by Susan Finlay
At that moment Josh’s phone rang, loudly, and everyone turned to look at him. He pulled it out of his pocket, apologized, and powered down the phone.
Paulette said, “Hmm. I think I’ll have the same thing as Helene. She knows this restaurant better than I do.”
“Make mine the same, too,” Josh said.
“You are a chef here, are you not, Helene?” Paulette asked.
Her face lit up. “I am, though I’ve only begun work here a short time ago.” She glanced at her grandparents and then at Paulette. “Is it true you’re my great-grandmother? Grand-père told me this afternoon. I was stunned. Why did no one tell me this until now?”
While eating the appetizer Domenic had ordered, Paulette and Domenic recapped the earlier discussion they’d had in the hotel.
After the waiter brought out their main courses and everyone began eating, Josh said, “You were right, Helene. This is absolutely wonderful.”
She beamed at him. “You are American, oui?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve heard about you. As soon as I arrived back in Mythe—I don’t know if you’ve heard, I’ve been in Paris at culinary school—well, practically everyone I talked to seemed to want to be the first to tell me about the exotic stranger.” She laughed. “I guess I was expecting a movie star based on how they talked.”
Hmm. How am I supposed to take that? She doesn’t sound impressed.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. You certainly look as though you could be in a movie, she quickly added. It’s just you don’t have an attitude about you, a how should I say? I know, a conceit. I think that’s it.”
He smiled and sipped his wine. “Thanks.”
She turned to Paulette. “So it’s true your family owned the big mansion and vineyard that used to be on the other side of the river?”
Paulette nodded, quickly swallowing the bite of food she’d put in her mouth at the same time Helene had asked the question. “I still own it. Nothing much left of it, except the old guest house that Franco used as an art studio. People told me over the years that I should sell the land and make a good profit. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I suppose it should be sold to make way for more growth in Mythe. I didn’t need the money and never bothered with it.”
OMG. The art studio was across the river. When he’d first arrived in Mythe after the taxi driver had let him out, he’d looked out across the river. Had he seen the remnants of the old mansion, the guest house, the remains of the vineyard? He turned and looked at the window.
What the hell! Charles’s face was pushed up against the restaurant window. Charles saw Josh staring back at him and immediately darted away.
Okay, was the guy crazy, or what? Did he know or suspect that Domenic was his half-brother? If so, he might be worried that he would have to split the inheritance.
Paulette leaned close to Josh and whispered, “Is something wrong?”
“Huh? Oh, no, nothing’s wrong.” No sense upsetting her, especially not during the dinner. Throughout the rest of the meal, Josh couldn’t stop himself from peeking at the window periodically, though, and when the others stood up to go, Josh almost didn’t notice.
He leaned in close to Paulette and asked, “Do we pay separately?”
“Non, Domenic paid for all of us. Wasn’t that kind of him?”
Josh glanced at Domenic. Judging from the appearance of the hotel, the man wasn’t rolling in money. Was he being nice because he expected to inherit Paulette’s money?
Josh followed Paulette, Domenic, and Claudine to the hotel where he and Paulette got to choose their rooms. Josh, instead of choosing the room he’d stayed in before as he’d planned, chose one in the front of the building with a window looking down at the street, allowing him to watch for Charles.
“Paulette, maybe you should stay in the adjoining room in case you need help during the night. You brought your medicines, right?”
“Oui, they’re in my handbag. I suspect I’ll sleep straight through the night, but the unfamiliar bed could be a problem. And what if I sleepwalk again? You are right, Josh-you-ah, I should stay next door.”
“If it will make you feel better, we can keep the adjoining doors unlocked.”
She nodded.
Claudine handed them their room keys and bid them goodnight.
In his room Josh undressed down to his boxers and t-shirt, pulled a chair over to the window, turned off the light switch on the wall, and sat down. He propped his feet up on the cabinet underneath the window and waited.
Half an hour later, as expected, Charles appeared. The guy stared at the building, hands in his jacket pockets. What was he thinking? He must have followed them, right? Or was he watching Domenic?
Josh stood up, leaving the lights off, and got dressed. He closed his door softly, then tiptoed down the hall to the stairs. Downstairs, he looked out the front door.
Charles was gone.
He rapped on the door to the Laroche’s private apartment. “Sorry to bother you. Can we talk in private?”
Domenic held open the door and motioned for Josh.
“Is something wrong?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” He took a chance and told Domenic what happened to Franco back in 1971.
“Dear God. I knew something was odd when I heard that Charles had left town with that man. My aunt told me that everyone was gossiping about them. Something about, well—” He blushed. “I don’t like gossip, but they said the two were lovers. My aunt didn’t believe it, mind you. She said the boy didn’t even like Franco.”
“Yeah, I’m getting conflicting stories.” Josh hesitated. “Uh, to be honest—well, this is hard to say—I’ve even considered the possibility that you tried to kill Charles because you were jealous, and killed Franco by mistake.”
Domenic’s mouth dropped open and his face turned a bright red. “I can assure you I never went back to that troglo after Paulette threw me out in 1964 and said she never wanted me. I was still a kid, barely out of school.”
“You weren’t jealous of Charles? You didn’t hate him because he got the life you should have gotten?”
He sighed, his face color fading to normal. “Did I feel jealous?” He shrugged. “I suppose, somewhere deep inside, perhaps, but never would I kill someone. Anyway, I didn’t even consider living with Paulette, just wanted to meet her. My parents who raised me were good people and taught me right from wrong. You know, I left Paulette’s house that day not angry with her and not jealous of her younger son—no, she brought out something else entirely—shame. She treated me as if I was the one who did something wrong, when all I ever did was breathe when I was born. It took me a few years to get my self-confidence back, and that happened when Claudine came into my life and loved me for who I was; illegitimate or not, it didn’t matter.”
“Where were you in 1970?”
“Living in Paris, working at a university as a librarian in their library. I was married to Claudine. We had a three-year-old son, a ten-month-old daughter, and were expecting another baby.”
Neither spoke for several minutes, pondering the whole dilemma.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Josh shook his head. “The reason I’m still up and came to you is that I saw Charles watching us through the window at the restaurant, and then I saw him outside this hotel, staring at the building.”
“Because the gendarmes let you go? Does he still think you’re trying to get Paulette’s estate?”
“I don’t know.” Josh hesitated. “Is it possible he knows that you’re his half-brother?”
“Not that I’m aware.” He stopped, his brows drawing together. “Unless someone—a friend of his, perhaps—overheard us in the restaurant and called him.”
“Oh no, that’s a good possibility.” The restaurant had been crowded, the tables close together. Josh hadn’t thought it problematic, because they were speaking English throughout the evening. Of course someone else there might ha
ve understood English. He wanted to kick himself. Wasn’t it his job to keep Paulette safe—and by extension, her family? It was his idea to search for Charles and Domenic. If something happened to them . . . . He closed his eyes.
Domenic said, “You know, I think I’ll get us some cognac. I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink about now.”
JOSH RETURNED TO his hotel room an hour later and tiptoed into Paulette’s room to check on her. Her covers were pulled back and her bed was empty. Bathroom? Nobody there, either. He checked his own bathroom and then left his room. Not a sound in the sconce-lit hallway, no one padding on the carpeted floors or sticking their head out their doorway. His heart pounded. Had Charles come up here and grabbed Paulette? Or maybe convinced her to leave with him?
Dashing down the stairs, two at a time, he reached the lobby in record time. Empty. He ran outside and stood in the dark street, the soft yellowy light from the streetlamps that were probably meant to create a romantic candlelight-feel sent chills through him. All he could think of was the slasher movies he’d seen when he was in high school, the kind where an idiot went out at night to some spooky house or an abandoned warehouse and met with a horrific death. Get a grip. Where would Charles have taken her? His car had been parked in a neighborhood. Maybe that’s where he’d gone.
Rounding the corner of the block, he froze. Someone or something was moving in a shadowy area up ahead.
Who was there? He strained to see, but he was too far away and there wasn’t enough light. He inched forward, staying close to the buildings.
A cat darted across the street. Apollo? He couldn’t tell for sure. Then someone stepped out into the street, arms waving. Huh? Was that Paulette? He rushed forward.
Barefoot and wearing a thin nightgown, tears running down her face, her body trembling, Paulette threw herself into his arms.
“I’m—so—co—cold,” she said. “Wha—what happened? I woke up and didn’t know where I was. You were gone. I’ve never been so scared.” She stopped talking and sobbed.
Josh held her tight, one of his hands on the back of her head, the other on her bony back. Until now he hadn’t noticed how frail she’d become.
He whispered, “I’m going to carry you back to the hotel. Hold on.” He picked her up and trudged back around the corner, setting her down for a second while he opened the door, and then carried her up the stairs.
Once she was in her bed, he pulled up the covers and tucked her in. She was still shivering, so he pulled the covers off his own bed and covered her with them. He pulled a chair over and sat beside her bed.
Paulette tossed and turned, called out several times, and had several extended coughing fits.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, he decided, because the next thing he saw was light streaming in through the open drapes, striking his eyes. He squeezed them shut and then slowly re-opened them. Paulette was still asleep, snoring. He sat up straighter, stretched his back and then canted his neck in one direction and then the other. Oh crap, I’m really stiff, sore. Not only his neck, but his side, too. Must have been the awkward position he’d slept in.
He got up, eased the drapes closed, then went to his room and took clean clothes out of his bag. He decided a quick shower might help his body get the kinks out.
By the time he got out, dried his hair, and got dressed, Paulette was awake, but still groggy.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’ll go to the bakery and get you some pastries. How does that sound?”
“Would you? I don’t know what I would do without you. I think I’m going to just stay in bed awhile. Don’t think I have the energy to get up right now.”
Her demeanor worried Josh. She looked very pale and fragile lying there. He hoped their foray into town hadn’t accelerated her deterioration. Mentally kicking himself for not being more attentive to her condition, he said “I’ll talk to Domenic and see if we can stay another night, okay? That way you can rest and get your strength back.”
He didn’t add that he would take her to the hospital if she kept up the terrible coughing that had kept him awake much of the night. No need to worry her though. As he was preparing to leave, Claudine knocked on the door, coming to see if they needed anything. She told him the hotel was not that busy right now and they could stay as long as they wanted.
Late in the morning Paulette was up and said she felt much better. Josh was happy to see the color return to her cheeks and she did in fact look more like her old self. After arranging another night’s lodging and eating breakfast with Paulette and Claudine, who had joined them, Josh talked to Paulette briefly about the art studio, and then went downstairs and asked Domenic for his help. They left Paulette sitting up in bed talking to Claudine, who seemed absorbed in one of Paulette’s stories about her dancing career.
Leaving Domenic’s granddaughter, Helene, to man the desk, Domenic and Josh trudged up the hill to the troglo and found the key for the studio where Paulette had told him she had hidden it—in the back of a dresser drawer, under some blouses. Back in town, Domenic drove Josh over to Paulette’s property across the river. Josh had wanted to see the remnants of the house, but more importantly, he wanted to check the former art studio.
Paulette said that she’d covered the paintings with tarps, and then locked up the guest-house building. No one, as far as she knew, had been inside in more than forty years. If that was true, the paintings should still be there. She’d told Josh and Domenic that she was changing her will, making Josh the executor and instructing him to sell the paintings and split the proceeds between her two sons.
“How much of this land is hers?”
“I don’t really know for sure. I read an article once many years ago that said the old vineyard and Rabaud estate ran across the woods over there,” pointing to a copse of trees, “east to the river, then over to the edge of that farm. From there, it ran back to the woods. If you look close, you’ll see piles of rock over there. That’s what’s left of the main house. I’ve heard that over many years much of the stone was carted away to use for other buildings.”
“Wow, looks like maybe forty or more acres.”
Domenic shrugged. “I don’t know that measurement.” A few minutes later he stopped the car in front of a cobblestone building surrounded by overgrown shrubs, half-hidden beneath clinging vines, some partly obscuring the lower windows. The second story windows lined most of the walls, almost like the lighthouses Josh had seen when his family vacationed in Maine when he was a teenager.
They got out of the car and strode to the front door.
Josh pulled the key out of his pocket and as he inserted it into the lock, the door swung open. “That’s weird. It opened before I turned the key.”
They stepped inside a narrow entryway. Domenic flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. Domenic shrugged. “It was worth a try. I doubt Paulette continued paying the electric bill after Franco was gone. Why would she?”
“Yeah, it’s possible they didn’t even use electricity here while Franco used the building. I mean, with all those windows upstairs, if that’s where the art studio is, he might not have needed any.”
They peeked into an office to their left, maybe a dozen feet square, occupied by a desk, a chair, and a bookcase of old dusty books. On the opposite side of the wide entry was a short blank wall with hooks on it for coats and hats. An old umbrella full of cob webs dangled from one of the hooks. Ahead on the left was a long hallway. Next to that, past the coat hooks, a steep staircase made of some dark-stained wood, probably walnut or mahogany —Josh always had trouble telling the difference between some of the wood stains and grains—led to the upper floor.
After a quick check down the hallway which led to what seemed to be a studio apartment, they tromped up the creaking stairs and pushed open a glass-paned door, covered with the remains of what used to be sheer curtains.
Josh covered his nose with his hand because of the musty scent and the thick layer of dust the open door stirr
ed-up; the dust coated everything.
Multiple large paned windows lit the room, which would have been perfect for an art studio, though now in desperate need of cleaning. As they were, a hazy mottled light filtered through them. Even without better lighting they could see that the paintings were gone. Tarps, originally covering the missing paintings, had been randomly scattered on the floor, with mouse droppings, dirt, and mold staining some of them. Franco’s art supplies, tools, easels, and blank canvases were still there, pretty much looking the same as they were in the photographs, except for the thick layers of dusk. “Who do you think took the paintings?” Domenic asked.
“That’s a good question.” It certainly wasn’t Franco.
ISABELLE PACED, HER phone ringing over and over. “Come on. Pick up the phone, Josh. Where are you?” She’d tried calling him several times today. She’d tried calling Paulette and Domenic, too. Where was everyone and why weren’t they answering? She stared over at her notes, taken from her research online. She knew Franco’s full name now, having found newspaper and magazine articles from the mid-seventies about the artist’s disappearance. She needed to talk to Paulette or Charles, but Paulette wasn’t answering and she didn’t have Charles’s number. She tried calling Josh once more. After getting his voicemail again, she gave up. Since none of them were answering their phones, did that mean something was wrong? What was she supposed to do?
She sat down and placed her elbows on the kitchen table, resting her chin on her knuckles. Think. What would Josh say? What was the best way to handle this situation? Apollo jumped up and tried to get her to scratch him. “Not now Apollo.” She set the cat back on the floor.
Sighing, she stared at her mobile phone lying next to her elbow and then glanced at her laptop computer nearby. All right. She reached over and pulled her computer closer, then pulled up Therese Lapierre’s phone number on her computer.
She picked up her phone and dialed. It rang and rang. She got up and paced again. Looks like another person not answering. Ughh!
“Lapierre residence. Therese here.”