A werewolf among us

hair was yellow, her eyes blue, her features Roman in the traditional "classic" beauty that made good marble statues. When she spoke, her voice was so soft that St. Cyr found himself leaning forward in his chair to hear what she said.
    "You sleep in the room next to the one in which Leon was killed?"
    "That's right."
    "You were in your room that night?"
    "Yes."
    "Did you hear anything?"
    "No." She looked down at her hands, tried to hide them in each other, fingers kicking like spider legs. "We have such excellent soundproofing here."
    Half an hour later, St. Cyr had asked fifty questions and listened to fifty variations of Betty's excuse: "The walls are thick here"; "Sound doesn't travel well from one level of the house to another"; "After all, Mr.
St. Cyr, the gardens are
huge
, and even if I happened to be out for a stroll at the same time poor Dorothea was murdered, I could hardly be expected to see or hear…" The bio-computer stored the answers, replayed them to itself, juxtaposed them, searched for a slip-up in someone's story, an odd clash of details. It found nothing out of the ordinary.
St. Cyr, absorbing the family's rich emotional impressions, achieved no more than his mechanical comrade. The fifty questions might just as well never have been asked, the answers never given.
    "I believe," the cyberdetective said, "that will be all for the night. In the morning I'll want to see the dead boy's room, the place in the garden where Dorothea died, other things." He turned to Hirschel as the others stood to go, and he said, "If I might have a word or two with you, I would appreciate it."
    "Certainly," Hirschel said, sitting down again.
    Jubal sat down too.
    St. Cyr looked at the white-haired patriarch, then at Hirschel. "I wanted to speak with you alone."
    "Come along to my quarters," Hirschel said, rising, unfolding like a paper toy until he towered a few inches above
St. Cyr.
    They had reached the door to the drawing room when Jubal spoke to their backs. "You're wrong."
    St. Cyr turned. "Perhaps."
    "You should be looking outside the family."
    "I will."
    "You're wasting time."
    "Perhaps."
    Jubal looked at Hirschel, saw that same undefined power that had quieted him before, was quieted again by it.
    "See you in the morning," Hirschel said.
    "In the morning," Jubal echoed.
    They opened the door, left the room, closed the door behind them.
    "You must forgive him," Hirschel said.
    "For what?"
    "His behavior, of course. It's just that he's so on edge."
    "I understand that; it's natural; there's nothing to forgive."
    Hirschel nodded, turned. Over his shoulder, as he walked for the nearest elevator, he said, "Come along."
     
    Hirschel's rooms were no larger or smaller than St. Cyr's and were also on the fifth level of the mansion. The color scheme here was browns and greens instead of various shades of blue, providing an effect not unlike an open forest, heavy boughs, grasses, growth. The hunter dearly belonged here.
    The walls were decorated with the mounted heads of half a dozen animals: deer, large cats, and a wolf that must have been a hundred pounds heavier than Hirschel himself. Each of the creatures stared over the heads of the two men, its gaze fixated on something beyond the walls of the room.
    "Will the boar heads go here?" St. Cyr asked.
    Hirschel looked surprised.
    "I was on my balcony, watching the storm, when you rode in this afternoon."
    Hirschel smiled, looked at his trophies. "Yes, the pigs will give the collection balance; nothing can look more fierce than a wild boar with its teeth bared."
    "Could it have been a wild boar that killed Dorothea in the garden?"
    "Hardly. You're forgetting the wolfs hair they found. Besides, was it a wild boar that came quietly into the house, sought out Leon and slaughtered him without a sound?"
    "No," St. Cyr said. "But was it a wolf either?"
    Hirschel shrugged.
    'You don't believe this
du-aga-klava
story, do you, as Dane does?"
    "I think it sounds like nonsense. However, I've lived long enough to know never to completely discount any possibility."
    He sounded, St. Cyr thought, like Teddy, as if he were purposefully trying to plant certain doubts in the cyberdetective's mind.
    He is only properly qualifying his responses.
    "As I understand it, everyone in the family has some artistic talent or other."
    Hirschel said, "Yes, even Teddy."
    "Teddy?"
    Hirschel slumped into an antique chair that made no attempt to form itself around him, motioned St. Cyr to the chair