie asked, her tone low, intense.
“It’s hard to tell in a black and white photo,” Maurice said. “Maybe. Send them to me, and I’ll forward them to Swede.”
Moments later, Maurice had the images and texted them to Swede with the message that they were of Armand’s parents, some of them before WWII, and the one taken in New Orleans with the watch in his hand.
A woman entered the bakery, calling a halt to Amelie’s break. She rose with a smile and called out a greeting, slipping quickly behind the counter to take the lady’s order.
Maurice collected their coffee cups and carried them into the kitchen, poured the cold coffee into the sink and placed the cups into the dishwasher.
When he went back out to the front, the woman had finished her purchase and was walking out the door.
A middle-aged blond-haired man in neatly pressed slacks, a polo shirt and a blazer held the door for the woman until she passed through, then entered.
The man approached the counter with a smile. “I am looking for Ms. Amelie Aubert,” he said with a hint of a German accent.
Maurice tensed and moved closer to Amelie.
The smile of greeting Amelie wore slipped. “That’s me. How can I help you?”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Fredrick Schulz. I am currently researching the flight of wealthy French families who left France during WWII. I understand you worked with Armand Beno?t in Paris a few years ago.”
Amelie nodded. “I did.”
“His parents, Germaine and Celine Beno?t, were just such a family able to escape before Nazi occupation. I had hoped to learn more about them through journals, diaries or stories passed down to their son, Armand. Unfortunately, Armand is deceased, and his son, Luis, had little knowledge of his father’s family, having lived with his mother in California for most of his life. ”
“What do you want from me?” Amelie asked.
“Did Armand Beno?t speak to you of his parents’ journey? Where they went and how they survived in exile?”
Maurice’s brow dipped. “Even if she knew anything, why should she tell you? Why is it important for you to know more about the Beno?ts?”
Schulz lifted his chin. “I am a historian of the arts. I am also German. As a German, I understand many famous paintings and antiquities were stolen, hidden or lost during WWII by Nazis and their sympathizers. I am trying to determine whether the Beno?ts were able to escape with their prized art and antiquities or if they left them in their home for the Nazis to steal. I have been studying letters and records from the team Hitler assembled to identify artworks from wealthy collectors, which they targeted for works to be added to the Führermuseum in Linz. The Beno?ts were among the names listed, with a note that they had defected. No other historical accounts indicate whether they escaped with their collection or if the works were confiscated by the regime. Did Armand have any artwork that you knew of?”
“Armand Beno?t was first and foremost a master chef. He lived and breathed his work. Outside the Chez Beno?t, his life was minimalistic. Small flat, limited furniture and little decoration.” Amelie lifted her chin, her jaw tight.
“Upon his death, everything he owned was donated to the poor. His son was heading back to California and didn’t want any of the furnishings.
There was no artwork. I don’t know what else to tell you. ”
“Did he say whether or not his parents passed artwork to him that he might have sold before you met him?” Schulz asked.
Amelie shook her head. “No.”
“Did Mr. Beno?t tell you that his parents came to New Orleans?”
Amelie hesitated and then answered, “He did mention it.”
“Did he say how they supported themselves?”
“His mother worked in a bakery, his father in a shipyard.”
“Did he say whether or not they sold any valuables to help them through that time or to fund their return trip?”
Amelie looked as though she was starting to get irritated with the German’s direct questioning. The man didn’t exude a hint of charm, just cold manners. “What I’ve told you already is everything Armand told me of his parents’ time in New Orleans.”
“Did he say anything about their return? Did they sell any valuables upon their return?” Schulz asked.
“He said nothing about them selling valuables,” Amelie said. “They worked hard to rebuild their lives.”
Gisele Gautier, owner of the Mamba Wamba Art and Gifts shop, entered the bakery in one of her colorful, flowing skirts, her dark, curly hair hanging in waves down to her waist. With her mocha-colored skin, warm like sunlit earth, and golden eyes, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest, exuding the confidence of a voodoo queen like her infamous grandmother.
The air practically crackled around her.
Maurice smiled, knowing his buddy, Rafael, had his hands full with the petite powerhouse.
Amelie caught sight of her friend and seemed to gather strength from her. Her back straightened, and her chin rose. “Mr. Schulz, that’s all I know,” she said with a tight smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”
Schulz wasn’t done. “Ms. Aubert, unlike my countrymen who stole art, I wish to protect it and see that others can view and appreciate works of great masters.” He pulled a business card out of his blazer pocket and handed it to her.
“If you remember anything else, please contact me. Others might not be as willing to share great works with all of humanity. Thank you for your time.” He gave Maurice a curt nod, performed an about-face and left the bakery.
Gisele waited until the door closed behind the man before she cocked an eyebrow in Amelie and Maurice’s direction. “Did I detect a foreign accent?”
Amelie let go of a long, slow breath and read the name on the business card. “Yes. Fredrick Schulz. European Art Historian, based out of Frankfurt, Germany.”
Gisele’s brow wrinkled. “What’s he doing in Bayou Mambaloa?”
“He wanted information about my former mentor and friend, Armand Beno?t.”
“What’s an art historian want with a Parisian chef?” Gisele rounded the counter and hugged Amelie. “And why didn’t you call me to come help you clean up after the break-in?”
Amelie held her friend for a long moment before glancing up to meet Maurice’s gaze. “I had all the support I needed.”
Gisele stepped back, glancing toward Maurice.
“Shelby told me you’d taken on the assignment to protect our girl, Amelie.
She didn’t say you’d be helping her run the bakery.
” Her gaze switched to Amelie. “I’m sure he’s been more than helpful.
Rafael’s team has been the best thing to happen to Bayou Mambaloa.
” Her brow dipped before she turned back to Maurice.
“You’d better do right by our sweet baker, you hear? ”
“Or what? You’ll put a voodoo spell on him?” Amelie laughed.
Gisele’s eyes narrowed. “I might. There are perks to being the granddaughter of Bayou Mambaloa’s voodoo queen.”
Maurice held up his hands. “I’ll do my best.”
Gisele nodded. “And don’t go breakin’ her heart. If she leaves town because you hurt her, I won’t have to put a spell on you. The community will feed you to the alligators.”
Maurice didn’t know whether to laugh or be afraid. The petite granddaughter of the voodoo queen was known to be a formidable opponent. And her grandmother...? Well, no one crossed her. “I’m here to protect Amelie, not break her heart or anyone else’s.”
“Mon cher, let’s see what da spirits got waitin’ for you two.” Gisele took one of Amelie’s hands and one of Maurice’s, closed her eyes and tipped her head back. For a long moment, she said nothing, her face relaxing, her body swaying slightly.
Maurice wanted to laugh at Gisele’s theatrics, but the room went so still he couldn’t push air through his lungs. It was as if time stood still and froze him to the spot.
Gisele’s eyelids twitched, and a soft moan rose from her throat. In a low voice barely above a whisper, her Cajun accent more pronounced, she half-spoke, half-sang.
“Spirits be stirrin’,
Dark waters will rise.
Dance once with death
To reach the far side.
Through the dark night,
Let hope be your guide.
Trust your heart, cher—
For love will survive.”
A cool waft of air blew across Maurice, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He tried to pull his hand free of Gisele’s, but her grip tightened around his, holding him in place a second longer.
His gaze met Amelie’s across Gisele’s petite form.
Amelie’s eyes were wide and a little glassy. A shiver shook her frame.