Hunter’s Dance by Kathleen Hills Page B

lady responsible was one of those women scorned.”
    McIntire felt another twinge of guilt. Karen Sorenson again.
    â€œSo,” the doctor continued, “all you and your fellow Keepers of the Peace have to do is find out who poisoned Bambi, who stabbed him, and who tied him up and tried to drill his head like a coconut. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll be one and the same.”
    â€œWhen you put it that way, it sounds like a mob attack.” Bambi probably hadn’t been out of the woods often enough to make an awful lot of enemies, or friends either for that matter. Had he met Karen Sorenson before Saturday night? Was she the object of a long-standing rivalry between Bambi and Ross Maki? “But the drilling,” he asked, “can you think of any reasonable explanation for that hole?”
    â€œShit, no. I can’t even think of an unreasonable one.” Guibard drained his glass. “Aren’t you going to ask me the time of death?”
    â€œCould you get an idea of the time of death?” McIntire was obedient.
    â€œHard to say. It would have been down close to freezing in that shed when he died, but it heated up good during the day with the sun on the roof. Body was cold. Rigor had mostly passed off. I can say that he died some time in the night. At least an hour after he was last seen, but two or three hours before sunrise.”
    â€œI’m more interested in the weapon, the
stabbing
weapon, that is.”
    â€œI can’t tell you that either. It was small. The wound was a little less than three inches deep and narrow—a simple puncture, some pretty heavy bruising around the edges. Something with a thin blade and a very sharp point, used with a considerable amount of force. Not a knife.”
    â€œAn ice pick?”
    â€œYou’ve been listening to
The Shadow
again, I take it. Why is it always an ice pick? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen an ice pick. I’m not even sure what one is. Well, I suspect this
was
some kind of household implement, but I can’t think what.”
    â€œNot something you’d bring along on purpose if you were planning to commit murder?”
    â€œI’d say not.”
    â€œBut poison…poison sounds premeditated.”
    â€œThat it does.”
    McIntire sipped the last drop of the brandy. When an offer of a refill wasn’t forthcoming, he got to his feet.
    â€œThanks for the information, Mark.”
    Guibard didn’t escort him to the door. “Don’t mention it. And, by the way, Pete’s been griping about his back again. I expect he’ll be finding you very handy to have around for the next few weeks.”

XIII
    Do you think that you have to lie stiff and stark with a coffin lid nailed down over you to be dead?
    Four cups of coffee might be overdoing it, but McIntire felt the need for externally imposed courage, and it was a bit early in the day to break into his meager store of liquor. He pushed back his plate and stood to get the pot from the stove. Keeping his back to his wife he spoke in as casual a voice as he could muster. “Has she said anything about how long she intends to stay?”
    His query fell into a chasm of silence, and he turned to find Leonie staring at him over her pan of chokecherries with the anticipated wide eyes and dropped jaw.
    â€œJohn, she’s your family! You’ve hardly spoken a word to her since she arrived. I’ve never known you to be quite like this. What’s going on? Are you only getting crotchety and more anti-social than ever, or is there something about Siobhan herself that you don’t like? You haven’t seen enough of her that she could have done anything to offend you, and now you’re wondering when she’s leaving. You might at least spend an hour or two with your aunt before chucking her out!”
    â€œMurder kind of eats into my time.”
    â€œThat murder can get along without you. It’s