I saw Madeleine last night.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
“Well, she is intelligent, charming, and very lovely – obviously a testament to the excellence of the Kilbourn–Harris genes.”
“You’re talking to Madeleine’s grandmother,” I said. “None of what you just said is news to me. All the same, it’s nice to hear you say it.”
“Any time,” he said. “I’m always available, Jo.”
When we hung up, it was together.
Keith’s call buoyed me. By the time I got to the university, I thought it was possible that I might get through the day after all. The first omens at school were positive. When I got to the Political Science office, Detective Robert Hallam was inside chatting with Rosalie Norman. Even a fleeting look revealed that Rosalie had broken with tradition in two ways: she had replaced her inevitable twin sweater set with a smart black turtleneck, and for the first time in human memory, she was laughing.
The laughter died when I walked in, but Rosalie did manage to retain a smile. “Detective Hallam’s here to see you,” she said. “Why don’t you have your calls forwarded to me, so that you can chat without being interrupted.” Rosalie presented her offer as if mutual accommodation was an everyday occurrence for us; in fact, I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d proposed that we throw off our shackles and lead the people of the university in a revolution.
Nonetheless, it was a sensible suggestion, and I accepted it. As soon as Detective Hallam and I were settled in my office, I hit call-forwarding on my telephone and turned to my guest. “What’s up?” I asked.
He shrugged. “More questions – what else? Did you see the morning paper?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m glad you made an arrest in the Justine Blackwell case.”
“So are we,” he said mildly, “but I thought this particular arrest might present you and me both with some questions.”
“Such as … ?”
“Such as, who attacked Miss McCourt? We’re back to square one there, Mrs. Kilbourn.”
“You thought the incidents were connected?”
“That’s why we put the guard outside her room.”
“And now you’re taking the guard off?”
“No way we can justify tying an officer up now,” Detective Hallam said. “It looks like we’re dealing with a routine break-and-enter that went sour. Miss McCourt was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I don’t believe that, Detective Hallam.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to,” he said. “Terrence Ducharme was nowhere near your house last Saturday night. He was at his anger-management meeting from seven till ten; then he had one of the counsellors from Culhane House over to his place for a sleepover. Except for when Terry went to the can, he wasn’t alone for a minute.”
“So he’s in the clear.”
“Looks like …”
“But Justine Blackwell’s death was connected with Culhane House.”
Robert Hallam frowned. “You sound as if you’re sorry to hear that.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. “Culhane House is just the kind of project that appeals to bleeding-heart liberals like me.”
“Pick your causes carefully, Mrs. Kilbourn. Justine Blackwell made a pet of Terrence Ducharme and lived to regret it.”
“Did she meet him through Wayne J. Waters?”
“No, the judge and our boy, Terry, share some history. He appeared in her court after he had a nasty run-in with an old woman who hired him to paint her garage. Apparently, Terrence wasn’t much of a lad with a paintbrush, so the old lady refused to pay him. Terry retaliated by burning her garage down. He had priors, so Justine gave him the maximum sentence. By the time their paths crossed again, Terrence was a proud graduate of every twelve-step program the correctional system has to offer, and he was Wayne J.’s protégé. Of course, the new and improved Justice Blackwell thought Terrence Ducharme was the greatest thing since suspended sentences. She got him enrolled in educational upgrading, arranged for him to do some casual work, and paid a year’s rent for him at a rooming house on Winnipeg Street.”
“That’s not all she did,” I said.
Detective Hallam shot me a questioning look.
“There’s a Ducharme buried in Justine Blackwell’s family plot,” I said.
“In the family plot? Why the hell would she do that?” He shrugged. “Why the hell did she do anything? Anyway, I’ll bet there was one thing she had second thoughts about.”
With the timing of the born storyteller, Robert Hallam waited for me to prompt him. I complied. “What was that?”
“Getting Terrence Ducharme that job at the Hotel Saskatchewan. He was working the night she died. Apparently,