The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

“I think maybe we need to take you to lunch,” Hélène said.

  Claude seemed to like that idea. “But I’ll need to change,” he added. “I’m a little sour to the nose.”

  “You are,” Hélène said. “And by the way, you are buying lunch because of all the worry you caused me.”

  “I will buy,” Claude said with a resigned shrug. He turned to Burke. “Did you see the TV coverage of the protest? We did what we wanted to do.”

  “You mean you wanted to get arrested?” Burke asked.

  “Not really. We wanted to get the media to notice. We wanted people to learn that the protests against FP Developments haven’t ended. And we wanted the politicians to see that it might be unwise to let the development go ahead.”

  “Well, if you go to any more riots, Uncle, do not finish up in jail,” Hélène said.

  It took about an hour to go to Claude’s place—he lived a half kilometer from Burke—and for him to shower and change clothes. Then they opted for Roxie’s.

  They drove there in Burke’s car. They took a table at the far end of the terrace under the protection of a palm tree.

  On Claude’s recommendation, they ordered some tapenade and sautéed prawns to start with and a bottle of chardonnay to accompany the hors d’oeuvres. It seemed an odd mix to Burke, but Claude swore the taste of the wine worked well with the tapenade and prawns.

  Burke took a prawn, chomped it down and then sipped his wine. It was a perfect blend of tastes. He tried some tapenade and then took another sip. Same result. It was fantastic and more proof that the French, especially a café owner, knew how to eat well.

  “I do not believe it,” Claude said, looking past Burke and Hélène, who were sitting opposite him.

  They turned. Yves Vachon, his minder and two other men, all dressed in dark suits but no ties, sat at a table under the shade of another tree.

  “He’s here to ruin my lunch,” Claude growled.

  “Who are you talking about?” Hélène asked.

  “The bastard with the silver hair,” Claude said. “That’s Vachon, the chief of FP Developments and a man who cares only about his wallet.”

  Claude was almost vibrating with repressed anger.

  “Drink your wine, Claude, and enjoy your freedom,” Burke said, touching Claude’s wine glass with his own.

  Claude glared at Burke for a couple of seconds and then visibly relaxed, breaking into a smile.

  “You’re right, Paul,” he said. He took his glass and held it high. “To freedom and sunshine and a wonderful niece—and a good customer and friend.”

  They toasted together, and Burke hoped the worst was over, but he could sense Claude’s attention wavering from them to Vachon.

  After their hors d’oeuvres and seafood pasta, they ordered a cheese plate to be followed by coffee.

  Before the server walked away, Claude pointed to Vachon’s table.

  “The man with the silver hair over there who looks like a Hollywood movie star,” Claude said. “Is he an actor?”

  Burke wondered what Claude was up to. Claude knew Vachon. Why was he quizzing the server?

  The server shook his head. “No, he’s a businessman. Monsieur Vachon. A regular visitor here when he’s in town. He often has both lunch and dinner here. He likes our food, but I think he likes the view better.”

  The server nodded at three comely young women strolling along the boardwalk. They were wearing skimpy sundresses. Burke glanced at Vachon and saw he was noticing the women going by as well.

  The server went away, and Burke saw Claude nodding to himself.

  “Why did you ask if he’s a movie star when you know who he is?” Hélène asked.

  “The servers seem to be giving him special treatment, and I was curious to know if he comes here often,” Claude said. “I figured the Hollywood approach would end up getting me an answer.”

  “What does it matter if he’s a regular, Claude?” Burke asked.

  Claude shrugged. “I wanted to know if he parachutes into our area to check out his latest big deal or if he’s a regular visitor, that’s all,” he said.

  “You’re making too big a deal about him and this place and everything,” Hélène said.

  “He’s a pig as well as a bastard,” Claude said, staring at his niece. “I love this restaurant, but I’m afraid it’s time to boycott it after today.”

  “Don’t be silly, Uncle,” Hélène said.

  “I’m not being silly, chérie,” Claude said. “That man and others like him will change this area beyond recognition. We will not be able to afford to live here. It will be nothing but tourists and the rich. So, no, I am not being silly. I am fighting for my community and for my people.”

  The cheese plate came, and they ate its delights without conversation. When the coffee came, the only talk was of Burke’s participation in the upcoming forum on cycling. Neither Claude nor Hélène seemed interested. The meal ended in sourness.

  Burke dropped Claude off at his place, and then he asked if Hélène had plans for the rest of the day.

  “I do, Paul,” she said. “I have to work later at Uncle’s. It will be a long night, I think.”

  Burke was disappointed, and it must have shown, because Hélène reached across and brushed his cheek with her fingertips.

  “But I am available tomorrow—if you’re interested,” she said.

  “I am, but I have that forum in the afternoon,” Burke said.

  Hélène smiled coyly. “I was thinking more about something we could do in the evening and later.”

  Burke knew he was probably doing his boyish grin again, but he didn’t care. An evening and more with Hélène would be perfect.

  They agreed to get together after the forum, and then Burke dropped Hélène back at her place.

  He drove leisurely back home, thinking tomorrow promised to be an active—and terrific—day.

  BURKE AWOKE EARLY, BUT skipped a bike ride to prepare for the forum instead. He might know his sport, but he sensed some tough questions on deck, and he wanted to be prepared. Before he started his homework, he strolled down to the village newsagent’s.

  Jean had his head buried in the Nice newspaper.

  “Anything big happen?” Burke asked.

  Jean’s head snapped up.

  “Ah, Paul, yes, something big happened last night,” he said, nodding toward the rack behind Burke.

  Burke looked over his shoulder at the newspaper and read a headline that caught his breath:

  “FP DEVELOPMENTS EXECUTIVE KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN”

  There was a photo of a covered body and an inset shot of Yves Vachon. Burke wondered about Vachon’s minder. After all, it seemed the businessman never strayed far from his protection.

  “What happened?” Burke said.

  “He was coming out of one of his favorite restaurants when he was hit by a vehicle,” Jean told him. “It sounds like this FP Developments guy was killed instantly.”

  Burke shook his head.

  “The story says the police haven’t made an arrest yet, but are investigating,” Jean said. He looked up at Burke. “That’s about it.”

  Burke picked up a copy of the Nice paper, along with a national newspaper with a similar headline about Vachon’s sudden death. He paid for both and told Jean he had an appointment, then jogged back to his apartment.

  He went online and saw plenty of stories about Vachon. He checked Twitter and discovered Vachon’s death was starting to produce a fair number of tweets, some of which suggested it wasn’t a bad thing that the FP Developments boss was gone. He wondered if the police checked Twitter.

  His cell phone sounded.

  It was Hélène, and she seemed upset.

  “It’s Uncle Claude,” she said. “The police picked him up again.”

  “For what? Another protest?” Burke hadn’t heard anything about another altercation.

  “No, he’s being questioned about that FP Developments executive and his bodyguard who were killed in a hit-and
-run,” she said.

  “Yves Vachon?”

  “Yes, that’s his name. Anyway, the police just came over to Uncle’s place and arrested him. He managed to contact me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He asked me to get him a good lawyer who is not too expensive,” she said.

  “No such thing,” Burke interjected.

  Hélène ignored his comment. “We have to do something,” she said, her voice firm.

  Burke agreed, but he didn’t have a suggestion. He tried to sound calm, but he was far from that. He couldn’t believe that the day after Claude promised them he would avoid trouble, he was being linked to Vachon’s death.

  Had Claude actually done it? Burke didn’t think it was possible. Claude didn’t mind creating some trouble, but killing someone was outside his character.

  “Let’s go to the station,” Burke suggested.

  “Where we were yesterday?” Hélène asked.

  “It’s a good place to start.”

  Less than a half hour later, they were back in the foyer at the police station. It was noisier this time, with reporters and TV crews looking for information about Vachon. After all, it wasn’t every day that an international business star was the victim of a hit-and-run.

  Jean-Pierre Fortin came out of a side door and stopped to check out the action. Burke grabbed Hélène’s hand and pulled her along toward the detective, who was soon joined by his shadow, Sylvie Côté.

  “Ah, you again,” Fortin said when Burke stepped in front of him. “And what is it this time?”

  “The hit-and-run deaths of Yves Vachon and his minder,” Burke replied.

  “Well, I’m not the investigating officer,” Fortin said. “You’ll have to ask someone else.”

  “But can you tell us if any charges have been laid?” Burke said.

  “As I said—”

  “My uncle, Claude Brière, has been arrested,” Hélène said. “Can’t you tell us anything? Please.”

  Fortin looked at her but said nothing.

  “They arrested him, but he didn’t do anything,” she continued.

  Fortin remained silent but glanced at his partner, who shrugged.

  “Uncle did not like Vachon, but he would not hurt a fly,” Hélène added.

  Burke tried to warn her off from making more comments, but she was locked onto Fortin.

  Fortin began, “You’ll have to wait for—”

  “Can I talk to him?” Hélène asked, panic sounding in her voice.

  Fortin pointed to the front desk. A crush of journalists hurled questions at a pair of desk officers, who were abstaining from providing any answers. Burke figured a spokesperson would soon show up to handle the reporters.

  “Please help us,” asked Hélène with tears in her eyes.

  Côté took the initiative and turned to leave. Fortin began to follow, and then he turned to Hélène and said, “Ask for Inspector Jardine.”

  Then he left.

  Burke was surprised that Fortin had provided any help. He hadn’t given them much, but it was something, and Hélène seemed slightly calmer.

  “Let’s wait a minute and then ask for this Inspector Jardine,” Burke said.

  “We’ll ask now,” she said.

  Instead of joining the crush of media at the front counter, Hélène pulled out her phone, did some scrolling and then punched in a number.

  “I would like to speak to Inspector Jardine,” she said with authority.

  A few minutes ago, Hélène seemed like she was about to fall to pieces. Now, she looked fierce and determined.

  “Inspector Jardine, my name is Hélène Rappaneau, and my uncle is Claude Brière,” she said into her phone. “He is being held in connection with the hit-and-run death of Yves Vachon and his bodyguard.”

  To Burke, Hélène sounded like a lawyer speaking to a witness at a trial—all facts and very businesslike.

  Jardine must have said something, but Burke couldn’t hear.

  “Has he been officially charged with a crime?” Hélène asked. Then she added, “I should let you know that I am a freelance journalist as well.”

  Burke wasn’t sure if Hélène’s strategy was a good one. He doubted you could intimidate a flic by saying you were a journalist. And if the police checked and discovered she wasn’t, she might find herself scrambling to provide some answers.

  “If he has not been charged, when will he be released?” she asked.

  Clearly, it was not the answer she’d been hoping for, because she frowned and then snapped, “That is unacceptable. I can assure you we will be acting on this.”

  She listened for a few seconds, then the call obviously ended.

  “It sounds serious, but it doesn’t seem like he’s a main suspect,” she said. “In any case, Uncle Claude might be released today, although this Jardine said they can hold him longer.”

  Burke wondered what she intended to do next.

  “He might need a lawyer,” Hélène said. “I have a friend whose father is a lawyer here in Nice. Maybe he can help.”

  Hélène had taken control and had a plan of sorts. He couldn’t offer anything else but support.

  “Thank you for helping me with this,” she said to Burke. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “It’s nice to have a good friend.”

  Burke didn’t know how to reply, so he just nodded.

  “I think you need to start getting ready for your public forum,” she added, tapping her watch.

  Burke had forgotten about the forum, which would start in three hours. He’d been worried earlier about not being properly prepared, but all that seemed inconsequential now with Vachon’s death and Claude’s arrest.

  “Forget the forum,” he said. “I want to help you.”

  Hélène smiled. “No, you must go,” she said. “I’ll handle this. After your forum, call me. Maybe Claude will be out. If he is, I will lock him in his room and not let him out for a month. Sometimes, he can be such a child.”

  Burke was surprised at how her spirits had changed in the last few minutes.

  He dropped her off at her apartment with a quick peck on the cheek, and then he drove home. He parked his car and was heading to his place when he saw Madame Marois walking Plato, the two of them moving along briskly, both noses up in the air. The leash was always loose, as if the dog anticipated his mistress’s every move.

  When Burke caught her eye, he waved. She stopped and waved back. Then, for a split second, she looked a little lost, but then resumed her stroll. Burke moved on as well, pulling up short when he heard her reedy voice calling out to him. Madame was motioning him to come to her.

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “Have you seen my keys?” she asked, looking perplexed.

  “Your keys? To what?”

  “To my house,” she snapped.

  Burke looked down at Plato, who seemed to be perfectly content to be sniffing the air.

  “No, Madame, I haven’t seen them,” he said. “When did you lose them?”

  “That’s a silly question,” she said. “If I knew when I lost them, I would know where they are. This has not been a good day. I’ve lost my keys, and this morning, I couldn’t balance my bank book.”

  Burke asked what route she had taken so he could retrace her steps and maybe find her keys.

  The question was simple, but it left Madame speechless and obviously puzzled.

  “I can’t remember exactly where I’ve been on my walk with Plato,” she said.

  “By the small park? The stream? The garden?” Burke offered.

  “Yes, yes, that way,” she said.

  “Wait here, and I’ll go back that way and see if I can spot them,” Burke suggested.

  He jogged off, did a loop of the area but found nothing. When he turned to go back to Madame, she was gone.

  He jogged toward her apartment building and spotted her unlocking the main door.

  “You found your keys,” he said.

  Madame Marois
looked at her hand. “Oh, yes, I did,” she said. “They were in my purse, at the bottom.”

  “I’m glad you found them,” Burke said.

  “How did you know I had lost them?” she asked. There was a short pause. “Oh, yes, I told you, and you went to search for them. Thank you for looking for them.”

  And then she disappeared inside.

  Yes, Burke thought, she was losing it.

  Back at his apartment, Burke started prepping for the forum but struggled to concentrate. Claude’s situation took some of his attention. Hélène’s varied reactions stuck in his brain, too. Then there were Madame Marois’s signs of dementia or some similar ailment.

  He was halfway through his preparations when François Lemaire called.

  “Paul, I want to warn you that some police may be coming to see you,” Lemaire said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yves Vachon is dead,” Lemaire began.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, it has come to the attention of the police that I recently had a physical altercation with his minder and that I have been overheard saying Vachon is—was—a pig,” Lemaire said. “Then there were my editorials against Vachon and FP’s Developments’ latest project.”

  “Why do they want to talk to me?” Burke asked.

  “Because you were there when we were attacked by Vachon’s thug,” Lemaire said.

  “Have the police talked to you?” Burke asked.

  “They just left,” Lemaire said. “They seemed to hear what I told them, but you never know.”

  “Who talked to you?”

  “Some cop named Fortin,” Lemaire said. “He had a female sergeant with him. Côté, or something like that. Very tough looking.”

  “What did you tell them?” Burke asked, surprised to hear Fortin and Côté were on the case. So much for Fortin telling the truth about who was handling the investigation of Vachon’s death.

  “I told them I’d only been doing my job as a journalist,” Lemaire said, sounding more anxious than authoritative.

  “Well, there isn’t much I can tell them.”

  “I understand, but I wanted you to know in advance,” Lemaire said.

  Burke’s doorbell sounded.

  “I think that might be your police,” Burke told Lemaire.