AFTER CHANGING INTO BEIGE linens, Burke strolled down to Claude’s café. He didn’t want to think about Fortin, McManus or Den Weent, so he focused on the beautiful flower pots positioned by the stairs as he went down toward the café.

It wasn’t working. His mind was still spinning with Fortin’s comments. This was getting a bit silly. He wasn’t a journalist, nor was he a private investigator, yet he was now consumed by two deaths associated with the Tour de France and chasing a link between the two.

Since it was late afternoon, the terrace of the café was occupied by just a handful of people—none of whom Burke recognized—sitting and nursing glasses of wine.

Burke wasn’t in his chair for more than a few seconds when Hélène showed up with a pastis and a wide smile.

“Where’s your uncle?” Burke asked, although he was quite happy to have Hélène around.

“He’s off to some meeting about a new development on the other side of Villeneuve,” she said.

“I didn’t know there was a meeting,” Burke said. He wouldn’t have gone even if he had known.

“Uncle Claude wants to tell everyone that enough is enough,” she said with a shrug. “He keeps telling me the town is big enough.”

“I agree with him,” Burke said.

“Well, this new development is going to be really big, and the locals will probably have to pay more taxes for all kinds of services that will be needed as a result,” Hélène said. “At least that’s what Uncle says.”

“Do you think the area needs another resort or big condo development?” Burke asked.

Hélène shrugged once more. “I don’t know. I live in Nice, so it doesn’t affect me. But maybe Uncle is right.”

Then she was off. Burke finished his pastis and then returned to his apartment, which was being baked by the late afternoon sun. He thought about cooking something but felt lazy, and so he pulled out some cheese and sausage from his small fridge, poured a glass of rosé, grabbed a chair and posted himself right by the dining room window. He was soon sweating from the sun, but he didn’t care. He took in the view over the tops of his neighbors’ houses—new Villeneuve-Loubet with the turquoise Mediterranean beyond. It would only get better when the sun starting drifting down.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about anything.