The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen

on it. I can get somebody to cover my classes.”
    “I don’t need a babysitter, Howard. I just need the police to find something. And they will. They have to. For one thing, there has to be a connection with Kevin Tarpley’s murder, and I’m in the clear there.”
    “No handgun with your initials on it at the crime scene?” Howard asked.
    “No. And I wasn’t anywhere near Prince Albert that day. I have witnesses, too. There was a Hallowe’en party at the art gallery. Taylor and I went to it after her lesson. There must have been thirty-five people there. After that, we picked up Angus and took him downtown to get new basketball shoes. I’ll bet we went to six stores and I’m sure the sales people would remember us. Angus is a difficult customer. Howard,I could find fifty people to verify that I was in Regina Saturday. That’s probably a world record. Now come on, if we make tracks, I can get you to the airport and still get back for my next class.”
    As we drove along the expressway, it was like old times. We talked about politics and Howard’s ongoing courtship of his ex-wife, Marty. Reassuringly ordinary conversation, but when Howard turned to say goodbye to me at the airport, I lost my nerve, and Howard, who had known me for years, saw it happen.
    He reached across and covered my hand with his. “Jo, I think you’re right about this thing resolving itself pretty quickly, but until it does, promise me you’ll stay out of it. Whatever’s going on here is ugly. This isn’t a case for Nancy Drew. Go home. Enjoy your family. Teach your classes. Be safe. Trust the cops.”
    “I’ll try,” I said.
    He shook his head and opened the car door. “Not good enough,” he said, “but a start. I’ll be in touch.”
    As I drove off I could feel the tension in my body. All the brave words in the world couldn’t change the reality. For the time being at least, I was the prime suspect. And Howard was right. Something really ugly was happening. The only thing to do was steer a prudent course and pray that police would work their magic.
    I headed back to the university. Filled with resolve, I went down to the political science office to check my mail.
    Rosalie Norman was there waiting for me. “In the morning paper there was a picture of that woman who was murdered. I recognized her. She was in the hall outside your office the day you accused me of leaving your door open.” Her blackberry eyes were gleaming with excitement. “What do you think I should do?”
    I leaned across the desk and picked up her phone. “I think you should tell the police, Rosalie. Here, I’ll dial the number for you. Put a little excitement in that life of yours.”
    The adrenalin was still pumping when I walked into class. I ignored the whispers and the averted eyes, and the class went well. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” I muttered as I put the keys in the ignition and started home. As I drove past Gary and Sylvie’s big grey clapboard house on Albert Street, I remembered the worm cake and, on impulse, I pulled up in front of their house.
    Jess answered the door. He was wearing blue jeans, a Blue Jays T-shirt, and a fireman’s hat. He looked past me expectantly.
    “Where’s Taylor?” he said.
    “At our house, I guess. I haven’t been home yet, but Miss McCourt’s there. I just stopped by to ask your mum if I could get the recipe for your birthday cake.”
    “Sure,” he said. “She’s out back in her darkroom. I’ll go get her. You can come in.”
    I stepped into the entrance hall. It was a handsome area. The hardwood floor gleamed, and the patchwork quilt draped over the carpenter’s bench by the door was welcoming. But my eyes were drawn to the walls. They were lined with blowups of black and white photographs. When I moved closer, I saw that the subject in all of them was the same: Jess.
    I had seen Sylvie’s book, The Boy in the Lens’s Eye , and I’d been moved by the way in which she had captured