A Cyclist’s Guide to Poppies & Predicaments

Book 3: Cyclist's Guide Mystery

by Ann Claire

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery

Synopsis

Springtime in Provence brings flower-filled meadow, sun-drenched coastlines—and a bachelorette cycling tour that guide Sadie Green hopes to pull off without a hitch. However, the ride takes a deadly detour when a killer crashes the party in USA Today bestselling author Ann Clair’s latest mystery for armchair travelers and Francophiles!

Sadie Greene has broken her streak—her crime streak, that is. For months, her bicycle tours through France have been blissfully uneventful, marred only by the occasional punctured tire or crushed croissant. Thus, when Sadie takes on a last-minute booking for a bridal party, she expects love, laughter, and champagne toasts. But more than pre-wedding jitters come along for the ride.

A bossy bride, rowdy party games, and a tagalong stranger threaten to turn Sadie’s carefully planned itinerary into a tour de farce. She can shift gears to keep the bride happy, but she can’t please everyone. A road-rager targets the group. So does a killer. To add to Sadie’s horror, the murder victim is found wearing the bride’s tiara.

While the police dig into the victim’s past, Sadie suspects a deadly case of mistaken identity. Fearing the real target may still be on her tour, Sadie once again says “I do” to a murder investigation. As her suspect list spins out of control, Sadie uncovers secrets and motives that could shatter the bridal party. Love, life, and liberty are on the line as Sadie races to unmask a killer before the wedding turns into a wake.

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Itinerary: Let’s spin our wheels, Oui Cyclists! Our route today will wind through wildflowers and tranquil villages on the way to Aix-en-Provence, the elegant heart of southern France.

Sometimes, my work overwhelms me, and I just need to take a moment.

Yeah, yeah, join the club, Sadie Greene, you might be saying. That happens to pretty much everyone.

True, but these aren’t the moments of my past life. Back when I worked for Appleton Financial in Elm Park, Illinois, taking a moment meant escaping my cubicle to powerwalk the parking lot. I craved fresh air and movement. My colleagues joked that I held the suburban Chicago land-speed record for mini-mall pacing by an accountant.

Ha! Never underestimate the passion and determination of accountants, I’d tell them, but I could put on speed. When a spreadsheet failed to sum or, worse, a client denied numerical truths, frustration fueled my feet and I could set an eleven-minute-mile pace, easily. And, yes, I measured and recorded my outings. I’ve always been into distances, times, speeds, routes, lists, and logs. Who knew I was honing skills for my new life? Not me. Certainly not my colleagues, who assumed I’d stay sensibly in my lane.

I did, back then. I followed the rules. Allowable breaks at Appleton Financial were fifteen minutes. A mile was eight laps of the pavement perimeter, plus three figure eights around the dumpsters. If I hustled, I had several minutes to spare. I’d brew coffee from a pod or play chicken with microwave popcorn. The latter was my most daring game. How long could I hold out before one more pop turned to a bag of singed synthetic butter? Burned or molar-breaking, the kernels always seemed to win.

These days, my adventures are bigger.

My moments are a bit different too. Okay, a world different.

Take my current moment, for example. Sun warms my cheeks. South of France sun. Provençal sun. I’m on my bike, rolling through an impressionist painting come to life, a moving landscape of colors, textures, and ethereal light.

What started as an everyday pinch-me moment has spun into dazzled disbelief so strong, my front wheel wobbles. I firm my grip on my handles and roll with the moment.

Is this really my life? Almost two years in and I still marvel. On my left stands a grove of olive trees, their gnarled trunks witnesses to centuries. On my right, a field of poppies ripples in red. And here I am, bicycling for a living. Me, Sadie Greene, former accountant, forever voted most predictable by my high school graduating class.

I don’t just cycle, either. I’m the proud owner of Oui Cycle, the best little cycling company in France. France! From our home base by the sea in Sans-Souci-sur-Mer, my crew and I lead tours all over the country and sometimes over the border to Spain, Italy, Germany, or Andorra.

Admittedly, my new job got off to a bumpy start. I rolled into a small spree of …

My wheel slips on a pebble. My stomach jolts, more from dangerous thoughts than the rock. Forbidden words—murder, assault, crime spree—spring from their mental cave before I can stop them. I brandish a happy fact to banish them back. My association-with-crime spree is long broken. Gone. No more!

For almost nine months, nothing worse than a few flat tires and a guest’s undisclosed oyster allergy has befallen Oui Cycle, and I aim to keep it that way. How, you ask? Some might call it superstition, the antithesis of my practical, facts-based nature. I like to think of it as age-old wisdom. My new mantra is a classic: See no evil, hear no evil, say no evil. Oh, and think no evil. Definitely avoid cycling smack into evil.

Laughter tugs me from treacherous thoughts. The giggles flutter down the road like butterflies. I smile, taking in a glorious view. Five happy cyclists—my co-guide and four guests—ride in a neat line, sea-blue sashes fluttering behind them.

The most marvelous part of my job isn’t the cycling. It’s not even France. It’s this: My crew and I guide guests on trips they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. We get to be part of their special events. This tour is the most celebratory I’ve ever guided, my first bachelorette party.

In approximately two weeks, Clementine Calloway will marry her beloved in a fairy-tale castle wedding. I can’t wait, and not only because I’ll be celebrating a mini-vacation. I’m also invited to the ceremony. My beau, Jacques Laurent, is the best man and currently leading the bachelors on their own cycling party.

The thought has me scanning the landscape for bachelors on bikes. I’d love to see Laurent, known by his surname to friends, colleagues, loved ones, and pretty much everyone aside from his terrifying mother. I’m eager to hear how his inaugural tour-guiding is going. Laurent may be a major-crimes detective, but guiding is no walk in the park—just ask guides who lead walks in parks.

The road ahead curls into a hazy horizon of soft blue sky and puffy-topped Aleppo pines. Once again, I shoo inappropriate thoughts. I shouldn’t wish to see Laurent. According to the rules of this bachelorette party, the bride’s and groom’s contingents shall not meet, communicate, or in any way mingle. This, according to our chief rule-maker, maid of honor, and bridal BFF, Suzanne Thomas.

I shift my gaze back to my riders. Speaking of the rule-maker.

Suzanne is drifting left, slowing so others can pass. Her ginger-red hair swings in a low ponytail. Her helmet and sandals perfectly match the blue of the bachelorette sashes bedazzled with the group’s name, the Vélo Vixens. She glances back, pointedly waiting for me to catch up. Did my inappropriate thoughts ping her radar?

I pick up my pace. My heartbeat gives a little surge too and not from the flat topography. Suzanne seeks me out for two reasons. One, something is wrong. Two, she is about to derail my carefully honed itinerary. There’s a third reason too: both of the above.

“Sadie! There you are,” Suzanne chides in a syrupy drawl when our wheels align.

I like Suzanne. I do. She’s enthusiastic about cycling and Provence. We have a lot in common too. As a professional party planner, Suzanne corrals clients for the sake of their own enjoyment. She’s into schedules and details, and we both want the same thing for this tour. We want “our” bride to have the time of her bachelorette life.

And yet … Maybe it’s like too many cooks oversalt the soup? Too many planners crash the best-laid plans? I feel my smile tighten to stiff and professional.

Suzanne tuts. “Sadie, my gracious, why were you going so slow? You can’t be tired out already, can you? It’s only our second day, and you know we need to burn oodles of calories.” She raises an index finger like a general leading a charge. “Remember the dress fitting!”

The dress fitting. I dread it and I don’t even have to squeeze into a bridesmaid’s gown. In a campaign to tone and slenderize the bridal party, Suzanne has implemented a “rule” that goes against my touring principles. Namely, she’s forbidden stops for croissants.

I force up a bright smile. “I’m the official sweep today,” I tell her. “A guide at the front of the group and a sweeper at the back, that’s our policy at Oui Cycle. No one gets left behind.”

Suzanne sniffs. “I should hope not.”

I hold my breath, willing her not to mention my past, ah … incidences. She’s come dangerously close several times.

“I mean, who wouldn’t be paranoid given that—” Suzanne starts.

“Such a beautiful day!” I blurt. Suzanne can’t mention the unmentionable if I cut her off like a high-speed train of positivity. “Can you believe these flowers?” I wave a touch too wildly at poppies. Their papery petals flutter back in the spring breeze.

Another sniff, this one aimed at the wildflowers.

“Clementine wanted lavender,” Suzanne informs me, tone pitched to greatest sorrow. Sorrow switches to accusation. “As you know.”

Oh, I know. I’ve been repeatedly reminded by Suzanne and Clementine, and I get it. Lavender is gorgeous and the postcard image of Provence. However, if Clem so desperately wanted lavender, she should have planned a mid-summer wedding. It’s May. The lavender is not yet in bloom. I’m about to extol the romance of springtime poppies, but Suzanne barrels on.

“And our Clementine wants fun. Fun!”

Okay … Isn’t this fun? Cycling through fields of wildflowers on a sunny day? We are on a cycling tour, a tour Clementine requested—nay, demanded—and paid extra for in last-minute booking fees.

I gear up my smile. “Our next stop, Cézanne’s studio, will be fun and illuminating.” I keep my eyes on the road but feel the burn of Suzanne’s hazel-eyed frown.

I add extra cheeriness. “Then, we’ll head to our private villa with its absolutely fabulous pool and garden.” I could mention that our luxurious home-away-from-home for the next several nights is called Villa Lavande—Lavender Villa—but best not to remind Suzanne of unblooming flowers.

“Of course. Cézanne! How fun!” Suzanne says, stretching the final word over several meters of cycling.

I’m learning to interpret Suzanne’s southern Virginia drawls. That “how fun” meant just the opposite, I suspect. I’ll know for sure if she bestows a “bless his heart” on the great Post-Impressionist painter.

“We’ll love Cézanne’s little old studio, don’t you worry,” Suzanne continues. “But on the way, we’re playing a game. Since you’re bringing up the rear, be a dear and pick up every itty-bitty bit of clothing, okay? Don’t miss the negligibles.”

Before I can get out more than half a “what,” Suzanne is off in a burst of speed, perfume, and giggles. Clothing? Negligibles? What?

Up ahead, Suzanne bellows orders. The bride cheers. Her former college roommate is suddenly speeding ahead while her younger sister is braking to rummage through her side bags.

I summon my positive attitude. I can be flexible with my itinerary. Games and laughter, that’s what bachelorette parties are all about. Good, harmless fun.

Which shows how much I know about bachelorette parties and the hazards of donning rose-colored goggles.

Cyclist’s Log

Day 2

Location: Under a fluffy duvet in my soft-as-clouds bed, Villa Lavande, Aix-en-Provence.

The best game ever, Suzanne said. A bachelorette party essential. Don’t be such a downer, Sadie!

Diary, you know me. Being a downer is one of my greatest fears. Well, aside from those that shall not be mentioned. Or written. Write no evil!

But this journal is a record, and history should not be sugarcoated. Suzanne’s “fun” game was a mash-up of strip poker and know-your-bride trivia. Clem penned the questions earlier. An incorrect answer meant off with an item of clothing. A correct answer meant Clem disrobed—enthusiastically. She and Suzanne had oodles of fun. Me? Not so much.

Am I a downer???

I had the un-fun job of cleanup crew. I fished sandals out of ditches and waded into a briar patch to extract a headband. The game lasted ten stressful miles. It didn’t bring out the best in my guiding, I confess. I secretly willed failure on two members of the group.

That’s not as mean as it sounds. Ivy, Clem’s younger sister, had clothes to spare. She threw on all her extra layers when Suzanne announced the game. And Clem’s college roommate, Asha, was at little risk of over-exposure. She stretched the definition of clothing and discarded small items. A scarf, padded cycling gloves, the headband that sparked a prickly argument.

Clem accused Asha of cheating with the hair accessory. Asha said Clem would know about cheating. What was that? Old roommate tensions?

I wish that was the worst, Diary, but I must also confess dishonorable firsts. I got my first citations for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace. Suzanne was out of quiz cards. Clem was out of clothing aside from a bikini bottom, sunglasses, a tiara, a single sandal, and a strategically wrapped sash bedazzled with FUTURE MRS.

I was encouraging re-robing. Clem was whooping while rolling through a stop sign in front of a patrol officer and a medieval church. In other circumstances, I think I could have talked the officer down. Say, if the church hadn’t been holding a baptism. If Clem hadn’t untied her sash to present bedazzled “proof” of her “Future Mrs.” status. If that move hadn’t coincided with the church doors swinging open.

Even then I could have pled for mercy, but, wow, Clem’s mood shifted like her chain fell off. Flirty to argumentative. Giggly to I’m calling your supervisor! At top volume, she informed the officer and baptismal party that “This is France!”

I’m betting they knew that.

She followed with, “Have you seen your beaches? Even grannies are topless, and some of them should not be. Know when to quit, right?”

Exactly. I gave up when Clem told the officer that he couldn’t give her a ticket because “My fiancé is best friends with a cop. Tell him, Sadie! Call your boyfriend.”

I’m cringing even now. My toes are curling under the duvet.

I should be glad we got away with just a fine. I’m also glad we can’t contact the bachelors. How will I tell Laurent? Maybe it’ll be a fun story for the wedding reception? For Clem and Luc’s silver anniversary? A secret never to be told?

On to positives: I learned a lot about Clem from the quiz. Here are some highlights.

Speaking of dreams, I should turn in for the night. Here’s to sweet dreams of smooth cycling tomorrow.

Itinerary: Good morning, Oui Cyclists! Today, we ride a path of artistic inspiration, the Route de Cézanne. As we learned from our visit to Cézanne’s studio yesterday, the great artist took inspiration from Mont Sainte-Victoire. More than 60 of his paintings feature his mountain muse, which we’ll admire from all sides on our leisurely 35-kilometer loop.

Positive thinking has a lot of, well, positives. A chant of “I think I can, I think I can” powers weary legs up steep slopes. A rosy outlook boosts mood and even serotonin. A sunny disposition can see a storm cloud as a welcome spot of cooling shade.

However, looking on the bright side cannot stop a brooding cumulus cloud from dumping a torrent on your bicycle tour. The first raindrops are so sparce and scattered, I maintain optimism. A refreshing sprinkle, I assure myself, breathing in zingy ions.

At the lead of our little pack, Nadiya picks up the pace. Outrunning a storm is more practical than positive denial, but neither of our strategies works. Rumbles vibrate deep into my bones. Lightning flashes and cracks. The clouds open up, like Zeus is playing with a garden hose. Blinded by an atmospheric waterfall, I almost run into Asha’s back wheel.

I swerve around my slowing, moaning rider.

“Let’s keep going,” I call back. “We’ll find a safe shelter.” But where? I chose this route for its connection to Cézanne but also for the lovely rural patchwork of fields and groves and the spectacular mountain rising from the plains. The nearest village is kilometers away. Would a farmer take in a pack of soaking cyclists?

I glance back to see Asha tipping precariously before planting a foot and skidding to a full stop. To say Asha is a less experienced cyclist is an exaggeration. She’s vastly free of any bicycle experience. As a child, her first outing on training wheels resulted in a broken wrist. That was also her last cycling endeavor until her children gave her a crash (not literally, thankfully) course before she departed for the bachelorette party.

I brake, my wheels skidding on the water-slick pavement.

“Sorry!” Asha flaps a hand in front of her face, as effective as a windshield wiper without a windshield.

“No worries,” I fib. The storm is washing away my gloss of positivity. Lightning is a real worry. So is riding on a road where drivers are as blinded as we are. A road Asha is now pushing her bike across. I squint into the rain and see the dark hunch of a tree, not a safe place in lightning.

I’m about to call Asha back when my name cuts through the rumbling weather.

“Sadie!” Nadiya yells again. “Over here!”

Asha and I wade through a tangle of drooping grass, aiming for Nadiya’s blinking bike lamp and a hut taking shape in the gloom. The stone shelter is the size of a small garden shed, sway-roofed and sinking into the earth. We lean our bikes on the tree, then duck under the hut’s sagging entry. Nadiya tugs the rustic door shut, casting us into midnight darkness. The interior is musty and too short to stand fully upright, but it’s a dry place to wait out the storm. I’m even prepared. I can entertain the bachelorettes with fun facts about traditional stone huts.

“In thunder, it is best to, how do you say?” Nadiya says. She provides the term in her native Ukrainian. “You have a word to sit on feet like this?”

She activates her phone’s flashlight to show that she’s hunkered down, only her high-tops touching the earth. She’s right. A lightning strike wouldn’t care that we’ve shut the door. It could travel through the ground.

“Yes, squatting,” I say. “Great idea to be extra-safe!” I’m grateful when Suzanne adds her own enthusiasm.

“Ooohhh … yoga break!” Suzanne cheers, clapping her hands. “Let’s get into garland poses, girls. Prayer hands. Straight backs. Commit to calm.”

“Ah, yes, you have many terms,” Nadiya says.

There are rustles and Asha muttering she’ll take her chances with sitting on her pack.

I roll on with perky enthusiasm. “Wonderful job finding this hut, Nadiya. It’s a fine example of traditional Provençal architecture. The stones are dry stacked, which means—”

“Dry?” Clem interrupts with a huff. “I wish! I am soaked to the bone, my hair is ruined, and I’m going to have to redo every bit of my makeup if we want to take photos later—which I do.”

She pauses to allow for dutiful chuckles from her entourage at another bridal “I do” drop.

“You know what the worst thing is?” Clem continues.

I hear something softly slap. Too late, I realize it’s Clem’s sash, flying my way. Wet satin and bedazzles smack my cheek. My thoughts turn to way worse things than sheltering in historic rural architecture.

Clem sighs as gustily as the wind. The sash flies again. This time I dodge it.

“I have the perfect little rain jacket in my luggage,” Clem says. “Vintage Prada.”

“Vintage,” groans Suzanne. “Someone has to get busy and locate that luggage.”

That someone would be me. I’ve spent hours on hold lines. I’ve battled call-center robots. I’ve pleaded with humans ranging from callous to caring but ultimately unhelpful. If there’s anything as uncontrollable as the weather, it’s airline luggage departments.

The Vélo Vixens flew from Charlottesville to Atlanta to Charles de Gaulle and on to Marseille. Somewhere along the way, much of their luggage was lost. No, not lost, I correct myself. The bags are off on an alternate adventure. I picture roller cases rattling off to the Eiffel Tower.

Clem moans. “Is anyone else freezing? Who freezes to death in Provence?”

“Cézanne!” crows her sister, with a flump and umph that suggest she’s given up on the yoga pose. I’m about to too. My ankles are burning. “Weren’t you paying attention at Cézanne’s studio yesterday? That man was obsessed with this mountain we’re cycling around. He just had to get outside to paint it, no matter the weather.”

“He was too passionate,” Asha says pointedly. “He contracted pneumonia and then he died.” Her sigh suggests she foresees a similar outcome for us.

“Yep,” says Ivy. “Let that be a warning, Clemmy. Passion’ll be the death of you. Are you absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure about this wedding?”

“Ivy!” Clem snaps. “I invited you on the condition that you be supportive and pleasant.”

“Yay, this is awesome,” Ivy says in a tone drier than anything I’m wearing. “Love spending all my vacation days and savings to sit in a musty old hut.”

As openings go, that wasn’t optimal, but I’ll take it. I open my mouth, prepared to quell sisterly bickering with fun facts about huts. I’ll start with the four main shapes, beehive being my favorite.

Party planner Suzanne has a similar instinct, except she rattles a bag. The clatter bounces off the stones, but that’s not what makes me wince. Suzanne carries a velvet drawstring bag filled with small wooden tiles inscribed with the names of bachelorette games.

“Time for a game!” Suzanne announces.

Ivy groans. Someone—likely Asha—is wringing her hands. I conjure a positive thought: We can’t disturb the peace or offend a baptismal party if we’re hidden away in a hut.

“Who wants to pick?” Suzanne asks, upping the rattle. When no one responds, she says, “Okay, dealer’s choice! Ohhh, Twister! Perfect!”

“Kill me now,” Ivy mutters.

I bite my lip. Must not agree. Must not think evil words.

“Ivy …” Clem stretches her sister’s name to a warning. “Be nice. You owe me.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Ivy says. “In fact, you owe me. Let’s see, you can pay me back for lost vacation days, the exorbitant plane ticket, an ugly ruffled bridesmaid dress that doesn’t fit, this tour … But since it’s your wedding, I’ll accept a blanket apology for family estrangement and slander. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Oh, for goodness—” Clem starts.

“Stacked stone,” I blurt, desperate to guide us all to a safer topic. Tours are like holiday meals with family. Arguments that get out of hand can sour the sweetest pies, or bike rides, for the duration of the gathering.

“As I mentioned,” I say, raising my voice, “we’re sheltering in a historic stacked-stone—”

“Aaauuuhhhh!” Clementine squeals.

Okay. That’s an extreme objection, but not everyone appreciates rustic architecture.

“Oh! Ow! Ow! Something just bit me! My hand! My ring finger!” Clem scrambles upright.

I try to too. My muscles are stiff. Someone stomps on my foot. Nadiya exclaims in her native Ukrainian. A dull thunk sends my stomach plummeting. Was that skull on rock? I think of the dry-stacked stones. If one falls, all the others could collapse in a game of concussion Jenga. But that’s not my immediate worry.

“Clem? What bit you?” I fumble to activate my phone’s flashlight.

“How should I know?” the bride snaps.

“Sadie, shine your light here,” Asha says. “Clem, let me see.”

I’m grateful for Asha’s calm directions. She works in medical research. That’s like having a doctor in the hut, right?

“Rats?” Clementine yells, stomping in place. “Do rats live in the countryside?”

Ivy snorts. “City rat, country rat?”

“Snakes?” Clementine shrieks. “Killer wasps? Ohhh, it hurts!”

Voices collide, all making demands. Sadie, what bites here? What’s dangerous? What’s venomous?

I don’t know. I should know! I’m the guide. I aim my phone flashlight across the hut. The beam catches on the corners and the litter of parties of yore. Rusty cans and wine bottles and … ick! Are those underpants? I aim my beam down and gasp.

A miniature monster raises its oversized claws at me. Dusky gold scales bristle.

“Aw,” Ivy coos. “Look, a little baby scorpion.”

The scorpion flicks its daggered tail. Screams bounce from the rocks. “Get it! Get it!”

Asha kicks out, clipping my ankle.

“No! Don’t hurt it!” Ivy blocks Asha. Suzanne trips backward, falling into Clem with an oof! The scorpion reads the room and dashes for the nearest pile of debris.

I wise up too. “I have a first aid kit on my bike,” I announce into the chaos. “Asha, what would help?”

“I research pharmaceuticals,” she huffs, “not wild beasts. Do scorpion stings need antivenom like snakebites?”

My medical kit contains the basics: antiseptics, ant acids, bandages, extra sunblock, an emergency corkscrew, and aspirin. I have more tools for healing bikes than people.

Clem wails. “Venom? I’m going to die before my wedding?”

“Here lies the spinster Clementine,” intones Ivy. “Dead before she turned thirty. How poignant for your tombstone. Ouch! Who kicked . . .