“That strike you as odd?”
I noticed a subtle tensing of Otto’s jaw. Quick, then gone. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Are you surprised your mother had so few assets?”
Otto shrugged. He did it a lot. “Looks like she got by OK.”
Impatient, Claudel shifted his feet.
“With so little money, how did your mother live as well as she did? This apartment. The spa trips.”
Otto regarded Ryan as if he’d just dropped from the south end of a pig.
“How the hell would I know? The last time I saw her was 2000.”
“When Adamski died. Were you saddened by his death?”
“What kind of question is that?”
Ryan waited.
Another shrug. Otto was a real charismatic fellow. “Honestly? I hoped the prick would rot in hell.”
“Your mother had income from her old-age pension.” Ryan tried a fast cut.
“I suppose she did.”
“Myron Junior helped her some. Ran errands, that sort of thing.”
“So.” Defensive. Guilt?
“Someone cashed three checks after she died.”
“You suspect Myron?”
“Do you?”
“No. I …” Otto spread his feet. “You’re trying to confuse me.”
“Adamski drowned, didn’t he?” Another quick veer.
“Yes.” Wary.
“Where?”
“Someplace in La Mauricie. Near Trois Rivieres, I think. Or Chambord.”
Claudel had had enough.
“We’ve been over this, Detective Ryan.”
“Repetition never hurts.” Ryan’s eyes stayed clamped on Otto’s face.
“Mr. Keiser, you’ve noted nothing amiss in your mother’s apartment?” Claudel asked.
“When are you guys going to listen to me? I haven’t set foot in this place in years.”
“You came to Montreal for Adamski’s funeral?” Ryan ignored Claudel’s interruption.
“There was no funeral.”
“Why not?”
“How the hell would I know? Maybe the guy was an atheist.”
“What was your purpose in coming?”
“To talk my mother into relocating to Alberta. I even offered to pack all her crap.”
“No luck?”
Otto spread his arms to take in the apartment. “Does it look like she moved?”
“OK.” Ryan nodded. “Let’s go to Memphremagog.”
The cabin was about what I’d pictured, though constructed of logs, not boards. The roof was shingle. There was a metal exhaust pipe in back, I guessed from the woodstove, a crude porch in front.
The word
Ryan and I agreed: Keiser’s getaway was not a place one would stumble upon. Either she was targeted and followed, or her killer knew of the cabin’s existence.
The windows were intact. Ditto the door lock. Inside, we saw no signs of a struggle. No overturned chair or lamp. No broken vase. No cockeyed picture or painting.
Had Keiser let her killer in? Did she know him? Or had he overwhelmed her so quickly she’d had no chance to react?
The air was frigid and smelled of ash and kerosene. Other than localized fire damage and fingerprint powder from the crime scene techs, the cabin’s interior looked jarringly normal.
Like the apartment, the place was jammed with paintings, and with what I suspected were local farmers’ market crafts and collectibles. Old milk and soda bottles. Cowbells. Cheese vats. Antique tools.
While Otto and Claudel wandered, I checked the art. Keiser’s initials signed every work.
In the unburned back corner I found her easel and supplies. The techs had been respectful while tossing the place. And foresighted. The upright brushes still formed perfect circles in their holders. The paint tubes still marched in parallel rows. The unused canvases still waited in graduated stacks.
Behind the easel was a small wooden sideboard covered by a handmade afghan. I lifted an edge.
The sideboard had one long drawer above, a pair of doors below that. The brass pulls and lock were tarnished and dented. The wood was over-varnished, gouged and splintered, as though once pried open by force. The piece looked old.
OK. I admit it. Occasionally I get snagged by an episode of
Vaguely curious, I used a pen to swing one door wide. The cabinet was empty.
I crossed to the bathroom.
And froze.
Psyched, I hurried to the loft and pulled aside a curtain forming a makeshift closet. A dozen garments hung from a rod suspended between twisted coat hangers.
“I’ve got something,” I called out.
Six feet clomped up the stairs.
31
“SOMEONE STAYED HERE.”
Six puzzled eyes stared at my face.
I spoke to Otto.
“Your mother kept her belongings precisely sorted and arranged. In her apartment closet, all garments hang exactly two inches apart, utilizing the whole length of the rod. On her bureau, on the mantel, on the book shelves, every object is positioned equidistant from its neighbors, and every bit of
