Amelie frowned as Fredrick Schulz entered. The man’s forehead creased in a frown as he scanned the room. When his gaze landed on Amelie and Maurice, he spun and marched toward them.
“Incoming,” Maurice murmured.
Amelie tensed. “I see him.”
Maurice rose from his chair and blocked the man from getting to Amelie. He tipped his head back and stared down his nose at the German, five inches shorter than Maurice. “Ms. Aubert has already told you everything she knew from her conversations with her former employer, Armand Benoît.”
“I have information she might want to hear.”
Amelie touched Maurice’s back. “Let him talk,” she said.
Maurice didn’t move for a good thirty seconds, staring down at the smaller man. “Hurt her, and you might not live to regret it,” he said in a low, resonant tone.
Schulz raised his hands. “I did not come here to hurt anyone. I am here to keep her from getting hurt.”
“It’s okay,” Amelie assured Maurice. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
Maurice glared at the smaller man before he stepped aside. He remained within reach to move swiftly if he needed to dive in to break up a fight or keep Schulz from hurting Amelie.
Schulz slid into the booth opposite Amelie.
Maurice sat next to Amelie and leaned forward enough that, if he had to, he could fling his body across hers to keep her safe.
“Ms. Aubert,” Schulz started, “I fear you are in grave danger.”
“The dark waters,” Amelie murmured low enough that Fredrick couldn’t make out her words.
The brief narrowing of Maurice’s eyes indicated he’d caught her words and meaning.
“How am I in danger?” Amelie asked. “I don’t know anything about the Benoîts other than what Armand told me.”
“From the letters and records acquired from WWII,” the German said, “we know the Benoîts owned a very beautiful and priceless painting by Claude Monet.”
Irritation, bordering on anger, flashed through Amelie.
So, Schulz had known about the specific painting that Amelie and Maurice had only just learned about.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the painting when you came to my bakery?” Amelie frowned. “And from Luis’s account, you didn’t mention it when you visited him in California.”
“Please accept my apologies for not being more transparent. I wished to gauge how much you knew. From both your reaction and that of Armand’s son, Luis, I realized you had no knowledge of the painting’s existence.”
“Did you reveal to Armand the specific painting you were researching?” Maurice asked.
The German shook his head. “No.”
“How does a Monet painting that disappeared during WWII place me in danger?” Amelie asked. “I didn’t even know it existed until today.”
“Perhaps, I should explain my obsession with the painting.”
“We’re listening,” Maurice said, his tone tense.
Schulz dipped his head. “I have spent many hours, days, years in the U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, looking through the photo albums and records listing almost every piece of art either sold or identified as being in France prior to the occupation. Over three years ago, I came across the Monet owned by Germaine Benoît. It was marked with the status of ‘lost.’ Something about the woman in the painting captivated me. She has haunted me ever since.” He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I immediately flew to Paris to interview Germaine’s only descendant, Armand Benoît, hoping to discover the painting’s whereabouts. After our meeting, I knew I would have to trace his parents’ journey if I had any hope of finding the Lady by the Stream.”
“And?” Amelie prompted impatiently.
“I have followed leads for missing artwork for decades. In the last four or five years, some of the works I’ve located have been stolen before I could get to them first.” He shook his head. “If you look up my record, you will see that I have never kept one of my findings. I meet with the former owners and/or their descendants to determine the appropriate disposition. I was deeply concerned over the thefts and afraid I was leading the thieves to those priceless items.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
