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Agent Ferdinand wondered if maybe the woman had had a stroke and her face was frozen in that censorious frown. But no, now it changed. To even more disapproving, with a soupçon of contempt.

He looked around for help, but there was none. He was alone in the Incident Room, and it appeared to be on the verge of an incident.

“Well?” demanded the old woman.

Agent Ferdinand lifted his eyes to the photo and read that her name was Ruth Zardo and she’d been given the Governor General’s award for poetry. And was the fire chief. Though she seemed more likely to start one. He felt about ready to burst into flames.

“I just … I was … I thought maybe…”

“I can see you’re going to go far in the Sûreté.”

To his horror, Madame Zardo, whose name sounded like a circus fortune teller, pulled a chair up.

“What’re you doing?” she demanded again.

“There’s a list on the corkboard. I thought I recognized one of the names.”

“Which one?”

It was, Ruth knew, the list of people who had visited Clara.

Now she walked with a slight limp over to the corkboard and looked at the names. It was not a long list. They were, for the most part, old friends and relatives of the renowned artist, with a couple of exceptions.

“Let me guess.” She used the duck’s beak to point to the names of the couple who’d visited Clara in November. “He’s a lawyer. You probably know him from your work.”

Now Agent Ferdinand was in a quandary. He was afraid to tell her she was wrong. His instinct, one that actually would take him far in the Sûreté, told him that here was a person who very rarely said “I was wrong.” Or “I need help.” And had the words “I’m sorry” ever escaped those thin lips?

“Close,” he said.

“Close? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Next name down.”

“Him? Brian Fillmore? The cousin? How would you know him?”

“I guess you don’t do genealogy.”

“Why would I? You think I want to find deadbeat relatives?”

Or they you? he thought but didn’t say. His survival instinct had finally kicked in.

“I’m not into it either, but my father is. He’s also into conspiracy theories.”

“Interesting combination of hobbies. Fertile ground, I imagine.”

“Well, he’s not a lunatic—” He immediately regretted using that word in the face of a poster child for lunacy, but it was too late now. “My father researches conspiracy theories, hoping to debunk them.”

“Yeah, right. Of course he does.” Even the duck looked skeptical, but then ducks often did. “What’s genealogy got to do with it?”

“It’s what Fillmore does for a living. You really don’t know him?”

“Would I ask if I did?”

“Of course it might not be the same man.” He returned to the desk he’d been using and typed the name into the computer. “The Brian Fillmore I’m thinking of disappeared,” he mumbled as he hit enter. “Or didn’t.”

“Wow, with thinking like that, you do belong in homicide.” Ruth pulled up a chair and sat, watching.

While Agent Ferdinand recognized sarcasm, he couldn’t help but be pleased. “It’s part of the conspiracy theory that’s out there. That he was kidnapped or is living on some tiny island. Or his brother killed him and took over. Wealthy recluses are a real gift to the conspiracy theorist community.”