Burke had a brainwave.
“Monsieur Yablonski, I have a question for you,” Burke said loudly over the muscle man’s shoulder. “I’m from the local media.”
Yablonsk heard his name and turned. He was frowning and clearly not pleased at being disturbed.
Burke figured he had nothing to lose.
The muscle man was just centimetres from him and looking angry.
“Monsieur Yablonski, do you know anything about the scene involving the skeletons dressed in German Second World War uniforms?” Burke said.
The muscle man’s right index finger was on Burke’s chest and pushing. Burke felt himself going backward.
Yablonski took a step toward Burke.
“Who are you with?” Yablonski asked.
Burke said he did blogs and columns for area publications.
“You don’t look like a journalist,” Yablonski said.
“I was riding in the race,” Burke said. “Now I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
The muscle man leaned close to Burke’s ear and whispered, “You’re making me angry and you don’t want to do that.”
Burke ignored the threat although it wasn’t easy and repeated his question.
Yablonski, who was about Burke’s height but twice as wide, shook his head. “I don’t know why anyone would pull such a stupid prank,” he said.
“And what about the comments by a hacker on the race website and on the Saint-Raphaël website that link you to Oradour-sur-Glane?” Burke said.
Burke knew that a year earlier, he never would have asked such a question. But a lot had happened in the interim and now he was fine with being more assertive.
“Those are the comments of a deranged person,” Yablonski said.
Burke had wondered if Yablonski had known about the websites being hacked. Now he had his answer. He also sensed from Yablonski’s reddening face that the businessman was getting impatient.
“Have you asked the police to do anything?” said Burke, wanting to keep Yablonski engaged, at least until he could muster something a little smarter to ask.
“I’ve asked them to do their jobs, that’s all,” Yablonski said and then turned from Burke.
The muscle man took that as his opportunity to get rid of Burke and he responded by grabbing Burke around his left bicep in a painfully tight grip and thrusting him away from his boss.
But Burke wasn’t done even as he stumbled backward a couple of steps.
“Any chance you’ll cancel the next vintage race in Nice?” Burke said to Yablonski’s retreating back.
Yablonski stopped and, once more, turned toward Burke.
“I will not be victimized by the insane allegations of some idiot,” he said. “The next race will run as planned in Nice and it will be a success.”
Then he turned and marched off to the far corner of the stage where he again took up lecturing his hapless young assistant.
“Get off this stage before I break something,” the muscle man snarled.
Burke pondered making a scene, but gave up on the idea. Getting into a ruckus would only create troubles. Worst of all, Burke figured he’d end up with some unpleasant injuries if he pursued his case with the bodyguard.
He looked out at the crowd. It seemed no one had spotted the altercation.
Burke left the stage and backed up several metres. Then, using his smartphone, he shot some video of the organizers discussing the day’s events. It was hardly impressive, but it was something.
Retreating to a peaceful spot about 100 metres from all the end-of-race activity, Burke sent the photos and video to Lemaire. He also texted a couple of quotes from Yablonski.
He followed up with a quick call to his boss.
“I have your stuff,” Lemaire said. “Stay around for a while. See if the police say anything. Maybe Yablonski will have a news conference.”
Burke agreed.
“You’ll definitely have to ride the Nice race next weekend, Paul,” Lemaire added. “Who knows, maybe there’ll be some more mischief happening.”
Burke had a sense that Lemaire’s hunch might prove correct. The skeleton scene, plus the accompanying allegations involving Yablonski, wasn’t the work of someone playing a prank. There was a more serious edge to it.
He told Lemaire he’d be fine to ride the Nice race.
After ending the call, Burke told Rousseau the gist of what had happened on stage and what he had discussed with Lemaire.
“I’ll ride the Nice race with you, Paul,” Rousseau said. “And I agree that what we saw today was more than just some stupid joke.”
Burke noticed a tall young man in his late 20s or early 30s, neatly attired in black slacks, open-necked white shirt and grey sports jacket, approach the mic on stage. In a rich baritone, he introduced himself as the day’s MC and made a few comments about how well the race had gone, thanking the participants, organizers and sponsors. Then, with his voice booming, he introduced Bosco Yablonski, saying the businessman was the main force behind “such a glorious event as today’s race.”
The crowd responded with strong applause which surprised Burke. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but a rousing welcome hadn’t been a consideration.
Yablonski marched to the front of the stage, smiling and waving, his anger with Burke nowhere in view.
“It has been a great day for cycling,” he began. “Have you enjoyed yourself in the first of our four, very special vintage bicycle races?”
The crowd cheered. Burke noticed more than a few were hoisting glasses of beer. The partying, which promised to be substantial, had already begun.
Yablonski thanked the riders for their efforts and praised his fellow sponsors. Then he discussed how the series of races had developed and how they were created to pay homage to the history of the sport. More cheering followed.
Then, to Burke’s further surprise, Yablonski mentioned the scene with the skeletons.
“It’s unfortunate that someone thought that creating a tasteless scene would damage the prospects of this race and the ones that will follow,” he said. “I guarantee you it will not deter us from celebrating this wonderful sport we all love.”
There was an eruption of cheering and applause.
“We will continue to host these events and we will continue to celebrate cycling.”
More cheering.
“However, I would request that if anyone here has any idea who might be behind what occurred, please notify the organizers or the police,” Yablonski said. “And with that, I thank you all and I hope to see many of you next weekend in Nice.”
Then, to another burst of applause, Yablonski waved and left the stage, a sly grin on his face.
“That was fairly impressive,” Rousseau said to Burke.
Burke nodded. “It was indeed,” he said.
Yablonski knew how to work a crowd, Burke thought.
Would he need to do it again in a week?
Chapter 6
When he opened the door to his apartment in Villeneuve-Loubet, Burke knew he had extended himself as far as he could. He was exhausted from the race. His bones, especially the ones that had been broken in the accident, ached and his muscles felt like they couldn’t do one more task.
“Chéri,” said Hélène when he walked into the apartment.
She kissed him on the lips and then, as she often did, gently brushed her fingertips across his cheek. He loved her touch and her smile. Most of all, he loved her.
“It has been a long day,” he said.
“I can see,” Hélène replied. “You look very tired.”
Burke nodded, went into their small living room and dropped onto their new couch, a cushy, faux leather model they had recently bought and which, as it swallowed him, seemed worth the hefty pricetag that had come with it.
“I did the entire distance,” he said. “But it wasn’t easy.”
Sitting beside him, Hélène held Burke’s right hand.
Burke looked at her, smiled and
kissed her.
“I feel better already,” he said.
Then he asked if she had heard what had happened at the race.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He explained about the scene with the skeletons.
“Do you think it was just a silly prank, Paul?” Hélène asked.
Burke had pondered that question for most of the return trip in Rousseau’s vehicle.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I think there’s more here than we might think. In fact, I have a feeling more similar stunts will follow.”
“But why?”
“That’s the big question,” Burke said. “I don’t have a clue, but I bet a lot of people who were on social media and saw what happened are busy trying to find a link between Yablonski and the Nazis in the Second World War.”
“And are you one of them?” Hélène said.
“No, I’m just curious,” he replied.
Hélène nodded.
“I know about your curiosity, Paul,” she said. “It’s a good thing, but it can get you in trouble.”
Burke knew that was true.
“But remember you are not a reporter,” she said.
“I know, I know,” he said.
Burke was aware he lacked the training, skills and desire to be a reporter. He was happy to do his blogs, columns and TV show, and knew he had been lucky to stumble into those gigs which allowed him to pay the bills and save a little. But he also knew the day might come when he didn’t have those jobs. And then what would he do? Or what could he do?
He told himself he’d have to give some serious thought toward developing some real job skills.
But before he gave that any further consideration, Burke knew he had a blog to do for Lemaire by 9 the next morning. He had a few ideas, but he felt exhausted. Maybe he would tackle it after dinner.
Then Hélène told him what she had planned for dinner: mussels in a curry sauce with chopped onions and peppers and, for dessert, a brioche perdu with lavender honey ice cream.
Burke’s energy level surged at the thought of such a meal. He loved mussels in curry and Hélène’s sauce was never less than spectacular. As for her brioche perdu, he was devoted to this dessert version of French toast; with apricots and pears featured in the recipe, it was a true marvel made heavenly by lavender honey ice cream which was the epitome of smooth.
Burke studied his partner once again. Besides being attractive with lush auburn hair, dark skin and sharp features, Hélène was funny and lusty, a combination which kept Burke thankful for his good luck.
He had also discovered, to his considerable surprise, that she was a superb cook although, due to her involvement with the village’s Café de Neptune, he often made supper while she worked. But when she took a turn in their kitchen, he knew he was in for a treat. Since inheriting the café from her Uncle Claude who was approaching the end of his prison term for his involvement in the Vachon matter, Hélène had demonstrated a natural flair for cuisine and for creating new dishes. She had revamped Claude’s menu and, frankly, made the café more popular as a result. At home, she often experimented with recipes with remarkable results. Burke was the prime beneficiary of her talents.
“I also have a very nice, light red wine to accompany our meal,” Hélène said.
Burke knew Hélène was probably testing a new wine that had come to her attention. Once again, he would benefit.
“And then, if you aren’t too tired from all your cycling today, I have something special for you,” she said.
Burke smiled. That was her hint that she had post-meal plans that would leave him even more exhausted but very happy.
The blog would have to wait. Burke told himself he worked better in the morning anyway.
Then he went and showered, feeling better for getting rid of the road dust. Back in the open area that was their living room, dining area and kitchen, Burke grabbed a 1664 Blanc from the fridge, promising it would be his only beer because he didn’t want to lessen the impact of her finely planned dinner.
“By the way, Paul, I got a phone call today from Olivier Richard,” Hélène said over her shoulder as she chopped some peppers.
Richard was Claude’s lawyer and Burke wondered why he would call on a weekend. Lawyers on the French Riviera were notorious for being on their yachts or sailboats on weekends.
“What did he want?” Burke said.
Hélène turned and grinned. “He said the authorities have pushed forward Uncle Claude’s release,” she said.
Claude was supposed to be getting out of the Lyon prison in five more weeks. Burke wondered what had happened to speed up his return to freedom.
“Monsieur Richard told me the authorities believe Uncle has been a model prisoner and has done the minimum of his sentence,” she said. “Monsieur Richard also speculated the prison needs to make some space for new inmates and needs to get ready very soon. Uncle could have been transferred to another prison, but Monsieur said it would make no sense. So, he is being released in about two weeks.”
“And he just learned that?” Burke said.
“Yes,” Hélène replied. “He said he was surprised to get the information on a Saturday morning, but wasn’t complaining.”
“Well, whatever the reason for the early release, that’s good news,” Burke said.
“I’m going to go and get him when he is released,” Hélène said. “I can hardly wait.”
“I’d like to go along if that’s all right,” Burke said.
Hélène smiled. “I was hoping you’d come,” she said. “Now, get us two glasses of wine while I finish making our dinner. We’ll be eating soon. After that, we’ll check your stamina.”
Burke laughed. It would be an enjoyable evening indeed.
Chapter 7
Two days after the vintage bike race to Saint-Raphaël, Burke woke early, leaving Hélène to snore gently away in their bed. He quickly wrote his blog, this one about the upcoming Nice race with a focus on the turnout of participants and fans after what had happened at Saint-Raphaël. It wasn’t great stuff, but Burke figured it would keep Lemaire happy, or at least mildly satisfied. The one he had done the morning before had been fairly standard, but Lemaire hadn’t complained. Maybe he was getting the knack for doing a decent blog. Or, Burke thought, maybe Lemaire was just lowering his standards.
After sending the blog to his editor, Burke dressed and then, accompanied by his Jack Russell dog Plato, left their apartment and strolled down the narrow lane to the village newsagent’s where his friend Jean would be ready with coffee and conversation. It was a ritual that Burke treasured.
Burke grabbed a couple of newspapers and sat at one of the two outside tables while Plato, off leash, trotted over to his bed to assume his daytime duties of protecting the newsagent’s shop as part of an agreement. Once more, Burke thought how fortunate he was to have this proud, intelligent animal. A year earlier, he hadn’t thought he’d ever own a pet. But then his neighbour Madame Marois had noticed how Plato had bonded with Burke during occasional sidewalk conversations and had persuaded him to take the dog even after Burke had been instrumental in proving how she and her son had killed two people in the hit-and-run attack on Yves Vachon. Since Burke and Hélène were often away from their apartment during the day, Burke had asked Jean, who adored the small dog, if he could look after Plato during the day. The newsagent had enthusiastically accepted.
A moment later, without any other customers to attend to, Jean appeared with a tray holding two espressos and two glasses of water. He detoured for a moment to rub Plato’s caramel-coloured ears and then came over to the table. He put the tray in the middle and then sat.
“You were in that vintage bike race on Saturday, weren’t you, Paul?” Jean asked.
“I was,” Burke said. “It was fun although something odd happened.”
Jean pointed to one of the papers. “I read a small story about those skeletons dressed in Nazi uniforms,” he said.
Burke figured the
information was out in the public although he wasn’t sure if it was a big deal. He knew Lemaire had run a brief story plus Burke’s video and some of his photos on the website of the newspaper group.
“It was definitely odd,” Burke told Jean.
“The story says the police suspect some kind of silly prank,” Jean said.
Burke asked who the source was for the “prank” comment.
Jean opened the paper and scanned the page. Then he jabbed his finger at one section.
“Inspector Daniel Bonnier,” Jean said.
Burke wasn’t surprised. He had the sense Bonnier enjoyed seeing his name in print and his face on TV.
“Do you think it was a prank, Paul?” Jean asked.
“To be honest, I don’t,” Burke said. “I think there’s something serious behind what occurred.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s something serious about putting two skeletons by the roadside especially since those skeletons seemed to have been dug up recently,” Burke said. “And then there was the swastika and the reference to a company owned by the main sponsor.”
“Yes, Bosco Yablonski,” Jean said.
Burke wasn’t surprised at his friend’s knowledge. The newsagent not only sold newspapers and magazines, he consumed a great deal of the information in them and was as knowledgeable about world affairs as anyone Burke had encountered.
“I know there has been a lot of speculation on social media about Yablonski and a possible connection with Oradour-sur-Glane,” Jean said. “Most of it is pretty silly, though. Nothing of any substance.”
“I haven’t seen any connections, either,” Burke said.
“But if someone wants to get him, why not just make an accusation to the media instead of dangling information out there?” Jean asked. “If there’s enough proof, someone will print the story or broadcast it.”
There it was again – doubts about the effectiveness of the personal attack on Yablonski at the Saint-Raphaël race.
“I’ve been thinking the same, Jean,” Burke said. “But maybe there’s not enough proof. Maybe whoever is behind this is afraid of Yablonski and doesn’t want to be identified, regardless of the outcome.”
A Vintage End Page 3