The Handyman

by Susan Finlay

  “We met briefly yesterday,” the man finally said, “but we were not formally introduced. I’m Jacques Marchand, the Captain of this Gendarmerie. You are Joshua Clayton, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” Josh clasped his hands together on the table in front of him to keep from shaking.

  The captain glanced down at a folder that Josh hadn’t noticed until then. He flipped the page, tipping his eyeglasses to read. “You are from the U.S. and working here temporarily?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yesterday, Charles Lapierre reported that you were trying to swindle his mother, Paulette, out of her estate.”

  “Yes, but Paulette came in and cleared it up. Her son was mistaken.”

  Josh was about to continue and tell him about Charles, but the captain waved him silent and asked, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six, sir.”

  “What brought you to Mythe-sur-Vienne?”

  “I answered an online ad. Paulette Lapierre needed a handyman to help her with chores.” As he said it, he wondered for the first time how Paulette had placed the ad. She didn’t have a computer or internet. Someone must have helped her. Anyway, she was the person he’d spoken to on the telephone when he applied for the job.

  “I see. According to her son, she is dying and is having mental problems.”

  “She has cancer and, yes, she has some confusion at times. She’s eighty-eight years old. But she isn’t crazy and she doesn’t have dementia, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “We have a court order that allowed us to search her home. Charles Lapierre gave us a detailed account of a murder that happened there in 1970. We found the skeleton of the victim behind the house, in the cave. The identity has not yet been verified, but Monsieur Lapierre told us the victim was Franco Morelli, an artist who lived with him and his mother.”

  Josh didn’t respond.

  “You knew about the skeleton, is that correct?”

  “Um, yeah, I found it by accident a couple days ago. Paulette asked me to go through everything that she had stored in that section of her property.”

  “And you just started digging?”

  Why was he asking him these questions? The man had died before he was born. Geez, maybe even before his parents were born. “Um, the dog was messing around in the dirt, you know, pawing and digging. Got me curious.”

  The captain leaned back, the tip of his pen touching his chin, and studied Josh.

  Josh tried not to squirm. He didn’t have anything to hide, but the way the guy was peering at him made him feel like a child, like he was in the principal’s office at his old high school.

  “Did you mention this to your employer?”

  “I did.” He went on and explained what had transpired since then, replaying the whole story about his search for Charles, about finding out Domenic was Paulette’s other son and about Charles having attacked them and having killed his biologic father Franco. What choice did he have? They already knew about the murder and the cover up.

  The captain stood up and paced, his hands clasped behind his back.

  The sound of the man’s heels clicking on the linoleum grated on Josh’s nerves, but he tried not to show it.

  The captain stopped in front of Josh. “So you are telling me that Charles Lapierre admitted to killing Franco Morelli?”

  “Yes. No. Not exactly. Not in those exact words but, yes, I believe he did it. He came right out and said he couldn’t kill his mother because she gave birth to him, but that he didn’t want to be around her and that’s why he left.”

  “I want you to go with us to the troglo and help us. Show us where you found the knife and anything else of significance you may have seen there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JOSH TURNED TO the gendarme captain and pointed. “The knife was here in this drawer, tucked in between the clothes. Charles has it now, like I told you. Anyway, I noticed when I was checking to see if I could unpack my clothes into a couple of the drawers. I was surprised, not only about the knife, but also about the young boy’s clothes. At the time, I thought Paulette didn’t have any children.”

  “Because she told you she didn’t?”

  “Yes. She’d been alone for forty-five years and later told me it was painful to admit that her own son had left and never came back to even see if she was alive.”

  “Were you upset that she had a son?”

  “Huh? Of course not. I already told you I’m the one who wanted to find him. To find both of her sons, so she could reunite with them and leave them her legacy. I didn’t want her to go to her grave without getting to say goodbye. Wouldn’t you want your family with you in the end?”

  Captain Marchand walked around the tiny room, poking at this and that. “What did you do after you found the knife?”

  “I tried to sleep, but couldn’t really. My mind kept trying to figure out what it meant. Then I realized that part of my problem getting to sleep was the lumpy mattress. I got up and checked it. When I flipped it over, I discovered big slits in the fabric. Money was stuffed inside.”

  The captain looked skeptical.

  “Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled the linens off and flipped the mattress. WTF. The tape is gone. “Tape covered both of these slits.” He stuck his hand inside. Nothing. “Someone’s taken the money. Charles! He must have broken in and taken the money when he came for the knife.”

  “Why should I believe what you’re telling me?”

  “It’s the truth. Why would I lie about it?”

  “You might be covering for someone. You might be setting up Charles Lapierre.”

  He sighed. “You mean the way he set up Domenic. Oh, wait.” Remembering the photos he took on his camera, he picked up his camera bag from the top of the dresser, where he set it when they got here from the Gendarmerie. “Okay. Before Paulette and I left to go into town yesterday, I had a gut feeling that something might happen, so I took photos. Look here, I took photos of both mattresses and some of the cash.”

  Captain Marchand studied each picture. “This doesn’t prove Charles Lapierre took the money. I can’t even tell if it’s real currency.”

  “Check his car. Make him show you he doesn’t have it.”

  “Our search warrant is for this home, not Monsieur Lapierre’s car.”

  Josh sighed. “Can’t you search if you have probable cause?”

  “I will see what we can do, but we are not in the U.S. We are on shaky ground. And even if the money is there, we can’t prove that you or Monsieur Laroche didn’t plant it.”

  Okay, he could kinda see Marchand’s perspective. “What else can I do to convince you? Charles has the knife. He has to have that money, too, either in his car or stashed somewhere else? We think he might be staying with a friend here in Mythe. Maybe he’s taken the money there.”

  “Do you know who the friend is?”

  Josh shook his head.

  A gendarme who stood in the doorway watching said, “Sir, I may know who his friend is.”

  “How is that?”

  “My cousin Louisa is Gilbert Falkland’s neighbor. She told me Charles has been staying with Gilbert. It came up at dinner last night.”

  Marchand gave him a quizzical look.

  “Uh, everyone was surprised when Charles came back to Mythe last week. People were gabbing about him, of course, as they always do about anything new.”

  Marchand pursed his lips. “I see.”

  “I don’t know if this is relevant, but the pair of them got into some trouble back when my father was a teacher here in Mythe. He used to tell stories about some of the bad kids and, well, you know, their names came up. I must have been about five or six at the time that Charles left.”

  “All right. You and Officer Cheever go check it out.”

  “If they go there without a search warrant, won’t that give him a chance to hide everything?” Josh asked.

  Josh’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the captain, askance, who nodded.
He pulled the phone out of his back pocket and checked the caller ID. “Oh, hi, Isabelle. Sorry I didn’t call you this morning,” he said, “it’s been a rather hectic and crazy day.”

  “Here, too. I found some information about Franco, his paintings, and Charles. Something big.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s great. I’ll explain later, but I’m standing next to Captain Marchand of the Gendarmerie. Do you have something that he should know about? If you do, I’ll let you talk to him directly.”

  “Oh — Oui. Put him on the phone, please.”

  “Isabelle Bernot wants to talk to you, Captain.”

  “All right.” He turned to his officer and said, “Don’t go anywhere yet.”

  Josh handed over his phone and sat down on an edge of the overturned bed.

  ISABELLE PACED ACROSS the floor of her flat, waiting for the gendarme captain to come on the phone, that name momentarily dredging up painful memories of the death of her parents, her father killing her mother and then taking his own life. Marchand had been the first to arrive on the grizzly scene when those two fatal shots rang out years back. Back then, however, he was a senior officer of some sort, not the Captain. She had spoken to him several times during the short investigation and then again at the funerals. Sometimes he or his wife stopped in at the bakery to buy pastries.

  He came on the line, and she said, “Allo, Captain Marchand. It’s Isabelle Bernot. Uh, I don’t know how much you know about Paulette Lapierre and her former lover, Franco, who disappeared forty-five years ago.

  “A bit. Joshua Clayton here has been filling me in on the story.”

  “Okay, good. Well, Joshua asked me last night to do some research on Franco. We were trying to find out his last name, learn more about him and his disappearance, and try to discover the whereabouts of his final paintings. We didn’t know if they were still in his art studio in Mythe or elsewhere.”

  “And you’ve found something?”

  “His name was Franco Morelli and it seems he was a well-respected artist in Venice, Italy. Apparently, he had traveled all over Europe, the U.K., and parts of South America. So did Paulette Lapierre, who, in her younger years, was a dancer in plays and in big dance productions. They met while she was still married, and they had a brief relationship—according to Italian tabloids.”

  She turned the page on her notebook and read. “They met again years later, after her husband had died, and Franco moved in with her part-time. He set up an art studio in Mythe, but kept his legal address in Venice.”

  “What does this have to do with his murder?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Where did you obtain this information?”

  “Some of it from the internet—reliable sites. But I also talked to Therese Lapierre, Charles Lapierre’s ex-wife. She said she knew all about the murder and what led up to it.”

  “Go on.”

  “It seems Franco had acquired more than a few enemies over the years, husbands who found out he had affairs with their wives. But it wasn’t only husbands who hated him. Charles had discovered the affair between Franco and his mother. He realized that Franco was probably his biological father, and it had infuriated him. He wanted to punish Franco for his betrayal of Paulette’s husband, Rene, who was the only father Charles had ever known. He stabbed him with a knife that his best friend, Gilbert Falkland, took from his father’s hunting gear.

  “So you’re saying Charles stabbed Franco with that knife and then left Mythe?”

  “That’s right. But he kept in contact with Gilbert. Two years after the murder, when he was sixteen, Charles returned. They got into the art studio, loaded Franco’s paintings into the back of Gilbert’s father’s truck, and took them to the cave behind Gilbert’s parents’ house, hiding them there for several years, while Charles waited for the value to increase. Paintings by an artist of his stature, upon his death, should have warranted a much higher price than previously. Only it didn’t happen, because no one had reported Franco’s death. Charles then took it upon himself and leaked the news of Franco’s demise to a Venice newspaper journalist who had promised not to reveal her source.

  “After a while he was able to sell each of the paintings for a handsome profit, which he split with Gilbert. He invested his money into a couple of business enterprises in Balazuc, one of which failed, and he needed more money to keep the second one going.”

  “Why did Therese Lapierre tell you all of this?”

  “She told me he called her this morning and said he was going to get rid of his half-brother. He told her that he would be rich after his mother died, and if Therese wanted him back, he might be willing to consider it. I know that sounds odd, but apparently he’s been trying to woo her back ever since their divorce. I guess he doesn’t take rejection well.”

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, according to Therese, after the call she was frantic and didn’t know what to do. She was worried he might kill his brother, and she didn’t want that to happen. She also said she was worried she might be considered an accomplice if he did it and she knew about it and could have prevented it.”

  “Hmm. Okay, let me get this straight—how did you get involved in all of this?”

  “Josh, Paulette, and I met her last week in Balazuc. We went there in search of Paulette’s son, Charles. While doing research today, I had some questions about Charles and, well, I . . . I couldn’t see another way, so I took a chance and called her. I wanted to check with Josh first, before calling her, but I couldn’t reach him. It was risky, I know, but I couldn’t see another way. You know, she actually seemed relieved when I called her.”

  “She told you all of this?”

  “Oui. She practically poured everything out as if she were in a confessional box and I were a priest.”

  “Is she willing to give a sworn statement?”

  “She is on her way to Mythe now. She called me from the train, which left Balazuc three hours ago. She should be here soon.”

  “All right. When you talk to her again, have her come directly to the Gendarmerie.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  JOSH, SITTING ON the edge of the bed, stared alternately between the gendarme captain and the other officer, hearing only half of the conversation, wondering what was happening on the phone. The half of the conversation he could hear was spoken in French, and the few phrases he understood told him nothing. Damn. The other officer obviously understood what Marchand was saying, but if it told him anything, his face wasn’t giving anything away. Was that a good sign?

  After he hung up, Captain Marchand addressed his officers, speaking to them in French, apparently giving orders, because they all quickly scattered.

  “Come with me,” Marchand said to Josh.

  “What’s going on? What did Isabelle say?”

  “We’re getting a search warrant for Charles’s car and Gilbert’s house. I’ll explain on the way back to the Gendarmerie.”

  By the time they arrived, Josh had been given the whole story, amazed at Isabelle’s facility and giving him a rush of relief that the gendarmes were no longer treating him as a suspect. However, when they arrived at the Gendarmerie, he was escorted to the waiting room and instructed to stay put. Damn. Apparently today’s the day for sitting on my butt, waiting without a clue. Josh decided that it didn’t really make much difference even if he was in the thick of things, it wouldn’t do him any good without a translator.

  Josh glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting for an hour now without a word from anyone. They had sat him down, but after a while he had stood and begun pacing, feeling like a caged animal. There wasn’t even a television or radio in here to distract him. The minutes seemed to drag on and on. At one point he counted the ceiling tiles out of sheer boredom; three hundred and seventy six. Pacing was all he had left, so he paced and looked at his watch. Thirty more minutes. Maybe I am still a suspect and this is French torture.

  The guard—that’s what Josh had named him—looked up from his desk, in
terrupting his pacing. “We have a snack machine around the corner and toilets, too.” He motioned.

  Josh nodded, then headed to the restroom, ecstatic for any distraction. On his way back out, he purchased a candy bar, which he rapidly devoured, and then resumed his pacing.

  The front door opened, bringing in a fresh breeze and a heavy scent of rain.

  Josh glanced at his watch. Another hour had passed. He glanced up, waiting to see who had come in. Isabelle! Oh thank God.

  She wasn’t alone. Therese Lapierre followed right behind her. They spoke to the desk clerk in French—quick, short sentences.

  The ‘guard’ left, and Isabelle turned.

  “Josh, you’re here. I think they’re finally going after Charles. I can’t believe the case is solved.”

  “You did it, you solved it” Josh said. “You and Therese. Hello, Therese. I’m glad you came.”

  Isabelle translated for Therese, and then said, “Oh, I forgot you speak English.”

  Therese nodded and smiled, a sad kind of smile, needing no translation.

  A few minutes later the ‘guard’ came back and escorted all three of them to Captain Marchand’s office. Isabelle made the introductions.

  Again, they spoke all in French, and Josh decided enough was enough, when this was all done, he would damn well learn the language, one way or another. Being an outsider really sucked.

  After sitting while Isabelle, Therese, and Marchand spoke at length, Josh was relieved to be released into the custody of the two women. Isabelle filled him in on the conversation with the captain and said they were to check back with Marchand later in the day.

  By dinnertime, they found out the gendarmes had taken their search warrant to Charles’s car, searched it, and impounded it. They had searched Gilbert’s house, too. Marchand told them that they had found three large duffel bags full of the Swiss Francs. They’d found Gilbert Falkland and took him into custody as well.