Verdict in Blood - By Gail Bowen Page 0,4

But she was woman who held herself to very rigorous standards, and she needed to prove to herself that the charge was unwarranted. She went back to her office and began rereading her old judgments. When she saw how uncompromising her rulings had been, she was shaken.”

“Wayne J. had scored a bull’s-eye?”

“He had indeed.”

“Was Mr. Waters at the party last night?”

Hilda nodded. “Oh yes. He and Justine had an ugly confrontation.”

Detective Hallam’s eyes narrowed. “Describe it.”

“It was at the end of the evening,” Hilda said. “I’d gone to the cloakroom to pick up my wrap. By the time I got back, Justine and Mr. Waters were in medias res.”

“In the middle of things,” Detective Hallam said.

This time it was Hilda’s turn to look surprised. “Exactly. Mr. Waters was accusing Justine of failing to honour some sort of agreement. He stopped his diatribe when he saw me, so I’m not clear about the nature of the transaction. But his manner was truly frightening.”

“Did Justice Blackwell seem afraid of him?”

“I don’t know. The incident was over so quickly. But it was an unsettling moment in a very unsettling evening.”

“Go on.”

“Over the past year, Justine had made an effort to get in touch with everyone with whom she felt she had dealt unfairly. She’d sent some of them money and offered to do what she could to help them re-establish themselves. Last night was supposed to be the final reconciliation.”

“Sounds like the judge got religion,” Detective Hallam said.

Hilda ignored his irony. “Not religion, but there was an epiphany. Detective Hallam, in the past year, Justine’s entire way of looking at the world had altered. She even looked different. She’d always been a woman of great style.”

“A fashion plate,” he said.

“Hardly,” Hilda sniffed. “Fashion is ephemeral; style is enduring. Some of Justine’s suits must have been twenty years old, but they were always beautifully cut, and her jewellery was always simple but elegant. I was quite startled when I saw her last night.”

“She’d let herself go?” he asked.

“To my eyes, yes, but I don’t imagine Justine saw it that way. She was wearing bluejeans that were quite badly faded and one of those oversized plaid shirts that teenagers wear. Her hair was different too. She’s almost seventy years old, so for the last couple of decades I’ve suspected that lovely golden hair of hers was being kept bright by a beautician’s hand; still, it was a shock to see her with white hair and done so casually.”

“Was her hygiene less than adequate?”

Hilda shook her head impatiently. “Of course not. Justine was always fastidious – in her person and in her surroundings.”

Detective Hallam’s pen was flying. “Have you got the names of any of the other people at the party?”

Hilda looked thoughtful. “Well, Justine’s children were there. She has three daughters, grown, of course. There was a man named Eric Fedoruk, whom Justine introduced as a friend of long standing. There were perhaps seventy-five other guests. None of the others was known to me.”

“What time was it when you last saw Justine Blackwell? You can be approximate.”

“I can be exact,” Hilda said. “It was midnight outside the Hotel Saskatchewan. We’d had our drinks, and Madame Justice Blackwell came outside and waited with me until a cab pulled up.”

“When you left her, did she give you any indication of her plans for the rest of the evening?”

Hilda shook her head. “She said she was tired, but she thought she should go back inside to say goodnight to a few people before she went home.”

“And that was it?”

“That was it.”

“Is there anything you’d care to add to what you’ve already told me?”

For a moment, Hilda seemed lost in thought. When she finally responded, her voice was steely. “No,” she said. “There is nothing I would care to add.”

Detective Robert Hallam snapped his notepad shut and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for your time, Miss McCourt. You’ve been very helpful.” He bobbed his head in my direction and headed for the door.

After he left, I turned to Hilda. “You were helpful,” I said. “Surprisingly so, after you two got off to such a rocky start.”

Hilda shuddered. “The man’s an egotist,” she said. “But I couldn’t let my distaste for him stand in the way of the investigation of Justine’s murder. This news is so cruel. It’s barbarous that Justine should die not knowing …” She fell silent.

I reached over and touched her hand. “What didn’t Justine know?”

A wave of pain crossed Hilda’s