The Handyman

by Susan Finlay

  Isabelle’s heart quickened. “Allo, Therese, this is Isabelle Bernot. Do you remember me? I came to see you last week, with Paulette Lapierre.”

  Silence. Isabelle waited a few more seconds. Still no response.

  “Are you there, Therese?”

  “Sorry. Of course I remember you.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a phone number for Charles? I’ve been trying to reach him, but without luck. He’s back home in Balazuc, right?”

  “Oh, dear God. I . . . I’m afraid he isn’t. He . . . , well, he called me this morning. I’ve been frantic ever since. I think he’s going to do something horrible.”

  “Tell me what you know. Please, Therese. I’m worried.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE HAIR ON the back of Josh’s neck stood up and his heart pounded. “What the hell was that noise?” The image of the wild boar in the doorway of the troglo again sprang to mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea, chiding himself silently. They’d closed the front door of the guest house. He’d made sure of that. So what was making the noise?

  “Someone’s on the stairs,” Domenic whispered. “Old houses sometimes creak and groan—our hotel does that—but this is different, more solid. Footsteps.”

  Silence. Except for the slow padding of feet. Upward. One step, stop, pause, another step. Quiet steps. Someone didn’t want to be heard, but the stairs continued to respond.

  Josh looked around for something to use as a weapon—just in case. Nothing. Paint brushes and blank canvases wouldn’t do a damn thing. He moved to the front window and stared down at Domenic’s car. It wasn’t alone. Charles’s car was parked behind it, blocking it.

  Josh whispered, “It’s Charles.”

  Domenic picked up a bucket that Josh hadn’t noticed before.

  Josh touched the heavy camera bag hanging around his own neck. Damn, he didn’t want to damage his camera, but better the camera than him. The memory card would probably survive, even if the camera didn’t. He stayed near the window, his back to it, staring toward the door.

  “We should hear what he has to say before we act,” Josh said.

  “Agreed.”

  The door opened, squeaking, and Charles stepped into the room.

  Every inch of Josh’s body tightened in preparation for action.

  “What are you doing here?” Domenic asked.

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “Where are Franco’s paintings?” Josh asked.

  “How should I know? My mother probably burned them or buried them, too. She’s crazy, you know.”

  Josh said, “No, she isn’t. Is that what you’re planning to say if you don’t like what’s in her will?”

  “If I have to.” He sneered. “It would be better for her if you got on a plane and went back to America where you belong. As for you, dear brother, yes I know who you are, you don’t stand a chance of getting anything from her. I’ll go to the gendarmes and tell them that you tried to kill me when I was fourteen and that you mistakenly killed Franco instead. I had to run away to escape from you. You stay away from my mother.”

  “So you made up the story about your thinking Paulette killed Franco, just like you’re now making up the story about Domenic trying to kill you,” Josh said. “Franco didn’t really molest you, did he? Did you discover he’d cheated with your married mother and got her pregnant with you? You found out he was your biological father and hated him? That why you killed him?”

  “Well, seems like you’ve got it all figured out, but you’ll never convince anyone. Don’t underestimate my ability to weave a tale and make people believe. Everyone believed what I hinted at all those years ago. It was all too easy. I didn’t really have to leave here. I could have stayed and everyone would have felt sorry for me, the poor boy who had to endure what Franco did to him. Hah. What a joke.”

  “Why did you leave, then?”

  Charles flailed his arms, clearly unstable and agitated. “I didn’t want to stay anywhere near my slutty mother. I couldn’t kill her. She gave me life. But she cheated on my poor father. My real father. That creep, Franco, may have got my mother pregnant, but he certainly wasn’t father material.”

  “She’s dying, you know. Let her have peace in her final months. Go back to Balazuc. You’ll get what you’ve been waiting for.

  “She doesn’t deserve any peace from me and don’t tell me what to do! You stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” He pulled a knife out of his jacket pocket, the knife from the dresser drawer. Josh had forgotten about it.

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret,” Josh said, his heart pounding and his mind visualizing him getting knifed in the stomach. “If you attack either of us, you won’t get your inheritance and you’ll be on the run again, or worse, in prison.”

  Charles lunged at Josh, but Josh, being much younger and far more agile than Charles, was expecting him, pulled his knife arm forward and to the side, off-balancing Charles, who tripped and went down. Josh immediately tackled him, pinned him and his arms to the ground, then Domenic stepped in and relieved Charles of the knife.

  “You still want to fight with me? Huh?” Josh twisted one of Charles’s arms. “We can go to the gendarmes now and talk to them. How’s that?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go back to Balazuc. Get off me.”

  Josh let go of his arms, pushed himself up to his knees, then stood up.

  Charles scrambled up and then dashed out the door and down the stairs.

  Josh and Domenic, both still shaken from the encounter, stared out the window at the car as it sped away.

  “You handled yourself pretty good there,” Domenic said. “Remind me to not get into a fight with you.” He smiled, the adrenaline beginning to wear off.

  “Did you pick up on Charles’s reply about the paintings?”

  “Yes, I did. We still don’t know who took Franco’s paintings,” Domenic mused.

  “No, we don’t. I think maybe another talk with Paulette is in order.”

  On the drive back to the hotel, Josh struggled with his decision whether or not to tell Paulette about their incident with Charles. He’d meant what he’d said about letting her have peace, which meant he should probably drop everything about Franco’s death. On the other hand, Charles was a cold-blooded killer and possibly a thief. How many other people had he killed? And what if he followed up on his threat to tell the gendarmes that Domenic killed Franco? Wasn’t Domenic still at risk?

  Arriving at the hotel, Domenic parked, and strode to the front door, Josh right behind him. Domenic halted abruptly, causing Josh to crash into him.

  “Sorry. What’s wrong? Why aren’t we going inside?”

  He pointed to the ‘Ferme’ sign on the door.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Closed. We never close the hotel. Helene was only working in the morning, because she had to work in the restaurant later, but Claudine should be here.” He scratched his head, then gazed up and down the street. Pulling his key out of his pant pocket, he unlocked and opened the door and called out for Claudine. She didn’t answer.

  Josh darted up the stairs to Paulette’s room. The door was locked. He went next door to his own room and unlocked it. Seconds later, he was inside Paulette’s room, but she was gone.

  A note was propped on her pillow. He grabbed it and ran down the stairs back to Domenic.

  “What does this say?”

  Domenic took the note and read it. “It’s from Claudine. She’s taken Paulette to the hospital.”

  Josh closed his eyes, remembering Paulette’s coughing attacks last night. Oh, no. I should have stayed here with her.

  The two scrambled into the car and Domenic drove them to the hospital located in a larger town about ten miles from Mythe. They rushed through double doors and Domenic spoke in French to an employee at the admissions desk.

  Josh struggled to make out what they were saying, but only caught about every fifth word.

  “We
need to go up to the waiting room on the next floor and sit there until the doctor is available to talk to us.

  Josh felt like a caged animal as they rode up in the elevator, everything closing in on him. He’d known Paulette was worse last night. Maybe if he’d brought her here first thing this morning . . . .

  When they walked into the waiting room, Claudine jumped up from her chair and ran into Domenic’s arms. She said something in French to him, crying, her words jumbled, as Domenic had to calm her and ask her to speak slower.

  Josh tried to steel himself for the worst, near tears himself, worried his knees would buckle underneath him. “What did she say?”

  “Paulette has pneumonia. She’s stable and being given oxygen. We can’t see her right now. Maybe soon.”

  Nothing to do but wait and worry. Josh’s eyes roved back and forth between the double doors leading into the examination area and the clock hanging over the receptionist’s desk. Twenty agonizingly slow minutes had elapsed.

  The doctor appeared a short time later and spoke to Claudine and Domenic in French. Domenic introduced Josh to the doctor and asked him to speak in English so Josh could understand. Even when the doctor spoke English, the words sounded somehow distant and detached, as if Josh were eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation. His mind struggled to accept that the doctor was speaking to him about Paulette.

  “You may go in and see her now, but don’t stay long. She needs rest to regain her strength.”

  “Is the pneumonia an end-stage complication?” Josh asked.

  “Not necessarily. It’s a common ailment in the elderly, even when they don’t have cancer. Her body is weakened. Pneumonia occurs more frequently in lung cancer patients than in the general population. It doesn’t, however, mean the end is imminent.”

  Josh nodded and attempted a smile. “Thank you doctor. Is there anything we can do to help her?”

  “Keep her calm and give her something to look forward to. I find that helps give patients in her situation a reason to keep fighting.”

  Well that settles the question of whether or not to tell her about Charles.

  Josh pasted on what he hoped was a convincing smile and followed the doctor, Domenic, and Claudine into Paulette’s room.

  At the door, the doctor reminded them, “Please keep your visit short. She needs rest.” He looked at his patient momentarily, then at the monitors before departing.

  The air in the hospital room smelled of antiseptic, reminding Josh briefly of many years ago when his great-grandmother had lain in a hospital bed hooked up to similar machines, tubing in her nostrils and wires trailing everywhere.

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to hold back tears, telling himself this was different. I’m not ready. She’s not ready. She’s has to keep fighting. He could not allow himself to think otherwise. But his mind could not prevent fears from striking. What could he say to make her want to fight?

  Trying to distract himself while Domenic and Claudine talked to her, he looked over at a display on one of the beeping medical devices, trying to make sense of the numbers and traces, looking for something to give him a positive sign. Breathing, heart rate, and blood pressure were displayed on the monitor, but had little meaning to his untrained eye. They seemed steady and at least did not give any warning alarms. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Another device said SpO2 was at 93 percent. He didn’t know what that meant either, but no one was rushing in. It must be all right. His eyes followed the wires from that device back down to something that resembled an old clothes pin, clipped to one of her fingers. Still don’t know what that does.

  Domenic touched his arm. “We’re going to leave the two of you alone now to talk. We’ll be in the waiting room.”

  Josh nodded, thanked Claudine, watched as they left, then turned his attention to Paulette.

  She pulled the oxygen mask away, smiled at him, and motioned for him to sit in the chair beside the bed.

  Sitting and moving the chair closer, he said, “You scared the crap out of me, you know. I’m not ready to be jobless.” He gave a lopsided grin, and she attempted to laugh, but coughing got in the way.

  “I think I should have worn something heavier than my nightgown when I went out for that stroll last night.” She smiled. “When I was young, I thought nothing about skimpy clothes, or even nudity.” She coughed again and had to put the oxygen back on. After a few seconds, she pulled it away again. “Did I tell you that Franco painted me once? A nude painting.”

  Josh raised his eyebrows.

  “Don’t look shocked. That’s how we first met. He saw me dance in a show and came by the dressing room after. He asked if he could paint me. I was flattered.”

  “Do you know what happened to his paintings? We didn’t find them in the art studio?”

  “You wouldn’t find ‘that’ painting. He sold it and got a good price, too.” She coughed.

  “I didn’t mean that painting. The ones that he had in the studio—at the end.”

  “They should still be there. About a dozen. They were part of an exhibition he’d planned.”

  “No one ever came to get them for the exhibition?”

  “Non. At least not here. The address that he gave everyone was in Italy.” She put the mask back on and closed her eyes, wheezing as she breathed. When she reopened them, she said, “What did the doctor say? Am I staying in here until the end?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Thinking about cheering her up, he said, “I have an idea. You were a famous dancer in Europe. People might like to read about you, find out where you’ve been, that sort of thing. We’ve got all those photo albums and I’ve got my handy camera. I could take some photos of you around Mythe, in your troglo, and wherever you want. Put everything together for magazine articles or, who knows, maybe even a book. What do you think?”

  Tears ran down her cheek. She pulled away the mask and said, “You would do that for me? I’ve always worried that I would die and no one would even remember me. No one would even know I existed. It’s terrifying.”

  “I would be honored to do that, Paulette. You’ve lived an extraordinary life. Let’s talk more about that when you’re strong enough. We’ll get you well first, out of here and back into your troglo.”

  “That’s a deal, Josh-you-ah. But you’ll have to let me fix myself up before you snap photos.”

  “Yep. We can even call in a hairstylist if you want.”

  She grinned. “Now you can go away and let me get my beauty rest and dream about what to wear. Give this old lady a kiss, here on the cheek, before you go.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll be back to check on you later. Get well. I don’t have all the time in the world. Got things to do and people to meet.”

  She swatted at his arm. “Isabelle better grab hold of you tight.”

  He squeezed Paulette’s hand. “All kidding aside, I’ll be there for you as long as you need me. Just get yourself well and keep fighting.” She nodded, and he left the room.

  He, Domenic, and Claudine made sure the hospital nurses and Paulette’s doctor had their cell phone numbers and knew to call one of them if anything changed or if Paulette wanted them. They drove both cars back to Mythe, but had to park down the street from the hotel, because two Gendarme vehicles were parked in front of the hotel, leaving no available spaces.

  “What do you think is going on?” Josh asked.

  Domenic rubbed his hands across his face and stated, “I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JOSH FOLLOWED DOMENIC toward the hotel entrance, but stopped short, recognizing one of the gendarmes standing under the awning as the officer who’d roughly shoved him into a car and drove him to the Gendarmerie yesterday. Are they here for Domenic or for me, or both? He stood near the edge of the sidewalk, waiting to see what they would do. When Domenic arrived at the hotel and inserted his key into the door lock, the two officers rushed over to him and said something to him. Domenic
turned and answered, voice raised, speech rapid. He glanced at Josh, as if asking for help, but Josh didn’t know what he could do to help. The gendarmes made no move to approach him at the moment, but then he recalled the threat Charles had made five hours earlier and realized what was happening. That creep. He probably lied and didn’t go back to Balazuc. Probably went straight to the gendarmes.

  The officers led Domenic to one of their vehicles about ten feet from where Josh stood. As the three walked by, Domenic said, “They’re taking me in for questioning about Franco’s murder. Tell Claudine.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You can come to the Gendarmerie with Claudine and tell them what you know.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there right behind you.”

  He watched the gendarme cars pull away from the curb, then surveyed the area, looking for Charles or his car. Neither was visible, but that didn’t mean much. After what seemed an interminable period, Claudine pulled up and was about to park the car, but Josh motioned her to stop and for her to unlock the front passenger door. He got in and filled her in on what had transpired.

  “Seigneur!” Claudine was frantic. “This is terrible. Domenic wouldn’t hurt anyone.” They arrived at the Gendarmerie in record time, Josh greatly relieved after fearing it would be their luck to get pulled-over for speeding and that hadn’t happened. Claudine marched over to the officer stationed in the waiting area, and enquired after her husband. The officer told her to take a seat and someone would talk to her when they could.

  After half an hour, fuming, and remembering he hadn’t talked to Isabelle since yesterday afternoon, Josh turned on his cell phone and was about to call her when a man in a suit—the man who had released Josh yesterday—came out and asked for Josh only to follow him.

  In a small interview room with nothing but a rectangular table with four chairs, the man motioned for Josh to sit. Josh stuffed his phone back in his pocket and pulled out one of the chairs. The man sat down across from him and stared for a moment without comment.

  Josh’s heart was beating rapidly and his mouth was dry. What was he supposed to do? Was he in trouble, too? Why was the man looking at him as if he expected something?