But Montresor was caught.

No. Fortunato died. Alone. Underground.

My movements became frenzied. Sitting on my haunches, I hand-swept the brick in wide jagged arcs.

Someone put you here. There had to be a way in.

There has to be a way out.

I almost gasped when my fingers brushed something set into the masonry. Flat. Smooth.

Wood!

I groped for a handle.

Zip.

A latch.

No go.

My frozen fingertips were sending little to my brain. I rubbed my hands together fast. Some feeling returned.

I began anew, more slowly. More carefully.

Eventually, my trembling fingers picked out an irregularity. Traced it.

My brain tallied the tactile, threw up a visual. A crack, outlining a door maybe two feet square.

Frantic, I began clawing at the gap with my nails. The narrow space was packed with a hard, crumbly substance.

Think, Brennan!

Fumbling back through the dark, I gathered my macabre assemblage. Then I scramble-crawled back to the door and began hacking and gouging.

Periodically, I’d roll to my back and hammer the wood with my feet. Or throw my weight from all fours, connecting with a shoulder or hip.

Sounds filled the stillness. The clink of my pirated tools. The tick of mortar falling on brick. The wheeze of air in and out of my mouth.

I was sweat-soaked and panting when the door finally popped free and dropped with a clunk.

I inched to the edge and peered out.

CLUNK.

I raised my lids.

The window shade was a muted gray rectangle outlined by strips of sluggish daylight. Again. War of the Toxic Ham Salad: Day Three.

Birdie was atop the bureau on the far side of the room. Below him, a framed photo of Katy lay angled to a baseboard.

Though better than yesterday, my body still felt like it had gone through a crusher.

I sat up. Groaned.

Bird looked an accusation in my direction.

Can cats do that?

Thursday was a blur. I could remember trying to change the sheets. To feed the cat. To shower. To eat crackers. My innards would have nothing to do with digestion. After each attempt at activity, I’d fall back into bed.

Fitful while sleeping, I’d kicked the covers to the floor. Reengaging them, I assessed. Though the fever and nausea were gone, my rib and abdominal muscles ached, and a low throbbing lingered behind my eyeballs. My nightshirt was soaked.

I looked at the clock. Ten twenty.

Bird had a point.

“You hungry, buddy?”

Prim nonresponse.

Peeling off the wet jammies, I donned sweats, then dragged to the kitchen to feed the cat.

Back to the bathroom. Already my energy level was tanking.

I studied my image in the mirror while brushing my teeth. Eyes rabbit pink. Face oatmeal. Hair pasted to my scalp and forehead in swirly wet clumps.

How would Harry describe my appearance? Rode hard and put away wet.

“Apt.” My voice sounded croaky.

Lab today?

Maybe.

Shower?

Not yet.

Hair?

Later.

One system kicked in. Suddenly I was famished. Ten hours of vomiting will do that, I guess.

The refrigerator offered condiments, Diet Coke, moldy lettuce, and a trio of plastic containers whose contents would require a gas spec for ID.

I was contemplating a grocery run when I heard knocking at the front door.

Entrance to my building requires a key. Others must buzz. Only the caretaker or a resident should already be inside.

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.

“Bien sûr. I am the brewer of coffee and the fixer of glass.”

“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 Memphrémagog, 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?”