Her face darkened. “You will find no irregularities. If you think—”
“Ah no, madame. I’m only looking for ways to economize or increase efficiency.”
Madame Martel harrumphed, plopped into her chair, and raised her book. “Don’t make a mess.”
Lucie led him into the office.
Papers covered most of the desk, and Paul let out a low whistle. How could he make it messier?
Lucie eased a leather ledger from the edge of the pile. “I think this is what you want. And Erma’s files are here.” She opened a cabinet, showing off neat lines of folders.
“Thanks. I’ll look around.”
Lucie stepped out of the office, then glanced back. “By the way, I know how much is in the cashbox.”
Paul grinned. “I assure you, I have no need for cash.”
“That’s never stopped a rich person from stealing before.” She swept away to the children’s section, where several families gathered.
Paul chuckled. If Lucie could direct that sass to Madame Martel, the store might stand a chance.
After he hung up his and Josie’s coats on hooks, he thumbedthrough the files and took notes. From the 1920s to May 1940, the files were in perfect order. Of course, records were sparse from May to July of 1940, when over two-thirds of Paris’s population had fled. Records were filed regularly in the autumn, then slumped off in the winter.
Paul scooted a pile on the desk to clear space, and he opened the ledger. He angled his chair so he could see out the office doorway to where Josie and five other children sat on a mat.
Lucie closed a storybook. “Who would like a puppet show?”
Six small hands shot up.
“Oh, good.” Lucie stood and set her chair aside. “Today’s story is special because the author is here. Josie, would you please stand?”
With his hand on the open ledger, Paul gasped. Josie’s story? The previous Saturday, Josie had told Lucie her Feenee stories for half an hour.
Josie sprang to her feet. “My story?”
“Yes.” Lucie patted her shoulder. “I know the children will enjoy it as much as I did.”
No, they wouldn’t, and Paul groaned. Whatever prestige Josie had gained by being Miss Girard’s helper would evaporate when the children heard the strange story.Lord, don’t let them laugh.
Lucie rummaged in a box, then spun to the children with her hands behind her back. “Once there was a little girl named Feenee. She thought of herself as an ordinary little girl, but she was anything but ordinary.”
With a flourish, Lucie whipped out one hand with a puppet—curls of every color sprang from its papier-mâché head. “Sometimes Feenee’s hair was purple, sometimes yellow, and sometimes as green as the table beside you.”
“That’s Feenee!” Josie cried.
Paul cringed.
“She’s so pretty,” a little girl said.
“I think so too.” Lucie made Feenee dance back and forth, cloth legs swinging under the puppet’s dress. “Some children laughed at her, but Feenee was brave and made friends with the nice children instead. Then one day, a horrible thing happened.”
“What?” a boy cried.
“The rock-monsters came to town.” Lucie thrust out her other hand, covered with a gray sock with a scowling face. “They came clomp, clomp, clomping into town.”
Paul’s hand curled around the ledger, but the children weren’t snickering. They were engaged.
Lucie rose to her tiptoes and darted like a leaf in the wind. “The children were afraid and hid. But Feenee was brave. She marched right up to the rock-monsters.”
