A Cyclist's Guide to Crime & Croissants

Book 1: Cyclist's Guide Mystery

by Ann Claire

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

“A delightful blend of mystery, travel, and joie de vivre!” —Ellery Adams, New York Times bestselling author 

Vicariously tour the sundrenched Mediterranean Coast in this perfectly escapist new cozy mystery series starring American expat-turned-bike tour company owner in Southern France. 

Perfect for fans of Donna Leon’s The Commissario Guido Brunetti Mysteries, M.L. Longworth’s Provençal Mystery series, and armchair travel!

Nine months ago, Sadie Greene shocked friends and family by ditching her sensible office job in the Chicago suburbs and buying a sight-unseen French bicycling tour company, Oui Cycle. Now she’s living the unconventional life of her dreams in the gorgeous village of Sans-Souci-sur-Mer. Sans souci means carefree, but Sadie feels enough pressure to burst a tire when hometown friends arrive for a tour, including her former boss, Dom Appleton. Sadie is determined to show them the wonders of France and cycling—and to prove she made the right move. 

She hopes her meticulously planned nine-day itinerary will win them over, with its stunning seascapes, delicious wine tastings, hilltop villages, and, of course, frequent stops for croissants. When Dom drags his heels on fun, Sadie vows he’ll enjoy if it kills her. That is, until Dom ends up dead. The tragedy was no accident. Someone went out of their way to bring a permanent end to Dom’s vacation.

As more crimes—and murder—roll in, suspicions hover over Oui Cycle. To save her dream business, help her friends, and bring justice, Sadie launches her own investigation. However, mysteries mount with every turn. On an uphill battle for clues, can Sadie come to terms with her painful past while spinning closer to the truth—or will a twisted killer put the brakes on her for good?

“A delicious fast-paced mystery across the French countryside.” —Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author 

 

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Day 1, Thursday Welcome to Sans-Souci-sur-Mer! Sans-souci means without cares, which is how we hope you’ll feel on our nine-day Secret Southern France tour. On this first afternoon together, let’s get to know each other and lovely Sans-Souci!

Dom Appleton doesn’t like croissants.

Frankly, I’m shocked but glad to know. Knowledge is the bedrock of effective tour guiding. Now I won’t flaunt my unofficial motto around Dom. Oui Cycle, we stop for croissants! Most of my guests appreciate that sentiment (and croissants). It tells them what sort of tour they’ve joined—one that celebrates France, joie de vivre, and proper fortification.

But here’s a rule of tour guiding. Of life too. You can’t please everyone, even if you’re a croissant.

“Can’t stand ’em,” says Dom, adding a “no offense” which suggests he’s delighted to do just that.

Dom is offering this pastry opinion to the seven other members of my newest tour group. We stand outside the bike barn, a solid stone and stucco structure which for centuries housed horsepower on four hooves. Sun bakes the patio slate. The Mediterranean sparkles lazily in the distance. Monsieur Minou, the neighborhood tabby, lounges on a red tile roof. All down the lane, colorful shutters are drawn. It’s midafternoon in the South of France. Locals are enjoying their sieste.

Nine months into my expat life, I’m learning to love a good nap. Not today. My guests are eager for a spin, which we’ll take right after introductions.

They’re an international group. Twin sisters, Philomena and Constance, have come down from northern Scotland to ride into their fifth decade on a tandem bike. They have exuberant red curls, sturdy builds, and a vow to devour every croissant they lay hands on. Women after my own heart!

Manfred, a self-described digital nomad, hails from Germany. He’s brought his own bike, a steel-framed single speed. He and the bike look alike—tall, sleek, and silver-streaked. If he has a pet, I’ll bet it’s a greyhound or Abyssinian cat.

Then there’s Nigel Fox. Yes, the Nigel Fox from Out Foxed, the famous/infamous travel review site. When his London office called last month, requesting a comped tour and discretion, I thought I was being punked. What critic pre-announces his arrival?

A travel-writer friend reassured me. That’s how it’s done, she said. No one pays expenses these days unless you’re Rick Steves. Even then, good luck, Rick! The modern freelancer balances the free and discounted against potential returns. The recovering actuary in me understands that. Risk versus rewards.

You get nowhere if you spin your wheels on what could go wrong. New me took the risk. A big one. Nigel’s reviews come in two extremes: Rave or Rubbish. A rave could put little Oui Cycle on the map. A rubbish rating could puncture my dreams.

I sneak a glance at Nigel. He doesn’t look all that scary in his puffy-hipped jodhpurs, tweed-mimicking Lycra, and walrus-tusk mustache. Looks can be deceiving. In the two hours I’ve known Nigel, I’ve deduced that his facial hair functions as a mood avatar. Current mood: pursed displeasure. I pray it’s a fleeting critique of Dom’s croissant complaints.

Which brings me to my American guests. Dom and Judith Appleton, their son Lance, and Lance’s girlfriend, Lexi Conners.

I know the Appletons as well as my own family, maybe better. As a kid, I lived in their backyard cottage, Mom and me in the dollhouse version of their inflated Tudor. The carriage house, Mom would correct. A rented garage. Fine, okay, but the Appletons always welcomed me in.

Judith collected me from kindergarten and grade school when Mom was busy juggling jobs and boyfriends. Dom taught Lance and me to ride bikes. Well, he hired an instructor. In the Appleton world, that counts as hands-on involvement. Dom also gave me my first “real” job at his company, Appleton Financial.

And Lance? Lance is the pesky, protective brother I never had. A big brother by thirteen days. He’s freshly thirty, just like me.

I desperately want to impress them too. This tour is my chance to show them the glories of cycling and France—and to prove I made the right move ditching my job and moving halfway around the world.

That’s all. Just an entire country, cycling, my business, and major life decisions. No pressures riding along on this tour!

I still can’t believe they’ve come all this way. My head feels airy, like I’m witnessing the surreal. The Appletons, here on my patio in Sans-Souci. Dom in head-to-toe Spandex!

“It’s the flakes,” Dom’s saying. He wipes imaginary buttery goodness on his off-white bike shorts.

Flakes? That’s his beef with croissants?

I won’t judge. Everyone spins their own way, I always say. I’m not dissing Dom’s Spandex, either. I firmly believe that everyone can—and should—embrace comfortable stretchy fabrics.

It’s the color. Off-white in sports gear is never as opaque as the wearer wants to believe, especially if sweat, puddles, and buttery goodness get involved.

Lance snorts, rufflling his lazy mop of sandy-brown locks. “Any French food you do like, Dad?”

Classic Lance move. The setup.

Dom rubs an ample belly, pondering whether France—France!—has any cuisine he might enjoy.

“French fries,” he says, drawing out the words. “Do they make ’em over here?”

Judith issues an indulgent smile, Lexi a polite giggle. Nigel’s mustache bristles.

I step in before Dom can say more. “We have lots of wonderful meals lined up,” I tell the group. “Something for everyone. Wine tastings, private dinners, picnics, and loads of fortifying bakery stops.”

The sisters clap.

I grin and roll on to our itinerary. “Today is our prologue. Like in the Tour de France, we’ll start with a short opening spin.” Distance, however, is where any similarity to France’s biggest bike race ends. “No first-day time trials or competition for us,” I stress. “We’re here for fun and relaxation.”

Nigel huffs.

I firm my smile and ignore the grumbling critic. “We’ll spend two nights in lovely Sans-Souci so you can settle in. Then we strike out. We’ll cycle from the sea, all the way to the high Pyrenees Mountains.”

Finally, I emphasize the best part of cycle touring, for guests at least. My crew and I handle the tedious bits. We lug the luggage, wrangle reservations, and juggle logistics. “All you have to do is pedal and enjoy,” I’m saying, when Dom interrupts.

“Yeah, but back to croissants,” he says, a man of the last word and more on top. “Where are you supposed to butter them? And try fitting them in a toaster, am I right?”

Hopefully enjoy, I mentally amend.

I take stock of the group. We’ll be like a little family for the next nine days. That can be wonderful and enriching. Or dysfunction on wheels.

The sisters coo at the stretching cat. Manfred gazes serenely out to sea. Lexi maneuvers Lance into a selfie, tickling him for a goofy smile. Judith photographs their photo.

They seem happy. Dom, however—I fear he’ll be tough to please.

And then there’s Nigel Fox. With a jolt, I realize he’s ambling toward the east edge of the patio. Closer to the breathtaking sea view but also a scene I don’t want him to see.

I clap my hands so sharply that Lexi startles.

“Let’s ride!” I call out, pitching my tone to bright and cheery. “Everyone to their bikes!”

Nigel stalls, nose wrinkling, mustache waggling.

Has he caught a whiff of aerosol paint? Or maybe he senses foul trouble. For the past few weeks, I’ve been battling a vandal. By battling, I mean losing the fight and scrambling to clean up the damages.

The usual questions stress-sprint through my head. Why? Why me? Why Oui Cycle? Why only Oui Cycle? According to the village police chief, no one else in Sans-Souci has reported vandal problems.

Oh, but not to worry, the chief assures me. He has a theory. The bored teenager. A universal problem, non, Madame?

No. No, I do not agree.

What teen dislikes bikes? Even if they do, why go out of their way to target my tour business? The initial damage was relatively minor. Broken flower pots. A smashed mailbox. Then there was the rock through my window in the middle of the night. The red paint dripped over my wall. The break-in at the bike barn and the gory aftermath of slashed seats, cut cables, and severed chains. And last night, another graffiti threat, scrawled across the east wall of the barn and my new so-called security cameras. The vile message is still visible under the slapdash cover-up I attempted this morning, before running out of paint and time.

Nigel’s nose twitches. I hold my breath. Threats aren’t a good look for a business centered on fun, health, and relaxation.

Nigel preens his fluffy tusks, then turns on pale leather sneakers and rejoins the group at our waiting rides.

I exhale in relief. In all other aspects of this tour, I’m prepared. Okay, overprepared. Tipping toward obsessive, my staff might say. The bikes gleam in fresh polish and wax. Routes are plotted down to the minute and meter. I’ve triple-confirmed reservations, stalked the weather forecasts, stuffed my flowerboxes with blooming annuals, and dusted the high eaves of the bike barn, replacing centuries-old cobwebs with twinkling string lights.

I want everything to be just right.

It won’t be, I remind myself. That is the number-one rule of tour guiding: No tour will ever go entirely to plan. There are too many uncontrollables. Stray pebbles. Bounding sheep. Loose dogs. Erratic drivers. Wind, rain, hail. Spontaneous French vacation schedules. A vandal, striking at the worst possible time.

I square my shoulders and focus on my group and all the positives. It’s a lovely June afternoon in southern France. My friends are here, old and new. With any luck, no one will find out about my human-sized rat problem, and we can outride any trouble.

Day 2, Friday Our first full day in the saddle! Today, we’ll explore the vineyard tapestry that surrounds us. The views are truly breathtaking—as are the hills! Get ready to pedal. We’ll reward ourselves with a gourmet picnic at a winery.

Church bells clang the quarter hour. I wince. I’ve broken a cardinal rule of tour guiding. Depart on time, especially on the first day.

“He’ll be here,” says Judith, crisp as the morning air. She stands beside me, staring down the cobbled lane. Doves coo in the lemon tree. Golden rays burn off the dew. Villagers stroll toward the market. Dom is late.

“He needed Deborah to round up some figures.” Judith strangle-grips the peach scarf she’s paired with a floaty floral tunic and sky-blue capri leggings, an ensemble fit for cycling and popping into cafés. “Deborah can be so pokey.”

Deborah is Dom’s long-time assistant. His work wife, Dom will joke, which doesn’t endear her to Judith. Devoted Deborah comes in early, stays late, and plunges into thankless tasks like organizing office retreats, potluck Tuesday, Dom’s tee times, and obligatory birthday celebrations.

Deborah would enjoy a cycling vacation in France, I think. She’d appreciate croissants and show up on time. No, she’d be early, bearing croissants.

“He knows it’s three a.m. in Illinois?” I check my watch. Nine-sixteen, meaning it’s three-sixteen in Elm Park.

Judith sniffs. “Deborah installed an app. She gets an alert when Dom emails her.”

No vacations for Deborah, then. I tear my gaze from the empty lane and check on the rest of the group.

Lexi twists into yoga poses, arm stretched to the sky, blonde ponytail bobbing. A clear flask of VitalaGreen poses on the stone wall behind her. Lance and her cell phone look on. Lexi’s shooting a video for her social media channels. The second one of the morning, she told me. Her followers demand content.

Just down the wall and hopefully out of Lexi’s video frame, Philly and Conny lay out supplies to be packed in their paniers. Paper maps, snacks, emergency baguette, rain jackets, sun hats, utility tools, and a corkscrew. They’re so prepared. I approve!

Manfred seems to have glided off again, which is worrisome. Corralling tour guests can be like arranging cats for a portrait. You get some in place, and others scamper off.

I scan for Nigel and spot a flash of silver in the deep shade of the fig tree. There’s a bench there, half-gobbled by the ancient trunk and grasping limbs. The glint flicks fast. He must be writing in his notebook again. He had it out all through dinner last night. Furiously writing? Ranting about every minute I delay our departure?

I turn back to Judith. “I need to get moving.”

“We can’t leave Dom.” Her fists tighten around her scarf. “He’s been under a lot of stress. He needs this vacation, Sadie. Even he agreed that it was important.”

Yet not important enough to show up on time.

“Leave him, leave him.” For a second, I fear my thoughts have acquired a voice. But no, it’s Lance. He circles us, balancing on his pedals.

“Come on, Sadie,” Lance goads. “You did it before. Quit the company, left Dad in the lurch. Any regrets there, eh?”

He catches my smile before I can hide it. Nope, no regrets, although turning in my resignation was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Two things kept me strong.

One, I’d already signed the purchase papers for Oui Cycle.

Two, a memory of Gemma, justifying one of her many job jumps: Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you have to do it.

I was a good accountant and actuary. Numbers suit me. They’re understandable, predictable. You know what they’re going to do, unlike people. I hope I’m a good tour guide. I’m still learning the ropes, but I certainly have more fun. Usually.

“Lance, be nice,” Judith says.

Lance winks at me.

“Be nice,” I say, grinning back.

As a teen, Lance kept track of his mom’s be nices, like a punch card at the sandwich shop. When he got a dozen nices, he’d treat himself to something naughty. “Borrowing” Dom’s BMW. Drag-racing it on backroads. Helping himself to Dom’s best bourbon. Skipping school for an adventure in the city.

“Your father has a company to run,” Judith continues, now sticking up for Dom’s overwork habit. “On his own.”

Ouch! Was that a stab at Lance or me? Lance rolls his eyes so hard his body and bicycle follow. He spins across the patio to bike-bomb Lexi’s video.

Another cyclist takes his place. Nadiya Zaliskaya, my co-guide, brakes and rests one high-top sneaker on the patio slate, the other on a pedal. A light breeze flutters her hair, wheat blonde and sky blue, the colors of her native Ukraine.

“It is late,” she announces baldly. “Late on the first day is not good.”

No, it is not. The first day is special, a promise to our guests. We of Oui Cycle respect their time.

“He will be here,” Judith insists.

“Yes,” says Nadiya. “Yes, he will. I shall collect him, Mrs. Appleton. I will bring him to you.”

Judith’s resolve falters. “Maybe I should go get him. Dom can be a grumbly bear in the morning.”

Then I’d have another missing rider.

“I’ll go,” I say, immediately regretting the words. If work is involved, Dom will tangle me in complaints. Not only did I quit, but my new business has gotten him on this tour.

“No,” Nadiya says. “I shall go. It will be quicker.”

Sun shines off her gold helmet. Her hair glows like stained glass. Her stance puts me in mind of a brave warrior heading into battle: Joan of Arc, if Joan got into cycling and updated her wardrobe to high-tops, bike shorts, and oversized t-shirts emblazoned with a Ukrainian folk-punk band.

Nadiya turns her warrior look to Judith. I wonder if Judith is imagining what I am: an iron-willed twenty-something taking charge of Dom.

Judith gives a tight smile. “Fine.” She starts to thank Nadiya, but my co-guide is already bumping down the cobbles.

As if on cue, Manfred glides back. I ring my bike bell, and nervous excitement flutters, like the first day of school. My riders gather.

I warm up with the basics. “It would be great if we stuck together, but feel free to go at your own pace. You can’t get lost.”

They could get lost, but they’d have to work at it. I remind them of their paper maps and the navigation devices clipped to their handlebars. “The navigators are basic. They won’t measure your vital signs or map your workout, but they’ll show you where you are.”

Most of the group nods agreeably. Nigel’s head dips as if weighted by tedium. Yeah, yeah, I know. We went over this yesterday, when Nigel opined that a toddler could work our “remedial” technology.

Whatever. Staying on course is important. Since Dom isn’t here, I add, “And you all know how to input stops or change destinations if you need, say, a croissant boost?”

Chuckles from the group (minus Nigel) and hardy ayes from Philly and Conny.

I slide onto my seat and sing out my favorite words. “Let’s ride!”

Philly and Conny cheer. Nigel sighs, tucks away the notebook, and swings a camera across his chest on a stretchy strap. Manfred, Lexi, and Lance circle like racehorses at the gates. Judith gives the empty lane a final frown.

I lead us out of town on quiet back roads. Cozy village homes, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder, give way to country cottages with wider gardens. A pompous rooster struts alongside us. The local librarian pokes out from behind her laundry line to wish us good luck.

Bon courage, mesdames et messieurs!

Merci, Madame, we call back. Cycling works its magic. With every turn, my tension floats away and joy spins in. We’re sailing through a moving landscape painting.

Lance speeds by and misses a turn. I yell a correction.

An electric whir approaches. Nigel passes on our new e-bike, posture upright, reminding me of the puffed-up rooster.

In my ideal tour world, one guide would lead and another, the sweeper, would bring up the rear. But some riders are pointer hounds. They need to be out front. Others prefer the back of the pack, where they can stop and rest or take photos whenever they like.

I stay with the main group. Lexi rides with Judith, who’s also chosen an e-bike, lemon yellow with a basket specially designed to hold baguettes. Judith looks sunnier already.

Manfred pedals surprisingly serenely behind us. Conny and Philly praise every bonnie garden.

Up ahead, Lance and Nigel have stopped at the sign marking the edge of Sans-Souci. The vintage landmark features hand-painted images of the region: grapes, a sailboat, a waving octopus, and—my favorite—two cyclists modeled after the couple who chose me to take over their beloved bike business, Bea and Bernard. On the sign—as in life—they’re holding hands and laughing. In between the images is SANS-SOUCI, translated into two dozen languages, including a prominent English NO WORRIES.

I usually stop here for a group photo. Given our delayed departure, I wasn’t going to, but since my most eager riders are waiting . . .

Lance cocks his head. Nigel snaps photos like the sign is a fashion model. My heart soars. He’s having fun!

I imagining my rating soaring to Rave. Then I register the slashes of dripping, oozing red.

I grip my brakes so hard, my bike bucks. Conny and Philly swerve around me. I want to turn, to gather my riders and flee. It’s too late.

This morning, I checked all around the barn, my cottage, and Bea and Bernard’s rambling home next door. Finding no fresh vandalism, I’d allowed myself to imagine good fortune. Maybe, I’d thought, the saboteur had grown repentant or bored or moved on.

“You see this?” Lance says, when we pull up to the obvious horror. “What’s it say: DEAD BIKES?”

Lance arrived claiming to speak all of two phrases in French—Ooh là là and mucho vino, por favor. Yes, I know, the second isn’t even French. He’s not spot on with this translation, either, but I won’t clarify: DEATH TO CYCLISTS.

“Not very nice, is it?” says Philly.

“Right rude,” says Conny.

“To truly live is to dance with the Grim Reaper,” Manfred says, nodding pensively at the sign.

“Sadie!” Judith exclaims. “Is someone threatening you? Oh, I knew this bike business was dangerous!”

“No!” I protest against billboard-sized evidence to the contrary.

Judith shakes her head. The sisters tut. Nigel snaps photos. Manfred ponders the sky.

I employ my look-over-there move, well known to parents passing cotton-candy stalls and dog walkers approaching forests of squirrels.

I point up the road. “Onward! We have extraordinary views coming up.”

Lance sprints off. And misses the turn. I yell to him—so much for quiet country roads. He doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. Lexi gives chase.

“Great,” I exclaim, brittle bright, like a cheerleader for the losing team. “Let’s keep going!” I assure myself that Lexi will catch up to Lance and reel him back on track. I start off. Usually, a group will follow. Except there’s nowhere to go. Nigel has angled his bike across the narrow lane.

“Interesting,” he says. “Who doesn’t like your business, Miss Greene?”

“Kids,” I say, then verbally backpedal. That sounds as if kindergarteners know something awful about me. “Kids like me.” I hope. “It’s just teenagers. Bored teens. That’s what the police say, and—”

“The police?” Nigel asks, mustache quivering. “This is not your first threat? Should we be worried?”

I am! But the vandal is a coward, hiding behind a paint can. If I thought my guests were in d. . .