Rousseau was sitting beside the counter, talking to a stocky, balding man of about thirty. He smiled when he saw Burke.
“No more broken wheels for me to replace?” he said.
Burke smiled back. “No broken wheels. I’m avoiding tourists on bikes these days.”
The other man looked familiar, but Burke couldn’t place him.
“This is Léon Petit,” Rousseau said, introducing the man beside him. “He’s a mechanic with Global Projects.”
Petit offered a gap-toothed smile that suggested he wasn’t particularly happy.
They shook hands.
Burke excused himself and took a stroll around the shop. Behind him, the two men talked about Petit working at the shop, at least temporarily. Rousseau seemed open to the idea. That wasn’t a surprise to Burke, since Rousseau often seemed on the lookout for staff.
Rousseau and Petit agreed to talk the next day and then shook hands.
On his way out, Petit looked at Burke. “I remember you,” he said. “You were a good rider.”
Burke thanked him and watched the man leave. He turned back to Rousseau and asked his friend about his seemingly growing staff.
“It’s all the fallout from what’s been happening with Global Projects,” Rousseau said. “The team is stopping operations, and the support personnel are looking for work, at least until matters get sorted out.”
“Did you work with Petit in the past?” Burke asked.
“Just for one season, when I was with RMS,” Rousseau replied. “He’s talented. Good, fast worker. Picks up new things very quickly. Not much for talk, but that’s OK. He can work in the back shop while I charm the customers. I could use some help for the next few weeks, so I think I’ll take him on. He’s a local boy, so that helps, too.”
Burke nodded. “Well, his team’s in a mess,” he said.
“As if cycling doesn’t have enough issues, we get this Den Weent murder,” Rousseau said. “And there seems something’s wrong in McManus’s death, too.”
As he listened, Burke picked up a fancy heart monitor. The price tag was two hundred euros, but he wondered if it might be a good purchase. If he was serious about getting in shape, it would be wise to pay attention to how his heart handled the new fitness regime.
“Did Petit just walk in?” Burke asked, sticking to the topic at hand while looking at the options on the monitor.
“He called me a couple of days ago, said the team was in trouble and that he was looking for a way to pay the bills, although he lives with his mother when he’s not on the road,” Rousseau said.
“I guess it’s too late to hook up with another pro team,” Burke said.
“Yeah, all the other teams have the staff they need for this season.”
Burke asked if other staffers on Global had contacted Rousseau.
“Just Petit, but then the only ones I’d be interested in would be mechanics,” Rousseau said.
Burke agreed that made sense. He wondered what the other support staff might do. They’d definitely need to find a way to make some money, unless the team intended to pay everyone a full wage until everything was sorted.
Burke told him he needed to think about the heart monitor. That seemed fine for Rousseau.
The bell on the door rang, and a young couple came in. Burke said goodbye to his old teammate and left, noticing that the young man who just entered studied his bike with some envy. Clearly, that cleaning job had been a good idea.
Burke headed home. On the way, he spotted Madame Marois driving along a side street. She didn’t see him. Beside her, propping himself on the dashboard to get a good view, was Plato. Madame Marois had one hand on the wheel, and the other was scratching her dog’s ears. She was grinning—something Burke had never seen her do before. Burke didn’t know Plato’s age but hoped he had many years ahead, because he seemed to be the only real companion the old woman had.
Burke wondered if he should get a dog. He had no other obligations, and his landlord didn’t care if he had one. Burke liked dogs, too. He could handle a small one like Plato. He’d think on it. A dog might be a good change and a nice taste of responsibility.
Back home, Burke showered and then phoned Lemaire to see how he was doing.
“I’m fine now,” Lemaire said, “but that jerk Vachon won’t be. I might only be an editor in some small newspaper chain, but I’m going to make sure he goes under the public microscope. If he’s dirty or if he misses a step, I’m going to let the world know. And I think he’s dirty.”
Lemaire hadn’t voiced that take before today, and Burke sensed the editor was still steaming about what had happened at the marina. But given the fierce tone of Lemaire’s voice, he said nothing.
Lemaire shifted topics and told Burke he had an idea for his next video blog.
“I think you should do something about how major condo and resort developments will make it far less safe for those who indulge in the number one sport in this area—cycling,” Lemaire said.
Burke kept quiet. Lemaire still had Vachon on the brain.
“Nothing to say?” said Lemaire. “Well, I think it would be a good blog. It’s timely, and it affects a lot of people. So, I’m telling you to make it your video blog. For your regular blog and column, just rework the theme.”
“OK,” agreed Burke. Lemaire was still livid, but Burke had to admit the suggested topic did have some value.
Burke ended the call, almost sorry he had phoned Lemaire.
He sat in the sunlight in his small living room for several minutes. He tried to think about nothing, but had only limited success. His mind was too busy with recent events, and so he gave up trying to relax, opting to make an egg white omelet with mushrooms and peppers instead.
After the meal, he headed to Claude’s for a nightcap, or maybe just a coffee. Usually happy to be alone, Burke felt a strange need to be around others. He had no clue why.
The terrace at Claude’s was nearly full, with just a single vacant table tucked in a corner. The inside of the café was bustling, too. It was a busy night.
Burke took the vacant table for two. He felt he shouldn’t take a table just for a coffee and decided he’d add a crème brûlée to his order. Claude or his main chef usually did a great job on the dessert, and he could afford it after the day’s events.
Like any good café owner or server, Claude always noticed who was arriving or leaving, and he nodded at Burke as he carried some plates to a table of four. He wasn’t the only one serving. Hélène was working quickly, and Claude’s occasional third server, Eric, was also going at full speed.
Hélène came over, smiled and took his order.
“A little busier than normal, it seems,” Burke said, gesturing to the crowded terrace. He recognized some faces, but most were unfamiliar.
“We had several reservations from people in the resorts,” Hélène told him. “It’s been like this since seven.”
Then she went off. Burke watched her move. She was indeed pretty.
He sat back, feeling better. The noise of various conversations was strangely soothing.
He tuned into the discussion of the middle-aged foursome at the nearest table. They were English and were going over some travel plans for the next day that involved a trip to Ventimiglia for the market. They weren’t sure if they should drive or try another method of transport.
One of the two men caught Burke half listening. “Hello,” he said. “Would you know anything about Ventimiglia?”
Burke usually found English tourists to be either a little arrogant or simply loud.
“I do,” Burke replied. And, having ridden all around the coastal resort, he knew the region and the town fairly well. It was a lovely place, more a working-class stop than a destination for the rich and famous.
The Englishman asked for advice on getting to the Italian resort. Burke told him that the train would work best, if they didn’t mind walking once they arrived. The route by car to Ventimiglia could be busy and sometimes unnerving.<
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The man’s wife asked about the market, and Burke told her it was large and excellent.
“You don’t sound like a local, although I expect there are plenty of people who reside here who are not from this region, or even France, for that matter,” she said.
“I live just up that path there, so I am a local,” he said.
“But you’re American,” she said.
“Canadian, I venture,” her husband suggested.
Burke nodded at him. “You’ve got it right, but I’ve been living in France for several years,” he said.
They chatted back and forth, and, to his surprise, Burke found himself enjoying the conversation. He normally wished only to talk with people he knew.
The group wondered what had brought him to Villeneuve-Loubet, and Burke explained how he had been a professional cyclist and had fallen in love with the village, thanks to its pace, climate and proximity to great training rides.
“We saw the stage that English fellow, Hudson, won,” said the man who had started the conversation.
“It was a good win,” Burke said.
“Pity about everything going on with the race, though,” the Englishman continued. “And a murder as well. Not good at all.”
Burke asked where they had come from.
“By the way, I’m Simon,” said the Englishman, reaching out to shake hands. He introduced his wife and the other couple. “We’re from London, but we have condominium units near here. We arrived ten days ago and go back in three days.”
“Do you come here every year?” Burke asked.
“We bought in the spring, so this is our first time as owners,” Simon said. “We’ve all been on the Riviera several times before and liked it enough, so when the price was right, we took the opportunity to purchase.”
That caught Burke’s attention. “Lots of discussion about new developments in this area. Do you know Yves Vachon?”
“Well, he’s the head of FP Developments which is responsible for our project,” Simon said. “I met him once on business matters, but that’s all.”
Burke asked if the resort was meeting their expectations.
They all nodded and praised FP Developments for constructing a good property with lots of special touches.
Slowly, the conversation drifted away until the two English couples were back talking among themselves, leaving Burke alone with his own company.
“May I sit for a moment?”
It was Hélène, who was motioning to the chair opposite Burke.
“Absolutely,” he said.
She sat and gave him a gentle smile. It was her eyes that were so captivating. The rest of her features were nice too—strong cheekbones, wide mouth, golden Mediterranean skin. She was dressed casually this evening in a beige peasant blouse and sky-blue cotton trousers. It was a simple outfit, but Burke thought she looked better than good.
“My feet are a little tired,” Hélène said, waving a sandal-clad foot at him. “I was hoping to quit a little early tonight, but Uncle Claude says he’ll need me till eleven. Eric can help after that with cleanup.”
Burke looked around. There were now a couple of vacant tables. Otherwise, every table was occupied with diners working on a meal.
“One of these days, maybe you and I can go for a drink,” Hélène said.
Burke was surprised. “You and me?” he said. “For a drink? Is there something you need to talk about?”
Hélène smiled. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m a perfectly happy woman. I thought it would be nice if we both escaped together for a drink.”
His mouth was wide open. He closed it and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d gone out with someone, but it had been so long he couldn’t be precise. It might have been a year. Maybe longer.
He studied Hélène. He had never thought about her in any romantic fashion, but she was undeniably attractive and, he realized, becoming more attractive by the minute.
“But your uncle—”
Hélène interrupted. “Don’t worry. He’s not my father, and he knows that. Besides, he likes you.”
Burke digested that and then nodded. “OK, let’s do it. When?”
Hélène started to stand. “You’re making me do all the work, Paul. I have tomorrow off, so how about then?”
He said he’d pick her up at 7 p.m. and they’d figure out where to go then. She gave him her address.
“You should find it easily,” Hélène said. “You know, Paul, you are fortunate you’re not a detective—you miss too many clues.”
And then she went back to work.
Burke caught Claude looking at him and smiling. The café owner seemed to know what had transpired between Burke and Hélène.
It had been another unusual day.
BURKE AWOKE AT MIDNIGHT to someone yelling and a dog barking. He leaned out his bedroom window. The noise was coming from an apartment fifty meters away.
The voice sounded like an old person’s.
He spotted a couple of men who lived nearby running to the building. A woman followed them.
Another yell. More barking.
Burke thought he knew the voice—it belonged to Madame Marois. It dawned on him that she was yelling “Fire!” Plato was providing the barking.
He quickly dressed, grabbed his keys and ran out to see if he could help. If there was a fire, people better be notified. While the buildings were made of stone, he expected a lot of the homes were cluttered with furniture and would be primed for going up in flames. He doubted many neighbors would have fire extinguishers.
It was indeed Madame’s place, and as he approached, he saw smoke. Not much, only a few clouds floating out an open window. He dashed up the stairs to her front door, where he almost bumped into Jean, his neighbor who owned the newsagent’s shop.
“It’s all right,” Jean told him. “No flames, just smoke. Madame Marois forgot to turn off an element on her new stove. The pot got too hot and started to smoke. I turned it off. The pot’s useless now, but no other damage. Now I have to try to get back to sleep so I can wake up at four.”
“How is she?” Burke inquired.
Jean motioned for him to go in. Bianca, Jean’s wife, was inside, sitting beside Madame Marois, patting her hand and gently telling the old woman that everything was fine. Another neighbor, Pierre, was wafting smoke out of the kitchen and out of the apartment.
Madame Marois looked shaken. She wasn’t saying much, just nodding at Bianca’s sympathetic comments. She interjected once to tell Bianca she had been reading when she smelled something from the kitchen and then she had forgotten about it for some reason or other.
“When I did smell the smoke, I was very afraid,” Madame Marois added.
She sniffed at the memory and pulled the black shawl she was wearing tighter around her shoulders. Plato, who was curled up by her feet, looked up at his mistress.
Burke checked with Pierre to see if he could help. Pierre shrugged and told him the only damage was to the pot. Together, they used towels and flagged away the rest of the smoke. As they worked, Burke noticed with envy that the kitchen was triple the size of his and had old-style brass pots and pans neatly aligned in various corners.
When they were done, Burke and Pierre went into the living room. Madame Marois seemed to be recovering from the shock. Lucky she had been awake, even though it had taken her a while to react. It could have been far worse—not just for her, but for her neighbors.
He glanced about the living room, which was much larger than he had thought it might be from the outside. Although the building had to be a century old at least, the room had a severe, modern feel about it, with a medium-sized LCD TV hanging on the wall, a black leather couch and chairs, and brass lamps and tables. The only older touch came from two Impressionist-looking paintings hanging on a wall.
The dining area shared an open space with the living room. Again, the design was modern, with a black metallic table set for six. A side table made of the same black metal he
ld up three bloodred ceramic pots.
As he suspected, Madame Marois seemed no stranger to money. But her style, for what it was worth, surprised him. Given her affection for the pendant she’d bought in Grasse, Burke would have guessed she’d go for oak or mahogany furniture with lots of old-time knickknacks around, instead of the modern, severe approach she’d taken.
Burke got the overriding sense that this was a woman who wasn’t strongly connected to her apartment. It was an austere setup with no photos of family or anything sentimental. It was also an apartment for someone who liked space. There was lots of room to wander about. He wondered if Madame Marois had employed an architect to redesign the layout of the apartment, or maybe she had bought two apartments and had them merged into one.
Burke thought of something and returned to the kitchen. There was no smoke detector. So much for taking precautions. Of course, he didn’t have one either.
Back in the living room, he watched as Madame Marois got to her feet and thanked them for their help.
“It’s time for you to return to your beds,” she said with a feeble smile. “I am grateful. I’m becoming a forgetful old woman.”
On the way out of the building, Jean suggested there were dark days ahead for Madame. His wife nodded and added it was a pity the old woman was alone.
Back in his apartment, Burke undressed and returned to bed. He couldn’t sleep, at least not at the outset. He kept thinking about Madame Marois and the “fire.” Once more, he told himself not to take life for granted and to start doing a better job of living it.
When he awoke after only four hours of sleep, Burke was surprised to find he wasn’t exhausted. Yesterday had been a full day and had finished with sadness, yet here he was on a new morning feeling a decent burst of energy.
He had a couple of coffees and was about to get his newspapers when his phone rang.
“I just read that Pierre McManus’s funeral is today, over in Saint-Raphaël,” said André Rousseau. “I’m going. Want to join me?”
Burke had forgotten about a funeral for McManus. The police had spent so long examining his death that the funeral had been postponed.
The Bastard is Dead Page 9