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 think 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.