Nurse Peplinski started to walk over, but Fortin stopped her with a hand held out.
“Tell me,” Fortin told Burke.
“You’re right. I have seen the video,” Burke said. “I won’t tell you how. Call it protecting my source.”
Fortin said nothing. For her part, Côté moved silently to Burke’s bedside.
“When you looked at the footage, did you check the video from the same place on previous nights at about the same time?” Burke asked, his voice sounding weaker by the second.
Fortin nodded.
“Did you notice a small white blotch inside the car on a couple of evenings?”
“We did. Do you know what it was?” Fortin asked.
“I think I do,” Burke said, almost ready to pass out.
“Monsieur…” came Nurse Peplinski’s insistent voice.
“Tell me,” Fortin said.
Eyes shut, Burke nodded once.
“I think it was a dog,” he said.
And then he passed out.
WHEN BURKE AWOKE, NURSE Peplinski was gone. So was Côté.
But Fortin was still there, slumped in one of the chairs and dozing. With his suit rumpled, he looked like he’d been there for a while.
Burke wondered how long he’d slept. He twisted his head to look at the clock on the far wall. It was almost seven. Since the room wasn’t very dark, he figured it was morning. He thought it might be Monday.
As he readjusted slightly on the pillow, jolts of pain shot through his shoulder, hip and leg.
He fumbled for the remote and pushed the button. He hoped Nurse Peplinski or whoever might show up quickly. He didn’t feel great.
“You’re finally awake,” Fortin said, rubbing his eyes.
Burke managed a nod.
“Do you remember what we were talking about before you fell asleep last night?”
Burke tried to assemble his memories of their previous conversation. It took a moment, and then he recalled where he’d left off.
He nodded.
“Why did you suggest it was a dog?” Fortin asked.
“Because I think I know the driver, and I know how her dog, who is small and white, usually stands against the dashboard when she’s driving,” Burke said.
The door opened, and Nurse Peplinski came in. She smiled wearily when she saw Burke awake. She asked what he needed.
Burke told her about the pain, and she made a couple of adjustments to one of the bags hooked up to his wrist.
“That should help you,” she said. “If it gets worse, you know what to do. It’ll be another nurse coming, though, since I’m done in a few minutes.” She glanced at Fortin and then back to Burke. “Don’t try to do too much,” she warned him.
Burke nodded, thanked her and watched her leave.
“So who was the driver?” Fortin asked.
“One of my neighbors, Madame Marois,” Burke said.
He knew he’d have to explain his reasons, and slowly, he began. As he spoke, Fortin took an occasional note.
“It’s because of the dog, Plato, that I know about the car and Madame Marois,” Burke said.
He thought that might confuse Fortin, but the detective’s face showed nothing.
“I’m a dog person,” Burke said. “I love dogs, grew up with them. If I hadn’t been a pro cyclist and hadn’t been forced to travel so much for work, I’d have had one.”
“I have a dog,” Fortin interjected.
Burke was surprised. Fortin didn’t seem a dog person. He seemed more an anti-pet guy.
“The first few times I met Madame Marois, Plato greeted me with affection,” Burke said. “He’s an excellent dog—very smart, nice manners. He doesn’t want to hump your leg or piss on your shoes. I think Madame Marois saw how much I liked him.”
“And Madame is devoted to this Plato?” Fortin said.
“Totally. She told me once that he knew her moods better than anyone. If she was upset, he’d be upset. I never gave that any more thought because that’s the way with a lot of dogs and their owners. Then, in recent days, Madame became agitated. She lost her keys, forgot other things and generally was in a very emotional state. I thought it was a case of an old woman starting to show her age. I felt sorry for her. And then just a short time ago, I remembered one thing—Plato had remained calm throughout all those occasions. That struck me as odd.”
“That is interesting,” Fortin said. “Like that Sherlock Holmes story about being aware of the dog that didn’t bark.”
Burke didn’t have a clue about Sherlock Holmes and a dog.
“That told me,” Burke carried on, “that if she was telling the truth about Plato reflecting her real moods, then she was acting on those occasions when she seemed upset, because Plato remained calm. And if that was the case, I asked myself why she would fake her emotions or mental state.”
“If you’re correct in your assumption, why do you think she did that, Monsieur Burke?” Fortin asked.
“Because I think she was planning to do something that, if caught, she could claim she was suffering from dementia and wasn’t in total control of her mind,” Burke said.
Fortin sat back, obviously digesting Burke’s theory.
“That wouldn’t be the first time someone has used a mental disorder as an excuse to kill someone,” he said.
“Before the hit-and-run, she started to act scattered, and I think that’s because she had this planned,” Burke said. “After Vachon and his minder were killed, she kept it up, maybe even increased how often she seemed out of her mind.”
“So she’s very methodical, according to you,” Fortin said.
“I believe Madame is a very calculating individual with a very long memory,” Burke said.
“You’re talking motive now,” Fortin said.
“I think if you check into her past and Vachon’s past, you’ll see there is a crossover. They knew each other years ago from business, and it did not end well at all for Madame and her husband. I don’t know the exact details, but I believe she blamed Vachon for a number of things. I think she held a grudge.”
“I’ll accept that for the moment. You talk about this Madame Marois as if she is elderly.”
“She’s in her eighties, I think,” Burke said. The increase in pain medication was helping, but he felt a stab in his ribs once again. “But I think she has as much dementia as you or I have. I think it’s all an act. That brings me to the howling Plato.”
“The what?”
His mouth dry from all the talking, Burke gestured toward a cup of water with a straw in it. Fortin grabbed it and gently put the straw into Burke’s mouth. A few sips later, Burke felt ready to continue.
“On the morning of my accident, I talked to one of Madame’s neighbors, and he told me Plato had been howling one evening.”
“And when exactly did Plato howl?” asked Fortin.
“I believe it was on the same evening when a certain black sedan struck and killed Yves Vachon and his bodyguard,” Burke said.
Fortin nodded. “But what about the white blotch in the city’s videos from the days before the hit-and-run?” he asked.
“She knew Vachon was a creature of habit because she knew him in the past. Plus, the newspapers always talked about how he was a person who liked order and discipline. She wanted to know where he ate and when. So, she followed him. She took Plato with her, and, as usual, he propped himself up against the dashboard. I’ve seen him do that. Once she established Vachon’s routine, she left Plato back home and went out alone with the intention of running him over and killing him.”
“But why leave Plato behind?”
“She didn’t want him to get hurt if something went wrong,” Burke said, hearing his words start to slur as the increased pain medication began to get a firm hold of him. “That dog is her life.”
Fortin scribbled something in his notepad.
“And then there was Madame’s accident the other day,” Burke said.
“Accident?”
“The same part of the car that would have struck Vachon and his man,” Fortin said. “We naturally checked the body shops after the accident, but no car matching the description showed up anywhere.”
“After Vachon’s death, I think she put her car in the garage to hide the damage,” Burke said. “I don’t think anyone saw her drive during that period. Then she took it out and crashed it into a stone wall to disguise the real damage.”
“And her car is a dark sedan,” Fortin said.
“Four doors, black with the same grill as the car that drove me off the road,” Burke said, feeling a powerful urge to sleep.
“Stay with me just a little longer, monsieur,” Fortin urged. “So maybe it was the same car that tried to run you over on your ride in the hills. But why do you think she tried to run you over?”
“Before my accident, I mentioned to Madame Marois that a neighbor told me he’d heard Plato howling. I asked if Plato was OK. She said he hadn’t howled and the neighbor was just being stupid. She was agitated and quickly switched the subject. A minute later, she left, but she still seemed bothered.”
“By what?”
“Madame told me Plato didn’t howl, but it was clear I didn’t believe her and that made me a threat although I didn’t recognize that at the time. She was worried I’d keep poking around and find out what she’d been up to on the night Plato howled. The person behind the deaths of Vachon and his minder wasn’t Claude Brière or one of his friends. It was her.”
Fortin rubbed his chin. He wrote a few words in his notebook and then shut it.
Burke had nothing left. He was mentally and physically exhausted. He closed his eyes.
“What did you mean about Sherlock Holmes and the dog that didn’t bark?” he whispered, his eyes still shut, seconds from finding peace.
“It was in a Sherlock Holmes story,” Fortin said. “Holmes was investigating a case and heard about a dog that didn’t bark when it should have and that…”
Burke heard no more.
FORTIN WAS GONE WHEN Burke awoke.
But Hélène was there, sitting at his bedside and smiling at him. She looked almost as tired as Burke felt. He sensed she was less worried than the last time he’d seen her.
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she told him it was early afternoon. She said the nurses had been in several times to check his vitals and had been pleased at the results.
“They say you’re doing well,” she said. “Or as well as could be expected.”
Burke couldn’t recall nurses poking and prodding him. His last memory was his conversation with Fortin.
He wondered what the flic was doing now.
Hélène had visited Claude that morning and mentioned he’d been in good spirits even though he would be spending the next half year in prison. Somehow, she said, his calm state of mind had been a relief. He would be facing tough times ahead, but he was ready for whatever came his way.
She also updated him on the Petits. The news was overflowing with the latest details, and some outlets, especially a couple of newspapers, had turned the story into something lurid and nasty. Still, people seemed fascinated by what they were hearing and reading.
Burke enjoyed hearing her voice. His energy was returning, bit by bit, but he felt no urge to do anything other than listen to Hélène chat about her uncle, the Petits and how her café was doing.
“Bonjour, Paul,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.
It was Jean. Burke was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see him holding a small vase containing yellow flowers.
“You’re not looking so good, my friend,” Jean said, putting the vase on Burke’s small table and then standing by Hélène. “Maybe these flowers will brighten you up.”
Burke thanked him for coming and waved him to sit down. The newsagent was happy to comply, all the time talking about how people in the village had heard about Burke’s accident and were concerned for his well-being.
“Thank you,” said Burke, who had thought the longtime villagers still considered him an outsider.
“And there has been some other activity in our village,” Jean said.
Burke wondered if a cat had gone missing or someone’s husband had been arrested for public drunkenness.
“The police were over at Madame Marois’s house for a few hours today,” Jean said. “There were police in uniform and two detectives—at least I think they were detectives.”
“A tall, middle-aged man and a chunky woman who looks like she’d like to bite you?” asked Burke, fully alert now after Jean’s news.
“That’s them,” Jean said, looking surprised at Burke’s accurate description. “I watched for a little while. I think they were searching for something. Madame wasn’t there, and so they talked to a couple of neighbors.”
“About what?” Burke asked, figuring Jean would have chatted up the neighbors as soon as the police were gone.
“As strange as it sounds, they asked about Plato.”
“Where was Madame?”
“No idea,” Jean said. He studied Burke. “You don’t seem too surprised by this news I have, Paul. What is it you know? You must tell me. After all, we often share information.”
Usually their information was gossip, but Burke took Jean’s point. Still, he didn’t want to say what he knew or anticipated.
“Do you know if the police looked at Madame’s car?” Burke asked.
Jean’s eyes narrowed. “They did—for a long time,” he said. “In fact, they brought a tow truck and took it away.”
“The police?”
“Yes, the police,” Jean said. “Why do you ask?”
“Madame might be in serious trouble, Jean,” Burke said, glancing at Hélène, who was glued to the exchange.
“How?”
“I can only say what I have said,” Burke said.
Jean snorted, clearly disappointed. He sold news, and he embraced news, and Burke wasn’t giving him much about what was happening with one of the village’s best-known residents. Burke wondered if Jean might leave and take the flowers back with him.
But then Jean smiled, surrendering to his usual bonhomie.
“I don’t understand, but I accept it, Paul,” Jean said. “But one day, you’ll have to tell me what all this intrigue is about and how you’re involved.”
Burke had a feeling that Jean—and everyone else—might learn sooner than later, thanks to the media, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he agreed to tell Jean a little story when the time was right.
Then a thought tickled his brain.
“You’ve lived in Villeneuve-Loubet most of your life, Jean,” Burke said.
“That’s right.”
“You’ve known Madame Marois for many years then,” Burke said.
“I know her, but I wouldn’t say I know her well at all. In fact, I don’t think anyone in the village knows her well.”
“Have you seen her drive often?” Burke asked, knowing the question would probably seem odd to the newsagent.
Jean’s frown indicated he was indeed surprised by the question. He shrugged. “I’ve seen her drive into and out of the village many, many times,” he said. “On occasion, I’ve seen her driving in Nice and Antibes.”
“Is she a good driver?” Burke asked. “And forget about that small accident she had the other day with the stone wall.”
Jean still looked puzzled but went along. “I’d say she is a competent driver, as long as the traffic is not heavy. But I wouldn’t like to be a passenger when she drives on a highway. I think she’s a little nervous, a little unsteady.”
“Has she been that way just recently or for a long time?”
“For the last decade or so,” Jean said.
Burke’s brain was functioning better each day, but he still didn’t have the physical stamina to t
hink too hard for too long. Whatever reserves he had, he needed them to heal his injuries and fight the pain that threatened to explode at any time. He had to think fast before his will diminished.
They chatted for a few more minutes about other matters, and then Jean, likely noticing Burke starting to fade, left.
“What was all that about, chéri?” Hélène asked when they were alone.
“I’ve relived the accident in my dreams the last day or so and something just occurred to me,” Burke said.
“What?”
“That Madame Marois isn’t as good a driver as I thought she was.”
That made little sense to Hélène, he knew, but he didn’t have the strength to elaborate.
As Hélène told him about her chef’s new recipe that she was going to feature that night at her café, Burke’s mind drifted to Madame Marois and her car.
Was he wrong about everything he had told Fortin and Côté? Had it been someone else studying Yves Vachon and then running him and his bodyguard down on that fateful night? Was Plato’s howling just a dog being unhappy? Had the driver who’d almost killed him up in the hills been some stranger?
Yet the more he thought about it, the more he felt Madame was in the middle of everything. He just wasn’t so sure she’d been behind the wheel for all of those trips.
And if she hadn’t been driving, who had been?
THE NEXT MORNING, A physical therapist helped Burke into a wheelchair and took him to another floor, where he would begin his therapy.
“We’ll start slowly, monsieur,” said the physical therapist, a rangy young man. “Nothing strenuous at this point. We just want to get your body to function a little.”
He was there for an hour. The therapist moved him gently, getting Burke to do some slight twisting of his torso and stretching of his legs. For a healthy person, the session would have been energy-sapping; for Burke, the hour left him exhausted.
“You did well, monsieur,” the physio said. “It’s important to get the blood flowing to your extremities. We’ll do some more tomorrow. In a week to ten days, we might try walking a little.”
Burke could only nod. On the way back to his room, he started to doze.
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