Free In Between by Kate Wilhelm

husband turning a furious face toward Alex. Louise was tall and thin with sharp features, a narrow mouth and eyes that looked a little too small for her face. Big sister bully, Lori decided. She looked like a Cruella, ready to throttle anyone within reach.
    Royce was red-faced, tall and muscular with thick black hair and an incipient black beard. He had the start of male pattern baldness on the back of his head. Beside him, Alex appeared almost thin, when she knew he was wiry, lean and athletic. He had to be strong since he had practically carried Sam through deep snow. Also, he was good looking, with wavy dark hair and deep-set, dark blue eyes, a good tan. At the moment he looked furious, ready to take on Royce. Everyone was talking at once, no one listening.
    Ignoring the others, all speaking or yelling at the same time, Marilyn spoke again. “It was after you and Cal went to the bar,” she said in that same monotone, facing Louise. “You and Cal were having a drink, or maybe not. I passed you.”
    There was silence for a few seconds. Then Louise said, “I went down for a nightcap and he was just coming out of the bar. We talked a minute or two.” She didn’t glance at Royce as she said this. “I thought I might find you there,” she added, and gave him a sidelong look.
    â€œI was going over the schedule with Stuart,” Royce said.
    â€œColonel Mustard in the library with a sledge hammer,” Lori said, in disgust. “It sounds as if they were all up and wandering about most of the night. Is that a helicopter coming in?”
    She and Sam hurried to and through the sliding door as Royce and Alex both went out to the walkway to watch a helicopter land on the lawn before the building.
    â€œThe staties have arrived,” Sam said. “Let’s go hear what the sheriff has to tell them.”
    They flitted out to the walkway where the sheriff was waiting for the state police captain at the top of the stairs. The captain was taking his time getting from the helicopter to the resort, talking with a man at his side as he approached. They and several others who trailed after them were all in jeans, with cowboy hats or baseball caps, boots, and only the captain had a sport coat on, the others were in shirt sleeves.
    Captain Conkling was as brown as tobacco and as wrinkled as a pecan. Lean above the waist, and long legged, thin faced, but with a big belly, he made Lori think of a caricature, a cartoon officer with parts that didn’t quite fit together.
    â€œLo, Mike,” the sheriff said as the captain mounted the stairs.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?” Conkling said, extending his hand. “Been awhile. How’re you doing?”
    â€œTolerable. Tolerable. Malcolm Vicente, sixty-four yesterday, shot last night through the back, straight through his heart and out. No bullet yet, no shell casing, nothing. Checking now to see if a gun’s missing. There’s a passel of them in the lodge. Folks had dinner, watched a movie. Vicente went to an office to do some work. Had a fight with his kid at dinner. After the movie they all milled about for a spell, then took off to their rooms and went to bed. All but Vicente. He stayed in the office. Couple of them looked in on him before they went to their rooms. Heard nothing, saw nothing, know nothing. One of the housekeepers found the body this morning at seven fifty. Died between two and four. Doc will know more about that after the autopsy. And that’s all we’ve got so far.”
    They walked to the body as the sheriff spoke. There, the captain drew in a long breath. “Sure as hell ain’t suicide, or accident either, I reckon.” He turned to the sheriff after surveying the body with a frown. “What time did you boys get here?”
    â€œQuarter to nine.”
    â€œAnd I bet that the whole kit and caboodle of them came out to have a look-see before that.”
    â€œYou’d win that bet.