The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  To his surprise, Burke thought he looked reasonable, and when he agreed on how McManus had been falsely depicted, he looked positively judicial, even though his words were harsh.

  “A new career,” Burke said to himself with a laugh.

  A few minutes later, François Lemaire called.

  “I just saw the news. You were very eloquent, Paul,” the editor said. “I thought you’d be acceptable, but that forum showed a different side of you. And your defense of the Tour was especially strong. I’m glad I recommended you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And as for your comments about the real character of Pierre McManus, they were very powerful. It will be interesting to see people’s reactions.”

  “I wonder about that, too,” Burke said. It was time to change the subject. “So, have you had any more visits from the police?”

  “They did come back and checked my car, but didn’t find anything of interest,” Lemaire said. “I think they’ve taken me off their list of suspects.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “They didn’t say much,” Lemaire said. “That Fortin just asks his questions. I had to be very careful with him.”

  “But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Burke said.

  “I’m not so sure that matters much to Fortin,” Lemaire said. “He just wants a result. I expect he’s being pushed hard by the examining judge. There are a lot of people watching this Vachon case. He was a big deal.”

  Lemaire then switched topics and reminded Burke that he needed to do a written blog and a video blog within the next two days.

  “Yes, I remember,” Burke said, though actually he had forgotten. “I’ll spend all day tomorrow on them.”

  “Then get a good night’s sleep so you can produce good work,” Lemaire said.

  “You know, François, you sound a much happier man than when we last talked,” Burke observed.

  Lemaire chuckled lightly. “Being taken off a suspects list will do that.”

  They hung up.

  Burke poured himself a small pastis—he had cut back, he told himself—and thought about how two people he knew had been implicated in the Vachon hit-and-run case and how both had just been exonerated—sort of.

  Who could have killed Vachon? A man like Vachon had to have had enemies. Of course, maybe it was just bad timing and the driver hadn’t even known the victim’s identity before speeding off into the night. It happened.

  Burke thought about it for an hour, getting nowhere, and then made himself a panini.

  He would stay home and get a good night’s sleep. Hélène wouldn’t be coming over anyway.

  AFTER A SNAPPY NINETY-MINUTE ride into the nearby hills, Burke decided he would launch into the regular blog and then the video version without any distractions.

  However, he immediately faced a problem: he didn’t have a topic for either blog. For ten minutes, he went from subject to subject, dismissing each one. What was it Lemaire once told him?

  “Write what you know and write it well” had been the advice.

  Then it dawned on Burke that he could write about yesterday’s forum for the written blog.

  And that’s what he did.

  He didn’t put the focus on himself. Instead, he examined the types of questions that were asked and how the audience members reacted to the given answers. It was all about people’s “diminishing hopes and expanding cynicism,” he wrote.

  He added that such negative emotions mirrored what was happening elsewhere in society. He paused. Was he going too far? Screw it, he thought. It was true. Besides, if Lemaire didn’t like it, he could edit it out. That was his job.

  He finished the piece inside an hour. When he reread it, he thought it was his best work yet. He wasn’t much of a writer, but he was improving, especially in delivering his message.

  He fired it off to Lemaire with a comment that he was going right into working on the video blog.

  He thought about doing it on the forum, but that would be duplication. Again, he recalled Lemaire’s advice: “Say something new, say something people care about, say it once and then move on.”

  It was Saturday, and if he went anywhere near the beaches, there would be noise from all the people seeking some sun. He wasn’t sure how much background sound could be eliminated, and he didn’t want to produce something and then be told it wouldn’t work because of background noise that could have been avoided.

  A minor brainwave struck him—he’d do his video blog in his village’s little park. The noise from the nearby shops wouldn’t be too bad. Besides, the flowers were in full bloom, and they would make for a colorful scene.

  He planned to use the tranquil setting to talk about how people needed to appreciate the beauty in life and how the Tour, despite its flaws and two deaths in the last several days, remained a thing of beauty. Was it new information? Not really. Did people care? They were forgetting to care, and Burke believed that was his hook.

  It was corny, but Burke thought it might work.

  He began writing a short script. He gave his first effort a “crap” rating. His second was far less preachy and pompous. It might just do the trick. He read it through once more. Yup, he’d use it.

  Burke grabbed his video camera, tripod and instructions from Lemaire and Antoine, and walked to the small park. The village was unusually busy with shoppers. The local bakery was especially active. So, too, was Jean’s newsagent’s shop. There were lots of tourists, or maybe they were new residents from the nearby developments.

  There was noise, but in the park, it seemed distant. And the flowers were indeed beautiful. Lots of red ones and multicolored ones, too. Burke recognized roses, but beyond that, he didn’t have a clue. One year, he’d have to attend Nice’s Festival of Flowers in February and March for more than the partying. He would go for the endless displays of brilliant flowers that attracted people from around the world. It was a big deal. He recalled that Henri Matisse had supposedly painted a bunch of pictures of it.

  “They are lovely, aren’t they?” came a thin voice behind him.

  It was Madame Marois. Beside her was Plato, staring intently at Burke with his tail wagging.

  Burke was surprised the old woman had initiated the conversation.

  “Yes, they are,” he replied. “I just wish I knew more about them.”

  He meant it. He was about to do a video blog about recognizing beauty around oneself, and here he was, to his own surprise, discovering he truly wanted to expand his own experiences and knowledge.

  Madame Marois pointed to the roses. “You know those, I expect?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “I do,” Burke replied with a smile.

  Madame then identified several other flowers, doing so with considerable speed and adding little bits of background.

  “You must be a gardener,” Burke said.

  Madame Marois’s face hinted at a smile. “No, but I have employed many gardeners over many years, and I discovered what I liked and didn’t like at an early age,” she said. “I have a few plants in my home—”

  “I saw them,” Burke interjected.

  Madame Marois paused for a moment, almost like she wished to pretend Burke’s visit to her home a few days earlier hadn’t happened.

  “As I was saying, I have some plants, but it’s outdoors where the true beauty of flowers is found,” she said.

  As if to contradict his mistress, Plato moved to his left, lifted a leg and squirted on some flowers that Madame had identified as petunias.

  “Oh, Plato, you little rogue,” the old woman said to her dog, who, instead of feeling shame, seemed to take the comment as a compliment, perking his ears in response.

  “His diet is exceptional, so he cannot hurt the flowers,” she added, and her smile expanded slightly.

  She then asked what Burke was doing. He told her.

  “This is my normal time to be here, so do you mind if we sit and watch?” she asked. “Plato will be quiet—unless he sees a cat.”
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  “That would be fine,” Burke told her.

  With that, Madame Marois sat at a nearby bench and watched Burke, who felt like he was under some kind of microscope.

  He worked on getting the camera set into the tripod and then putting the tripod into a good spot. He fumbled the job slightly, but heard nothing from Madame Marois, who sat watching him, still as a statue. By her feet, Plato stretched out and studied Burke’s progress.

  “He’s a handsome dog, Madame,” Burke said, figuring it would be less awkward if he could eliminate some of the quiet as he set up.

  “He is. He knows me well, and that’s good,” she said. “I think sometimes he knows me better than I know myself, especially these days.”

  “These days?” Burke asked as he lined up his camera angle. He tried to remember what Lemaire’s techie had told him about white balance or shadows or something like that.

  “I’m afraid my memory is not what it used to be,” Madame Marois said. She lowered her head. “I believe you might have learned that recently.”

  Burke looked at her but said nothing.

  Madame stared at Plato. “He understands all my moods. I can’t fool him. I’ve occasionally tried to be happy when I’ve actually felt sad, but he knew the truth and comforted me. And sometimes, I’ve pretended to be angry, but he knew I wasn’t being sincere and ignored my outburst. He’s an exceptional little animal.”

  It wasn’t the first time Burke had heard her praise Plato, but this time, she seemed more melancholic when she discussed him.

  “He’s such a devoted companion, very calm and quiet for his breed,” Madame said in a soft voice. “I like to take him wherever I go although that’s not always possible. I’m fortunate to have him.”

  Burke smiled and nodded. Then he got back to work. Finally, he had his camera properly set.

  It was time to do the video blog.

  He stood in front of the camera and clicked the remote button in his hand. That activated the camera.

  He lasted about ten seconds into his take before he messed up. The second time, he went twenty seconds before he misspoke. The third time was the worst yet, with Burke having to stop filming after only five seconds.

  “May I help you?” Madame Marois asked.

  Burke couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said.

  He wasn’t sure what to have her do. Run the camera? Provide some script hints?

  He opted to have her start and end the segment by pushing the ON and OFF buttons. It would be one less thing for him to think about.

  And it worked perfectly.

  He did his video blog on the very next take.

  “Thank you, Madame,” he said. “You must have calmed me down.”

  Madame Marois accepted his thanks with a nod and then returned to her bench, where Plato had remained.

  Burke checked the video. It was fine. Heck, it was better than he’d expected. And it was colorful.

  Perfect.

  He packed up his gear, then turned to Madame Marois, who was suddenly looking around.

  “Madame, are you all right?” he asked.

  “My pills, I have lost my pills,” she said, her voice anxious.

  At least it wasn’t her keys again. He dropped to his knees and started scanning the grass.

  “My pills, I need my pills,” she said.

  “Are you sure you dropped them?” Burke asked after coming up with nothing.

  “Yes, young man, I am sure,” she said. “I had them a moment ago, and now I do not.”

  Burke had another peek around and found himself almost nose to nose with Plato. Neither of them had any luck.

  “What will I do?” Madame said, her hands on her face. “I need them, I need them.”

  Burke was flummoxed. He didn’t have a clue what to do next. Finally, he asked if he could check her purse.

  “You won’t take my money, will you?” Madame asked, sounding frightened.

  She was a totally different woman from the one helping him a few moments earlier.

  Burke patted her hand. “No, Madame, I will just double-check to see if your pills are there. You can watch me,” he said.

  Madame Marois nodded.

  Burke patted Plato, who was now stretched out and enjoying the sunlight. So much for the small dog being in tune with his mistress’s moods, Burke thought as he pushed himself to his feet.

  He went through Madame Marois’s purse and, within seconds, found a small container. He opened it and found a cache of about twenty pills.

  “You found them!” exclaimed the old woman. “Thank you, young man. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  He offered to walk her back to her apartment, and she accepted, standing and putting her arm over his elbow.

  “You must think me a silly old woman, losing my pills in my own purse,” Madame said as they approached her home.

  “It’s easy to forget things, Madame,” Burke said.

  “I wish that was the case, monsieur,” she said, sounding back in control. “But I believe I’m having some issues with my memory.”

  It was becoming a familiar scene to Burke.

  As they approached her place, Burke spotted Claude walking toward his café. His friend saw him, too, and waved. He stopped to watch Burke and Madame Marois negotiate the last few steps to her home.

  “If you need help, Madame, I’ll do what I can,” Burke said, although he wasn’t quite sure what kind of assistance he could provide her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not driving much because I have found myself lost once or twice in recent days. I might need someone to take me to a doctor’s appointment or something like that.”

  Burke was surprised. Madame Marois’s pride had always seemed endless, and he wouldn’t have guessed she would ever consider seeking help. Besides, she had enough money to take taxis everywhere.

  She went inside, a little shaky. Plato followed her, keeping to her pace perfectly.

  “That looked odd,” Claude said when Burke approached him.

  Burke explained what had happened.

  “Like I said the other day, the old woman is losing it,” Claude said.

  “Maybe, but Claude, are you losing it, too?” Burke suggested. “I mean, two trips to the local jail? Maybe next time you will find yourself in the Château d’If.”

  “But I am not the Count of Monte Cristo, and so the police won’t send me to his old prison,” Claude replied with a chuckle, his good spirits clearly restored. “I’ll just spend my evenings at my café or at home.”

  “At least you can’t get into trouble at either place,” Burke said.

  “Well, you never know,” Claude said. “Come to my café with me, and I will tell you my adventures.”

  Burke promised he would within the hour. First, he had to file his video blog.

  “You’ve become a fan of technology, Paul,” said Claude, who made Burke look like a software engineer.

  “An hour, Claude,” Burke said.

  “Good. I have much to tell you.”

  THE LUNCH CROWD AT the café was larger than normal. Claude and Burke chatted for a couple of minutes about Claude’s recent misadventures, and then the café owner had to excuse himself to help handle customers, leaving Burke to relax over a glass of rosé.

  When Burke spotted Hélène walking toward the café, obviously to start a shift, his heart beat a little faster. He caught her eye, and she smiled and waved. As she approached, he grinned, excitement growing inside him.

  She kissed him on both cheeks and then gently on the lips.

  “I have to work, chéri,” she said with a shrug. She nodded toward Claude. “And I have to make sure Uncle doesn’t get into more trouble.”

  “I understand.”

  “Tomorrow, maybe? I don’t have to work, and it is Sunday. We can spend the day together.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Burke replied. And it did. “I’ll call you in the morning.�
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  “But not too early, chéri,” Hélène said, waving a finger for emphasis. “I’ll need my beauty sleep.”

  “I’ll call you at eleven,” Burke suggested.

  “Perfect. Maybe a little lunch, a visit to the beach and then…” said Hélène, leaving the rest unspoken but understood.

  She went off. Burke pondered having another drink and maybe something to eat, but in the end, he opted for neither, paying his bill and waving goodbye to Claude, who seemed surprised to see Burke leave so soon.

  Back home, Burke stretched out on his couch. He suddenly felt drained. He put it down to the mental work he was doing, not the morning’s bike ride, which hadn’t been anything too strenuous. He laughed at the notion that he was overworking his brain.

  He rested for a half hour and then decided to go for another ride. When he was tired, a ride would often snap him out of his lethargy.

  Soon, he was pedaling toward Vence and feeling rejuvenated by the effort. He didn’t stop at the historic village. Instead, he kept going east until he cycled down into Nice.

  The city was bustling with its July tourist trade. There were thousands of people on their way to the beach or coming from the beach. Even the locals seemed to be out in record numbers. A couple of times, Burke had to dodge a vehicle going outside its lane to escape traffic congestion.

  He turned toward the lovely Old Harbor, with its lively cafés and bustling marina, and then climbed out of town. He didn’t stop until he reached the more peaceful atmosphere of neighboring Villefranche-sur-Mer. He stopped for a quick drink of water by the tourist information center, the gardens of which were more colorful than ever. Then he turned around and rode back, charging down the hill into Nice at seventy kilometers per hour—fast enough to earn a substantial speeding ticket if he got caught.

  He headed to André Rousseau’s bike shop once again. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to talk to André. He was actually hoping to have a chat with Léon Petit if he was working today. Something was bugging Burke, and he wanted to explore it.

  Léon was working, toiling away in the back shop truing a wheel. He didn’t look up when Burke said hello, just acknowledged him with a quick nod.