Chapter 10 #2
She shoved the box containing the rest of the condoms under her bed. Within easy reach. Who knew? She could be lucky enough to go through the handful she’d dropped inside her nightstand pretty fast, especially if he stole her panties again.
She almost stripped them off again just to tease him. Maybe she could climb the ladder while he braced it at the bottom.
With a sigh, she left her panties on. The bakery might be closed on Monday, but it was on Main Street. They would be hanging the cameras on the exterior of the building. She didn’t mind Maurice looking up her skirt to her naked bottom, but she sure as hell didn’t want to moon the rest of the town.
They spent the next two hours installing cameras at all four external corners of the building, as well as one in the kitchen, one at the front of her store where the display cases were and another in the living room of her apartment.
Once they were all in place and operational, Amelie connected them to the internet. Following the detailed instructions, she set it up so she could monitor the perimeter of the building from her cell phone or from the desktop computer on the counter at the front of the bakery.
“This is so cool.” Amelie paged through the various camera views by swiping her finger across her cell phone screen.
Maurice leaned over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m glad you drew the line at the bedroom.”
She laughed. “What? You don’t want to make our own X-rated videos?”
“I prefer to do rather than just watch.” He turned her around, pulled her into his arms and held her close enough she could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing into her belly. He reached into his pocket and held up a foil packet. “I’m a little more prepared than I was last night.”
She laughed and took the condom from his fingers and tucked it between her breasts. “Now?”
“Yes, now. I think I’ve been hard all day, thinking about you and those panties.” His hand slid down to the hem of her dress and up underneath, cupping her ass.
She rose on her toes, wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and kissed him, more than ready to take it to the next level and make use of the condom he’d handed her.
Maurice plundered her mouth, sweeping her tongue with his in a long, slow caress that left her knees weak and her breathing labored.
He scooped her legs from under her and started for the bedroom.
Before he reached the door, Amelie’s phone pinged.
“That’s the sound the surveillance system makes when it detects motion,” she said.
“To check it or not to check it,” Maurice murmured. “I don’t like the question.”
A knock sounded on the door of Amelie’s apartment.
Maurice froze. “Expecting anyone?”
“God, I hope not.” Amelie frowned. “Oh, wait. Luis said he was coming today.”
Maurice closed his eyes for a moment.
The knock sounded again.
With a sigh, he set her on her feet. “I’ll get it.”
Amelie tugged at the hem of her dress and adjusted the straps.
Maurice opened the door.
Luis stood there with a backpack looped over his shoulder. He frowned. “Maurice, hey. I was looking for Amelie.”
Amelie stepped forward. “I’m here, Luis.”
Luis’s brow dipped as he stared at Maurice blocking the door.
Amelie came to stand beside Maurice. “I’m glad you made it. Come in.”
Maurice and Amelie stepped back.
Luis entered, eyeing Maurice. “Did I come at a bad time?”
Amelie hid a smile. “No, not at all.”
“I didn’t call ahead for a hotel or anything since you said I could stay with you.” He glanced around the small apartment. “Maybe I should.”
“If you don’t mind sleeping on the couch, you can stay here,” Amelie offered.
Standing behind Luis, Maurice shook his head vehemently.
“I can manage a couch. I got an apartment in New Orleans, but it comes unfurnished. I’ll have to work on finding inexpensive furnishings to get me by. Until then, I’ll be sleeping on the floor. A couch sounds nice.”
Maurice passed Luis on his way to the refrigerator. “How long do you plan on staying here?”
“No more than two nights. I really need to get set up before I start work. I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have after that.”
“I can ask around and see if anyone has extra furniture they want to donate to your cause.” Amelie almost laughed at the scowl on Maurice’s face as he snagged a beer from the refrigerator. “Make yourself at home. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a bite,” Luis said. “I spent the day getting all my utilities set up. I didn’t stop for lunch.”
“We’ve been busy all day as well. I haven’t had time to make anything for dinner. We could go to the Crawdad Hole. They have a grill, or I can call out for pizza.”
“Pizza sounds good.” Luis dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped onto the couch. “I’m too tired to go out. But if you want to go, bring something back for me.”
Amelie met Maurice’s gaze. “Pizza sounds good. I’ll call in an order. Does everyone like everything on it?”
“No anchovies,” Maurice said.
“Ditto,” Luis seconded.
Swallowing her disappointment that she wouldn’t be using the condom still tucked between her breasts anytime soon, Amelie placed the call to have pizza delivered.
“I brought the photos and the watch with me.” Luis dug inside the backpack, pulled out the photos and the watch and handed them to Amelie.
She sat on the couch beside Luis, spread out the photos and laid the watch to the side.
Maurice sat across from them in a lounge chair. He leaned forward, a frown denting his brow.
They stared at the photos in silence. Amelie turned them over and studied the writing on the back.
After a while, Amelie leaned back and sighed. “I’m not seeing anything that would help us.”
Luis’s brow twisted. “Help us do what?”
Amelie hesitated. They’d learned so much new information since they’d spoken with Luis in New Orleans. She met Maurice’s gaze.
He gave a brief nod. “It’s up to you.”
Amelie made a decision and turned toward Armand’s son. “Luis, Fredrick Schulz paid a visit to us yesterday.”
Luis’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. He asked me the same things he asked you. He wanted to know if Armand had left any artwork, antiquities or journals with me. He went further to say he didn’t think your father’s death was an accident or heart attack.”
Armand’s son pushed a hand through his hair. “I had the same feeling. My father was so full of life. I had a hard time believing he was actually dead.”
“Schulz thinks someone is after the same information he asked about.” She nodded toward Maurice. “Maurice sent the photos to a techno guru he knows and asked him to do a search on a painting in the background of one of your grandparents’ photos.”
“What painting?” Luis asked.
Amelie pointed to the one where the young Germaine and Celine posed in their Paris living room before the war. “Do you see the painting over the mantel?”
He squinted at the image and nodded.
“Are you familiar with the work of Claude Monet?” she asked.
Luis’s brow wrinkled. “We might have covered him in school. Wasn’t he the impressionist?”
“Yes,” Amelie said. “That painting is one identified as belonging to your grandparents and was recorded as lost during WWII. Your father told me that his parents packed their valuables and fled Paris before the Nazi occupation.”
“So?” Luis shrugged. “My father didn’t have a Monet at the restaurant, and I never saw anything like that in his apartment. You were there. He didn’t have much of anything.”
“I know. But he might’ve known where his parents hid the painting.
At least, someone thinks he might have known where it was.
” She pinched the bridge of her nose as the image of Armand lying on the floor of his beloved kitchen, cold and unmoving, flooded her memory. “Someone willing to kill to find it.”
“Wow.” Luis sat back and ran a hand through his hair again. “You think the German was looking for that painting?”
“I don’t think it, I know it. He admitted that the Monet was what he was looking for. He claims that he searches for missing artwork lost or stolen during the war. When he finds a piece, he works to return it to the rightful owner or to a museum to be appreciated by many.”
“And you believe him?” Luis shook his head. “Or is he looking to be the next owner of the recovered painting?”
“We don’t know.” Amelie stared down at the photos. “If your grandparents hid it, don’t you think they would’ve left their son, your father, some clues as to where to find it?”
“You think the photos or the watch contain the clues?” Luis leaned forward again.
“We hoped,” Maurice said.
Luis studied the photos. “I don’t see it.” His gaze went to the numbers inside the pocket watch. “Unless the numbers are the clue.”
Maurice’s phone chirped with an incoming call. He glanced down at the screen. “It’s Swede. Maybe he’s made some progress with the numbers or Schulz.” He answered. “Hey, Swede. I’m putting you on speaker.” He touched the screen. “Go ahead. Amelie is with me, along with Luis Beno?t.”
“I found some information about Fredrick Schulz. Apparently, he is what he said he was, a European art historian. His name appears in a few articles discussing the search for and recovery of art stolen or lost during WWII. The articles indicate he didn’t keep any of the works for himself but helped to get them back to the families who owned them, or to museums, if there were no descendants to claim them. ”
“That might only be on the artwork reported in the articles. We don’t know if some pieces weren’t reported,” Maurice said.
“True.” Swede went on. “I dug into Schulz’s background.
He wasn’t born Schulz. He changed his last name from Weiss.
His grandfather was a guard at Auschwitz from 1942 through 1945.
He committed suicide at the end of the war, like so many Nazis did, rather than stand trial for their atrocities.
Fredrick’s father committed suicide years later after living in the shadow of his father’s crimes.
Fredrick was raised by his mother, an artist who believed art was for all to see. ”
“That would explain his desire to recover lost masterpieces,” Amelie said.
“Or collect them,” Maurice added.
“Either way, I don’t know if you should trust him,” Swede said.
“On a brighter note, I ran those numbers from the pocket watch through several algorithms. Coordinates didn’t make sense.
I couldn’t find any dates that would make sense either.
However…” Swede paused. “I ran them through variations of corresponding letters in the alphabet.”
“I take it you had some success?” Maurice asked.
“I did,” Swede said. “Because Armand and his parents were chefs, I came up with the following—you might want to get a pen and paper.”
“Hold on.” Amelie jumped up and ran to the counter, where she kept a pen and a pad of paper she used to jot down her grocery lists. She was back in less than two seconds. “Okay.”
Swede called out the letters one at a time. “S.O.U.F.F.L.E.A.U.F.R.O.M.A.G.E.”
As she wrote the last letter, Amelie’s heart skipped a beat. “Soufflé au Fromage.” She met Luis’s gaze.
His eyes widened. “The one dish I could never get right when he was still alive,” he said softly. “What does it mean?”
Amelie pressed a hand to her chest. “I think I know.”