by Susan Finlay
“You’re a fine one to talk. You don’t want to talk to your father. Do you want to reconcile with him?”
“Not right now. The wounds are still raw. That doesn’t mean I’ll never forgive him,” he recited, not believing it, but continued, “I don’t know if I’d want to go to my grave with our relationship in this shape.”
“I have the right to make my own choices. Why can’t you leave it at that?”
“You don’t have regrets that you want to fix? Nothing? You’re satisfied with the way things are? Hell, I’m only twenty-six and I already have a couple of regrets.”
Her face clouded over and tears slid down her cheeks, but she said nothing. Didn’t even unfold her arms to wipe away the tears that dripped onto her shoulders.
Josh popped over to her and squatted at her feet. “Paulette, I’m not trying to hurt you or tell you what to do. It’s your decision. It’s just that reuniting with your family might help bring you peace and closure. My grandma was estranged from my father for many years. They never reconciled. She died without getting to see him and without peace.”
She let out a loud wail and unfolded her arms.
Josh leaned in and hugged her.
When she stopped crying, she said, “I don’t even know where Charles is. He’s been gone for forty-five years. Lost all contact with him two years after he left.”
The drawers full of clothes—and the knife—sprang into Josh’s mind. Why would Charles leave home and not take his clothes with him? Did he leave in such a hurry that he didn’t have time to gather them up? Paulette might have kicked him out the way she’d kicked him and Isabelle out. Or maybe her boyfriend abducted him. He wanted to ask her, but now wasn’t the time.
“If you will let me, I’ll check around and see if I can find him—or at least find out what happened to him. Maybe, if nothing else, we’ll find his children or grandchildren.”
“Do you really think he has a family? Did you hear something about him?” Her eyes were suddenly hopeful.
“Well, no, I didn’t hear anything, but he’s—what—sixty years old? Seems likely he has a family, wherever he is or was. I might be able to find him or them.”
She smiled and wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks.
“All right. See what you can find out.”
“Good. Now you’ve got to promise me you will cancel your appointment with your solicitor. Will you do that?”
She nodded and looked away.
Was she lying about cancelling the appointment? Hmm, she might even be lying about putting him in her will—it could all have been a ploy. She might have thought he would leave if she didn’t.
Well, time would tell. The one thing he knew for sure was that she was still hiding something.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROBERT CLAYTON FUMED at the cell phone in his hand. Come on, ring, damn it! He’d tried to call his son back five times after his call to Josh got disconnected, but each time his call had forwarded directly to voicemail. “Maybe his cell-battery died,” he lied to himself, knowing full well what had happened. “That used to happen a lot, didn’t it? I remember you complaining about that.”
His wife Mary stood nearby, her arms crossed, her icicle eyes piercing his chest. “He hung up on you, didn’t he?”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“We’re losing our son because of what you did, Robert, you son of a bitch.” Shaking in rage, she continued. “I can’t turn the other cheek this time. Your past affairs hurt me, you had to have known that, but I always pretended I was okay, for the sake of our children. I told myself that at least you weren’t hurting them. But this time you really crossed the line, and our son was a casualty.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
She shook her head, her lips pursed. “What did you think would happen, you bastard?” She rubbed at the tears flowing down her cheeks and sniffled. “I tried to understand that you were weak and couldn’t resist the temptation. I made excuses for you, telling myself you were lonely being away from home so much because of your job, that you succumbed to the exotic places where you flew for your job and to the international women, the excitement,” she sobbed, blowing her nose on a tissue, “—but there are no justifications for this. I can find no excuse for your cheating in Paris while we were right there as a family—and with our son’s fiancé, for god’s sake. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I know. I made a huge mistake and I can’t undo it. I’ll try to make it up to you and to Josh.”
“How? How can you fix your relationship with our son? He won’t even talk to you. He barely talks to me now—because of you. It’s rotten that I get punished not once, but twice, because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“I’ll keep trying to talk to him. If we give him time . . . .”
“Just pray he has a big enough heart to overlook your faults. I’m not sure I can anymore.”
JOSH CLOSED HIS bedroom door after watching TV with Paulette all evening and went straight to the mattress, lifting it up and flipping it over to further check the cash. He pulled the tape off one of the slits and reached inside. Skimming through the first bundle and then the second, he shook his head. Huh? Swiss Francs. Denominations of 5, 10, 50, 100, 200, and 500 in no particular order. Nothing but Swiss. Why Swiss? Thinking back to his bank training, he thought he remembered the Swiss Franc remained legal tender in Switzerland and Lichtenstein, though some denominations had been discontinued in 1952 and others in 1996. But even if the money wasn’t legal tender anymore, collectors might want to buy some of it. He couldn’t begin to estimate how much money was here or what it was worth.
Setting two bundles on the floor, he leaned in closer and checked for more money, ultimately pulling out ten more bundles and thumbed through each of them. Same as the first two. After stuffing all the notes back inside and re-sealing with new tape, he turned to the other slit, retrieving two more bundles of Swiss Francs. No point in checking the rest. From what he could tell, at least ten more bundles were hidden in this section, making at least twenty-four bundles between the two spots.
Josh puzzled over the find. Since the money was not organized by denomination or in bank-style bundles, it was probably not obtained in one lump sum and not from a bank. That suggested she may have stuffed money away over the years and kept her money hidden. He decided she probably had money squirreled away all around the house—since she’d given him money to use for purchases of food and tools, etc. and hadn’t gone to a bank since he’d arrived in Mythe. Hmm—but the money she gave him was in Euros. So why was the money here in Swiss Francs? Maybe she’d lived in Switzerland for a while. She’d said she’d traveled around the world and had lived for a while in England. According to Isabelle, Paulette had lived with an Italian man for a while, too.
Josh chuckled a moment, struck by his unlikely role as Paulette’s banker, but doubted any other banker ever used a mattress as a vault. He put the money back away the way he’d found it, resealed the second slit, and turned the mattress back over. After settling the sheets and blankets back in place, he undressed and laid down, realizing he was truly exhausted. The box of papers could wait until morning.
He rolled onto his side. Gotta remember to go into town and check out of the hotel. Not being able to get comfortable, he rolled onto his other side, facing the wall, staring at a couple sizeable cracks visible by way of the nightlight he’d installed in one of the outlets on his second day here. Gotta patch those cracks, too. Those might be how the mice are getting in. Also gotta get on the internet somehow and research the name Charles Lapierre. So where am I gonna get a computer and internet?
When he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, Isabelle’s face appeared in his mind, the way she’d looked the last time he saw her—hand covering her mouth and eyes glistening with pooled tears saying, “Paulette, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I was only trying—” She hung her head down, unable to finish.
He wanted to kic
k himself for the pain he’d inadvertently caused her; that he’d caused both women, actually, but at least he’d smoothed things over with Paulette. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would stop at the bakery, buy some sweets, and talk to Isabelle. He hoped she would listen. He rolled onto his back. Damn. Shoulda slept in the hotel room tonight. At least it has a more comfortable bed.
The next morning, early, Josh tip-toed downstairs. He brewed a pot of coffee and sliced the day old bread sitting on the counter, then set out cups, plates, knives, and butter for the two of them.
Paulette still wasn’t up when Josh had finished his second cup of coffee. He’d thought the smell of coffee would draw her down the stairs, but the coffee in the pot was dwindling fast. He started a new pot, then checked his watch. Six o’clock—she’s usually up by now. Better go up and check on her, he decided, growing concerned. As he turned to leave the kitchen, Gigi—the mother dog—came running out from behind the counter. Huh? He hadn’t noticed the cabinets were pulled out slightly. Was someone in the storage area?
He stepped behind the moveable cabinet wall and peeked into the back cave.
He could just make out Paulette in the far back area where there weren’t any lights, sweeping the dirt with a broom, the bristles moving back and forth over the same spot in robotic fashion.
Josh stepped forward two steps, then stopped. Something about the way she stood, silent, her body stiff, hands locked tight on the broom handle, struck him as odd. He watched, mesmerized, wondering if she was in some kind of mental trance. Should he intervene or let her continue? How long had she been doing that—and why? He knew enough to get by as a handyman, but as a caregiver for a woman whose cancer may have spread to her brain, he was definitely out of his comfort zone.
He glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed since Gigi had exited into the kitchen.
Paulette stopped a moment, moved a few steps to her right, and began sweeping again, without looking around her. Back and forth, back and forth, never varying, never missing a beat.
Ten minutes now. Josh held his breath. Should he intervene and stop her? What if she was sleepwalking? Was it true that you shouldn’t wake someone who was sleepwalking?
Before he could make up his mind what to do, Gigi bounded past him and barked three times.
“Merde! Gigi! On se calme.” She petted the dog and then looked past her to where Josh stood. “Why are you up in the middle of the night?”
“It’s morning, Paulette. I made coffee and breakfast. Sorry it’s not much of a breakfast, but it’s the best I could do with what we have in the house. Are you ready to come inside?”
She nodded and pulled her robe closed around her neck. “It’s chilly. How did I get in here? I don’t even remember coming down the stairs.”
“No idea. I thought you were still in your bed. I was getting ready to go up to check on you, until Gigi came out of here into the kitchen. That’s when I found you.”
“Oh, dear. I must have been sleepwalking. It’s probably the medication that makes me do that.”
Josh nodded, leading her back into the kitchen and closing the opening.
After breakfast he walked back into town and checked out of the hotel, retrieving his phone, pocket knife, and dirty clothes, still stuffed in the bag he retained from purchasing clothes the day before. Walking into the crowded bakery, he had to stand in line for almost half an hour. At the counter he once again purchased chocolates and pastries and tried to talk to Isabelle. She was polite, but curt. At first he thought she was mad at him, but as he turned to leave, she said, “Let’s meet this afternoon? In the woods near the troglo, oui?”
He smiled, relieved. “What time?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Works for me.”
Back at the troglo, after setting his bounty on the kitchen table, he marched upstairs and grabbed the box of papers, setting it on the bed and plopping down beside it. The first objects were piles of yellowed newspapers from the 1940’s—faded pictures of airplanes, bombs, French soldiers and Nazi’s on the cover pages. He couldn’t read much of the articles, all in French, but the pictures told him a lot. After setting the pile of newspapers aside, he reviewed the rest of the contents: bundled stack of black and white postcards from the same era, two small books, and a cigar box sitting at the bottom of the box.
He opened the larger book first. It was a ledger of some sort. Maybe Isabelle would know what it was. He picked up the smaller book, which he immediately recognized as a diary, with dates in 1944 and 1945, but of course all the entries were written in French.
Setting the two books into his shopping bag which he’d emptied of his dirty clothes, he lifted out the cigar box. Wow, it was heavy. WTF, does she have weights in it? He set it on the bed and flipped up the lid and nearly had a heart attack as he stared at a box filled with gold coins.
Was she hiding her family’s money from the Nazi’s? Did the ledger have something to do with the coins?
He ran his hand through his hair. Now what? She’d said to bring him anything important. His feet bare, he tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to wake Paulette if she was sleeping on the sofa.
She wasn’t there. The kitchen?
Crap. Not there either. The moveable cabinet was still in its closed position.
He trotted back up the stairs and poked his head around the doorway into Paulette’s room.
She was sitting in a rocking chair, a photo album in her lap.
“Are you busy?” he asked.
Glancing up, she answered, “Non, I was looking at old photos. Haven’t done that in years.”
“Anything you want to show me?” he asked.
“Not right now.”
He hesitated, studying the room that wasn’t much bigger than his, but big enough for a full-size bed. A lavender duvet covered the bed, with three dark purple pillows on top. The dresser was dark green, with a large mirror attached. Several framed photographs sat on top of the dresser. The wardrobe in here was bigger and more elaborate with carvings on the sides and doors.
The rocking chair squeaked as she rocked. “Did you bring chocolates, dear?”
Josh smiled. “Yeah, do want to go downstairs?”
She scooted forward in the chair and put her hand on the chair’s arms for support. Suddenly, she grabbed her chest with one hand.
“Are you okay?”
She coughed. “Pain.”
“Do you need medicine?”
“I already took it. Takes time to start working. I’ll be fine; just let me rest here a bit more.” She slumped back into the rocker, soon looking better.
“You stay put. I can bring the chocolates up here. We can sit up here and talk while we munch.”
She smiled and nodded.
When Josh returned, he set a plate of chocolates on the dresser next to the rocking chair, along with a cup of hot tea. He sat on the edge of the bed near Paulette, his own plate on his lap and his cup of tea in his hand.
Paulette popped a chocolate in her mouth and smiled, bits of chocolate smudging the edge of her mouth.
“Remember you asked me to bring you anything important that I find in the storage area?” She nodded. “Well, I found a cigar box filled with gold coins. Are they real? Where did they come from?”
“Oh, dear, I forgot all about those.” She placed her hands on her cheeks, shaking her head slightly and her eyes got a faraway look in them. When she settled her hands on her lap again, she said, “They belonged to my parents. That wasn’t the only box. We lived in a big house on the other side of the river, with a large vineyard. My papa’s family was wealthy, and he inherited the wine-making business from them. My mother’s family owned this troglo. Papa made changes to the kitchen to hide the opening to the back cave. That’s where he stored most of his wine barrels. Some of the wine, mostly in bottles, he stored in the cellar at our house.”
“Why do you choose to live here instead of in the big house?”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, th
at was long ago. I barely remember that house. We lived there when the war started. I was still in school and would walk across the bridge every day to go to the school. But when we heard that the Nazi’s had taken Paris, Papa began hiding things here to protect them in case we got bombed.” She opened her eyes and popped another chocolate in her mouth, smiling at him mischievously.
“Did it get bombed?”
“Non. Not until later. Non, the Nazi’s came and took over the house. We had to attend to them—cooking, cleaning,” she stated, looking like she had swallowed a bad tasting chocolate.
“What happened?”
“My memory is old and fuzzy. I know Papa used some of the coins to help fund the Resistance—guns, supplies, food. He let some of the fighters stay in the back of the troglo, along with the wine barrels. The cave goes further back, too, you know.”
“Oh, wow.” He ran his hand through his hair, his mind reeling with possibilities. “Um, is there another way out of the cave?”
She nodded. “I don’t know the way, though. There are more caves, or maybe they are all part of the same cave system. I never checked them out myself.”
“No one has been back there since the war ended?”
“Not that I know of—at least not through this troglo.”
“There are more gold coins still hidden away?”
She shrugged. “Papa gave me that cigar box in case something happened to him and Mother. He wanted me to have enough money that I wouldn’t starve. He may have hidden more somewhere. I know he hid other valuables, including wine, in the cave and in the troglo to keep it out of the Germans’ hands.”
Josh stood up and set his plate on the bed. “It’s more important than ever that I find your son and his family, if he has one. You have valuables and maybe even family heirlooms to pass down.”
“You can have all of it, dear. I’ll put you in my will. I expect my son won’t want anything, least of all to see me.”
“What makes you think that?”