Twenty-seven
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? Why was he spying on me? 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.
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.