Nine
Malcolm. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed like he’d run here. For what? To save me? Ha. More like to take his revenge.
“Leave her alone!” Malcolm rushed across the room and punched Peyton in the gut. The big man doubled over then two seconds later he rammed into Malcolm. I grabbed the screwdriver and jabbed Peyton in the arm. He backhanded me. Pain shot through my head, radiating out from my cheek. Two seconds later, Malcolm punched him in the face with a solid right hook.
Frankie shouted through his gag, “Untie me! What’s going on?”
Peyton regained his footing and gasped at my reddening cheekbone. Horror filled his eyes but they hardened when he saw the screwdriver in my fist. “You should’ve stayed out of this.”
Malcolm gripped the back of Peyton’s neck and squeezed. Peyton dropped to the floor, writhing in agony.
“What’s going on in here?” Dad kicked the crate out of his way and approached Peyton. Cards fluttered only to settle on the wooden floorboards. Awe for my dad grew. Yeah, he was tall and a bit of a spy geek, but right then the gel in his hair made him look tough, like a member of street gang.
Malcolm stepped back, and I sneaked a peek at him, trying to figure out why he came to my rescue after all that happened.
“Peyton?” My dad repeated.
As soon as the sorrow appeared in Peyton’s eyes, it disappeared, replaced by a steely determination. “You don’t understand. She ruined everything.”
Not taking his eyes off Peyton, my dad grabbed him by the arm. “Leave. Now. We’ll talk later about refunds.”
Go, Dad!
Nancy and Gray both arrived, breathless and with flushed faces. Immediately, Gray strode over to Frankie and removed his gag and blindfold.
After a moment of tense silence, Peyton said, “Fine. You’ll be hearing from me.” With a grunt, he strode from the room.
Dad smoothed my ruffled shirt with a gentle touch and traced my cheek with the back of his fingers. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, all words trapped in my throat. Is this what it took for Dad to act like he cared? Muscles in his jaw twitched. Blood rushed to my face, and the room felt about a hundred degrees hotter. He cared but he was still mad.
Gray, Nancy, and Frankie tried not to look at me, shuffling their feet, fixing their hair. Malcolm picked up the cards scattered on the floor.
“Savvy,” Dad said in a clear but firm voice, “why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off. Get some ice on your cheek. I’ll see you at home.”
His face turned into a mask, but the lines on his forehead seemed deeper. His shoulders slouched, and I could tell he blamed me. I grabbed my backpack, hiding the tears, and ran from the room. I didn’t stop running until I got to Les Pouffant’s.
“Where were you when I needed you,” I whispered to the stone angels with curved wings that stood at the side of the doorway. Waiters dressed in black and white moved in and out of the café like they were in a choreographed dance. I loved this place.
Inside, I ordered a latte. The counter and the pastries behind the glass case became a blur. Maybe Dad would ship me off to boarding school. I highly doubted he’d believe today was my best effort. And if I was honest? It wasn’t. When I had the latte in my hand and took the first sip, my mind cleared a bit. Aimee must have forgotten to meet me here. Time to go home. And open the package Mom told me to burn.
I trudged up to our door, and the back of my neck prickled. Something was off. The front door moved in the breeze. As the director of Spy Games, Dad was the guru of safety precautions. He locked the doors, changed the bulb for the porch light, and left a light on when we were gone. He would never leave the door unlocked, much less open!
I crept up the steps and nudged the door open with my foot. If I were a real spy, my heart wouldn’t be knocking against my ribcage and sweat wouldn’t be breaking out on my forehead. I’d burst into the room, pull out my gun, and the intruder would run for his life. A weapon! That was what I needed. I grabbed Dad’s umbrella by the door and tiptoed across the room.
The couch pillows were on the floor, and Dad’s papers on the kitchen table looked mussed. But I saw no overturned tables or fallen lamps like on television. Still, I couldn’t breathe easy until I checked the rest of the apartment. For a few seconds, I stood with my arm above my head, umbrella poised, listening.
A noise came from the down the hall in my bedroom. Peyton’s angry face flashed in my mind and my legs shook. What if he knew where we lived? With light steps, I headed down the narrow hallway. My bedroom door was open. A draft ruffled the ends of my hair.
I heard it again. A clicking sound.
Enough. I wasn’t going to tiptoe around my own home. I eased open the umbrella and charged into the room with a war cry. I spun around to confuse any intruder. I stopped and swayed, a bit dizzy. The clicking noise was my open window. The shade moved back and forth in the breeze, hitting the windowsill and making a slight click each time. I let out a breath and closed the umbrella. The person was gone, but someone had definitely been here. I slumped onto my bed. What would someone want from us? My fuzzy socks? My measly piggy bank? Or maybe a package! I sprinted back to the front door.
There it was, the package I’d tripped over and then kicked behind the bush earlier today. I brought it inside. Mom had a strict rule. No one was allowed to touch her mail or go through her things. Again, at the Eiffel, she’d told me to burn this. But Mom wasn’t here, was she? I ripped it open.
Inside, I found a clunky camera, like an old Polaroid, wrapped in tissue paper. But more importantly I found a note, typed, with no signature.
Sign up for the Pouffant Pastry Extravaganza.
Take a picture of Jolie Pouffant.
That was it. I mean, that was it? That didn’t tell me anything about my mom, where she’d disappeared to, or why the only time she’d talked to me she wore a disguise. And it didn’t tell me anything about who sent it, like where he or she lived or why the hell they needed a picture of Pouffant.
Tips of green stuck out so I dug under the layers of tissue paper protecting the camera. My fingers brushed against the clean feel of printed bills, lots of them. I started pulling them out, more and more, until green covered the table. More money than I’d ever need in my life, or maybe a year. Now that told me something.
Mom was into something big. Like maybe she worked as a secret photographer for an entertainment magazine doing an article on pastry chefs. Or maybe this Pouffant fellow wasn’t just a pastry chef. Whatever it was, Mom didn’t want me to know.
But in a situation like this, I had to follow the old rule: Follow the money. And if it wasn’t a rule, I just made it one. And in order to follow the money, I’d need to sign up for the pastry thing. A.S.A.P. Good thing I knew where to find Pouffant.
The front door rattled, and I froze. Voices floated in from outside. Dad chuckled and talked, and I heard Frankie and Nancy and Gray. The whole Spy Games staff was outside my front door, and I had thousands of dollars spread out on the table.
I shoved handful after handful of money back into the package, grabbed the camera and the note, and sprinted back to my room.
The whole crew moved into the kitchen and shuffled chairs around for a staff meeting. Why here? Dad never brought them to our house. I didn’t have a good feeling. I shoved everything into the back of my closet and waited to make my entrance. What would I say to everyone? “Oh hi everyone, yes, I’m the boss’s daughter who pissed off a client today. And what is that? Why yes, I did get kicked out of the Louvre.” Insert fake laughter. “Yes, I’ll be packing for boarding school because my dad is kicking me out. Anything else you want to know?”
After procrastinating as long as I could and hoping the meeting was almost over, I entered the kitchen. The whole Spy Games staff was crammed into our kitchenette, sitting around the table drinking instant coffee.
“What’s up?” I asked casually. Now I was terrified of not only getting fired
but of getting shipped away somewhere as well.
“Glad you could join us, Savvy.” Dad barely acknowledged me.
Maps of Paris covered the table. Dad posed a question to the group every few seconds. Gray took notes and punched numbers into a calculator. Hunched over the table, Frankie sipped the instant coffee. Nancy nodded, but her whole body drooped.
One person was missing, and I knew she’d never ditch a staff meeting. The job was too important.
“Where’s Aimee?” I asked.
Frankie flashed me a bored look, and then went back to stirring another sugar packet into his coffee. Nancy looked at me with sympathetic eyes that said, “Oh, you poor thing.” Like when your dad eats your last piece of Halloween candy.
Peyton’s last threat echoed in my mind. He couldn’t have gotten to her. Could he?
A Spy Like Me Page 9
