The Handyman (Chambre Noir Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  She placed her hands on the arms of the chair and glared at him. “You’ll judge us. Everyone will. I’d hoped to take the secret to my grave. Don’t you see, that’s why Charles never came back here?”

  “What do you mean? Is Charles buried in the cave?”

  Her mouth flew open, then she slapped her hand over it.

  Josh glanced at Isabelle. She was staring incredulously and shaking her head, as if refusing to believe it. He returned his attention to Paulette, tears freely dripping down her face now.

  “What happened, Paulette?” he said. “We’re here to help you. Talk to us.”

  She closed her eyes and hung her head down, but did not speak.

  Josh leaned in closer, preparing to check her pulse, when she suddenly lifted her head and stared right at him.

  “Charles hated Franco, my lover. Charles often complained to me that Franco was lazy. He told me that Franco was using me. He claimed that my Franco was a terrible person and a terrible artist, which wasn’t true. Franco was well-known in parts of Europe. He could have been the next Picasso. My Charles would often just sit and glare at Franco. The two constantly argued. I remember the day it all started. Franco had been living with us for almost a year, and I thought he and Charles were getting along well enough. Then, one day, Charles walked over and scratched Franco’s painting, the one he’d just finished for a customer.

  “Franco screamed, raised his fists. I thought he would punch Charles, but he didn’t. He insisted Charles apologize to him. Charles refused, just saying he deserved it. At the time, I couldn’t understand what had gotten into my son. Two days later, Charles mixed up all of Franco’s paint colors—poured them all onto a blank canvas, smearing them into a mess. Franco had to buy all new paints and made Charles pay for them. They barely tolerated each other after that.”

  “Did they get into an argument? Did one of them kill the other?” Isabelle interjected.

  “I don’t exactly know how it happened,” she whispered. “I overheard them talking early in the morning one day a few weeks later, outside, near the front door. I was in the living room and had the window open, so I heard what was said. Charles told him he would go to the gendarmes and tell them what Franco had done to him.

  “Molested him,” she said, shaking her head and closing her eyes. After a moment, she opened them and looked at Josh and then turned her head to look at Isabelle, shame obvious. “I thought he was threatening to tell the police a lie. But Franco just told my son the gendarmes wouldn’t believe him. That he didn’t have any proof. Charles had replied that he would give them details and they would believe him.”

  “Was he really molesting Charles?”

  She nodded. “I could tell by the way Franco responded and the way both of them looked that it was true. Franco continued, raving, saying that no one would believe anything Charles said. Told him he was just a stupid kid. A delinquent. By then I was at the window so I could see it happen, when my Charles . . . Charles swung a bat at him and missed.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Franco left, laughing like a crazy man. Sent chills up and down my spine. Charles left too, in the other direction. I didn’t know what to do.” She sat quietly for several minutes.

  Josh didn’t want to push her, but said as quietly as he could, “What did you do?”

  “I tried to tell myself that Charles was lying. That Franco wasn’t a pedophile and that he wasn’t homosexual. But . . . some things started to make sense to me. During those dark few hours I recalled odd conversations I’d overheard, phone calls I’d answered only to be hung up on, nights when Franco had to leave to run some errand. He’d sometimes be gone for two or three hours and would return long after I’d gone to bed. He thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I’d suspected an affair, but told myself there weren’t any women in town that would have interested him. But the accusation made me start thinking about his male friends.”

  “Did you confront either of them when they returned? After their argument?”

  “Charles saw me in the window, right before he left. I wanted to go after him and question him, but something in his eyes told me it wasn’t the right time. Instead, I went into town to talk to a friend. She knew more of the town gossip than I did. She told me she’d been hearing rumors about Franco and one of the local men.” Rubbing away tears remaining on her cheeks and shaking her head, she pleaded, “How could I have been that stupid?”

  Josh patted her hand and said, “People deceive each other all the time. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid because someone did that to you.”

  Isabelle said, “That’s right. I’m sorry, Paulette.”

  “After talking with Annabelle, I went back to the troglo, figuring I would confront Franco when he returned. I was shaking with fear and anger. I needed something to calm my nerves so I went into the kitchen for a glass of wine. I didn’t make it to the refrigerator.” Her eyes clouded with tears again. “Blood was pooled on the floor and a trail of blood led behind the cabinet wall that someone had pulled out.”

  Isabelle gasped, but remained otherwise silent as Paulette told her story.

  “My stomach knotted up. I didn’t want to move from where I stood, knowing what horrendous deed lay ahead, yet I was drawn into the cave.”

  Josh glanced at Isabelle. She was leaning forward, straining to hear the next words.

  “Charles stood barely inside the cave, staring down at Franco’s body. I think I must have screamed, because he turned his head and gave me an odd look.” She hesitated, her eyes looking upward as if trying to pull the memories back toward her from some faraway place. “It gets a bit fuzzy after that. That day haunted my dreams for decades, and now . . . I can’t recall the details.” Paulette sniffled and blew her nose in a kerchief she retrieved from a pocket. Holding onto the wadded cloth, she continued, “He cried, you know. I remember that. He mentioned his argument with Franco about what Franco had done to him—that he’d molested him several times.”

  She stopped talking, tears flowing down her cheeks again.

  Josh put his hand over hers.

  “His eyes. I’ll never forget the way they bore into me as if accusing me for not protecting him. I told him I didn’t know about it until I heard them argue that morning.”

  “What did he say?” Isabelle asked.

  “Just that we needed to bury the body and not ever tell a soul.”

  “So, Charles killed Franco?” Josh asked.

  She nodded. “It was 1970. Charles was only fourteen and had gone through a growth spurt in the last few months. He was getting tall, almost as tall as Franco, but was still very thin. I used to tease him that someone was stretching him to make him grow like one of those stretchy dolls that gets thinner and thinner the more you pull on them.” She smiled thinly. “It wasn’t easy, but between the two of us we dragged the body over to the back section of the cave. Charles dug the hole. I helped shove Franco into it.”

  Josh and Isabelle remained riveted, waiting for Paulette to finish.

  “We didn’t talk about it. I think we were both in shock. Charles went upstairs, packed a small bag, and said he was going away. He told me to tell everyone that he and Franco had left together. Charles said that if people thought they were lovers, it didn’t matter to him, because he wasn’t ever coming back. It was safer for both of us. I told him I didn’t want him to leave, he was still my son and I loved him, but in the end I understood it was for the best. I gave him some money to help him start a new life. And that’s all of it. That’s the last time I saw my son.”

  “It might be considered self-defense,” Josh said. “Don’t know the laws here in France.”

  “Non! No one can ever know what happened,” Paulette pleaded. “If Charles is still alive and the story came out, it would still ruin the rest of his life. That’s why I wanted you to think I didn’t have any family. I didn’t want . . . .”

  “I understand. But you’re still his mother. If I were him, I would want to see you on
e last time.”

  “You won’t tell anyone about the body?”

  Josh looked away. What the hell was he supposed to do? Cover up for a kid’s mistake or go to the police and open up a . . . a what? A half-century ago murder? Would anyone care at this point? On the other hand, some people, once they got a taste of killing, liked it. Turning back to Paulette, he said, “I’ll have to think about that. I mean, from what you’ve told us, Franco was a pervert, but he might have family who never knew what happened to him. They might want to know.”

  “He wasn’t married. No children, no siblings. He would be in his mid-nineties if he were still alive. His parents never knew what happened to him, but it’s too late to tell them now. They’re long dead.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He shrugged, trying to absorb the whole thing. Finding himself randomly staring at the coffee table, Josh suddenly had a thought. “Hey, didn’t you say he was an artist? Didn’t anyone ever question what happened to him? In the art world?”

  “I don’t know. Not to me.”

  After comforting Paulette until she stopped crying completely, Josh said, “I should walk Isabelle home before it gets dark out. Will you be okay alone for half an hour, Paulette?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be fine. Go on.”

  Josh followed Isabelle out the door, but glanced over at Paulette before he closed the door. Her eyes were closed.

  On the way down the hill, Josh said, “I think we should continue searching for answers. I’m worried about what we may find, but I can’t see leaving things the way they are. Too many questions unanswered, you know. What do you think?”

  “I agree. We might have to tell the gendarmes, but we need more time and more details. We don’t want to get anyone in trouble if we can help it, right?”

  “Right. It could destroy Paulette. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “I can meet you back at the troglo tomorrow morning, if you want.”

  “Thanks, Isabelle. I appreciate your help.”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Isabelle kept the bakery closed, placing a sign on the door that she would re-open the next day, and returned to work with Josh on the storage area, as they had tentatively agreed the previous evening. They worked mostly in silence, not yet daring to open a discussion regarding what they should do about the murder. They decided to knock off early in the afternoon. Josh accompanied her back into town, Isabelle fumbled with her keys and finally unlocked the door to her building. What is wrong with me? All thumbs. She turned her head and said, “Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  “No problem,” Josh said. “So you live in your bakery?”

  “No, silly, not in it. Upstairs. My parents built the house above the bakery for convenience.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Well, they bought the bakery twenty-seven years ago and ran it together. I was three and my brother was five-and-a-half. Papa wanted to live in a troglo, but Meme insisted we convert the upstairs into a home. That way Papa would be close to work and she could have us kids near them when we weren’t in school.”

  Isabelle trudged up the stairs, with Josh following on her heels. God, I hope this is not a mistake. She’d never brought a man home. Not once. Well, of course apart from the doctor tending to Henri, the paramedics, and the gendarmes. That was entirely different.

  At the door to her home, she fumbled again with her keys. Apollo, hearing her outside, began meowing and scratching on the inside of the door. Isabelle finally turned the lock and pushed open the door, Apollo standing impatiently, waiting to rub against her legs. “Hello, my sweet one.”

  “This is a nice apartment,” Josh said. “Kinda dark, though.”

  She walked over to the windows and opened the blinds. “Sorry, I like the dark.”

  Josh nodded and walked around, studying everything and making Isabelle feel exposed somehow. She straightened two pillows and picked up the jacket she’d left on the floor.

  “How many bedrooms? You gonna show me around?”

  “Uh, why do you want to see the whole flat?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just want to know you better. A person’s home tells a lot about them.”

  She pulled her sweater closed at the neck. “There’s not much to see, really. My parents’ bedroom is there.” She pointed down the hall. “My brother’s room is next. Then mine.”

  “But they’re no longer living?”

  She nodded, looking down a moment.

  “Oh. Sorry. Stupid of me. Why do you keep their rooms closed?”

  “I . . . I don’t need the rooms. I’ve left them as they were when they were alive.”

  “Seriously? You haven’t changed anything?”

  She bit her lip. How was she supposed to tell him that she couldn’t bring herself to step foot in their rooms after she cleaned up following their deaths. He wouldn’t understand.

  “My computer is there, on the kitchen table. It’s already turned on. You can connect with my local Wi-Fi and start your research. I’ll make us something to eat.”

  Josh turned and stared at the two closed doors, then faced her again.

  Please don’t ask me about them.

  He nodded and strode into the kitchen, plopping down on one of the chairs. He looked lost for a moment before saying, “I will need your help, I’m afraid. Everything’s gonna be in French, right?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think about that. Just see what you can do while I fix food. Then I will help.”

  As she placed luncheon meats, cheese, and chunks of baguette on two plates, she sneaked glances at Josh. A Viking. Like in the history books she read in school. That’s what he reminded her of. Pale blond hair, blue eyes. Tall and rugged enough to be a real Viking. Only one thing was missing—the aggression.

  She realized Apollo was making a rather loud purring sound.

  Isabelle glanced down at Josh’s lap, where Apollo was sitting and tilting his head upward to get strokes on his neck. Josh kept one hand on the computer mouse and the other on the cat’s fur. Oui. A Viking and his Norwegian Forest cat. If Apollo liked the stranger, she could trust him, right?

  She carried salad fixings and two plates over to the table and then sat next to Josh.

  “Oh, that looks great.”

  “It’s nothing much. Have you figured your way around our French websites?”

  “Well, somewhat. Some have a translation available.”

  “Have you found anyone named Charles Lapierre?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately too many. Apparently, it’s a rather common name. I’m trying to narrow the possibilities by checking their ages. Charles would be sixty if he’s still alive.”

  After an hour of detective work on the internet, they had a list of four people who might fit the age requirement. They couldn’t tell for sure, because two didn’t give their age online. Anyway, they needed to check one in Dijon in the Burgundy Province, one in Balazuc in the Massif Central Province, and two in Troyes in the Champagne Province. They couldn’t find anyone named Charles Lapierre here in the Loire Province. They decided they would start out in Troyes, an easy train ride from Mythe. After that they would return to check back on Paulette. If she was feeling up to it, they would take her with on the second trip, the one to Balazuc.

  “You might want to pack an overnight bag,” Josh said. “It might only take us a few hours to get there, look around, and get back. But if we actually find the right Charles or get more leads, we could end up staying a day or two.”

  An overnight trip? Her last trip must have been fourteen years ago—with her parents and brother. A year before Henri’s accident. She shuddered.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, sorry. It’s been so long since I went out of town I don’t know what to pack and feel a bit wary.”

  “You’ve got time to decide and figure it out. I need to go back first, anyway, to check on Paulette and make sure she’ll be okay staying alone for a day or two. Why don’t we mee
t up here tomorrow morning?”

  She nodded.

  He stepped to the front door, then paused. “Oh, I almost forgot. What about your bakery? Can you close it again temporarily or do you have someone who can fill in for you?”

  “Oh, no! I didn’t think of that. I kept the store closed today. I . . . I suppose I can put up another sign telling people I’ll be closed another day or two. I did that when Henri—”

  “If you don’t think that will hurt your business, to close temporarily—”

  “It will be fine.” She smiled and watched Josh leave, then bit her lip. She plopped down on the sofa and rubbed her eyes with her hands. It wasn’t the closing that worried her. What was the protocol for a single woman traveling with a single man overnight? God, she didn’t have the slightest clue about that sort of thing. That’s what happens when you spend your life in a cocoon, working and taking care of other people.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PAULETTE PULLED HER bathrobe closer around her body, tightened the belt, then sipped the cup of coffee Josh had poured for her a few minutes ago. This morning, the cave felt colder than usual. This seemed odd, since it never did so before and she’d always heard caves stayed a constant temperature unless you lit your fireplace or had electric heating or cooling. Maybe it’s me. This damn illness is tearing me down. She coughed. The ache in her chest wasn’t as bad today. Not so far, at least.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone?” Josh asked her again, walking back into the kitchen area and sitting down at the table with his coffee. “I can get someone to come in and stay with you. Or maybe you can stay at someone else’s house.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Then I’ll be all right.” She coughed again. Hanging her head down, shoulders hunched, she picked up her cup and took another sip of the tepid brew.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you looking downcast?”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just tired,” she lied. “You know, I used to love traveling. Couldn’t get enough. Now, the thought of all that gallivanting around makes my bones hurt.”