The Wandering Soul Murders by Gail Bowen

cops have decided that Bernice Morin’s death wasn’t one of the Little Flower murders. The face wasn’t mutilated, and the weapon was wrong. The other girls were stabbed with heavy knives, the kind you buy in a sporting goods store if you’re going hunting. The scalpel that killed Bernice came from a medical supply house. It’s the kind they use in hospitals and labs. I’ll tell you the details later, but here’s the scary part. The cops think Bernice’s murder was a copy-cat killing. Think about that for a minute, Jo. There’s somebody out there who figured if he made Bernice’s death look like another Little Flower murder, the police would just kind of wink and look the other way. The perfect crime.”
    Suddenly, Jill noticed that I hadn’t said anything. “Jo, what’s the matter? Have you lost interest in these girls, too?” She sounded angry, and I felt a lump come to my throat.
    “Don’t be mad,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just … Jill, we’ve had a tragedy ourselves. Peter’s friend Christy Sinclair died last night out at the lake. I’m doing my best to keep everybody, including me, from falling apart. I don’t think I can take in another thing.”
    Jill’s voice was soft with concern. “Jo, I’m sorry. How awful. Is there anything I can do? If you want company, I can be over there in ten minutes.”
    “Maybe later on tonight,” I said. “Right now, I think we’re better off on our own. Everybody’s pretty fragile.”
    “I can imagine,” she said. “Look, if you need me, call. You know, sometimes the best thing to do is just go through the motions.”
    And that’s what the kids and I did. We went through the motions. All things considered, we didn’t do badly. We had lunch, and the kids rode bikes most of the afternoon. No one broke a bone, and they were still speaking to one another when they came in for dinner. Peter curled up on the couch and watched the Mets-Dodgers game, and I put in bedding plants. I had just finished planting the last of the geraniums in the front garden when the police car pulled up.
    I recognized Constable Perry Kequahtooway, but I didn’t remember seeing the woman who was with him. She was a small brunette with a tense body and clever eyes. Perry Kequahtooway introduced her as Officer Kelly Miner.
    “I wonder if we could step inside for a moment, Mrs. Kilbourn?” she said. “We’re still puzzled about Christy Sinclair’s next of kin situation.”
    They followed me in, and we sat down at the kitchen table.
    Constable Kequahtooway spoke first. His voice was as gentle as his manner, but he got right to the point.
    “We keep coming back to you, Mrs. Kilbourn. Everywhere we check – her employment records, her university insurance policy, even the form she filled out when she had some outpatient surgery in Saskatoon last February – every place we look, Christy Sinclair listed you as her next of kin.”
    I started to say something, but he held his hand up to stop me. “There’s more. The Saskatoon police just checked out Christy Sinclair’s condominium. Were you ever there?”
    I shook my head. “She always came to our place.”
    “It’s in Lawson Heights,” Officer Miner said, “very posh. But the point is that there were pictures of you and Christy all over the place.” She was watching my face carefully.
    “Christmas pictures,” I said.
    “For the most part,” she agreed.
    “They’d have to be,” I said. “Peter and Christy only dated for a few months, and Christmas was the only time we were taking pictures. But we took pictures of everybody during the holidays. There were pictures of Christy with all the people in our family.”
    “Not in her home,” Officer Miner said. “And there weren’t any indications of the Estevan connection you mentioned, either. No address book or envelopes with an Estevan address. We’ve checked in Estevan, too. No Sinclairs. No one by that name in the area. We’re trying a