battered filing cabinet; a poster of a kittens rollicking with a roll of toilet paper under the words “… been up to any mischief lately?”; and a wall calendar for the month of September. The calendar had the kind of surface that can be written on with markers, and it was a crazy quilt of colour. When I examined the entries more closely, I saw that they were a record of appointments, colour-coded to match the various names in the legend printed at the bottom of the calendar. Terrence Ducharme’s name was in red marker, and his list of meetings would have kept him busier than most middle-class children: Anger Management; A.A.; Substance Abusers Anonymous; Interpersonal Skills. I was checking the entry for the night Hilda had been attacked when Wayne J. came back with the coffee.
“Terry didn’t do her, you know.” His tone was conversational.
I turned to face him. “I know,” I said. “The police told me he had an alibi for the night Hilda was attacked.”
“I’m not talking about Hilda,” he said. “I’m talking about Justine.”
“But he didn’t have an alibi,” I said.
“Maybe he lacked an alibi,” Wayne J. said judiciously, “but he did have a disincentive.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Wayne J. said, setting our mugs of coffee carefully on the table. “Terry knew the same thing everybody here knew.”
I slid into the chair nearest me and picked up my mug. “Which was?”
Wayne J. blew on top of his coffee to cool it. “Which was that I would have considered it my personal duty to kill anybody who touched a hair on Justine Blackwell’s head.”
Whatever his intention, Wayne J.’s words were a conversation-stopper. For a beat, we sipped our coffee, alone in our private thoughts. Wayne J. seemed content to be silent, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t come to Culhane House to reflect; I’d come to get answers.
“How are things going for you now?” I asked.
Wayne J. gave me a sardonic smile. “Fuckin’ A.” The table in front of him was littered with bills. He scooped up a stack in one of his meaty hands. “As you can see, our creditors grow impatient. Unfortunately, Culhane House lacks the wherewithal to meet their demands.”
“And no prospects?” I asked.
He laughed his reassuring rumble. “None that are legally acceptable. And believe me I’ve explored my options. I even bit the bullet and went to Danger Boy’s office.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Eric Fedoruk,” he said. “Owner of one of the sweetest machines money can buy, and I’ll bet he never takes it past 160 kph. What a waste! Anyway, Mr. Fedoruk gave me a rundown of the situation with Justine’s money. He used a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo, but I’ve spent enough time in courtrooms to cut through that crap. The bottom line is that I’m going to have fight like hell to get any of Justine’s money.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“No.”
“That surprises me,” I said.
Wayne J. leaned towards me; he was so close I could smell the Old Spice. “Why? Because I’m broke and because everything I care about is going down the toilet?”
“Something like that.”
“Some things are worth more than money, Joanne.”
I sipped my coffee. “What is it that’s worth more than money to you, Wayne J.?”
“Not dragging Justine’s name through the mud. If I got myself a lawyer and went to court about this, those daughters of hers would haul out all the dirty laundry. They don’t have much regard for their mother.”
Here was my opening. “What went wrong between Justine and her children?” I asked.
“They’re losers, and Justine was a winner,” he said judiciously. “And losers always hate winners. It’s human nature. And you know what else is human nature? No matter what a winner does for a loser, it’s never enough.” Suddenly Wayne J. clenched his hands, raised his fists, and brought them down on the table so hard, I thought the wood might crack. “She fucking did everything for them,” he said. “She gave Tina a bundle for that facelift or whatever the hell it was she wanted. And the singer was always there with her hand out too.”
“Lucy asked Justine for money?”
Wayne J.’s tone was mocking. “It costs money to make records. Haven’t you heard?” He was warming to his narrative now. “And the shrink had her own monetary needs – major ones. I know because I was involved in that one.”
“What?”
He shook himself. “Look, I shouldn’t be talking about any of this. It’s violating a confidence.”
“Justine’s dead,”