Chapter 10
Maurice moved closer, his hand going to the small of her back.
When Peltier didn’t release her hand immediately, Amelie pulled it free and moved it behind her back.
Maurice placed his hand over hers, not holding it down but letting her know he was there.
“What brings you to Bayou Mambaloa, Eugene?” Maurice asked, his tone a bit more abrupt than usual. “You don’t mind if I call you Eugene, do you?” He didn’t really care if Peltier liked it or not.
Peltier dipped his head stiffly. “S'il vous pla?t. I am what you would call a cultural preservationist interested in learning more about the French influence in New Orleans and the Cajun culture.”
“Monsieur Peltier is considering Bayou Mambaloa as his base of operations during his research,” LaShawnda said, smiling brightly at the Frenchman.
“Since I’ve served the real estate needs of the community for so long, he asked me to show him around the area.
He might decide to set up an office here to work out of. ”
“How long have you been a cultural preservationist, Monsieur Peltier?” Chrissy asked.
“For over thirty years,” he said. “I have traveled many places, researching cultures practically lost through the years. I have followed clues left by those who came before us to relics hidden away in the past to protect them from being destroyed by new regimes.”
“How long do you think you’ll be in this area?” Alan asked. “We’re a relatively young country. You might get bored with a lack of centuries-old history to dig through.”
“I never know how long it will take me to complete my research. A day, a week...” He shrugged. “I spent two years following clues I had found hidden among the pages of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. They led me to a cave in Portugal.”
“Did you find what you were looking for there?” Alan asked.
Peltier’s eyes narrowed. “I did not, but it gave me more clues to use in my search.”
“I’m sure your life must be very interesting,” Amelie said, “compared to life in Bayou Mambaloa.”
“Speaking of interesting…” LaShawnda said. “We were going to stop at the bakery for a pastry, but I forgot that you’re closed on Monday.”
Amelie shot a smile at LaShawnda.
“You can purchase some of her bread and pastries here on Monday, if you like,” Alan offered.
“And you’re right, LaShawnda,” Amelie said with an apologetic grimace. “The bakery is closed on Monday.”
“Ms. Jones informed me that you studied the culinary arts in Paris.” Peltier cocked an eyebrow. “I am familiar with many of the schools and master chefs in Paris. Where did you study?”
“My initial studies were with Le Cordon Bleu Culinary School, and I interned at Maison Belle époque for a year.”
“And after that, you returned to the US to work here?”
Amelie shook her head. “I apprenticed at the Chez Beno?t for four years before I came home.”
Peltier’s eyebrows rose. “Chez Beno?t? I am familiar with the restaurant and the master chef, Armand Beno?t. Did it not close after Monsieur Beno?t’s unfortunate death?”
Amelie nodded, her mouth tightening.
“Such a shame. I had met with Monsieur Beno?t on occasion. You see, our families were connected. I traced our lineage back and found that his arrière grand-mère, how do you say...great grandmother, and mine were close friends. I came across letters in an old trunk in the attic of the family estate in Paris. They were letters my arrière grand-mère received from him. Our great-grandmothers grew up together and attended the Grande Saison as young debutantes.”
“Armand did mention his great-grandmother was active in high society during the eighteen hundreds.” Amelie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What did he say her name was?” She tapped her chin. “Was it Anne? No. Anne-Sophie?”
“Yes, yes. Anne-Sophie.” Peltier nodded.
“They kept in touch, sent gifts at birthdays and Christmas and shared their love of art and music for many years.” He sighed with a smile pulling at his lips.
“Armand never knew. He did not have the fortune of finding the letters our arrière grand-mères exchanged. He did not seem at all interested.”
“Armand’s life centered around food,” Amelie said. He had never mentioned Peltier. She studied the man’s features. “I’m good at remembering faces, if not names. I don’t recall seeing you with Armand during the four years I worked closely with him.”
“Ah, but then the Chez Beno?t was very popular. So many people came to Paris just to eat there. How close were you to Armand?”
Amelie shrugged. “As close as a sous chef can be in a kitchen. He was my boss.”
Maurice knew Amelie’s bond with Armand was much more than an employer-employee relationship. Apparently, she didn’t think Peltier needed to know that.
Amelie straightened and lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, Monsieur Peltier, it’s my day off, and I have a lot to catch up on.” She reached for the bags of groceries.
Maurice stepped in front of her. “I’ll get them.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll get them myself.” Her eyes met and held his gaze briefly.
Maurice nodded and backed off. The woman wanted to carry her own bags. He suspected it would keep her hands occupied so the Frenchman couldn’t repeat the kiss on her knuckles.
“I love a strong, independent woman. And you’re that in spades.” He winked, laid a hand to the small of her back and waved as he passed Peltier. “Enjoy your tour of the town.”
“Good to see you, LaShawnda,” Amelie said as she sailed past.
“Good to see you, too,” LaShawnda said with a smile. “I’ll be by on Friday for my mother’s birthday cake.”
“It’ll be ready. She’s going to love the strawberry filling.”
“I know she will,” LaShawnda said. “She loves everything that comes out of Baked with Love.”
Maurice held the door as Amelie stepped through with her bags.
She marched toward the bakery van, shoved the bags behind her seat and slid behind the wheel.
Maurice climbed into the passenger side, his gaze on her face. “Everything all right?”
Amelie’s eyebrows dropped low. “I don’t know.” She shifted into drive, pulled away from the store and drove down Main Street.
Maurice dug around in the glove box in front of him and found a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer. “Hold out your hand.”
She held out one hand while retaining her grip on the steering wheel with the other. “What is that?”
“Hand sanitizer.” He squirted some into her open palm. “If you slow down, I’ll hold the wheel.”
Amelie gently pressed the brake, slowing the van to under ten miles per hour.
Maurice took the wheel while Amelie rubbed the hand sanitizer between her two hands and over her knuckles.
“Did the French guy give you bad vibes?” Maurice asked, his gaze on the street ahead.
“Yes. And he was lying.”
When she took the wheel again, Maurice leaned back in his seat, capped the bottle and stowed it in the glove box. “How so?”
She frowned. “At least, I think he was. I have no idea what Armand’s great-grandmother’s name was. I made it up. I said the first French female name that came to my mind. Anne-Sophie.”
Maurice grinned. “Is that the name of someone you know?”
“I wish,” Amelie said. “She’s the most famous female chef in the world.”
“In the 1800s?”
“No. Today.” Amelie shook her head. “I’ve been following her success story.”
“So, Eugene agreed to a fictitious name. Maybe he forgot the real one.”
“Or the whole story was a bunch of hooey.” Her brow furrowed.
“If he read all his great-grandmother’s letters from Armand’s great-grandmother, you’d think he’d remember the name.
And like I said, I never saw him visit Armand.
And Armand never said anything about a Eugene Peltier.
For the last three years I worked with Armand, I was his confidant. ”
Maurice stared out the window. “Why would Peltier make up a story like that?”
“Why would he come all the way from France to Bayou Mambaloa?” Amelie drove the van around to the back of the bakery and parked. “What Frenchman even knows where Bayou Mambaloa is on a map?”
“Even if he didn’t visit Armand, he knew who he was.” Maurice pushed his door open, grabbed the bags of groceries and followed Amelie. “And he knew you worked in Paris. I suspect he knows your true connection to Armand.”
Amelie’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Makes me think he came here on purpose.”
“To find you.” Maurice didn’t like that idea.
A box lay on the ground at the back door of the bakery.
Amelie bent to retrieve it and read the label. “Yay. It’s the surveillance system I ordered.” She glanced up and grinned. “I know what I’ll be doing for the rest of the day.”
“Good. If we need to, we can get some of my teammates to help us set it up. I want to get it up and operational as soon as possible.”
“It’s supposed to be easy. I ordered the idiot-proof one.”
“Then, between the two of us, we should be able to install it.”
As they carried the box and groceries up to her apartment, Maurice worried they hadn’t seen the last of Peltier. Was he the danger Schulz had warned them of? Or was Schulz actually the man they should watch out for? There were too many moving parts.
Maurice figured it would be best to be wary of both men until they knew more.
Amelie put Maurice to work opening the box while she put away the groceries and carried the box of condoms into the bedroom.
She didn’t want to advertise the fact she’d purchased such a big box and appear overly confident he’d stick around to go through all of them.
But it didn’t hurt to have a supply on hand.
She shook out a few packets and tucked them into the top drawer of her nightstand, right next to the lubrication jelly she kept on hand for when she powered up her battery-operated boyfriend.
A thrill of anticipation sent heat throughout her body to pool low in her belly.
Maybe they could use one of those packets after installing the surveillance system.