by Susan Finlay
BOOKS BY SUSAN FINLAY
The Outsiders Series:
In the Shadows
Where Secrets Reside
Winter Tears
Project Chameleon Series:
Liars’ Games
The Bavarian Woods Series:
Inherit the Past
The Chambre Noir Series:
The Handyman
The Handyman
The Handyman
A Chambre Noir Mystery
A Novel By
Susan Finlay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE HANDYMAN Copyright © 2015 by Susan Finlay.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written approval of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition
Cover Artwork and Design by Ken Dawson, Creative Covers
Paperback ISBN-978-1519352316
Published in the USA
DEDICATION
Dedicated to my mother-in-law, Patricia Finlay, known to many people in her home town as ‘Grandma Pat’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is the first book in my new Chambre Noir Series. It is a work of fiction; all characters, places and events are inventions. The troglodyte village of Mythe-sur-Vienne, France, does not exist, although some may recognize different aspects of the cave system and cave homes, since caves and troglodyte villages are not uncommon in France.
CHAPTER ONE
“I REALLY NEED this job, Madame Lapierre. I’m American, but I can stay here in France awhile. I do good work.”
Had she heard or even understood him? Several times during the phone interview, she’d asked him to repeat himself. Josh glanced at his watch. Huh, only five minutes; seems much longer, somehow. He ran an anxious hand through his hair, wondering what else he could say to convince her.
The woman said, “I hope you’re telling the truth about being strong. I’m eighty-eight years old, young man, and never needed to hire a handyman before, but there are things I can no longer do for myself. Just too damn old—” A terrible hacking cough interrupted her momentarily. “Oh, Pardon. Where was I? Oh, oui, Mythe-sur-Vienne, that’s the town where I live. Mythe-sur-Vienne is small but you won’t find my house without help. You must stop in at the alimentation generale—that’s the town’s general store—and ask for Veronique Granville. Tell her Paulette Lapierre sent you. She’ll escort you to my house. I’ll let her know you’re coming. You do speak French, do you not?”
“Well, sort of. Not great, but passable,” Josh said. He winced at the white lie. “So, I’m hired then?”
“Oui. But you must come here right away.” She was quiet for a moment and then gave a quick throaty chuckle. “American, you say? I’ve never met an American before.”
Josh smiled to himself, picturing a wrinkled little woman, not unlike Great-grandma Emily, with crooked knuckles and leaning forward in her rocking chair, holding onto her cane as she laughed. He pushed the image from his mind. “Uh, yeah. Okay. I’m in Paris at the moment. Can I take a train there from here or do I need to rent a car?”
“Train? Oui. Take the TGV. You might need a pen and paper to write down the instructions and I’ll—”
Josh yanked the phone away at an ear bursting clanging. Cursing internally, he brought the offending receiver carefully back to his ear and waited.
“Merde! Oh, Pardon. J’ai les mains de beurre! I dropped my phone. I seem to be all butter-fingers today. You know, young man, growing old isn’t for sissies. Heard that somewhere, and it’s true. Oh, I almost forgot—at least I don’t think I told you—I’m eighty-eight. You’re sure you don’t mind helping an old lady with chores?”
He smiled again. “You did tell me, Madame Lapierre.” She told him three times in fact, but no sense telling her that. “It’s fine. I used to help my grandparents and great-grandparents around their houses quite often. No biggie.”
He sat on the edge of the hotel bed and picked up the small pad of paper and the pen on the nightstand. “Okay, shoot.”
“What? Shoot who?”
“Oh, sorry, an American expression, go ahead and give me the directions.”
After giving him the information, Paulette said, “You know the job is temporary?”
“Yep. That’s good for me. Don’t know if I could get a longer visa, anyway. Just here as a tourist. Oh hey, I forgot to ask about accommodations. Your ad said lodging was included. Is that right?”
“Oui. Basic lodging. I hope you don’t expect anything magnifique.”
“Nah. All I need is a bed and bathroom.”
“Bathroom? Ah, les toilettes. So, you’ll be here today? And you’ll stay until the job is done? You promise?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Promise.”
“The last handyman I hired—a few days ago—never showed up. I’m feeling . . . how you say? . . . wary.”
“Understandable. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.”
After ending the call, Josh pondered a moment, hoping this “job” would work out and not be too strange. The old lady seemed okay, unlikely to be a serial killer. Now there’s a thought I didn’t need.
He stood, grabbed his carry-on bag and went to pick up his huge duffel bag, the one that everyone had laughed at when they’d piled into the shuttle bus en-route to the L.A. airport, his mother saying—“Why didn’t you use a rolling suitcase like the rest of us?”—and making him feel like an idiot for using his old college duffel.
Vanessa’s designer suitcases lay open on the floor and some of her clothes were scattered about, covering their bed, and covering his duffel as well. Same as usual, he thought. God, she never put anything away. He shook his head, removing the offending clothing from his bag. And people call men slobs. He pulled a few dresses off the bed as well, momentarily entertaining the tempting idea of cutting them up. He still had his pocket knife somewhere in his duffel bag. He normally always kept it in his pant pocket, but had to keep it in his checked bag at the airport in Los Angeles. He supposed he could probably find it if he really wanted . . . . He shook his head again, dismissing the satisfying but errant idea. Why bother? It’s pointless. Her daddy would just buy her new dresses, probably even fancier and more expensive ones. I’d likely just be doing her a favor. Instead, he tossed them on top of one of her open suitcases, then pulled the bedcovers up.
He strode over to the door and was about to open it when he remembered his cell phone on the night stand. Crap! He rushed back over and grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.
Entering the hotel lobby he glanced around. No parents. No Vanessa. Good. The clerks behind the hotel desk were busy chatting with each other and doubtless would not notice him. Good. He dashed out the double glass doors onto the crowded sidewalk where stylish Parisians and rich tourists blended together.
Outside, the chilly early-autumn air brought goose bumps to his bare arms, as he was wearing only a bright blue polo shirt and designer jeans his mom had bought him in a Paris department store yesterday. He considered grabbing his new leather jacket out of his bag, but quickly dismissed it, needing to hurry.
After ten days in Paris, other tourists might have the train schedules memorized. Not him, nope. He’d just tagged along, oblivious, letting his family worry about schedules, except once when he tried to prod them, thinking they were walking too slowly and would miss their connection. “The trains run frequently, son, from almost every station. No need to hurry. Slow down and enjoy the scenery,” they’d told
him. He shook his head. Well, not this time. He needed to get out of the city. Fast. Before he changed his mind. Before he lost his nerve. Before Vanessa got her claws in him again . . . .
He doubled his stride, almost jogging to the Paris du Nord train station. Physical exertion, sweat. That should help. It usually took the edge off his emotions.
Arriving at the station, he found the schedule board, checked the departure times, and looked at his watch. Ten minutes. Probably not a big deal for anyone familiar with the station, but damn, this was only his second time here. Locating and checking the station’s map, he plotted out the fastest route. At least he hoped it was. He slapped his feet into high gear recalling his days as a sprinter, and darted up escalators and through herds of people, and still barely reached the train before it began moving. He grabbed the railing and flung his feet up the stairs, his heavy duffel swinging wildly at his back.
After he found an empty seat, feeling satisfied with his rapid exit from the city and settling in for the brief train ride, his anger at what had happened earlier in the day returned, bringing knots back into his stomach. He struggled to ward off tears, not wanting to become a public spectacle. Gotta stop thinking, turn off my emotions, he told himself. He pulled out his phone, attempting to play a game to distract himself, the pinging sound of the game mixing with the chugging sound of the train, but he ended up just going through the motions, not really caring about the outcome, not able to stop the unwanted thoughts and feelings from taking over.
As the train slowed, nearing the famous Gare Montparnasse station, he gave up on games and stared at the outside of the building, superimposing in his mind the black-and-white photograph he’d seen recently in one of his photography magazines back home in Santa Barbara, a picture that at the time had struck a chord in him because it was exactly the kind of photography he wished he could do. Apparently, many years ago, one of the trains had crashed through the brick wall of Gare Montparnasse. The damn thing hung in the air precariously, looking like a touch of a fingertip would plunge it crashing to the ground.
Exiting into the station to change trains, he stood in front of the overhead signs, staring at the various train numbers and destinations. He found the high-speed TGV Atlantique to the southwest of Paris, which Paulette had told him to take.
Ten minutes later he boarded the train. This time, as he traveled, he instead gazed out the window at the rolling countryside, trying to distract himself from the memories of today’s drama. His phone suddenly rang. He dug out the phone and glanced at the ID. Dad. Really? Does he actually think I’ll talk to him? That takes a lot of goddamn nerve. He turned off the phone and put it away.
An hour or so later, at the city of Tours, he disembarked. His legs felt cramped, and his stomach gnawed at him. But Paulette was expecting him and he was unsure how long it would take to arrive there. Oh well. Dinner would just have to wait.
He flagged down a taxi driver, gave the driver the defined instructions. After a short ride, the driver dropped him in front of a school at the edge of Mythe-sur-Vienne. He got out, paid the driver, and looked toward the small village.
The road on which he stood ran alongside the Vienne River, with a few peripheral houses and businesses visible along the length of the road. Two other roads intersected it—one at each end of the village—both climbing up a gradual incline toward the mainstay of the hillside village. From his current vantage point, one of the roads also led to a bridge, spanning the river, then into wide open flat farm land on the other side, a stone tower of some sort rising off in the distance. The village of Mythe-sur-Vienne stood nestled between this river road and the top of a large hill or small mountain in the distance, depending on one’s definition of each. Josh decided it was just a really big hill.
Taking a deep breath, he began walking, turned onto the nearest road that led up into the main part of town, then ambled along the sidewalk with one bag hanging from each shoulder. Ancient-looking white stone houses dotted the hillside, most of them well-maintained, attractive with painted shutters framing windows, and with flowers boxes hanging underneath shining windows. Practically every building within eyesight had a gray slate roof. Some of the houses seemed perched so precariously that he imagined them tipping over, tumbling down the hillside, wiping out other structures in the process and all coming to rest in a huge pile at the river. The thought made him smile, realizing these dwellings had likely survived unchanged for a hundred years or more, far longer than he had lived, and would not be traversing the hill any time soon.
Once he reached the main street, he stopped to study the village. The upper half of the hill had far fewer houses than further down and seemed mostly covered in light forest. Turning onto what he expected was the main street, he observed the businesses to get a better feel for the village. Looking between two of the buildings, down a narrow way, he caught a glimpse of a ribbon of water—the Vienne River again.
His cell phone rang again, diverting his attention. Digging it out, he checked to see who it was. Mother. Sighing, he tapped on the call to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Where are you? We’ve searched the hotel and the nearby area.”
An image of Vanessa, her parents, and his parents searching the hotel and insisting he ‘must be here’ sprang to mind. It would never occur to any of them that he’d run off to vent, to get some space between himself and them. Always there, always loyal, always forgiving; that’s what everybody thought of him. Yeah, right. Well, not this time!
He looked over toward the hillside houses and spotted a church steeple, a couple mansions, and what looked like a hotel. It suddenly occurred to him that the village, with its almost all white structures, was arranged in tiers, making him think of a wedding cake, causing him to quietly groan and involuntarily gnash his teeth. His mom, Vanessa, and her mom had been ogling wedding cakes and dragging him from bakery to bakery for days now. If he never went inside another bakery, especially a French one, it would suit him fine. He turned back around and scratched at his neck, dissolving the image.
“Hello, are you there?”
“Sorry, Mom, still here. I just need some space,” he said. “Gotta cool down, you know?”
“We’re getting ready to go to dinner. You’ll meet us at the restaurant?”
“Nah. I’ve got something I need to do.” His stomach growled and he hoped she couldn’t hear it.
“Whatever it is, it can wait. You need to eat.”
“I’ll eat when I get hungry, okay.”
“No reason to snap at me.”
“Sorry.”
The phone was quiet a moment. “Josh, I’m worried about you.”
“I know. That’s your job.” He hesitated. How could he explain his unusual behavior without sounding like a lunatic? “Look, Mom, I did something that might sound kinda out in left field. But I needed to get away for a while. I mean—” He stopped talking and cleared his throat, giving himself time to summon his courage. “I, well, I took a temporary job as a handyman for an elderly woman in a little French town. Won’t be here long. Just long enough to get past . . . well, you know.”
Silence. He sighed and bent forward, waiting for her to say something.
“Sweetie, Vanessa’s sorry. She wants to make it up to you. Can’t you tell the woman you changed your mind about the job? What on earth made to accept that position, anyway?”
He blew his cheeks out, then released the air. “Afraid not. I made a promise.”
“Oh, Josh. You’re acting crazy.”
“Me? You think I’m acting crazy?” he said, raising his voice and waving his arms. Across the street an elderly couple stopped and stared at him. He turned away, ran one of his hands through his hair, and took a deep breath. In a quieter voice, he said, “Why are you defending them? Why don’t you—”
“Did you forget about our return flight to California next week?”
He hesitated, then said, “No, Mom, I didn’t forget, but I won’t be on that flight.”
“You’re coming home, though, right? I can tell her that.”
His chest felt tight. “I . . . . Damn. I don’t know. Yeah, I guess, eventually I will. I don’t know what I want right now, other than to be alone. As for Vanessa, I’m not ready to talk to her. Right now, let her sweat a little.”
“You’ll get past what happened, dear. I know. The pain goes away. Just give her a chance. Just don’t punish me for what—”
“Sorry, Mom. I don’t want to upset you. I’ll be okay.”
“I can’t talk you into coming back?”
“No.”
She sighed. “At least send me emails or text messages so I know what’s going on and know you’re okay.”
He didn’t answer right away, trying to understand why he felt angry toward her. His mother hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? Then he realized what it was—she knew what they’d done, but refused to confront it, instead covered it up, swept it under the rug, whatever you wanted to call it, like it was no big deal. That had always been her way; always the peacemaker no matter what. Just kiss and make up, make it go away. While it made him angry, he relented, realizing that she couldn’t help it. That was just her personality. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll try.”
After he ended the call, his hands shook. Wanting to punch something but struggling to restrain himself, he stood still for a few moments and took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself, knowing it would not do to arrive at his new job angry and out of control. He looked up. Gray heavy clouds were moving in. Possible rain. Need to get moving. He set a quick pace, keeping an eye on the sky, noting how the clouds cast shadows over the buildings, changing white stone to gray, blending with the gray slate roofs. Behind the main village, perhaps halfway up the hillside, the steeple he saw earlier resolved itself into an ancient church, a miniature cathedral, its spirals dark gray, unyielding, fusing with the clouds.