The Handyman (Chambre Noir Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  “That’s too bad. Isabelle and I were talking about taking you with us on our next trip. We considered taking you this time, too, but thought we better see how it goes first.”

  She looked up and stared at him. “You want to take me on a trip?”

  He shrugged. “We thought about it, but I guess it would be too much for you.”

  “Like hell! Even if it kills me I’m going with you on the next trip. I’m dying anyway. Might as well die having some fun.” She laughed, no longer slouching, suddenly feeling much more spry. “I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance to take the train somewhere. Thought my traveling days were over.”

  Josh smiled. “Well, don’t get your hopes up too much. If we find your Charles on the first trip, we might not need to take a second.”

  “Mon ceil! Not a chance it’ll be that easy. Nothing is ever easy.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right on that score.”

  They sipped their coffee, neither saying anything more, but Paulette was already happily anticipating her new adventure, thinking about what clothes to take and what else she would pack.

  Josh stood up. “I put those meals I bought for you in the refrigerator. Just heat them in the microwave when you get hungry. The instructions are on the packages. I just put extra fresh water out for the dogs, so they should be fine. You should only need to feed them this evening and tomorrow morning. You know where their food is, right?”

  “Oui.” She glanced at the puppies who were madly lapping up water in the dog dish next to the refrigerator and making slurping sounds loud enough to awaken the dead. Then she remembered Apollo. “What about Isabelle’s cat? Who will take care of him?”

  “Oh, no problem. Cats are easier than dogs that way. She said she can just leave him extra food, water, and a clean litter pan. He’ll be fine for a day or two. Cats are loners by nature, anyway.”

  “Oui, I forgot about that. I used to have cats, and I could leave them alone for a week.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I used to leave my cat alone, too. I sure miss her,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Maybe someday I’ll get another one.”

  “And a dog. Don’t forget we need to find homes for all these dogs. Maybe you’ll stay here in France and adopt one of them.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  “You are a good handyman, Josh-you-ah.”

  “Thanks. I input my phone number and Isabelle’s in your phone. If you need anything, call us. We’ll can either come back early or find someone in town who can help you if needed, okay?”

  “I do hope you find Charles, but I’d love to go on that next trip.”

  “Don’t worry. If we find him this trip, we can still go on another short trip. That is if you’re up to it.”

  She smiled and nodded. After he left, she moved to the sofa, her body turned to look out the window. What did Charles look like now, she wondered? What kind of man had he become? She closed her eyes, momentarily seeing Josh-you-ah in her mind’s eye. He was a man she would be proud to call her son. Lord, she hoped Charles was that kind of man.

  ON THE TRAIN ride to Troyes, Josh attempted several times to make conversation with Isabelle, but she answered each of his questions and comments with short curt responses, getting him nowhere. When she opened her bag and took out a book, he gave up and turned to look out the window, watching the rolling pastures of grass, wildflowers, and small herds of cows pass by. At one point they passed a large vineyard, which reminded him of Paulette’s story of her parents living in a big house with a large vineyard and keeping barrels of wine both there and in the cave behind the troglo. Josh remembered reading a book in college about the French vineyards and the French Resistance hiding their wine from the Nazi’s. Paulette had said that in addition to hiding barrels of wine, her father had also hidden other valuables.

  He leaned back in his seat a moment, remembering the hidden money. With all that was going on, he’d forgotten to ask her about the cash hidden in the mattress. Could it be money that her parents hid from the Nazis? But if that were the case, it would have been French Francs, not Swiss. Still . . . damn, why didn’t he check the dates on the notes? Another thing to do when he got back to the troglo.

  Returning from his thoughts, he turned to Isabelle, noticing she had put down her book. He asked, “You’re awfully quiet, is something bothering you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve been reading Paulette’s diary that you gave me.” She pursed her lips, apparently thinking, then said, “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “It indicates she was pregnant and gave birth to a son, but the timing isn’t right. This was around the time the war ended. That would make Charles older than sixty.”

  “Wow. Maybe she gave us the wrong age, or maybe her mind is possibly being affected by the cancer.”

  “I suppose, except that—” She didn’t finish, but skimmed through the book, obviously looking for something.

  “What?”

  “Well, in here she was really young. A teenager. Unmarried. This diary ends before the actual birth, but it doesn’t sound like she planned on keeping the baby.”

  “You’re saying she had two kids?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Hmm. I guess we need to find the next diary, assuming she kept writing, or get the details straight from Paulette. Problem is, I’m not sure if she’ll ever give us the right information.”

  “You think she’s lying to us?”

  “Damned if I know, but she hasn’t exactly been forthcoming so far.” The photographs Isabelle had shown him of Paulette, her husband, and her young teen son were in color, so they were from at least the sixties, no question about that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JOSH GAPED UP at the tall half-timbered houses on Rue Larivey in Troyes. They were ancient-looking, yet well-maintained, all painted in shades of yellow, gold, and cream, with large dormer windows, tall shutters, and the occasional arched doorway. The combination of the tall houses looming over very narrow streets kept the area continuously shadowy and dark, even at noon. He and Isabelle had only just arrived minutes earlier and were already hard at it, searching for the first address. He pulled his bag over and reached for the latch of his camera bag. Uh oh, where is my camera bag? Damn, where the hell did it go? He’d taken it with him on every trip he’d gone on since he bought it two years ago. Then he remembered he’d left it behind in Paris in his anguish to be out of there. Oh crap! He wanted to scream, but he didn’t, not with Isabelle there.

  Okay, at least he had his credit cards with him. He could buy a new camera here, snap a hundred photos in town. Maybe submit them to a magazine, along with an article about ‘seeing France through American eyes’. He’d often thought of trying his hand at freelancing. Hell, if he no longer worked at the bank, he should give it a try. Nothing holding him back now.

  “Here it is,” Isabelle said, ending his short lived reverie. “That one, across the street.” She pointed at yet another half-timbered house, this one adorned all in yellows. “I should do the talking in case he doesn’t speak English.”

  Promising himself he would go along with her for now and buy a camera later, maybe not here, but at least back in Mythe, he said, “Makes sense. I’ll keep quiet, but I’ll back you up if anybody gives you grief.”

  She rang the doorbell and waited, impatience showing via her rising up and down repeatedly on the ball of her feet.

  Josh heard noises inside, then spotted a gray-haired woman wearing a dress with an apron open the door.

  Several exchanges in French passed between the woman and Isabelle. Josh caught only a few words, because they spoke much too fast for his smattering of French. A moment later the talking stopped and the door closed.

  “What did she say?”

  “Her husband is sixty-nine and has Alzheimer’s. He wouldn’t remember anything, or be able to answer our questions. It doesn’t matter. He’s the wrong age and his parents live in Dijon. The Charles
Lapierre who lives in Dijon is this Charles’s father and he’s eighty-nine.”

  “Crap. Well, that was fast. That leaves only one more here and the one in Balazuc.”

  “Don’t worry, we will find the other one here today. I already checked the address on the map before we got on the train. First, we need to locate the Cathédrale St-Pierre-et-St-Paul. From there, I can find the street where the house should be.”

  “Should be?”

  “Well, I’m not completely sure. The address doesn’t sound right. Too high a number for the size of this town.”

  Josh nodded. He didn’t like the sound of that. Were they on a wild goose hunt? “Could we have written down the address wrong?”

  “I was wondering the same thing.”

  They passed several cafés with patio seating, one with yellow umbrellas shading every table, another with red umbrellas, and yet another one with turquoise umbrellas. The last café brought to mind a digitally modified black and white photo he’d seen hanging in yet another French café—the only color in the picture being the turquoise umbrellas.

  A short time later—Josh wasn’t sure how long since he hadn’t checked his watch when they left the first Charles’s house—they stood in front of the cathédrale. Wow, Gothic style. Interesting. He stopped and stepped closer, peeking inside at the splendid vaulted interior. Light shone through its stained-glass windows, creating rose, turquoise, and blue casts on the walls. Cool!

  He turned back to Isabelle, who had the look of someone anxious to keep moving. Oh, well, another time. Guess she’s seen enough French architecture.

  “The map showed a short street coming off this one up ahead. We take that one, and then another one like it, which ends when we get to Rue Savon, the street we’re looking for.”

  “Great. Lead the way.”

  Using Isabelle’s capable navigation skills, they soon found the street, asked at one of the houses about Charles, and were given his address. They had indeed written one too many numbers on the paper.

  AFTER TRANSLATING MOST of the conversation she’d had with the Charles Lapierre who lived on Rue Savon for Josh, Isabelle waited for his response. Josh was eating the chocolate cake Charles had graciously offered them, and then he proceeded to wash it down with a sip of tea. Isabelle had been delighted when they’d first arrived, because this Charles had appeared to be about the right age and had invited them inside to chat, but after ten minutes, it became evident he wasn’t Paulette’s son. At least he wasn’t if he was telling the truth about his mother being French and his father Greek. As his parents had never married, he had not adopted his father’s surname. This Charles told them he had grown up in Greece, where his father was a fisherman. He’d only moved to France about twenty years ago when he was thirty-four and married a French woman. Of course, Isabelle realized he could be lying. She wasn’t the best judge of that. She hoped Josh could tell.

  Josh set down his fork and tea cup and said, “What do you think? From what you told me, he’s not the one we’re looking for.” His eyes flicked in Charles’s direction in the hallway, busy answering his phone.

  “I agree. It’s possible he is, but I don’t really see any resemblance, do you?”

  “Nope.” He picked up his cup and finished the tea, then set down the cup. “You know, before we leave, I can take a picture of him on my cell phone and show it to Paulette when we get back. Just in case.”

  “Good idea. I’ll check with him to see if he’ll allow a photo.”

  Charles returned to the sitting room.

  Isabelle smiled at Charles, thanked him for his hospitality, and asked him if Josh could take a picture.

  The man beamed at her, then posed for Josh.

  “Ask him if he has any photos of himself as a child.”

  She did, and the man rushed over to a cabinet and brought out a photo album. Big mistake. After more than an hour of looking through photographs of himself, his recently deceased wife, three children, and two grandchildren, Isabelle was certain he wasn’t their Charles and was certain she did not want to see any more albums. They thanked him for his time and hospitality, said their goodbyes, and quickly departed.

  Ten minutes later, Josh said, “I’m still hungry.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s still between lunch and dinner time. We could eat a leisurely meal and call it dinner. Drink some wine. Or Champagne. They’re famous for their Champagne here, right?”

  Isabelle chewed on her lower lip. That sounded nice, but if they hurried to the train station, they might get there in time for the last train home. No hotel, no awkwardness.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Josh, we ate cake an hour ago.”

  “Cake doesn’t count.”

  She pouted.

  “Oh, sorry, don’t get me wrong. Cake is great. I love sweets, but yours are better.” His face turned pink. “I mean—”

  “It’s all right. Men need protein for all those big muscles,” she said, smirking. “I understand.”

  His face turned magenta. “I’m not some jock.”

  She scrunched her eyebrows together. “What is jock?”

  “Never mind. It means someone who is concentrated on one interest—like computers or sports. But it’s kind of developed a different connotation—it’s become a, well, kind of a stereotype. A sports geek. People usually use the word dumb in front of it.”

  Her face suddenly felt warm, and she could imagine what color her cheeks had become. “I didn’t mean to make you embarrassed. All right, let’s go eat,” she relented. “I’m actually hungry, too.”

  When he turned and started walking, she closed her eyes for a moment, still nervous about staying overnight, wondering about Josh’s intentions, then followed him back toward the cafés they’d passed earlier.

  He stopped at the café with the turquoise umbrellas, a particularly charming little establishment filled with couples holding hands, kissing, laughing, and having a good time.

  She felt suddenly nervous again. Was this a date? Was he interested in her romantically? She didn’t know the proper etiquette in this situation. Was she supposed to pay for her own meal? Would he expect something of her afterwards?

  The café’s waitress appeared and led them to one of the few empty tables, located out in the middle of the patio. As she seated them, she said, “May I suggest a hors d’oeuvres? Our Warm Camembert with Wild Mushroom Fricassee is most popular.”

  Isabelle quickly translated and waited for Josh to respond.

  “Tell her thank you and that sounds good. Oh, and ask for a bottle of their best wine.”

  She nodded, but her heart lurched. If they were splitting the check, she might not have enough money to cover her part. She hadn’t gone to the bank before they left Mythe. They had departed before the bank opened.

  Josh put his hand over hers. “Don’t worry. This is my treat. I invited you on this trip to help me. I’m paying for the hotel, too.”

  She nodded, then chewed on her lower lip, still worried about the situation.

  The waitress remained standing there and soon asked if she wanted to order hors d’oeuvres.

  Her face felt warm once more at having forgotten to tell the waitress what Josh had told her. She apologized and conveyed the order.

  After the waitress left, Isabelle sighed and tried to act nonchalant when she felt anything but. She told herself to calm down, for all the good it did. She acknowledged that she had indeed been looking forward to spending time with Josh, to having a real conversation and more than anything, she wanted to get to know him and find out what this American’s life was like.

  When they’d ridden on the train together earlier, she’d carefully watched him gazing out the window. Several times, he’d taken out his mobile phone and snapped photos of the scenery, mostly when the train stopped to take on or let off passengers. She’d also noticed when he wanted to explore the cathédrale. Not wanting to spend the night here, though, she had intentionally rushe
d him on to finish their investigation, trying to catch the train back home that same day. What a fool I can be sometimes, she chided herself. Josh has been nothing but a gentleman to me. How am I going to get to know him and enjoy time with this man if I am constantly worrying about ‘what ifs’ and questioning his motives? Well, if we are staying, which it appears we are, I need to calm down. Maybe we can even explore the sites a bit in the morning before returning.

  She glanced at Josh. He was intensely studying the menu, which was all in French, of course. Oh, God, she’d forgotten all about figuring out what she wanted to eat. She quickly picked up her menu, read through the choices and made a decision. After telling Josh what she was ordering and translating several of the choices for him, he told her what he wanted.

  By then the waitress had arrived with their wine and proceeded to pour two glasses. Isabelle saw Josh lift his glass, swirl it momentarily, sniff the bouquet, take a small sip, then nod his head in agreement. Seems he knows some wine etiquette, she noted, duly impressed that an American understood.

  “Your fricassee will be ready shortly.” She took their orders for the main course and quickly departed.

  Ordering out of the way, Isabelle refocused her attention back to Josh. The shade from the umbrella made his hair seem a bit darker, not the almost white that it appeared in the bright sun. A light breeze ruffled a few of his curls, making him appear more like a little boy.

  He glanced at her and smiled, a half sweet, half sexy kind of smile that made her smile back in spite of her fears.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m curious about why you came to France and took a job as a handyman. I have many questions to ask you.”

  Josh nodded and set down his glass.

  “Go ahead. Ask away.

  “Didn’t you tell me you had a fiancé? What happened?”

  She immediately noticed him wince and his demeanor darken. “That’s a really long story. I was engaged to a woman who is half-French and half-American. Her mother is French. Her family, my parents, and the two of us all came to France together. Everything seemed to be going great until I caught my fiancé and my father together in my parents’ hotel room.”