Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [56]
“You can’t be one hundred percent sure Mr. Canter didn’t get lost out in the snowstorm and tried to take shelter in the haystack and died from exposure. He wasn’t even wearing a coat.”
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Richards said nothing.
“Where’d they take the body?”
“To the VA in Sturgis. They told me it might be a while before they get to it. DCI from Pierre is coming to assist. But I know what the facts are, Julie.”
“What? No proof Canter was killed there, let alone dumped there. That mutilated body could’ve been outside the fence line when the blade hit it. Meaning in the ditch, which is public domain, which means anyone could’ve left it there, not necessarily my father.”
“You think it’s murder?”
Stumbled right into that one. “I don’t know. But my understanding is that Doug Collins was not the only one in Bear Butte County who had run-ins with Mr. Canter.”
“Who else did?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know, but I sure as hell would find out. It was almost too pat, pointing the finger at my dad.
“You really don’t believe your father had anything to do with this situation?”
“Beyond firing the victim? No.”
“Yet you know he’s capable of carrying out extreme violence?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you ever suspect that he might’ve killed Ben?”
The accusation provided a jolt. I’d considered the possibility although I’d never told anyone. “Moot 194
point. He didn’t kill Ben.”
“Off record? Doug Collins is hiding something. If I have a suspect, he’s it.”
“Is that a warning?”
“A fact. If you think he didn’t do it, prove it. Not like you ain’t got the skills or the time. Or a plan to work on it anyway.”
I snorted. I hated that he knew me so well. His caterpillar eyebrows disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “I’ve said all I’m gonna say, Collins. You know your way out.”
He’d said more than he should and we both knew it. The Collins ranch was the last place I wanted to go and the first place I headed.
Trish answered the door. The sour look on my face stopped her attempt to hug me. I didn’t ask about Brittney. Still saw red when I remembered the stupid chance she’d taken and remembered the smart-aleck comments she’d made before she hung up on me.
“Where is he?”
“Kitchen.” Trish shot a glance over her shoulder and whispered, “And he’s been drinking.”
“That’s just fucking great.”
“Yeah, well, good luck. I’ll be doing chores.” She 195
snagged her winter wear, slipped on her boots, and vanished.
I inhaled a deep breath and sauntered into the mouth of the beast.
Dad was hunched over a bottle of cheap whiskey and a half-empty tumbler.
Good plan. I doubted I’d get through this conversation without liquid courage myself. I snagged a Strawberry Shortcake juice glass from the dish rack and plopped across from him.
He didn’t look up as I filled my glass and topped off his. I gulped a mouthful and shuddered. Stuff tasted like crap. My preference for top shelf booze hadn’t come from him.
Holding his glass aloft, he said, “Why’re you here?”
“Why do you think?”
Pause. “To gloat.”
I let him rethink that asinine comment. “Wrong. But not surprising, since you always think the worst of me.”
Another sip kept his denial in check.
“Did you do it?”
“What?”
“You know what. Did you kill your hired man and throw him in the pasture under a haystack?”
He grunted.
I drained the remaining bourbon and poured another glass. “You are gonna have to talk to me if you want my 196
help.”
His hand shook as he upended his tumbler. “Who says I want it?”
“Would it kill you to admit you might need it?”
Another grunt. Another long pause—where the thwack thwack of Trish stacking firewood reverberated against the side of the house and inside my head.
“If the coroner’s report comes back with homicide as cause of death, Sheriff Richards will move you to the top of the suspect list on who killed Melvin Canter. He won’t go out of his way to prove otherwise.”
“And you will, girlie?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I see the hatred