Montreal, Quebec, April 2, 2025
One week after his funeral, Andre stood in a dark room, looking through a one-way mirror as his lawyer told his family he had given most of his fortune to charity.
His estate lawyer, Nicole St. Germain, sat at the head of an antique boardroom table on the main floor of her converted century home in the exclusive Westmount neighbourhood.
Across from Nicole were his second wife, Gabriel, with their four-year-old daughter Sophie, and his adult children, Philip and Dominique, born to his first wife, Lucille, who died under dubious circumstances years ago.
“Thank you for coming. We’re here to read the last will and testament of Andre Rochefort. My condolences for your loss,” Nicole began.
Jacques Fontaine, Andre’s trusted, longtime rock band manager, sat close to Nicole.
“I haven’t seen my father in over a decade,” Philip muttered. “Why drag me here?” The overnight flight from London had left his Armani suit heavily creased.
“Be quiet and let Nicole speak,” Dominique snapped, pulling at a loose thread on her wool shawl.
Bright sunbeams streaked through the lead-paned windows, in contrast to the sombre mood hanging in the air.
Nicole skimmed past the legalese and read the details they were all anxious to hear.
“To his wife, Gabriel: the Montreal mansion and contents with an annual allowance of $200,000 until Sophie turns eighteen. Also, a sum of $150,000 annually is exclusively for Sophie’s health and education. Both of these funds are to be managed through the accountants, Swanson & Sons.”
“That’s all?” blurted a shocked Gabriel as she tightened her grip around Sophie’s little shoulders.
Nicole, unfazed, said, “All other assets have been liquidated and donated to multiple charities.”
“The Manhattan townhouse? The villa? The yacht?” Asked Gabriel.
“Gone. Donated,” replied Nicole.
“And his songs, the publishing rights? He earned hundreds of millions of dollars!”
“He sold those three months ago,” Nicole said evenly.
Gabriel’s face twisted as she stood up and slammed her hand on the mahogany table. “Where’s the money from those sales?”
In the next room, Andre could feel his heart rate rise as he watched through the one-way mirror.
“As I said, all donated,” said Nicole.
Dominique smirked. “So the bimbo wife gets scraps. Don’t complain too loudly, Gabriel, or Philip and I will contest the will.”
Nicole pressed on. “To Philip and Dominique: I leave the collection of classic cars stored in Florida, with a $1 million trust fund exclusively for their maintenance.”
Philip frowned. “Old cars? That’s it?”
“And finally,” Nicole added, “$100 million will be donated to support the Women in Need Charity, administered by Jacques Fontaine.”
Gabriel snapped, “That’s outrageous. Jacques, what did you con him?”
Jacques’s voice was flat. “His decision. Be grateful. Without Sophie, you’d have nothing. A retired judge confirmed he was of sound mind.”
Dominique sneered. “So we get dusty old cars, and the washed-up manager controls millions?”
“Over a hundred rare cars,” Jacques countered. “You might consider that a fortune.”
Nicole closed the folder. “That concludes the will. Philip, Dominique—here are the keys and directions to the Miami warehouse. Gabriel, the accountants will contact you.”
When they left, Nicole slipped into the adjoining room and embraced Andre.
“Andre, did all go as planned?” she asked.
“Yes. Though Jacques’s ‘retired judge’ line was new information.”
“It was my idea to make the claim so Gabriel won’t think of challenging the will.”
Andre exhaled to steady his breathing. “Gabriel loved my rock star image and all the money, but little Sophie must be cared for. Philip and Dominique never forgave me for their mother’s death. They blamed me for leaving Lucille alone to care for them while I was on yet another world tour with the band.”
Nicole added, “Lucille did have mental health issues, but I never accepted that she took her own life.”
“The official cause of her death has haunted me ever since,” said Andre.
Miami, Florida, June 2025
Philip and Dominique flew into Miami International on a private jet, with Jacques tagging along for advice on the value of the classic car collection. A black Suburban picked them up and drove them to the warehouse where Andre had stored his classic cars.
Philip unlocked the warehouse door and walked through. Lights hummed on automatically, revealing rows of gleaming machines—Jaguars, Corvettes, Camaros—all flawless.
Jacques excused himself to go up to the office on the second floor. “I need to check on some paperwork.”
Philip and Dominique walked along the row of cars, wondering how much each one was worth.
Philip stopped by a pristine 1969 Jaguar E-Type in classic British Racing Green. “Maybe we could sell this one for $100,000.” He said.
Dominique gasped. “Philip… isn’t that Mom’s car?”
A red 1967 Mustang fastback gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Philip froze. “It is. I recognize the scratch on the driver’s door.”
“She died in that car,” Dominique whispered. “Why did Dad keep it?”
Philip walked around the Mustang. “Because he is a jerk. I stopped calling him Dad years ago.”
“That was a horrible night,” said Dominique.
“Not so much for you. I found Mom dead in the garage,” Philip said. “She ran a brown garden hose from the exhaust to inside the car. Suicide.”
Dominique looked puzzled. “Why did you say the hose was brown? I don’t recall the police report saying anything about the colour of the hose.”
“Someone must’ve said it to me, years ago.”
From the office upstairs, Jacques watched Philip and Dominique on the video monitor as security cameras installed on the main floor captured every word.
“You know more than you’re saying,” Dominique pressed.
“Drop it. Mom was drunk, violent. How many times did she threaten to hit you?”
“She struggled with depression, yes, and did drugs when Dad wasn’t around. She didn’t have to die.”
“She was dangerous,” Philip snapped. “That night she drank too much, popped pills, grabbed a knife, screaming our names. I had to protect us.”
Dominique’s voice was shaking. “Philip… what did you do?”
“Mom collapsed on the floor and passed out. I did what needed to be done, so I carried her to the garage and put her in that Mustang. Hooked up the hose. Started the engine. Walked away.”
He stared at the Mustang, jaw clenched. “I’d do it again. She was going to kill us. It was Dad’s fault, leaving us with her.”
Dominique recoiled. “You murdered her.”
“I saved us; you should thank me,” replied Philip.
Jacques used his walkie-talkie to contact the waiting police officers outside. “I have Philip’s confession on video.”
The large warehouse door rumbled open, and police cars flooded in, lights flashing.
“Hands on the hood! Philip Rochefort, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lucille Rochefort,” an officer barked.
Jacques emerged and handed the video recording to the officer in charge.
“Who owns all these cars?” the cop asked.
“This man—Alan Richards,” Jacques said, motioning to the figure stepping forward from the shadows.
Dominique turned and gasped. “Dad? You’re supposed to be dead.” She fainted.
Philip tried to attack his Dad, but an officer held him back.
Andre looked at Philip and said. “At last, the truth, as I suspected. You will now answer for your mother’s death. May she finally rest in peace.”
Philip tried to attack Andre, but an officer held him back. “I will hunt you down for the rest of my life, you despicable fraudster,” said Philip.
“You realize that the will Nicole read was fake, and I still own everything?” asked Andre. He didn’t feel the need to explain that he had taken care of Gabriel and Sophie.
The cops looked at each other, puzzled by this new development, as they pushed Philip into the back of one police car.
Jacques and Andre embraced and said their goodbyes. Then the man now known as Alan Richards walked out of the warehouse, ready to start his new life in the Cayman Islands.
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