The Handyman (Chambre Noir Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  They didn’t find Charles.

  Gilbert had confessed his part in the stealing and selling of the paintings, but swore he had no part in the murder, although when questioned about the knife that was used to kill Franco, he admitted to giving it to Charles. He told the gendarmes that Charles was now hiding in the caves—and had taken the knife with him.

  Marchand sent his men to various cave entrances—the caves all being connected—and instructed them to stand guard. He then called for back-up, including search dogs trained for cave searches, which would arrive soon.

  “We will have our man before morning.” Marchand predicted.

  AT THE GENDARMERIE, Marchand handed maps to each of the gendarmes in the search and rescue team, having arrived minutes earlier, and cautioned them that the suspect was armed. The men and dogs headed out to the caves in the dark, lighted helmets providing sufficient light to find the designated entry points. Marchand followed one of the groups, though not intending to be going inside the caves—at least not until he knew the location of the suspect. His job at the moment was to oversee the whole operation.

  Ten minutes later, he clicked his two way radio and instructed the men to begin their entry, instructing them to let him know when and where they found Charles. He would send a back-up team, if needed, to support the extraction.

  A crackling sound from his radio was followed by, “Sir, Officer Montague here. He’s in sight. In between the Jovant and Lapierre cave sections. We’re close and will reach him momentarily.”

  “Copy that. Officer Hurst here. We’re coming your way, Montague. From the other side of the Lapierre section. Probably five minutes away.”

  Marchand happened to be right outside the Lapierre troglo. He rushed inside, through the opening in the kitchen, and into the dark cave, shining his lantern to guide him through the winding tunnel.

  A dog barked up ahead, then yelped in pain. The sound of feet pounding echoed through the tunnel.

  In case the runner was Charles, Marchand pulled his gun from his back holster and aimed with one hand, holding the lantern up with his other hand.

  Someone further in yelled, “He stabbed my dog. He’s getting away.”

  Charles Lapierre suddenly came into view, face shadowy but visible enough to recognize him from the photos Therese and Josh had shown him at the Gendarmerie.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Marchand stood stiff, legs squarely set on the ground, spread wide enough that his body took up much of the narrow tunnel. “This is your last warning.”

  Charles lunged toward him, the bloody knife glinting in the lantern light.

  Marchand fired, the blast echoing through the cave like a bomb, and Charles fell.

  Moments later, Officer Montague arrived, followed a minute later by Hurst from the other direction.

  Marchand reached down and checked for a pulse. “Call for an ambulance.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  IT WAS EIGHT o’clock at night when Josh got the call from Domenic, telling him that Therese, who was staying at the hotel, had received a call from Marchand moments earlier. They told her Charles had been shot while being apprehended in the caves and had been taken to the hospital.

  “She’s pretty shook up,” Domenic said.

  “I can’t believe it’s over, that they have him in custody.”

  “He’s going into surgery. Do you and Isabelle want to ride with us to the hospital?”

  “Yes, thank you. We’re both at Isabelle’s now and will head over to the hotel.” It was only two blocks from Isabelle’s apartment, where they’d both been sitting around, waiting for any word.

  “No, stay there. We’ll stop there and pick you up in a couple of minutes. Therese is anxious to get there.”

  In the car on the way to the hospital, Therese kept blaming herself, saying, “I thought he would be okay, that he would come to his senses and turn himself in before it came to this. Why didn’t he do that?”

  “Maybe he got scared,” Isabelle said. “Maybe he was in too deep and didn’t know how to get himself out of the mess. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “He should have turned himself in. I guess I was hoping he wasn’t crazy. But he is crazy. My kids warned me about him, but I wouldn’t listen. They said not to marry him, but I was blinded by his sweet talk and good looks. Can you believe it? I was thirty-eight and divorced, should have known better, should have been more careful. Yet I acted like a love struck teenager.”

  Josh could certainly identify with her, having been taken in by Vanessa. Fortunately for him, he had found out who she really was before they married. Good liars generally get what they want—at least most of the time. The only consolation was that at least sometimes it came back to bite them in the butt, as it had for Charles. Maybe Vanessa, too, in some regards. He decided to keep his mouth shut, though. Saying any of that wasn’t going to help Therese feel any better at the moment.

  Isabelle said, “Do you and Charles have children together?”

  “No. My kids were more than enough for him. I don’t really think he likes kids.”

  Isabelle glanced at Josh.

  Charles doesn’t have heirs. Paulette will be devastated if she finds out.

  Through the rest of the drive, Josh periodically glanced at Domenic. What did he think about all of this? Through a twist of fate, he might well now be Paulette’s only true heir.

  As earlier, they again rushed through the double doors at the hospital. Domenic said something in French to an attendant at the admissions desk.

  Josh struggled to make out what they were saying, but had to ask once again.

  “We’re to go up to the next floor—the same floor where Paulette is staying—and sit in the waiting room until the doctor is available to talk to us."

  When they arrived this time, though, the waiting room was flush with gendarmes.

  Captain Marchand, seeing them in the entryway, quickly finished his conversation with a nurse and hurried over to Therese. He took her hand and, judging by the tone of his voice and the tears welling up in Therese’s eyes, was either offering her condolences or telling her how Charles had gotten wounded.

  Josh glanced at Isabelle. She leaned over close to him and whispered in his ear, “The captain was the one who shot Charles. It was self-defense, but he told her he was sorry it came to that. He said Charles is in surgery now. We should sit and wait for the doctor.”

  Josh nodded and sighed. He and the others headed toward the few remaining chairs to wait. Sitting and then leaning toward Isabelle, he whispered, “Can you find out if it’s still visiting hours? I’d like to visit with Paulette for a few minutes.”

  He didn’t know what he would say to her. Now wasn’t a good time to update her on what had happened, but he wanted to see how she was doing and let her know he was caring for her in his own way.

  “Paulette’s here in the hospital?”

  “Oh, God. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “No.”

  He quickly filled her in.

  She talked to one of the nurses and then returned to Josh. “Do you mind if I go with you to see her? I don’t want her to think I don’t care.”

  “Sure. Come on. I think I remember where her room is. We should probably let Domenic know where we’re going.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  After she informed Domenic, they strode down the hallway and stopped outside Paulette’s open door. Not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping, Josh peeked inside.

  She was watching TV. She must have heard him, because she looked at him and her face lit up, visible even with the oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. She pulled the mask away. “Josh-you-ah, you came. I’m feeling better. They know what they’re doing in this place. But don’t tell them I said that. I don’t want them thinking I want to stay here.”

  He chuckled. “I brought Isabelle. She only just now found out you were here.”

  “Come over here, Isabelle, and sit with me. We can all watc
h television together.”

  “Just not for long.”

  Everyone turned to see who had spoken. A nurse stood in the doorway, a chart in her hand. “Visiting hours are almost over. Ten minutes. Then you must leave. And put your oxygen mask back on your face young lady.”

  “Merde. They’re too bossy. How can lying in bed and watching television with friends harm me?” She put the oxygen mask back on for a minute until the nurse left.

  “You seem almost back to your old self,” Josh said. “I’ll bet they’ll let you out of here in a day or two.”

  “Don’t forget about the photos you promised to take of me.” She turned and stared at Isabelle, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He’s going to write a book about me, you know, my life and my career. Now people won’t forget me. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Josh groaned internally, but kept a straight face. Geez, what if he couldn’t pull it off? Photography was one thing—he knew how to take decent pictures—but writing a book? His heart lurched, as he watched her excited face. The look of admiration was clearly there. If the book never materialized, she wouldn’t ever know, of course, but he would. He sighed. Well, he would hire an editor, a consultant, or somebody who knew what the hell they were doing, and then he would get it written.

  “It really is,” Isabelle said, looking over at Josh. “I’m delighted to hear that.”

  “He’ll need a translator. Maybe you can help him with it.”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea. I plan to learn French, but it could take me years to get good enough at it to write a book in French. I don’t want the book to take that long, you know what I mean?”

  Looking like a deer in headlights, Isabelle replied, “I will help you, if I can. That’s kind of you to tell the world about Paulette.”

  Josh shrugged.

  “He’s a good man. You should hold on to him, Isabelle.”

  Josh saw Isabelle blush and gave Paulette a stern look for putting Isabelle on the spot, then smiled, looking at Paulette, then at Isabelle. “Actually, she’s the one to hold onto.”

  Isabelle’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink, but she smiled and the room seemed a bit brighter. Isabelle’s hair was somewhat disheveled and her clothing rumpled, but to Josh, she never looked more beautiful.

  They talked about the book and about photographing Paulette, but not for long. “Okay, out you must go,” the nurse said, returning. “Time is up.”

  “It can’t have been ten minutes already,” Paulette said.

  “Sorry, but the visiting time is gone. They can come back tomorrow.” She practically pushed them out the door.

  Josh and Isabelle turned their heads and waved to Paulette before they were escorted out of sight.

  “I hope Charles pulls through, even if he has to go to prison,” Josh said.

  “I wouldn’t want to tell her that he died,” Isabelle said.

  Josh nodded. Who would that job fall to if Charles did die? And what was he supposed to say to Paulette when she asked what happened at the art studio? Or when she asked about Charles?

  They made their way back to the waiting room. Claudine was leaning against Domenic’s shoulder, asleep as far as Josh could tell. A couple of the gendarmes had left the room.

  Josh sat between Isabelle and Captain Marchand. “Was anyone else hurt during the chase?” Josh asked.

  “One of the search dogs. Charles stabbed him. The dog underwent surgery but one of my men called in and said it didn’t survive.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” That disturbing news squelched further conversation a few moments, then Josh asked, “Any news about Charles’s condition?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  Isabelle squirmed in her seat, looking downcast.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh whispered.

  “If Charles dies, it’s my fault. I sent the gendarmes after him.”

  “You were instrumental in solving the case. We both were. That doesn’t make you responsible for what happened to Charles. He killed a man and it seems he had no qualms about killing again.”

  “But he doesn’t deserve to die.”

  “No, I suppose not. But remember when we first met him in Balazuc? All he had to do was admit to killing Franco in self-defense the way he’d originally led Paulette to believe he did. His denying any responsibility was what kept us searching for answers.”

  “So, why did he deny it?”

  “Good question.”

  Marchand, listening in, said, “Sociopaths often lie even to themselves. Sometimes they tell so many lies that they begin to believe them. They lose touch with reality. I talked to Therese while you two were away. It sounds like Charles fits the profile.”

  “Thank you for that,” Isabelle said. “I don’t want to be responsible for what happened to Charles. I only wanted to help Josh and Paulette get answers and to get justice.”

  “Have you ever considered becoming a detective?” Marchand said. “You have a knack for the research.”

  “She sure does.” Josh squeezed her hand.

  “Thank you, but I already have a business and a job to help Josh with.”

  She went on and told Marchand about Josh’s idea for honoring Paulette.

  “That’s a wonderful plan. If I can be of assistance in some way, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” Josh said. “We’ll probably need all the help we can get. Maybe this can become a community project. There’s probably a lot of people in Mythe who have stories to tell about Paulette.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they would love that,” Isabelle replied. “But just remember I told you how much they love to gossip. We’ll have to somehow be able to sort out facts from, shall we say, embellishments.”

  Shaking his head and chuckling, Josh acknowledged, “I remember. But maybe we can channel some of that.”

  The conversation moved on to talk about Mythe and the surrounding towns and some of the history, until they all grew quiet, weary with the hour. Isabelle had fallen asleep, her head flopped over to one side. Concerned that she would wind up with a sore neck, Josh reached over and eased her toward him, letting her head rest on his shoulder the way that Claudine’s rested on Domenic’s.

  Shortly after, a doctor strode in and talked to one of the nurses, then made his way toward Captain Marchand.

  The captain got up and met him halfway. They spoke softly for a couple of minutes, then the doctor left. Marchand hesitated, wiping hands across his eyes, and then walked back to the waiting group, most of whom were alert now and looking to Marchand, probably fearing the news as much as Josh was.

  “Charles made it through the surgery, but never regained consciousness. The doctors were unable to save him. I’m sorry.”

  Therese cried out, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Madame Lapierre, I’m sorry it ended this way. I wish Charles had surrendered peacefully, but these things happen. Know that you did the right thing. Always remember that. Charles would have killed again.”

  She nodded, sniffling and blowing her nose.

  “What do we tell Paulette?” Isabelle asked.

  “The truth,” Marchand said. “She deserves the truth. It wouldn’t do any good to hide it from her, anyway. I know the newspapers will run the whole story. We’ve already had reporters calling the Gendarmerie. It’s better if she hears it from someone close to her.”

  Everyone turned and stared at Josh.

  He bit his upper lip. Damn it. He was just supposed to be the handyman. How could he do this to her? What did he know about telling someone that her son was a murderer and was now dead—a week after she’d found him again?

  He nodded. “I’ll tell her, but I want to tell her when she’s strong enough to handle it.”

  “It’s your call, son,” Marchand said.

  “We’re with you if you need anything,” Domenic said.

  The others nodded.

  “She’ll need you, Domenic, and your family,” Josh said. “Maybe later, after I tell her, you can introduce he
r to your children and all of your grandchildren. That would help cheer her up.”

  “Consider it done.” He took Claudine’s hand. “We’ll make plans in the morning. Maybe have a dinner party in Paulette’s honor—say, a week from now.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  ROBERT CLAYTON REMOVED from his carry-on bag the pistol he’d bought this afternoon on his way home from the airport after a stressful flight from Italy. He’d waffled about buying a gun for more than a week and had finally gotten the nerve to do it, but he couldn’t let Mary see it. Knowing she would scream at him and insist he get rid of it before he did anything crazy, he’d slid it into his bag as soon as he left the gun shop and got into his car. He stood in the middle of the bedroom, trying to decide where to hide it and the bullets. The dresser. Better do it fast. Mary was in the bathroom getting ready for their party. He opened his sweater drawer. Perfect; in between his sweaters, which he rarely wore in California. He’d bought them mainly to wear on ski trips they’d taken to Colorado, the Berkshires, and the Alps. Mary wouldn’t have any reason to look in that drawer. Hah, she rarely looked in any of his drawers or his closet these days, anyway, so he wasn’t sure why he bothered to hide it. Mary had stopped doing his laundry and stopped making excuses for him missing appointments and golf dates. He could hardly blame her.

  He put on his tie and jacket, then sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Mary to come out. Tonight they were expected at their thirtieth anniversary party which their daughter was throwing for them at the golf club’s restaurant. He’d rather stay at home and he’d told Mary so. Mary had told him it was a joke to celebrate their anniversary, but that she wouldn’t let her daughter down after all the trouble she’d gone to for them and she wouldn’t let him do it, either.

  That was Mary. Never let anyone down, never let anyone see when she was down.

  She came out of the bathroom dressed in that sparkly blue gown that matched her eyes, except that the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes these past few weeks.

  “We should leave now,” she said. “I don’t want to be late and embarrass Lucy. Are you ready?”