Twenty-eight
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.”
I stopped inching away. “You are a washed up pastry chef heading past his prime. Release the prisoners, and I won’t report you to the police.”
His boisterous laughter made my blood run cold in my veins.
“I’m serious.” I put my hands on my hips for emphasis.
Suddenly he was by my side, his fingers digging into my arm. “You can call the police if you’d like. I’ll even give you your phone back.” He whispered in my ear. “It will be a waste of time. The police know me and would never doubt a famous chef.”
I snorted. “They probably know you because you paid them off.”
“Possibly. But playtime is over. My interest in you is waning. Thank you for the brief entertainment.”
He pulled me toward the back of the yard, his footsteps quick and sure. His agility amazed me. I pulled back, realizing that he might be more dangerous than his rolipoliness let on.
“Well, thanks for the cookies. My dad’s expecting me home.”
He grunted his disapproval as we reached the back of the yard. The henhouse was a dingy gray and a distinct odor wafted between its walls. I wrinkled my nose.
“Did you want me to make you scrambled eggs for dinner? I’d be happy too.”
I regretted the words as soon as I said them. He opened the door and pushed me toward the small opening. I pushed back.
“I don’t think so,” I grunted, but his powerful grip steered me toward the small house. This was it. I’d be locked up with the hens for probably the next week living off raw eggs. He didn’t think twice about keeping a prisoner, which was more proof he’d taken Aimee and Marie captive. Okay so they weren’t chained in the basement, but something was very wrong.
Jolie and I were caught in a push and shove battle. With one last shout, I let a kick fly, hoping to catch him in the stomach. But he grabbed my foot and with a twist that sent pain shooting up my leg, he pushed me into the house and slammed the door.
I pounded on it. “You can’t keep me in here.”
“I won’t keep you forever. Just a little payback for the tranquilizer dart.”
I went silent. What could I say?
“What? No smart answer to that? Yes, I know all about that.” The latch clicked. “Why don’t you think about how wrong your actions were, and I’ll be back later.”
I was alone. In a henhouse. I still had my phone, but who was I going to call? Dad? No way. Malcolm? Impossible. I’d told him I wouldn’t spy on Jolie. Basically, I had no one.
Feathers ruffled and one hen jumped to the dusty floor. Were hens protective of their eggs? Would they attack? Had Jolie left me to die at the claws of a bunch of chickens? I wanted to send a quick text to Stephen King. I had the perfect idea for his next horror novel. Crazy pastry chef collects prisoners like keepsakes and tortures them with the smell of chicken poop.
A cobweb brushed against my cheek, and I let out a tiny scream. I pressed my back up against the door, ready to kick any flying poultry that came at me. With a wave of my arms, I tried to shoo the hen away. She cocked her head and stared at me. I could see through its beady eyes to the small workings in its teeny brain. It was debating if I was a threat or not.
I pasted on a cheesy smile. “Squawk! I’m a friend. No worries. I won’t touch your eggs no matter how hungry I get. I promise.”
After a three-second stare down, she turned and pecked at a non-existent corn kernel on the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief now that the immediate threat of death by pecking had disappeared. I leaned my head against the strong but rickety door, no longer caring about the cobwebs or the chickens. So much for my 007 act. I never claimed to be a great spy and this proved it. While thinking about my mom, her strange words, and Malcolm’s double-dealings, I must’ve dozed off because when the door opened and I tumbled backward down the small ramp, I wasn’t prepared. At all.