Angels and Thieves

By Raine Baushke

Angels and Thieves is the third book in the André Gensonné series.

On Christmas morning, the prematurely born infant of a prominent Parisian couple disappears from the hospital hours after birth.

Numb and terrified, Parisian attorney André Gensonné and his wife Anne desperately search for answers in the my

• Language: English
• Publisher: 23 Leaves Presss
• Release date: May 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997783841

Raine Baushke

Raine Baushke grew up in Fountain, Michigan and lives and writes in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Besides writing, her interests include gardening, cooking, quilt making and traveling the world with her husband. Contact her at www.rainebaushke.com.

Book preview

Chapter I André

Christmas Eve 2015

N

O ONE BUT Michel la Roche and the angels noticed although Michel had cautioned André Gensonné that excessive worry would generate bad karma. André dismissed his friend’s concern as religiosity. Would heeding Michel’s warning have changed the outcome?

ANDRÉ GENSONNÉ TRACED the veins on Anne’s hand as they sat with his family ensconced in two pews on Christmas Eve in Paris. It was hard to believe Anne had married him, and they were attending midnight Mass. André had an uneasy relationship with Church, but his mother’s serene face kept him from checking his watch—a habit he was determined to break.

Cocooned within the congregation beneath old chandeliers that barely held away the darkness, their unborn infant fluttered against his arm. He smoothed his hand over Anne’s abdomen, and she smiled. The apprehension André had carried for months dissipated.

After communion, Anne whispered to André, we should go to the hospital.

What’s happening? André gripped the pew in front of him, thoughts tumbling. Four weeks, they had four weeks. It was too early.

I’m not sure, maybe contractions. André half-stood then settled onto the pew. Touching his knee, Anne leaned close, we have time. Anne tipped her head toward his mother. Tell her we’re leaving but don’t worry her.

He whispered to Sophia, we’re taking a cab to the hospital.

Anne?

The baby may be coming. André’s legs trembled as he helped Anne out of the pew and then rushed her down the aisle.

The Mass is ended. Go in peace. The priest’s haunting words lingered behind them.

ANDRÉ LEANED AGAINST the wall outside Anne’s hospital room hours later, brain and body too weary and weak to support his legs. But his family was waiting. He reached for his mobile, but the battery was dead.

Use mine, Anne’s nurse offered.

Thanks, it’s been . . .

Call your family, the nurse urged, then entered Anne’s room.

He rang his mother. André?

I’m using someone’s mobile.

How are they?

Our baby girl is healthy but small. We’re both tired.

What’s her name?

Camille Sophia. The doctor recommended a C-section. Anne is sleeping now.

We can’t wait to see her.

She’s tiny.

Babies grow fast. We love you both—all three.

Love you, Maman.

Everything will look better in the morning. Get some sleep. Call us tomorrow, when you’re ready for visitors. Au revoir.

Au revoir.

Camille Sophia Gensonné had been taken to the neonatal intensive care unit minutes after she was born. André checked on her before going back to Anne’s room. Their baby’s nurse was leaning over her protective bed. Looking up, she waved him inside.

She’s tiny, he whispered.

She’s strong and healthy. Her vital signs are good. If you put on a gown, you can hold her.

Not yet. Anne should hold her first.

Moments later, André discovered Anne’s nurse checking her pulse. Counting, she held out her hand for her mobile. Thank you, she said, looking up.

I appreciate—.

Your wife and baby are sleeping. Get some rest.

André kissed Anne’s forehead, breathing in her scent. It’s okay to leave? André’s eyes searched the nurse’s eyes.

She nodded. Everything will look better in the morning. The same words his mother had said. He watched Anne breathe. She was in capable hands.

Their hours-old infant disappeared from the hospital Christmas morning—before anyone in the family, but André had seen her.

Chapter II André

Friday, November 13, 2015

A

GUSTY NOVEMBER wind whipped Parisian attorney André Gensonné’s wool coat around his legs as he strode along a busy Paris boulevard. He’d dressed in black-tie to attend the Nutcracker ballet with another woman at Anne’s insistence. André would rather be home with her.

André entered Garden View's lobby, an exclusive retirement home with the ambiance of a five-star hotel. Genevieve Cloutier was seated in a burgundy chair. Her back was straight, and her legs crossed at the ankles.

Bonjour. He kissed her extended hand. Genevieve arose like an elegant butterfly, although she was more than eighty.

Bonjour, André. Her thick shoulder-length hair was silver and her face smooth. Genevieve was an ageless beauty who adhered to meticulous French skincare.

Did you receive the tickets? Genevieve asked.

I did. Thank you.

Genevieve’s courier envelope had arrived yesterday. He’d given the Nutcracker Ballet tickets he’d already purchased to his office assistant when he’d received Genevieve’s package. This time was the second where Genevieve had taken the initiative. The first evening hadn’t gone well. Was his chivalry threatened? Or was it the loss of control?

Anne might have worn the classic black dress with elbow-length sleeves. But Madame Cloutier’s jewelry dated her to the late 1920s. Art Deco-inspired Tiffany earrings and multiple strings of cultured pearls—aged with patina—completed her ensemble. Genevieve had everything but family, as did other women he’d befriended who’d lived in this home. She was childless.

The French required by law that people care for their older relatives according to their means. Some didn’t have a family but had plenty of money to pay for care, and Genevieve fit that description.

André started taking older women out when one of his former clients said she’d missed their business luncheons. So once a month, they went out to lunch or infrequently to a theatre or art event. After she died, he’d continued the custom with other women without family or friends. It was a way of compensating for his unearned wealth and status.

Genevieve Cloutier’s closest friends had either left her through death or moving nearer to their children. But the persistent woman had gradually changed the luncheon ritual into an evening event—some extravagant soirées.

How is Anne?

Very well. Our baby is due in two months.

She’s having a baby? Genevieve had asked the same question last month and the month before.

She is, we are.

Your cab has arrived, Monsieur Gensonné. Her assistant approached them with a deep burgundy coat and handed it to André. He held it for Genevieve as she gracefully slid into the arms and turned.

Thank you. She slipped each button through its slit with precision. Genevieve never hurried. She looked up.

It’s freezing outside. Do you have a scarf and gloves?" André asked.

Antoinette? Her assistant materialized with soft kid-leather gloves. Genevieve maneuvered manicured fingers into them and accepted her feather-trimmed handbag.

André crooked his arm. Her hand alighted on his forearm as they proceeded through the door held open by the desk attendant. Genevieve was her most regal tonight. He seated her in the cab and circled the idling car, halting his arm halfway up. Checking the time when with Genevieve had become a habit, and she let him know she despised it.

When André was newly married, he’d invited Anne to accompany them in March and again in April. The third month she’d decided to stay home.

Genevieve prefers you to herself, Anne had said.

You’re my wife, why wouldn’t you come? She knows I’m married.

But when you attend to her alone, she can pretend you’re not. She can relive her youth, or at least relive the times she had a handsome man on her arm.

She was married for fifty-some years. Her husband died eight or ten years ago.

I’m a woman. Trust me. Anne had been right. Genevieve lit up when she saw that he was unaccompanied in May. Anne was more astute than he was.

Tonight would be memorable for Genevieve. The ballet performance was at the Palais Garnier, an architectural masterpiece inaugurated in 1875. Napoleon III commissioned it as a showcase for dance and opera, and it was a spectacular venue she’d have frequented as the wife of a French diplomat.

Madame Genevieve Cloutier had traveled the world and hobnobbed with ambassadors and politicians. Her husband was the French ambassador to London and Washington in the late nineteen-fifties and early nineteen-sixties. She was an intriguing date. Sometimes they spoke English as Genevieve wanted to maintain her English language skills.

Now that Anne’s due date was near, it was harder to leave home, but Genevieve would be devastated if he discontinued their evenings. After they were seated in the taxicab, his mind wandered, backing up month by month.

What are you thinking about? Genevieve said, resting her gloved hand on his forearm.

Other evenings we’ve spent together. The cab driver glanced back at him, lifting his brows.

Good memories? Her cultured voice and tone implied they were.

Most of them are memorable. Genevieve sniffed, removed her hand from his arm, and looked out the window.

André reviewed the last few outings silently as the driver traversed through congested traffic. How would he extricate himself from the domineering woman without causing harm? Or disappointing his wife.

AN AWKWARD EVENING had occurred about five months ago in June. Genevieve paid for and planned their evening entertainment, dinner at an exclusive restaurant, and a premier theatre performance.

He and Anne suspected she was pregnant days before, and he’d wanted to cancel with Genevieve and celebrate with her.

You can’t disappoint Genevieve. That’s what I love about you, Anne had said.

I want to snuggle with you.

It’s one night. I’ll watch television.

He couldn’t disappoint Genevieve, so the evening went on as she had planned. Genevieve purchased a stunning red dress and a priceless ruby bracelet. Uncomfortable with the older woman financing the evening and regretting time away from Anne, his mind had drifted to his wife.

Every time he looked at his watch, the hands had barely moved.

Why are you watching the time? Genevieve had asked. Are you bored?

No. You’re good company. It’s a habit.

A new habit, she’d said. Feign interest even if you’re bored. She turned her head toward the stage. André widened his eyes and wished he was with Anne.

That June dinner and theatre event—planned and paid for by Genevieve—altered how André regarded their evenings.

He had considered her the same as other wealthy dowagers he had taken out to lunch or the theatre. The lonely women were grateful for his company.

When Genevieve paid for dinner and purchased expensive theatre tickets, the dynamics changed. She controlled their time together.

At the end of the interminable evening, André escorted Genevieve inside the ornate lobby of her exclusive assisted-living home. Henceforth, I’ll pay for our evenings. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—.

Is Anne jealous? Genevieve’s eyes narrowed.

She suggested I spend time with you.

One night a month, she has you the rest of the nights.

André touched his forehead, her proprietary air unnerving him.

The evenings reverted to normal for the next few months. They went out for a casual dinner in July and attended a jazz festival in August. A break in the humidity had brought an enormous crowd to the mid-August event in the Tuileries Gardens.

Parisians and visitors spread blankets or carried folding chairs into the gardens. Everywhere André looked, he saw babies: parents pushing baby carriages, fussing over their needs, occasionally unfastening an infant to ride on their hip. He’d not noticed babies before. Did Anne see babies everywhere?

Genevieve sat like a queen in a slatted wooden chair dressed in a lightweight floral dress with long sleeves, her lovely hands resting in her lap.

I want to sell a valuable painting, she had said, I need your help. Her manner was haughty, although her eyes were vulnerable.

Who painted it.?

Raphael, one of his Madonnas.

His Madonnas are in museums, private collections.

This is in a private collection. Mine.

André clasped her wrist. We’ll talk later. The musicians commenced their first set.

Anne and I are expecting a baby in January, André said during the first break. The jazz musicians had finished their set. He and Anne planned that he would tell Genevieve their exciting news tonight.

Anne?

My wife.

You’re married?

We married on Valentine’s Day.

You didn’t tell me you’d married.

I did. Anne went to the opera with us in March, the symphony in April.

You married that woman?

Yes. The musicians retrieved their instruments, tuned, and adjusted tonal nuances, and announced the second set.

When did you get married?

Valentine’s Day.

How romantic. Why didn’t you tell me?

André smiled and patted her hand. Let’s enjoy the music. My friend Michel would love this. He’s a jazz enthusiast.

Is he single?

André frowned. Her conversation was disjointed, switching from a Raphael reference to denying his marriage, then asking if Michel was single. August had been the first month André questioned Genevieve’s memory.

Was she blocking details of Anne, or was age-related dementia a factor? And her reference to owning a Raphael was disturbing. Raphael’s Madonna paintings were well-documented and well-known.

THEIR SEPTEMBER AND October evenings out were reliably uneventful: André accompanied Genevieve to an art gallery showing in September and a musical performance at the Louvre in October.

The evenings had returned to their usual pattern, and he was comfortable with this version of Genevieve. Possessing an innate ability to blend into any social situation with aplomb, she behaved graciously as she always had. She must have been a hell of an ambassador’s wife.

Then the courier package arrived in time for their November evening at the Nutcracker ballet, resulting in a return of the haughty Madame Genevieve Cloutier. Before he escorted her home, he would tell Genevieve he couldn’t make their December date.

André couldn’t leave Anne alone at night with their baby due within weeks.

WHEN THEY EXITED the Palais Garnier, police were scattered in pairs everywhere, positioning assault weapons against tense bodies. André sheltered Madame Cloutier against his side.

What’s happened? André asked.

Go home. Paris is under attack. Get off the streets.

Ten months ago, the satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo’s office sustained a rampage and endured murdered employees. Parisians still felt wounded.

When he switched on his mobile, a series of frantic messages filled the screen: Anne, his mother, father, Michel.

Anne’s messages were increasingly desperate. He summoned his private driver. Have you heard? Come to the Palais Garnier. Get me home. Now. My companion has a driver.

I’m safe. Genevieve is safe. I’m coming home, he texted Anne. She didn’t return his text or call. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

What if Anne had gone out?

Chapter III Anne

Friday, November 13, 2015

C

URLED UP WITH a childbirth book under a quilt hand-sewn by her mother-in-law, Anne savored the privacy of their quiet apartment. She had always been a loner—no one knew her well—and solitude suited her. Until she and André married, she had spent most of her time alone.

André didn’t want to leave tonight, but she’d insisted. His obsessive concern was stifling, and she needed an evening to herself.

She awoke when her book tumbled to the floor, her infant complaining by thumping its feet. What time was it? She was hungry and the leg she was lying on felt wooden. Stretching her legs out on the leather sofa, Anne tucked her hands behind her head and studied the paintings arrayed on the salon’s two-story walls.

Aware she could redecorate or buy what she wanted, Anne had been reluctant to change anything. Would the fairy tale disappear if she rearranged it?

Anne brought nothing from her apartment to her home with André. She had sublet her beloved home fully furnished to her replacement at the American Embassy in Paris. Sarah Adams had been grateful and urged Anne to visit.

Longing for her home manifested as an ache in her side just above the baby. She padded to André’s kitchen in thick wool socks that muffled her steps. Should she have given up everything?

Reheating the Lentil and Carrot soup she had prepared earlier, Anne tore a piece from that morning’s baguette. She’d found pleasure in cooking since her marriage—with the help of Sophia, her obliging mother-in-law. What did André and Madame Cloutier eat tonight, she wondered, content with her comfort food.

When André left that evening dressed in black tie, Anne sensed his irritation as he rubbed the back of his neck. Genevieve shouldn’t have paid for their evening. It went against his character.

Anne snipped grapes from a cluster and set a tray with her dinner. Picking up the remote, she flicked on the television, then turned it off, choosing classical music instead. She thought about baby names as she ate her simple meal.

When she finished, she checked the time, took her dishes into the kitchen, and loaded the dishwasher. Why was she restless?

She wandered into their bedroom and flopped onto the bed, smoothing her hands over her abdomen. Their baby responded with thuds against her soothing palms. How would their baby look? It would have dark hair—they both had dark hair. Her blue eyes or André’s thick-lashed dark-brown eyes? Anne scooched to the side of the bed and got up.

A full-length mirror on the back of their bedroom door reflected her body. She looked as big as a house in her thick socks and white nightgown. Is that how she seemed to André? Every time he glanced at her, he said he loved her. She was beautiful. What did he think? French women were thinner than American women. Anne was huge. Was there more than one baby inside? André was a twin, but ultrasounds didn’t lie. Anne smoothed her gown over her abdomen and turned sideways, shrugging.

In two months, she would be a mother. Overwhelming fear gripped her. Anne didn’t know how to care for a baby. That book was complicated. How would she remember everything? Trembling, she wanted André to hold her and chase away her worries. It was only eight o’clock. She would check the website of the Palais Garnier for the length of the ballet performance.

Anne retrieved her laptop from the bedside table and entered the salon—and saw nighttime Paris spread below from the height of their penthouse apartment. The city beckoned her with its twinkling points of light arrayed in a magical spiral emanating from the center of Paris.

Crossing her arms around the slim case resting on her baby bump, she lost time and space. How could a poor American girl from Michigan be gazing at Paris from the top of a luxury apartment building? She was married to a prominent Parisian and expecting his baby in January.

Tears flowed until her wet face dripped onto her nightgown. Was she dreaming? The baby was real. One side of her abdomen heaved left. Reading about hormones had been a mistake.

She’d find a prettier nightgown to welcome André home. Returning to their bedroom, she tossed her computer on the bed. Anne found two lacy concoctions. Neither fit over her swelling body; she was wearing her largest nightgown. Anne left the contents spilling over the open drawers, longing for human voices. Turning on the television, she lay on her bed curled toward the screen. The networks had preempted television programming.

Paris was under attack in multiple locations around the city!

Anne pushed herself upright, switching channels, gasping for breath. In January, Paris had just experienced the Charlie Hebdo massacre, resulting in Anne’s reassignment from the American embassy in Paris to the American embassy in Belgium. And then Anne had been flown to Washington, D.C. for her expertise in the French language. It couldn’t be happening again.

Police evacuated the French President from the Stade de France stadium on Paris's northern edge, where France just competed with Germany in an international soccer match. A man wearing a suicide belt detonated explosives in the area.

Another man detonated his vest outside a stadium entrance. Francois Hollande rushed away under heavy guard.

André was out there! Anne paced as news coverage shifted to areas under simultaneous attacks, her heart racing. Where was her mobile? She repeatedly dialed, receiving his voice mail. Had he turned it off? Of course. He was watching the ballet at the Palais Garnier.

Anne left a message, call me. I need to know you’re safe. Mobile in hand, she sank onto the sofa. News of other attacks on favored nightlife spots, restaurants, and bars was unfolding. So far, none seemed to be near André and Genevieve Cloutier.

News erupted again. The Bataclan concert hall in the 11th arrondissement was under attack, and there were rumors of hostages. The California rock group Eagles of Death had been performing. Men were firing assault-type rifles into the crowd of the sold-out Bataclan venue with fifteen hundred people inside.

Was André safe? What if he and Genevieve had visited one of the ravaged venues for an after-performance aperitif? The Palais Garnier was in the 9th arrondissement.

Anne dialed André's number and received a voicemail. He’d call her if he could.

Are you okay? Anne asked, reverting to English.

Anne walked in perpetual circles around their apartment. Why had she insisted he go? André wanted to stay with her tonight. But as soon as he left their apartment, she was lonely.

The screaming three-tone siren reverberated throughout the apartment from the bowels of the television. Flashing lights and anguished faces brought back January's terror when the city underwent the attacks at Charlie Hebdo, engulfing Paris in grief.

That day Anne had been hustled