Sparky?
Merciful God. Not today.
I tiptoed down the hall and peeked through the peephole.
An impossibly blue eye stared back.
“I know you’re in there.” Muffled through the door.
“Go away.”
“I have news. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I did.
Ryan was bundled in hooded parka, muffler, and tuque pulled low to his brows. His nostrils were blanched, his cheeks flushed. He held a square white box in mittened hands.
“Klondike Pete called,” I said. “They want the outfit back.”
“It’s twenty-two below.” Shifting the bakery, Ryan palmed back his hood.
“You could not know I was here,” I said.
“Shadow in the peephole. The cat moves low to the ground. I’m a detective. I read clues.”
Ryan’s eyes roved my body. My hair. A grin played his lips.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
“Say what?” All innocence.
“I’ve been under the weather.”
“Two-day blizzard?”
“You’re a laugh riot, Ryan. You should take yourself on the road. Like, right now?”
Ryan proffered the box. “I brought breakfast.”
I smelled pastry. Buttery eggs. Salty bacon.
“You’ll do coffee?” Ryan had his faults, but he made great coffee.
“
“My hero.” Stepping back. “Winston already replaced the window.”
Ryan disappeared into the kitchen. I went to the bathroom to try to reason with my hair. Pointless. I finally yanked it into a knot on top of my head.
Lipstick and blush?
Screw it. I almost died of food poisoning.
Ryan had set two places at the dining room table. He sat at one, sipping coffee from my RCMP mug. The open box was one croissant down.
“Flu?” he asked when I reappeared.
“Deadly ham salad.”
“But you emerge the victor.”
“I do.” I opened a croissant, considered, then removed the bacon, not up to another porcine encounter. “Let me guess. Someone in Pointe-Calumet recognized Red O’Keefe’s picture?”
“No.”
“OK. What’s your news?”
“One Bud Keith was on the payroll of L’Auberge des Neiges at the time Rose Jurmain disappeared.”
“Holy shit.” Through a mouthful of egg and dough.
“The holiest.”
“Doing what?”
“Kitchen worker.”
“Bud Keith aka Red O’Keefe?”
“Our very own.”
“Was Keith-O’Keefe questioned?”
“Yep. Cops ran him, saw he had a record, a string of aliases. But Keith cooperated, and, more importantly, served up an airtight alibi for the time period in question. He was bear hunting with friends near La Tuque. Six guys put him there the date Jurmain disappeared. Cops saw no reason to follow up.”
“How long did Keith/O’Keefe work at the inn?”
“Split after a two-month stint. Gave no notice and left no forwarding address. Manager says he was a good worker, but moody.”
“What does that mean?”
“He didn’t like the guy.”
“What does Claudel think?”
“He thinks it’s worth follow-up.”
“Is he making progress on Keiser?”
“He’s got the vic’s son, Otto, flying in from Alberta. Apparently Mona’s divorced, has three little kids and nowhere to leave them. Claudel wants to run sonny around the apartment and the cabin at Memphremagog, see if maybe something clicks. I’ll probably join up for a look-see.”
“You never know,” I said.
“You never know.”
A detail had been nagging at me since I’d heard about Keiser’s visits to Eastman Spa.
“Something’s been bothering me.”
“You know I’m yours if you want me.”
“I’ll keep some bubbly on ice.”
“I’m all over that.”
“Marilyn Keiser made regular visits to Eastman. That’s big bucks. Yet she had only modest assets. How did she pay for her pricey spa habit?”
Ryan got it right away.
“You’re thinking home banking. She kept a cash stash, like the Villejoins.”
“Could that be the link?”
“I’ll pass the idea along to Claudel. Maybe he needs to go further back in Keiser’s financials, look for large unexplained withdrawls. Also check with Eastman, see how she paid.”
“How’d you guess I was here?” I reached for my second croissant.
“You weren’t at the lab yesterday or today. Where else would you be?”
“I do have a life.”
“Course you do.”
To switch topics, I described Briel’s television debut.
“What do you know about this Body Find outfit?” Ryan asked when I’d finished.
“Nothing,” I said. “Yet.”
“Want me to do some poking?”
“I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can.”
I told Ryan about the call from Chris Corcoran. The inmate at Stateville.
“The Chicago cops think the guy’s story is solid?”
“Apparently.”
“I hope it pans out. For Cukura Kundze’s sake.”
“And Lassie’s.”
Ryan tipped a wrist to check the time.
“You heading in this afternoon?”
