by Susan Finlay
Paulette and Charles sank back into their seats.
Charles said, “I thought you killed him because you found out what he’d done to me. I came home and found the blood and his body. You weren’t home. I thought you panicked and ran away. Then, when you came back, I figured you . . . .”
“Oh, my God,” Paulette said. “All these years we thought we were protecting each other.”
“If neither of us killed Franco, then who did?”
Isabelle leaned over to Josh and translated again.
Everyone sat there in stunned silence; all these years.
Isabelle said, “Who else had access to your troglo?”
“Well, anyone could have gone inside. I don’t lock the door. You know that.”
“What’s going on? What did she say?” Josh asked.
Isabelle sighed, then translated once again.
“You don’t have to translate,” Charles said in English. “We need to figure out what really happened.”
Josh nodded. “Yeah, didn’t you tell me, Paulette, that there might be access through the cave system if someone knows about it and knows how to get to your troglo?”
“Oui. The Resistance used the tunnel not only to hide people, but also to travel undetected.”
“Who else in town knew about it?”
“Almost everyone who’d lived there for a long time or who had heard the stories that were handed down from generation to generation knew.”
“Oh, great,” Josh said. “So what you’re saying is that someone in Mythe killed Franco for who knows what reason and, with your aid, they got away with it.” He scratched his head. “It’s understandable for Charles to kill him or you, for that matter, because of what Franco did to him. But what would cause someone else to commit the murder?”
“Maybe Charles wasn’t the only one. There could be other victims, isn’t that so?” Isabelle said.
“That’s possible,” Josh said. “Or maybe one of his male friend got jealous or felt betrayed.”
“Well I don’t know who he was involved with, or if there were other victims,” Paulette said. “Do you, Charles?”
“No. Sorry. I wish I could tell you more.”
Josh scratched his head and twisted his lips, then said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Paulette. Charles mentioned that you gave him Swiss Francs. I found money hidden in my mattress. Where did that money come from?”
She sighed. “Oh dear. I’d almost forgotten about it. Franco’s family lost all of their money during the war. He trusted no one after that. Not banks. Not the government. No one. He insisted everyone pay him for his artwork in cash. He would take that cash somewhere—I don’t know where—and get it converted into Swiss Francs and then he hid it in the house. Both mattresses. I told him that if the house caught on fire, he could lose everything. He wouldn’t listen.”
Josh nodded. “Why Swiss Francs?”
“He said something about it being the most stable currency.”
“Okay, I guess I can understand that logic. So, the guy might have been killed by a jilted lover or another victim. Or maybe by someone he had business dealings with. Was his art really good enough to make him much money, or was he involved in some other kind of business? My banking background in extralegal activities is kicking in here. Maybe Charles has some ideas, too.”
Charles said, “I can think of a few criminal activities he might have been involved in. What do we really know about Franco? He came from Italy and was a reasonably successful artist, but what else?” He looked over at his mother.
Paulette pursed her lips. Some things still stuck in her memory like glue; details about Franco’s life didn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. Not exactly. She had in the beginning of their relationship. Finding out that he was bisexual and was molesting her son pretty much destroyed her love and drove it into the past. Finding out her son killed him—that’s what she’d thought—was further reason to block Franco from her memory as best she could.
This damned old-age crap didn’t help her memory, either. And certainly her illness didn’t help. How was she supposed to answer Charles’s question?
“Does any of it matter now?” she asked, thinking out loud. “It’s been forty-five years. No one misses Franco.”
Josh said, “Don’t you want to know who killed him and ruined all of your lives? If Franco hadn’t been murdered, you two would have had a normal mother/son relationship.”
“Non, Franco ruined our lives by doing what he did,” Paulette said. “Oui, the killer caused us to blame each other and sent Charles on the run, but if Franco had lived . . . .”
“Well, yeah, he was pretty awful, but you probably would have just kicked the bastard out after you found out. But he didn’t need to die, not unless it was in self-defense of you defending your son. If someone else killed him for some other reason, it was cold-blooded murder. That’s wrong in any language. The killer needs to go to jail.”
Paulette cried out, and wiped tears from her eyes. “You’re right, Josh-you-ah. But I don’t want gendarmes rummaging through my house and belongings, certainly not while I’m still alive.”
“I understand that. What if we dig around on our own and see what we can find? No need to get the gendarmes involved right now. The killer might not even be alive anymore. It was a very long time ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JOSH SQUEEZED HIMSELF into the front passenger seat of Charles’s dark blue Renault. Before leaving the magnanery, Charles had packed a suitcase and driven them all back to Balazuc. Josh and the two women had then retrieved bags from their rooms, checked out of the hotel, and now Charles was about to pull into the road that led to Mythe. It was a tight, rather uncomfortable fit, what with four people and accompanying bags in the small French vehicle, but they were in good spirits and managed.
Josh looked over his shoulder at the women in the backseat and smiled.
As they pulled away from the chateau, Charles said, “I’m wondering if some of my old friends are still living there. Do you think they’ll remember me after forty-five years?”
“Oh, I’m sure they will,” Paulette said. “Some of your classmates moved away, but many are still in Mythe. Hmm, let me think. Gilbert Falkland, Adelle Delancy, Stephan Danvers, and Del Pierpont—they’re still there. I know some others are still around, but I can’t remember their names.” Paulette frowned. “I hate losing my memory. I hope you didn’t inherit my bad genes.”
Josh continued looking over his shoulder at Paulette. She’d taken a pain pill at the hotel and would probably fall asleep soon, hopefully sparing her most of the drive home. At least he hoped she would. He noticed that she’d had difficulty walking from the hotel to the car and complained of being tired and short of breath. She seemed excited to have Charles back in her life, yet anxious about digging up the past.
A quiet soon settled on the vehicle as passengers attended to the scenery and to their own thoughts, settling in for the drive. After about half an hour, Josh looked over his shoulder again, noting that both women were asleep. Paulette’s head took on its characteristic tilt to the side the way it always did when falling asleep in her recliner. Turning forward in his seat, reviewing the events of the day, he decided he still wasn’t convinced that she was telling the truth about that day Franco died. He wanted to trust her, but loyalty had its limits. He sneaked a peak at Charles. Wasn’t sure about him, either. The guy had acted genuinely surprised when Paulette told him she thought he’d killed Franco, but some people were born actors. What had Charles done all those years on his own, trying to survive in an adult world? Maybe lying had become a survival skill he’d honed along the way.
“So you have a granddaughter,” Josh said softly.
“Two, actually. Francoise and Marie. A grandson, Marc, also. Two daughters and a son.”
“Paulette will be excited to hear that.”
Charles nodded.
Josh wanted to ask more questions, but seeing the t
raffic was heavy and the road narrow, winding, and mountainous, he decided not to distract or upset a driver he did not even know. Better to wait until they were back in Mythe.
When they finally reached the town in the early evening, Isabelle, being awake, directed and told Charles he could park in her unused parking spot behind her bakery, as she didn’t own a car.
Once parked, they gathered their belongings, and Isabelle waved goodbye and entered her building through the rear entrance. The other three began their trek through town toward the hill where they would hike up to the troglo. The yellowy glow from the streetlamps guided them well enough while in the town proper, but Josh worried about walking up the sometimes steep hilly areas in the dark.
He paced himself, carefully watching for broken branches in the path, loose rocks, or anything else that might trip them up, and keeping a close eye on Paulette. As they neared the troglo, a rustling in the bushes startled him and brought chills up his spine. That wild boar sprung to mind, the one he had heaved an old tire at. He steeled himself to keep from panicking, fearing the huge beast might be ready for a little pay back.
“Do you have your hunting knife with you?” he asked Charles.
“Always do. Keep it in my back pocket. Why?”
He relayed the story about the boar incident. “I’ve been keeping my little pocket knife with me ever since, but it wouldn’t help a whole lot with an animal that size.”
Paulette moved closer and grabbed hold of Josh’s sleeve, looking up at him, as though she regarded him as her protector. Josh gave Charles a sideways glance, hoping he didn’t notice her reaction. He hadn’t. Paulette and Charles were still awkward around each other, which Josh could understand. Some part of him liked protecting her and having her look at him that way, but he hoped in time she would see her son as her protector, too. They should have that special kind of bond that a mother and son share.
The three carefully forged ahead, with no further sign of any animal, and soon were at the troglo. Inside, Paulette dropped her bags at the entrance, flopped herself onto her chair, gave a great sigh, looked around and said, “Where are my dogs?”
“They’re at Veronique’s house, remember? I’ll get them in the morning.”
She pouted a moment, then said, “Well, I guess that’s all right. I’m tired and ready to fall asleep, anyway.” She glanced around the room. “I can just sleep here on the sofa. Charles, you can sleep in my bed.”
“Uh, no, Paulette, I’ll sleep down here,” Josh said. “Charles can have his old room back.”
Charles waved his hands in the air. “I don’t really want to step foot in that room right now. I’d rather sleep on the sofa, if it’s all the same to you. Too many old memories in this place, you know?”
“Sorry,” Josh said, giving him a quizzical look. “I didn’t really think about that. Must feel strange to you, coming back here after all that time away.”
Charles stuffed his hands in his pant pockets and nodded. “I didn’t expect . . . .” he choked up and closed his eyes a moment. “I thought after all these years . . . that I’d moved on. Guess it’s time I faced the past, isn’t it?”
“Well, you’re welcome to get your old room back if you change your mind. I’ll get you some pillows and blankets. They’re upstairs in a cupboard. Be back in a minute.”
JOSH GULPED HIS second cup of coffee, washing down a big chunk of old bread, the only thing he could find for breakfast in the troglo this morning. Grocery shopping was definitely on his to-do list—along with getting the dogs and bringing them home. He decided to do that first thing, giving Paulette and Charles time alone to get caught up, and giving him time to stop in and say hello to Isabelle. She’d told him last night she would be getting up early and baking, to re-open her shop, so she would likely be rather busy. He wanted to also work out a plan to talk with some of the locals together, but he would have to go back later in the day for that.
He walked to the sink and washed his dirty dishes. Paulette and Charles had earlier taken coffee cups into the living room before he had come downstairs. He’d considered joining them, but again decided to give them privacy. After drying the dishes and his hands, and placing the towel on the rack to dry, he sauntered into the living room.
“Unless you need me here, I’m going into town to buy groceries and get the dogs. Is there anything you want me to do or get while I’m there?” Paulette’s face lit up. He quickly added, smiling, “Besides chocolates and pastries.”
She laughed. “You know me too well.”
He grinned. “Yep and, unfortunately, you’ve now got me hooked on those chocolates, too.” He stuck out his stomach and patted it. “Anything you want, Charles?”
Charles stretched and yawned. “No. I’m good.”
“Charles is showing me pictures of his children and grandchildren. I’m struggling to comprehend that I’m a grandmother and a great-grandmother. You were right.”
“I’m glad. Maybe you can show me the pictures tonight.”
“You’re going to get the dogs and bring them home, aren’t you?”
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll do that after the shopping,” he replied, smiling, knowing full well he had just told her he was retrieving the dogs. It worried Josh. He didn’t know how much was just old age and how much was due to deterioration from her illness.
She rubbed her hands together. “Magnifique! My dogs and chocolates.”
Three hours later, after waiting around for a couple of the shops to open, and deciding what to buy in the way of food and meals, he walked in the door of the troglo, set the bags of groceries down, and rubbed his now sore arms. He walked into the living room, dogs running around him, almost tripping him in the process. They spied Paulette coming out of the kitchen and almost knocked her over in their eagerness to ply her with licks.
Then the dogs noticed Charles walk in from outside. Gigi growled, a deep, ferocious growl.
“Gigi!” Paulette shouted.
The dog quieted, but still didn’t back down.
Josh, deciding Paulette could handle her dogs, said, “I need to go put away the groceries.” Reclaiming the bags from the entry, he marched into the kitchen, put everything away, placed a generous supply of assorted chocolates on a plate, and took it into the living room, where he set it on the coffee table.
Gigi had calmed down some and was now lying beside Paulette’s feet, head resting on paws, but it was clear her eyes were fixed on Charles.
“Before I go out again, I’ll fix some lunch for both of you. I’m going back into town. I’m meeting Isabelle at quarter past one and I’ll eat lunch there.”
“She really likes you, you know,” Paulette said. “You won’t find her cheating on you like Vanessa did.”
Josh nodded at her statement, but didn’t say anything. With everything going on lately, he hadn’t had time to sort through his emotions. Vanessa had been a major part of his life for almost two years. No matter what she’d done, he still had trouble erasing her. She was in his dreams—last night, they’d been on a sailboat, her red hair blowing in the wind, her bikini-clad body slick with sunscreen, shining in the sun.
He walked back into the kitchen, scooped out lasagna from a foil dish onto two plates, then warmed them in the microwave. Not gourmet, but passible. Setting them on the table, along with silverware and napkins, he said, “Lunch is ready. I bought something ready-made. Hope you like it. Bring your cups in with you.”
Paulette sat down and sniffed. “Oh, that smells delicious. I haven’t eaten lasagna in years.”
Charles stood next to the table, a deep frown on his face. “Is this some kind of statement?”
“Huh?” Josh said. “What’s wrong?”
“Franco was Italian. I told you this place was bringing back bad memories—and the first meal you serve me is lasagna.”
Paulette licked her lower lip, then her upper lip, and repeated, clearly not knowing what to say.
“I’m sorry,” Josh sputtered. “It
wasn’t meant to be a statement. I . . . I just saw the lasagna in the deli at the market and thought it looked and smelled good. They rarely have international food.”
Charles shook his head and walked out the door.
“Paulette, I’m really sorry. I hope he’s okay.”
“It’s okay. He’s always been sensitive. I’d forgotten how he used to get that way when he was a little boy. His father and he used to get into quarrels over it. He’ll come back. Don’t worry yourself. Go ahead and meet Isabelle. I’ll be fine here.”
He glanced at his watch. Still plenty of time to get down the hill and to the café. He could stay a few minutes and look for Charles. “Do you want me to try talking to him? Smooth things over?”
“Non, let him be; best to let him settle down. Go on into town.”
As he hiked down the hill, he couldn’t stop thinking about Charles. Was the man going through emotional distress because everything was happening too quickly? The poor guy found out yesterday that his mother was dying, and now he was back in his childhood home reliving terrible memories from his past. Josh could understand his turmoil. But, what if that wasn’t the case? What if he was reacting to the lasagna because he felt guilty? What if he really did kill Franco?
He heard a sound in the bushes and jumped. Two rabbits ran out of the bushes, one chasing the other. He let out his breath which, until then, he hadn’t realized he was holding and laughed at his own foolish distress. Rabbits, for god sake. Get a grip!
But if Charles had killed Franco in self-defense or to stop the molestation, why would he lie about it? Everyone had already thought Charles had killed Franco. On the other hand, Paulette’s memory was going, no question there, and she might be confused. Maybe she didn’t want to remember what really happened. Maybe she just didn’t want to die with anyone believing she’d killed someone.
Isabelle arrived in the café within minutes after Josh. She waved and smiled when she saw him. Josh stood up as she arrived and pulled a chair out for her.