Hunter’s Dance by Kathleen Hills Page A

Constable John McIntire. Are Mr. and Mrs. Morlen at home?”
    The woman wiped her hands on her apron and pushed open the screen door. “I’m Bonnie Morlen. How can I help you?” The rich, melodic voice was steady, but her eyes, wary as a mother hen, betrayed the trepidation that an unexpected visit from the law is always likely to inspire.
    Some seconds passed before Koski responded. He had no doubt expected the housekeeperish woman to present them to a Grace Kelly lookalike lounging in a brocade-covered chaise munching bonbons and sipping champagne.
    McIntire was himself a bit nonplused. The personification of domesticity who stood before them was no more in keeping with the sophisticated image of the Club than was its unimposing lodge. She was equally hard to picture as the mother of the precociously urbane Bambi. But the full cheeks and mahogany curls peering from under the kerchief left him in no doubt.
    She led them to a living room that commenced with a baby grand piano and stretched thirty or forty feet to a fireplace of unpolished granite at the far end. “Please, sit down, and excuse me for just a moment.” She directed them to a deep green plush sofa and disappeared through a swinging door.
    The furnishings of the cottage showed the same eclecticism as its architecture. The floor was strewn with rugs both Persian and polar bear. Spindly-legged tables vied for space with benches fashioned from split tree trunks. Dim landscapes in ornate gold-leaf frames hung on the lacquered log walls. These bucolic scenes of misty pastures were lackluster compared to that viewed through the four square windows. The sun had not quite sunk into the hills behind the cabin. Its low rays turned the water to a coral slate framed by fire-colored trees.
    The moment stretched into real minutes. The distant grumble of an outboard motor grew louder, then died abruptly. The sun completed its plunge, and the room went from dim to dark. Koski rose to his feet and switched on a lamp. He was beginning to make for the swinging door when Mrs. Morlen bustled back into the room. She’d shed the apron and head cover and carried with her a towel-covered crockery bowl the size of a small bathtub. She placed it on a table near the chimney, spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with the towel, and finally turned to the sheriff.
    Baking bread. Were these Clubbers far more down-to-earth than was generally believed, or was Mrs. Morlen some sort of modern-day Marie Antoinette, playing at her own version of milkmaid?
    â€œIs your husband at home?” Koski asked.
    â€œI’m expecting him soon. Is there something you wished to talk to him about?” She picked up a basket from the floor, extracted a snarl of yarn and began pulling it apart, winding the free end around her hand, in a patently artificial show of unconcern.
    But there was nothing counterfeit about Bonnie Morlen’s reaction when she learned that her son was dead. She doubled over, yarn-tangled arms wrapped about her mid-section as if she had received a physical blow. Her breath came in short gasps, then seemed to cease completely. She might have been strangling on her horror. Koski looked helplessly at McIntire over her head. Why hadn’t they thought to bring the doctor? McIntire racked his brain for what he knew of treating severe shock. Nothing at all.
    The slam of a door came from the back of the house, and steps sounded in the kitchen.
    â€œWhat the hell is this mess? If you have to indulge in these house-wifey pursuits, you could at least clean up decently.” A short silence followed, then, “Bonnie, I’ve told you….” The door swung open.
    Wendell Morlen was lean and tanned. He was dressed in neatly fitting tan trousers and wore a tweed sport coat over his casual shirt. His expression of annoyance changed to one of confusion, and he covered the length of the room in a half dozen strides.
    â€œBonnie, what’s