Page 122 of Burning Caine

“Olivia, please.” Her brow creased as she sighed. “It’s been a difficult few weeks.”

“I can’t imagine. I hope Foster Mutual has been able to help through this trying time.”

“Oh, yes. You have all been so helpful.”

“This is a status update, but I’ll record the session for the claim file. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

I hit the record button on my phone. “Olivia, we’re here to discuss the insurance claim for your paintingLes amoureux dans le ciel, by Marc Chagall, which was burned in the fire at your residence on July 31st. According to the policy documentation, the painting has a valuation of one million dollars, and you are claiming the full amount.” I paused to give her one last chance to advise us of the change. Nothing.

“We had the painting cleaned to compare against photographs on file with our office. During that process, we discovered the painting was a copy, worth twenty thousand dollars.”

I put Cam-ron’s invoice in front of her. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but in the blink of an eye, she resumed her dignified pose. The reaction was so subtle I almost missed it. I had her, and she knew it.

“We believe you sold the original painting in a private sale and replaced it with a copy. Your contractual obligation to our company required you advise us the painting was no longer in your possession. While that could have been an oversight, we’ve also discovered you’ve been experiencing financial difficulties. Given those two facts, I believe you intended to recover an additional million from our company, on top of the money already paid out for the fire.”

Silence.

“And in case you aren’t aware, insurance fraud is a felony in the state of Michigan, including withholding known facts from your insurance company. So, Olivia, would you like to dispute anything I’ve said?”

She put her hands on the table, interlacing her fingers. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. As she exhaled, she started talking.

“Thank you for insisting my son remain outside.” She flexed her fingers a few times, staring at the invoice. “Yes, everything you said was accurate. We sold the painting three months ago for less than it was worth. We hung a copy so none of our friends would know. When you first spoke with us after the fire, all I was thinking about was losing Bobby—” She blinked away a few tears. “I didn’t even hear the conversation we had. After that, David insisted he handle everything, but he didn’t know the truth.”

“I spoke with a painter who was at your house the morning of the fire. I understand you became quite irate when he moved it. If you were aware of its true value, why react to him that way? He said you told him it was worth more than his life.”

“He was a rude cretin.”

“Well, here’s the thing.” I opened my laptop and retrieved the security video. “The fire was set intentionally, and I believe you knew that. In fact, I believe you started the fire—”

“No!” She lurched forward and gripped the table’s edge.

“—with the intention of burning the painting and defrauding our company. The house and property claim would cover any repairs but adding the million-dollar art claim would cover a lot of debts. And yelling at him about moving that painting would ensure he could attest to it being there.”

“No!” She stood suddenly.

“Mrs. Scott, please sit.”

She sank into her chair. “I didn’t start the fire! Bobby died in that fire!” Lucy grabbed a tissue from a box at the end of the table and sat next to her. Olivia took the offered tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

I turned the laptop to her and hit play. “This video shows the back of your house, minutes before the fire becomes visible. You can see a figure leaving from the back and crossing the yard.”

She watched quietly until the smoke and fire appeared, her mouth widening.

“Now, Olivia, would you like to tell me anything? I’m not the police, you don’t have to, but the authorities always look kindly upon those who cooperate—”

She stared silently as the flames grew higher.

“—or confess.”

I shut the laptop and placed a printed photo from the video in front of her, showing the hooded figure.

“I don’t own a jacket like that,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

She looked at me, eyes intense and focused. “That’s Kathy Becker!”