by Susan Finlay
When he talked with them in the hotel that day, Domenic and Claudine had seemed like a perfectly normal couple. Am I jumping to conclusions here? Letting my imagination go wild? He knew it wouldn’t be the first time.
“That’s all we can do for now. How about you try to get some rest while I work in the storage area? I’m getting close to finishing in there.”
“All right,” she relented.
“I’ll leave a message for Isabelle, too. She’s still working, but she’ll get the message after she closes up shop.”
After leaving her a message, Josh headed into the storage area, wondering at all this intrigue.
At bedtime, he checked for phone calls or messages. There was one message from Isabelle saying she would do more checking on the internet, but nothing from Charles.
Josh undressed, plopped down on the bed, and laid flat on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the rough ceiling. Something had been niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite bring it into focus. Maybe it had something to do with Franco. Franco was an artist who, according to Paulette, made money on his paintings. Charles had damaged one painting, but Franco probably had an art studio and many other paintings. Where was that studio? What happened to the paintings? Was the studio in the cave? No, that wasn’t likely. Artists needed natural light in their studios. So where was it?
He tossed and turned, but no answers were forthcoming. Tomorrow he would ask Paulette, and if she didn’t remember, he would check around town. Should he also talk to Domenic? How could he question him in such a way that he wouldn’t suspect he knew his real identity?
He hoped he wasn’t in over his head. The only other time he’d gotten involved in something at all similar was back in high school when he took a journalism class and wrote an article about a mysterious burglar wreaking havoc in their community. His article was well-written according to his teacher, but Josh had been disappointed that he hadn’t really accomplished anything—the police never did catch the culprit.
At breakfast, he stretched and yawned, then rubbed his face, not feeling completely awake. What a crappy night. He’d barely get to sleep, then wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where he was being chased—in some dreams by Domenic; in others by Charles. In one dream Charles and Domenic had even formed an alliance and had worked together to do away with Franco to ensure they would inherit from Paulette.
In the light of day, that idea sounded ridiculous.
Paulette was sitting across from him at the dining table, reading a newspaper. She folded the pages, put down the paper, studied him a moment and said, “You look like hell. What happened to your hair?”
“I slept poorly, tossing and turning, dreaming about everything. Do you need any more coffee?” he asked, noticing her cup was almost empty. After filling her cup he excused himself and went into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and almost scared himself. God, his hair was a freakin’ mess! He looked like some homeless person. Okay, time for a shower.
But even as the warm water ran over his body, something was still bothering him. By the time he got out, toweled himself off, got dressed, and combed his hair, thoughts began to fall into place. He dashed up the stairs and picked up his camera, turning it on and thumbing through the photos he’d taken yesterday afternoon in Mythe.
And there it was. The dark blue Renault he’d seen and yet hadn’t given much thought to. Okay, before you jump to conclusions, that’s a common car here in France. A common color, too. He studied the next photo, then the next, and then—Charles? It couldn’t be. He’d gone back to Balazuc. Told Paulette he had to get back there for a meeting. He zoomed in on the photo. Yep, definitely Charles.
What the hell was he still doing here?
Setting the camera on the bed, he made a mental note regarding the car’s location and then put on his hiking shoes. He grabbed his camera, then thought better about taking it with him, set it back down, and practically flew down the stairs.
When he opened the front door, Paulette said, “Where are you going? If you’re going into town, will you get me some chocolates?” He nodded, waved, and ran out.
After he reached town, jogged down the main street, and rounded the corner onto the street where the car was parked, he stopped to catch his breath. The car was still there. Okay, it might not be Charles’s car. Careful.
He strolled along, trying to act nonchalant in case anyone was watching from one of the houses’ windows, but his heart was racing and he felt like everyone was watching. When he got close enough, he peeked inside the car windows.
The front window on the driver’s side was open a crack, but not enough for a hand to reach in and unlock the door. Hmm. In the U.S. no one left their car doors unlocked, but here in a small town? He glanced to his left, then to his right. No one was watching. He pulled on the door handle. The door opened. He tried unsuccessfully to convince himself that ‘it wasn’t really breaking and entering if you were worried about the owner, was it?’
He opened the door wide, sat down, and opened the glove box—car registration in the name of Charles Lapierre, some car repair receipts, sunglasses. Nothing unusual. He leaned all the way down and checked under the passenger seat. A few empty food wrappers, a paper cup, a sweater. He checked under the driver’s seat. Nothing.
Straightening up, he looked through the rearview mirror. A gendarme stood to the side, outside, staring at him. Oh crap!
Josh stepped out of the car and closed the door. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
The officer, said “What are you doing, monsieur?”
“Uh, my friend parked here a few days ago after he brought me and my other friends back to Mythe. He left to go home—at least we thought he did, but his car is still here. I was hoping to find a note or something saying where he went.”
“And who are you?”
Josh pulled his wallet out and handed his driver’s license to the officer. “I’m working for Madame Lapierre. Her son, Charles, owns this car.”
The officer scanned his license, but did not hand it back, instead saying, “You’ll have to come with me to the Gendarmerie.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
“We received a call this morning from a Monsieur Lapierre who said you were trying to swindle his mother out of her life savings.”
“What? That’s not true. I’ve been trying to help her find her long lost family. This is all a misunderstanding.”
“We will let the captain sort through it all.”
“Look, I need to get back to the troglo. If you escort me up there, we can straighten this out with Paulette.”
The officer grabbed hold of Josh’s arm.
Josh pulled away, and the officer motioned for his partner, whom Josh hadn’t noticed until he came up from behind him.
The two men, each holding one arm, guided Josh over to a police car and shoved him inside. WTF?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JOSH REACHED INTO his pocket to get his cell phone, then remembered the gendarmes had confiscated it an hour earlier. Why were they holding him here? He’d asked them to call Paulette. What was going on? No one was talking to him. And how did Charles or the gendarmes know where to find him? None of this made any sense.
There were houses near where the car was parked on the side of the street. If Charles had stayed overnight with a friend in one of those houses, he might have looked out the window and saw him coming. Dammit!
He sat in a waiting room filled with several empty chairs. On the other side of the room, four uniformed officers, including the two who had brought him in, sat around a table talking to each other, sipping coffee and laughing as if they were at a picnic. Why weren’t they doing anything about him?
The door to the outside—and freedom—was nearby, around the corner and past the reception desk. The gendarmes who had brought him in had promptly set him here and told him to stay until one of them came to get him. Yeah, right, after they decided to get back to work, whenever that m
ight be.
He considered leaving, strolling past the reception desk and out the door. Problem was, the gendarme stationed at the desk was the one employee who actually seemed to be doing his job. The guy kept looking over and glaring at him.
Crap. Why did Charles have to call the gendarmes and say what he said? Did someone put him up to it? His ex-wife, Therese? That, Josh could believe. Therese had practically swooned when Paulette handed her a wad of money for driving them to see Charles. If the couple had talked to each other about Paulette, the Swiss Francs in the mattress, and who-knows-what-else, then maybe she’d convinced Charles he needed to make sure he was the sole-beneficiary of his mother’s estate. If that was the case, then Domenic—if Charles knew who he was—could be the one in danger, not Charles. Good God. What a mess.
No, I’m letting my imagination go wild again. Domenic was the killer, not Charles.
Josh got up and paced, drawing the attention of the desk clerk and one of the gendarmes drinking coffee. Hell, he didn’t even know what Charles and Paulette had talked about while he wasn’t there. Did she show him the old paintings they’d found upstairs? What about the box of gold coins?
Well, what if she did? Charles was her heir.
Hmm. He couldn’t remember the exact day, but he remembered Paulette telling him that she was changing her will and leaving everything to him because she had no family and he was the person who cared for her. He’d told her not to do that, but what if she said something to Charles about that conversation? She got confused sometimes, mixed-up, and forgetful. Who knew what she might have said or done?
Or maybe Charles heard the gossip about wanting the old woman’s money that Isabelle had mentioned to him when he first arrived in Mythe.
Charles had gone into town to visit his old friends the day before yesterday. Oh God.
Okay, if that were true, he could understand Charles worrying, if he had believed the gossip. His calling the gendarmes was possibly logical. And it didn’t mean he meant to harm anyone. No need to panic.
The gendarme manning the reception desk stood up and motioned for Josh to return to his seat. A moment later, Josh heard the front door open and heard footsteps of someone walking in—voices spoke in French—but he couldn’t see around the corner and couldn’t tell who it was. Immediately after, the desk gendarme walked out of sight.
After several minutes the desk gendarme returned with another man, who walked out of sight and apparently spoke with the person in the entryway. Josh could make our voices but not words, which didn’t matter since he wouldn’t understand the words even he could hear them. Then the man appeared, walked toward Josh, followed by Paulette and Domenic. Paulette rushed over to Josh and hugged him.
The man handed Josh a large envelope with his cell phone and wallet in it and said, “You are free to go, Monsieur Clayton.”
Paulette pulled back and asked, “Are you all right, Josh-you-ah? I worried when you didn’t come back. I called Isabelle and she told me she hadn’t seen you, but one of her customers saw gendarmes taking you away.”
“I’m okay, they just scared the crap out of me.”
She smiled. “Good thing they didn’t lock you up. I would have had to beat them up.”
Josh grinned, imagining her swinging an umbrella at the men. “What’s he doing here?”
She glanced up at Domenic who was standing with his arms crossed. “Oh. Domenic found me collapsed near the general store and helped me.”
“You came all the way down here by yourself to get me out of the Gendarmerie?”
“Of course.” She swatted his arm. “Who’s going to fix my dinner if you’re locked up here?” Huh? He glanced at her, but she was all smiles.
“Thanks. Both of you,” Josh said. “Let’s get out of here. We really need to talk in private, all three of us. Can you make it back up the hill, or should we find a place in town to talk?”
JOSH FOLLOWED PAULETTE and Domenic into the hotel. Not his choice of private places for multiple reasons, not least of which was that they were in Domenic’s territory. If he was dangerous, they’d walked into his lair. At least the gendarmes knew they were together. The man would be an idiot if he harmed them today. Okay, he relaxed, nothing bad is going to happen.
When Domenic led them to his private quarters, Claudine gave them a ‘what the hell is going on?’ kind of look. Josh returned her gaze, raised his arms, and shrugged.
Domenic sat down in an overstuffed chair and motioned for Josh and Paulette to sit.
No one said anything, apparently waiting to see what Josh had to say. Josh looked around, noticing several paintings on the walls, then peeked at Paulette to see if she recognized any of them. Nothing. Of course she might not remember Franco’s paintings after all these years.
“Paulette, are you okay? You said Domenic found you collapsed on the street.”
“I’m fine. We sat on a bench in front of the general store awhile. Veronique saw us and brought me a bottle of juice. It helped.”
Josh leaned back against the sofa back, having a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but not a clue where to begin.
“Let me get you something to drink,” Domenic said. “It will only take a minute to brew a fresh pot of coffee.” He stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, not waiting for their replies.
Must be as awkward for him as it is for us. Josh leaned in and whispered to Paulette, “Does he know that we know who he is really?”
“Non. I said nothing to him. Are we sure he’s—” She stopped talking, because Domenic returned, carrying in a tray and setting it down on the coffee table between his chair and the sofa where Josh and Paulette were seated.
“The coffee will be ready momentarily. I brought cookies. Please help yourselves.” He disappeared again.
Josh said, “Do you want to ask him, or should I?”
“You do it.”
Josh picked up a plate and set three cookies on it, then offered them to Paulette.
Her eyes lowered to the big platter, but did not take the plate.
He set two more cookies on the plate, and then she grinned and held out her hands, saying, “No need to worry about my girlish figure.”
He smiled, shook his head, handed her the plate, and then helped himself to three cookies.
Domenic returned with a coffee pot and a pitcher of milk. He poured three cups, handing one to Josh and one to Paulette. “Help yourselves to milk and sugar.”
After Domenic sat down, Josh cleared his throat and said, “Uh, yesterday I took the train to Apremont-sur-Alliers.”
Domenic raised his head, his eyes questioning, and his hand holding onto the handle of the milk pitcher, which he’d tilted for pouring milk into his own coffee cup.
“I was checking on something for Paulette. Her illegitimate son, Andre, was born there.”
Domenic finished pouring his milk and then sipped his coffee, effectively hiding his expression.
Now what? Should he come right out and ask him if he’s Andre?
“Is the 10th of December, 1945 your birthday?”
He nodded.
“Are you Andre Rabaud?”
Domenic sighed and set down his cup on the table. “Yes and no. My parents gave me the name Domenic Laroche when they took me home. It’s my legal name. I was Andre for no more than a few days.”
Paulette said, “That’s not true. You came to my home twice, many years ago when you were young, and called yourself Andre then.”
“That was the name you gave me, the name you would recognize. But you didn’t want to recognize me as your son. I was a piece of trash to you, something to throw out in that dump you have up there.”
“You put me in a difficult spot. I hadn’t told my husband, Rene, about you. The shock of seeing you there at my door left me speechless. Rene was the one who chased you away. Not me.”
“Only the first time; it was you who chased me away when I returned, after your husband’s funeral. I came to offer my condolences. You pra
ctically spat on me. You said I was the son of a Nazi and that you never wanted me. Those words struck like knives into my heart. I was still a boy—only eighteen—and still trying to figure out who I was.”
“Domenic, I’m so very sorry. I have no excuse, but I was in pain. I’d just lost my husband and wasn’t thinking about—”
“You were thinking of yourself. That’s what you’ve done your whole life. Is it any wonder your second son ran off? When I heard about that from my aunt who lives in town, I knew then that I was the lucky one—I got a loving mother and father who put me first.”
Paulette cried out and then covered her face with her hands.
Josh put his arm around her shoulder.
“I’ve made terrible mistakes. When you get to be my age, you realize every wrong turn you took, every missed opportunity, every person you hurt. I would do it all differently, if I could. I would keep you and love you.”
“Hah, I don’t believe you.”
“Your father was a Nazi. That part was true. It was near the end of the Occupation. The Germans had taken over our house and vineyard on the other side of the river. Dozens of Nazis moved into our house and forced us to cook and clean for them. They stole our valuables—the ones that Papa hadn’t had a chance to hide in the troglo and in the caves that the Germans knew nothing of. They sent our valuables to Germany, to fund the war or to go into Hitler’s home. I don’t know. All I know is that I hated most of them—except for the few I knew personally who were different than the rest. One, Emil Braun, in particular was kind. Two of his friends were kind to us, too, though all three of them had to be careful and not show it if front of the others.”
She stopped talking, her voice strangled by a coughing fit.
Josh started to reach out to her, wanting to help, although he wasn’t sure what he could do, but she waved him off and instead picked up her coffee cup, sipping the fluid. That helped and she closed her eyes. Josh figured that was to give her a moment to regain her composure before continuing her story.
