Luis answered on the first ring. “You must be a mind reader.”
She laughed. “Were you thinking about me?”
“Not only was I thinking about you, but I was also just packing an overnight bag.”
Amelie smiled. “Are you coming to Bayou Mambaloa?”
“If the offer’s still open, I’d like to come tomorrow.”
“Always.”
“Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait,” Amelie said before he could hang up. “Luis, can you look at the backs of your father’s photos?”
“I guess,” he said. “Why?”
“Just to see if there’s anything written on them.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll have to pull them out of their frames,” Luis said. “I’ll be right back.”
Amelie’s gaze met Maurice’s.
He reached across the table and took her empty hand, his fingers curling around hers, grounding her and making her remember to breathe.
“I’m back,” Luis said. “I’m looking at the backs of the photographs. On the one taken in their first home in Paris, their names, Germaine and Celine Benoît, are handwritten with the date of May the third, 1940.”
“Anything else?” Amelie asked.
“No.” He paused. “On the one taken in front of the Saint Louis Cathedral, there’s just the date of October 14, 1950.”
Amelie had hoped to find more than just dates and names. If the photos didn’t have a secret code on them, Germaine’s idea to hide the directions to valuable assets could be lost forever in a book or journal that had been donated to the homeless. Monet’s painting could be hidden somewhere, never to be found.
“Is that all you needed?” Luis asked.
“It is,” Amelie responded, masking her disappointment.
“I’ll bring the photos with me in case you want to inspect them yourself.”
“Thanks, Luis. Drive safely. The roads in the bayou can be a little tricky. We’ll see you tomorrow.” After the call ended, Amelie’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Well, scratch the photos. Where else would Germaine have hidden the code that would lead to his assets?”
Maurice squeezed her hand gently. “We might never find out.”
“Seems a shame for the painting to be lost forever. I would love to have seen it in all its glorious color.”
“It seems others would love to see it as well.”
Amelie shivered. “Do you believe Fredrick’s story?”
Maurice’s eyes narrowed. “If he’s right, someone is hellbent on finding that painting and isn’t above killing to get there first.”
“Do you think that someone is Schulz, trying to throw us off by making us think it’s someone else?” Amelie’s fingers tightened around Maurice’s.
“I feel like the alligators are circling the swamp.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay in the boat with you.”
Chapter 8
