“Seems like such a shame. The cakes and cookies look amazing.”
“Maybe so, but I can’t be sure the vandal didn’t touch or poison them, God forbid.”
Maurice sighed, his mouth watering as he scooped up trays of cupcakes, donuts and cookies and dumped them into the bag. “This is not only a crime of vandalism, but it’s also a crime of the heart and stomach.”
Amelie laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll bake new goodies.”
“When? I’m hungry now,” he said and winked.
Her brow furrowed. “It won’t be until I can purchase new supplies.” She shook her head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone sabotaged my business to keep me from selling my goods.”
Maurice paused with a tray of pastel-colored petit fours. “Is there another baker in Bayou Mambaloa I don’t know about? I mean, who else would feel threatened?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to close down my bakery. I have a steady and loyal customer base.”
“Me, for one.” Maurice lifted a tray of eclairs. “These are my favorites.” He stared at them for a long moment. “Such a waste,” he said as he dumped them into the bag.
Once they’d emptied all the cases, they worked through the kitchen’s refrigerators and storage shelves until all the supplies, ingredients and spices were bagged and tossed in the giant bin out back. Through it all, Amelie wrote on a pad clamped to a clipboard, noting items and quantities.
She hung the clipboard on a hook on the wall, looked around and then marched to a small storage room. She emerged with shop towels and a dustmop. “You can start by wiping the flour off all upper surfaces while I follow you with the dustmop. You can dampen the rags in the sink.”
Starting in the front of the shop, they worked side by side, slowly and meticulously removing all traces of flour from the counters, floors and walls.
With hours of work ahead, Maurice hoped to learn more about the pretty baker. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you and your boyfriend together before he passed?”
Chapter 3
Amelie turned from where she’d been working the dirt and dust out of the corner behind the display cabinet. A frown pulled her eyebrows toward the bridge of her nose. “Boyfriend?”
“You said you lost a very dear friend. I assumed he was someone close to you.” Maurice swiped his clean rag over the glass display, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Her frown softened as she thought about Armand. “Oh, he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my mentor—the chef I worked under as a student, and later as his sous chef. We became very close.”
“You must have loved him a lot.”
“I did. He was more than my teacher. More than my boss. He was like a father to me.” She stood still for a moment, her dust mop frozen in the corner. “Armand was a talented chef and an amazing mentor. I would not be half the chef I am today if not for his tutelage. He treated me more like a daughter than any other student.” As if she suddenly remembered where she was, she pushed the dust mop around the floor again.
Maurice passed her on his way to rinse the shop rag in the sink. “Didn’t Armand have a family of his own?”
Amelie smiled softly. “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?” He paused before turning on the water.
“He was married. I didn’t know that for the first year I knew Armand, because his wife lived in California.” Her mentor had rarely spoken about his personal life.
“How did you find out he was married?”
“Armand took a couple of days off, saying he had to take care of some business. He came back to the Chez Benoît a few days later with a younger version of himself. Armand introduced him as Luis, his son.” Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I didn’t know he had a son, much less that he was married, until that moment. Only he wasn’t married anymore, because his wife had died and sent his son to live with him in France.”
“How old was the son?” Maurice asked as he rinsed the rag in the sink full of soapy water.
“He was seventeen at that time.” Her brows drew together. “I felt so bad for both of them. It was a tough time for Armand and for Luis. I became Armand’s sounding board when he couldn’t relate to his son.” Her mentor had opened up about so much he’d kept bottled inside for so long.
“How so?” Maurice wrung out the rag and returned to the counter, near where Amelie worked.
“It’s a long story,” she said. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“It’s passing the time,” Maurice said. “And I like listening to your voice.”
