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know how they got in.”
    “Look in a mirror,” she said. “None of you ever remember to lock your doors.” Then, for the first time that morning she smiled. “Here,” she said, handing me an envelope. “It’s from Physical Plant. Looks like you forgot to pay a parking ticket.”
    The day went downhill from there. Two students told me they were going to the department head to complain that the mid-term test was too hard, and one young woman in my senior class cornered me to tell me I was the best prof she’d ever had and could she have an extension on her essay because she’d had to go to a bridal shower the night before her paper was due. She said she knew I would understand. I didn’t.
    It got worse. When I went to the Faculty Club to grab a quick sandwich for lunch, the first person I ran into was Craig Evanson’s ex-wife, Julie. The population of Regina is 180,000, and I had managed to avoid Julie for almost four years, but, as my grandmother used to say, the bad penny always turns up, and Julie Evanson was one very bad penny.
    She was standing in front of a painting of flame-red gladioli that set off her silver-blond hair and her black silk suit so brilliantly that, for a moment, even I enjoyed looking at her. Age had not withered Julie, nor, as it turned out, had time staled the infinite variety of ways in which she could upset the equilibrium of anyone who crossed her path.
    When she spotted me, she smiled her enchanting dimpled smile. “Jo, I hoped I’d run into you here. It saves me a trip to your office. I’m working on the Christmas fashion show the Alumni Association is putting on, and I wanted to see if I could put you down for a table.”
    “I don’t think so, Julie. Those events are always a bit pricey for me. Good luck with it, though.” I started to move past her towards the dining room. She moved with me, blocking my escape.
    “You’ve never concerned yourself much with fashion, have you?” she asked brightly.
    “No,” I said, “I guess I always thought there were other things …”
    She looked me over with the deliberation of a professional assessor. “Of course, your life has always been so full of things,” she said. Then she reached over and brushed chalk dust from the shoulder of my sweater. “I wonder why it is that some people seem to lead such messy lives? And now Kevin Tarpley’s murder. Another mess for you.”
    “It’s not a mess for me, Julie. It has nothing to do with me.”
    She shrugged. “I ran into a very interesting little birdy today who told me differently.”
    I remembered the defaced newspaper pictures in my file. “Who were you talking to?” I asked.
    When she heard the tension in my voice, Julie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “I have to protect my sources. You know about that, Joanne, now that you’re such a big TV star.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to fly,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “But there is one thing I feel I really do have to tell you.”
    I moved closer to her. “What?” I asked.
    “You have a noticeable run in your pantyhose,” she said, and she smiled her dimpled smile and headed for the buffet.
    By the time I got home, the milk of human kindness had curdled in my veins.
    Taylor met me at the door. One of her braids had come undone, and her eyes were bright with conspiratorial excitement. “There’s a lady here,” she whispered. “She said she knew you from a long time ago. I let her in. Angus is upstairs, so it was okay.”
    I swore under my breath. I was certain it was Julie Evanson, back for a rematch. It took every ounce of resolve I had to walk into the living room.
    The woman was standing by the fireplace; in her hands was the framed photograph of Ian that I kept on the mantel. She was dressed in black: black angora pullover, elaborately beaded; black skirt, tight and very short; black hose. When she heard my step, she looked up slowly. She wasn’t disconcerted. It was as