your employer.”
Reynard stood up. “Mignon. That crosses the line of good behavior. Stop it.”
Mignon looked tragic and lonely. She snarled, “I will not have women come into this home and office making the plays for your attention. It is distracting and wrong.” She folded her arms. “There. I have said my pieces and I have done. Do what you will.”
Alain didn’t look up from the sauce. He said, “’Piece’, mon petit chou chou (my little cabbage, a term of endearment). You say ‘I have said my piece’ not ‘pieces’.”
Mignon raised her nose in the air. “The cook corrects my English yet again. Very well. I am capable of change.” She huffed. “In any events, I have made my say. I will get back to work.” She turned to Emily. “Welcome to the family.” She caught sight of Alain’s upraised finger. “What is it, mon petit cuire (my little cook)? Have I said the wrong again?”
Alain moved the pot off the burner. He turned to look at Mignon.
Emily gasped. She hadn’t looked at him before with clear eyes. He must have been six foot six inches tall, thick and well muscled. His voice was low and cultured. He said, “Why must you behave so, Mignon? With all of the drama?”
Mignon had been simmering before, just below the boil so that she bubbled enough to shake the lid on her pot. Now, she exploded into face-reddening fury. She sputtered, “You... You cook. You correct me so often and never tell me when I say it right. You treat me as if I were a piece of furniture. It is maddening to have a man such as you around. I will stand it no longer. I will work from my room for the rest of the day. I have spoken.” She stomped over to the door and opened it.
Alain said, “Lunch is ready. We have Bouchée à la Reine. The sauce is perfect.”
Mignon didn’t turn around. “Did you increase the onion and make less on the nutmeg?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I will eat then I go to my room to wall myself off from the rest of you.” She sat at the table.
Reynard brought Emily back to the conversation. “Miss Mignon Budreau is our technician. She repairs the damage time has done to our works of art. Now, tell me about your qualifications.”
Emily listed them in order of importance. She’d done it before, and it worked.
Reynard nodded. “Excellent. The job pays...” He listed a figure a third again higher than any job Emily had heard of in her field. He continued, “It comes with full benefits and vacation. Will you take it?”
Emily had sense enough not to stand on the table and shout, “By damn, you bet your sweet ass I’ll take it.” She nodded. “I’d love to.”
Reynard said, “Excellent. You can start tomorrow if that is convenient.” He turned to Alain. “Tell any other applicants that the job is filled.”
Mignon said to Emily, in a voice that demanded an answer, “What do you know of law enforcement and security?”
Emily froze for a second or two. They weren’t supposed to know who she was.
Both men said, “Mignon.” She held up her hand. “No. I will not be quiet on this point. We have paintings worth millions in a house that boasts a security system a full six decades old. We are an excellent target. Should I withhold my comments and feel sorrow at your graves that I didn’t raise my voice? No.” She glanced at Emily with suspicion. “Miss Goodson has qualifications that cover her field. That is good. But if we are broken into, will she be of value.”
Emily breathed a sigh of relief. She could simply tell the truth, about this, at least. She said, “I did an internship on security and security systems with the L.A. County Art Museum. My real qualification comes from my father who is a policeman and my two brothers and one sister who are policemen and the many discussions I have listened to growing up in a house full of cops. Also, I am certified to carry a concealed weapon and have qualified with the pistol in the LAPD reserve force. I will be