surface is utilized.”
Otto nodded slowly, brows pinched into a frown. “That sounds right. She’d get upset if we moved stuff.”
“Your mother’s paintings are studies in symmetry. Everything is balanced, even.”
“Where are you going with this?” Claudel, too, was frowning.
I gestured at the closet.
The men took in the clothing shoved to one side.
Claudel started to speak. I cut him off.
“Follow me.”
In the bathroom, Keiser’s toiletries were bunched together on one half of a shelf flanking the sink. The other half was empty.
Claudel did one of those air poochy things he does with his lips.
“I suspect Mrs. Keiser was OCD. Her compulsion involved keeping objects spatially ordered. If so, she’d have been incapable of breaking that pattern.”
“You’re suggesting someone pushed Mom’s stuff aside to make room for their own?”
“I am.”
“SIJ and arson teams tossed this place.” Claudel. “They probably moved things.”
“I don’t think so.” I told them about the painting supplies. “But it’s easy enough to check the scene photos.”
Claudel’s lips tightened.
“Supposedly, only one person knew about this cabin,” Ryan said.
“Lu Castiglioni,” I said.
“Who?” Otto asked.
“The super at your mother’s building.”
“What about Myron Pinsker?”
Good question, Otto.
My eyes drifted to the easel. The paints. The sideboard.
Sudden head-smack thought.
“Otto, when you were growing up did your mother keep cash at home?”
“A few bucks in her wallet. Maybe a grocery fund. No big deal.”
“Did she ever talk about pulling her money out of the bank? Express concern about the safety of her deposits?”
“Mom was born in the thirties, had that Depression mentality. Banks scared the crap out of her.”
“Did she ever act on those fears?”
“Yeah, actually she did. When she took a jolt in the market in ’eighty-seven, she sold all her stocks and put the cash into a savings account. After nine-eleven she threatened to withdraw every penny. It was one of the few times we’d talked in recent years. I didn’t take her seriously. The markets were in chaos. Everyone was freaked. And, as I said, Mom was a flake.”
“But did she do it?”
Otto shrugged. Who knows?
“Your mother wasn’t one for locks, though, was she?”
Otto looked puzzled.
“At the apartment, she had a wall cabinet and a jewelry box, both with keys. She locked neither.” I turned to Ryan. “Got a penlight?”
Ryan pulled a small flash from his pocket. Crossing to the sideboard, I squatted to inspect the doors. Close up, lit by the small beam, the gouging and splintering appeared fresh.
“This damage is new.” I looked up. “I think Mrs. Keiser kept something locked in this compartment.”
“The doors were jimmied.” Ryan finished my thought.
“By this mysterious houseguest.” Claudel’s cynicism was starting to grate on my nerves.
I stood. “Who may have kept her prisoner until he got what he wanted.”
Otto looked as though he’d been slapped.
“I’m sorry.” I was. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“How far back did you go with Keiser’s financials?” Ryan asked Claudel.
Claudel was staring at the empty compartment. Ryan’s question brought his face around to us. For an instant he looked as if he’d been caught off guard. Then he nodded and yanked his mobile from his belt.
“
Ryan’s mobile rang as we were entering Hurley’s Irish Pub for lunch. He clicked on.
“Ryan.”
As we took seats in the main room, in Mitzi’s booth, I noticed that one small wrong had been righted. The name plate dedicating the corner to Bill Hurley’s mother had been stolen one busy night. The little plaque was now back in place.
Really. How low can you go?
As Ryan listened, I mouthed the name Claudel. He nodded.
The waitress brought menus. I ordered lamb stew. Ryan gestured that he wanted the same.
The waitress collected the menus and left.
Ryan contributed a lot of “
“We got us a motive.”
“Really?”
“Between the fall of 2001 and the spring of 2003 Marilyn Keiser withdrew approximately two hundred thousand dollars from her savings account at Scotiabank. There is no record of a deposit elsewhere.”
“I knew it. She kept it in shoe boxes at the cabin.”
“Not sure about the boxes, but, yes, your cabin theory skews right. And, by the way, Claudel is impressed.”
“He is?”
Ryan was looking for the waitress, who had vanished.
“What did he say?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Seriously.”
“I’ve got to use the men’s.” Ryan slid from the booth. “Order me a beer.”
“What kind?’
“The usual.” He was gone.
The usual? I’d seen the man drink about every brand ever brewed.
Across the room, beer tap handles ran the length of the bar. Round ones, oval ones, wooden ones, green ones. I read the logos.
