BURKE AWOKE AT MIDNIGHT to someone yelling and a dog barking. He leaned out his bedroom window. The noise was coming from an apartment fifty meters away.
The voice sounded like an old person’s.
He spotted a couple of men who lived nearby running to the building. A woman followed them.
Another yell. More barking.
Burke thought he knew the voice—it belonged to Madame Marois. It dawned on him that she was yelling “Fire!” Plato was providing the barking.
He quickly dressed, grabbed his keys and ran out to see if he could help. If there was a fire, people better be notified. While the buildings were made of stone, he expected a lot of the homes were cluttered with furniture and would be primed for going up in flames. He doubted many neighbors would have fire extinguishers.
It was indeed Madame’s place, and as he approached, he saw smoke. Not much, only a few clouds floating out an open window. He dashed up the stairs to her front door, where he almost bumped into Jean, his neighbor who owned the newsagent’s shop.
“It’s all right,” Jean told him. “No flames, just smoke. Madame Marois forgot to turn off an element on her new stove. The pot got too hot and started to smoke. I turned it off. The pot’s useless now, but no other damage. Now I have to try to get back to sleep so I can wake up at four.”
“How is she?” Burke inquired.
Jean motioned for him to go in. Bianca, Jean’s wife, was inside, sitting beside Madame Marois, patting her hand and gently telling the old woman that everything was fine. Another neighbor, Pierre, was wafting smoke out of the kitchen and out of the apartment.
Madame Marois looked shaken. She wasn’t saying much, just nodding at Bianca’s sympathetic comments. She interjected once to tell Bianca she had been reading when she smelled something from the kitchen and then she had forgotten about it for some reason or other.
“When I did smell the smoke, I was very afraid,” Madame Marois added.
She sniffed at the memory and pulled the black shawl she was wearing tighter around her shoulders. Plato, who was curled up by her feet, looked up at his mistress.
Burke checked with Pierre to see if he could help. Pierre shrugged and told him the only damage was to the pot. Together, they used towels and flagged away the rest of the smoke. As they worked, Burke noticed with envy that the kitchen was triple the size of his and had old-style brass pots and pans neatly aligned in various corners.
When they were done, Burke and Pierre went into the living room. Madame Marois seemed to be recovering from the shock. Lucky she had been awake, even though it had taken her a while to react. It could have been far worse—not just for her, but for her neighbors.
He glanced about the living room, which was much larger than he had thought it might be from the outside. Although the building had to be a century old at least, the room had a severe, modern feel about it, with a medium-sized LCD TV hanging on the wall, a black leather couch and chairs, and brass lamps and tables. The only older touch came from two Impressionist-looking paintings hanging on a wall.
The dining area shared an open space with the living room. Again, the design was modern, with a black metallic table set for six. A side table made of the same black metal held up three bloodred ceramic pots.
As he suspected, Madame Marois seemed no stranger to money. But her style, for what it was worth, surprised him. Given her affection for the pendant she’d bought in Grasse, Burke would have guessed she’d go for oak or mahogany furniture with lots of old-time knickknacks around, instead of the modern, severe approach she’d taken.
Burke got the overriding sense that this was a woman who wasn’t strongly connected to her apartment. It was an austere setup with no photos of family or anything sentimental. It was also an apartment for someone who liked space. There was lots of room to wander about. He wondered if Madame Marois had employed an architect to redesign the layout of the apartment, or maybe she had bought two apartments and had them merged into one.
Burke thought of something and returned to the kitchen. There was no smoke detector. So much for taking precautions. Of course, he didn’t have one either.
Back in the living room, he watched as Madame Marois got to her feet and thanked them for their help.
“It’s time for you to return to your beds,” she said with a feeble smile. “I am grateful. I’m becoming a forgetful old woman.”
On the way out of the building, Jean suggested there were dark days ahead for Madame. His wife nodded and added it was a pity the old woman was alone.
Back in his apartment, Burke undressed and returned to bed. He couldn’t sleep, at least not at the outset. He kept thinking about Madame Marois and the “fire.” Once more, he told himself not to take life for granted and to start doing a better job of living it.
When he awoke after only four hours of sleep, Burke was surprised to find he wasn’t exhausted. Yesterday had been a full day and had finished with sadness, yet here he was on a new morning feeling a decent burst of energy.
He had a couple of coffees and was about to get his newspapers when his phone rang.
“I just read that Pierre McManus’s funeral is today, over in Saint-Raphaël,” said André Rousseau. “I’m going. Want to join me?”
Burke had forgotten about a funeral for McManus. The police had spent so long examining his death that the funeral had been postponed.
Although he hadn’t really known McManus, and what he had known about him was hardly positive, Burke decided he’d go, if for no other reason than curiosity. Besides, he didn’t have anything else planned until his date with Hélène. Rousseau said he’d pick him up in a half hour since the funeral was at eleven.
Rousseau, good to his word, was there in precisely thirty minutes, and they set off in his Toyota Corolla for the working-class resort of Saint-Raphaël. If the traffic wasn’t too bad, they’d make it within an hour.
Burke wondered who was looking after the shop while Rousseau was gone.
“Well, Petit was going to start work today, but he’s going to the funeral as well, so I have a part-time person doing it,” Rousseau said. “So, no problems. I definitely couldn’t ask Petit to skip the funeral to look after business, and I definitely didn’t want to miss it either.”
“Why are you so eager to go?” Burke asked.
Rousseau laughed at that. “Curiosity, nothing else. I want to see who’s there to say goodbye to the bastard,” he said.
Burke wasn’t impressed by that, but then realized he essentially felt the same. He was curious, too. Would there be ten people or one hundred? If he was a bookmaker, he’d have put up odds on a small turnout.
Rousseau, who drove like he wanted to race Grand Prix, knew the fastest route. He got them there in forty-five minutes. The funeral wasn’t for another half hour, and yet the parking lot outside the church was full and cars were lined up for blocks.
This was going to be quite a show.
They got out, and Burke scanned the crowd for familiar faces. He saw several—all from the pro cycling world. A couple recognized him and nodded. He waved back. He noticed that none of the cycling people were lost in sadness; a handful almost looked like they were sharing a joke.
The church inside was nearing capacity. Rousseau and Burke got a couple of seats in a side pew near the rear. A few minutes later, people were being forced to stand. An overflow crowd. Who’d have guessed?
Burke spotted some Global cyclists near the front. They were reasonably easy to spot; they were wearing the team’s blue-yellow-and-white cycling jerseys—a statement of support. Then he caught a quick glimpse of Petit, who was with the team and sporting a jersey as well.
As the crowd waited for the mass to begin, Burke looked about. He saw some executives with the International Union of Professional Cyclists. They all seemed appropriately sad, although he expected their glumness was all an act. Then he saw another familiar face—Jean-Pierre Fortin, the detective from Nice. Fortin was whispering into a woman’s ear, and Burke guessed she was a cop, too. They were probably on the job, although Burke couldn’t figure out for what purpose.
Finally, the priest and altar boys came out, and the mass began. Burke wasn’t a practicing Catholic anymore but found himself following along with the proceedings.
When it came time for the priest to do his readings and address the audience, Burke wondered what he would say. McManus might have had good qualities, but if he had, they’d certainly been under wraps and hadn’t included anything to do with being friendly or kind or generous or helpful.
It soon became evident that the priest had not known McManus, because he made sweeping comments about McManus’s devotion to his sport, to his teammates and to family and friends. He said McManus had demonstrated that a “life lived seriously and well is a gift itself.”
When the priest said that, Rousseau snorted and said, “What a pile of shit.”
Burke checked to see if anyone had heard, but it seemed no one had. In fact, most of the faces around were showing little expression at all. They were just watching. A couple of times, he spotted people pointing at something or someone as if sharing an observation or secret.
Many people in the audience probably didn’t even know McManus. They were there because his name had been all over the news. He was a celebrity, and for some people, that made his funeral a special event to attend. It was the same the world over—the media covers a person’s death, and people want to be at the funeral to share some of the limelight and get some fodder for future stories they’d tell friends and family.
Two others spoke about McManus. One was a team rep, and one was a first cousin. Both had obviously known him and recounted a couple of whimsical anecdotes that made Burke frown in disbelief. McManus was the last person on the planet to be whimsical, but the two had a job to do and showed off the trainer in a good light.
And then it was back to the mass, which thankfully ended in another twenty minutes. After, McManus’s casket was carried out by pallbearers—half wearing Global team jerseys—followed by the congregation, which trooped out appropriately solemn.
Burke and Rousseau finally made it outside, joining the others as the casket was loaded into a white limousine. The vehicle wasn’t moving yet, though. More visiting had to occur.
Burke and Rousseau moved toward a group of ex-pros they knew. They all shook hands and made serious noises, but it took just a couple of minutes before the wisecracks started. They had all known McManus, and not one was a fan.
As they swapped progressively nastier anecdotes about McManus, careful to ensure no one overheard, Burke noticed the deceased’s family had congregated near the limo. They definitely looked upset.
He tore his eyes away and glanced around. It was like a Who’s Who of the professional cycling world. Lots of team managers and plenty of great ex-riders had shown up to bask in the limelight.
“A big show, eh?” Rousseau said, nudging him in the side.
“It just needs the red carpet,” Burke said, noticing TV cameras taking video from the roadside.
He caught Petit looking at them and waved. The mechanic raised a hand in return. He had an arm draped around a frowning middle-aged woman. Petit whispered something in the woman’s ear, and she nodded.
“That woman with Petit seems a little upset,” Burke said to Rousseau.
“Maybe she’s an old flame,” Rousseau said. “McManus had a way with the ladies, although that always seemed unbelievable to me.”
“McManus with women, now that’s a scary thought,” Burke said. “I bet it’s Petit’s mother. There’s definitely a resemblance.”
Rousseau looked carefully at Petit and the woman. “You’re right; they do look alike,” he said. “He’s mentioned his mother, but I’ve never met her.”
“Well, everyone has a mother,” Burke said.
“Even McManus had one, although it’s hard to believe,” Rousseau replied.
Burke spotted Fortin and excused himself. He approached the Nice detective who crooked an eyebrow when Burke got near.
“Are you here on business?” Burke asked.
Fortin shrugged. “A good day for a funeral,” he said.
Burke looked at the woman beside Fortin, who introduced her. The woman was his sergeant, Sylvie Côté. She nodded at him. She was short but sturdy, and Burke figured she was mostly muscle. She had penetrating brown eyes that made him slightly uncomfortable.
“Anything happening with the McManus case?” Burke inquired.
Fortin smiled and shook his head. “No change, Monsieur Burke,” he said with the exaggerated patience of an adult addressing a young child. “And that’s all I’m going to say.”
Burke smiled back and excused himself, returning to Rousseau and the others.
They agreed with the other ex-riders that a drink at a seaside café would be a good way to end matters.
Ten minutes later, there were a dozen of them seated around two conjoined tables. They’d just come from a funeral, but it definitely didn’t seem like it. They were laughing and swapping yarns. A few times someone commented on a pretty passerby.
Burke spotted Petit on the boardwalk with the woman, her arm linked inside his. She wasn’t frowning anymore. They looked like they were out for a casual stroll. Everyone had recovered, it seemed.
Burke didn’t join in the ribald conversation at his table. Instead, his mind drifted to a blog about the funeral and the strangers in attendance. After he finished his pastis, he pushed Rousseau to leave.
They were approaching Rousseau’s vehicle when they encountered Petit and the woman.
Petit seemed uncomfortable, but still managed to introduce everyone. The woman was indeed his mother, Karin Petit, who nodded shyly at Burke and Rousseau.
“Did you know Pierre McManus, madame?” Burke asked. He was growing uncharacteristically nosy these last few days.
“I knew him a little,” she replied. “Léon worked for him.”
“McManus was an interesting man,” Rousseau said.
“He was unusual,” Madame Petit said.
Burke nodded. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone,” he said. And that was true.
“His time came,” Léon Petit said. “Ours will, too.”
And with that, he directed his mother down the sidewalk.
“Like I told you, our Léon isn’t much for conversation,” Rousseau said.
The drive back went quickly and quietly. Rousseau stopped in the Villeneuve-Loubet village parking lot to let Burke off.
“Well, that was not the most exciting funeral I’ve attended,” Rousseau said, “but it was still interesting. I’m glad I didn’t bet on how many would attend.”
“Me, too.”
“I still can’t believe Pierre McManus died of a heart attack or whatever the heart issue was,” Rousseau added, shaking his head.
And neither could Burke.
Back in his apartment, Burke was surprised at how easily the words fell out of him and onto the computer screen. When he reread his work, he thought he might be getting the hang of this writing business, although he wasn’t ready to write a novel.
He fired it off to Lemaire.