“He built a solid business,” I said.

“He built a wall of paperwork,” she said.

She reached into the worn black purse on the bedside table and drew out a small brass key.

The metal was dull at the edges, rubbed smooth from years inside a leather lining.

She pressed it into my open palm.

“That key opens a box Arthur’s had his eye on for twenty years,” she said.

“A safe deposit box at First National Bank?” I asked.