KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“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 Memphrémagog.”

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 remote doesn’t adequately describe the location. The unpaved road off the blacktop seemed to go on for about ninety miles.

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 Antiques Roadshow .

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.

“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 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.

“ Tabarnouche . I’m getting no signal on this piece of crap. Charbonneau’s working that angle. Once I’m on the road and back in range, I’ll call and see what he’s dug up. When I know, you’ll know.”

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 “ oui ’s” and “ tabarnac ’s” to the phone conversation. Queried a location. A date. An amount. He was smiling when he disconnected.

“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.”