Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Just don’t have the camera rolling if I fall again.”

  “Bonnie told me about yesterday. Be careful. Those rocks can be slippery, even if you do have felt soles on your wading boots.”

  Jim walked away as Bob Pitura joined us. “Grab a few minutes with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Of course. Is it my turn to be questioned?”

  “No. There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “See you later, Jessica,” Seth said. “Think I’ll get back to my book.”

  “I’d like you to join us, Dr. Hazlitt, if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind a bit.”

  We went back inside the lodge and sat in the large main room. Sue, the cabin girl, poured fresh coffee, and placed a platter of leftover peach coffee cake in front of us.

  “Before I forget it,” I said, “I was wondering whether you intended to drag the creek for the weapon.”

  “It’s on the agenda, if we don’t find it first. The stocked pond, too.”

  “Good.”

  “Before I left town this morning, I got together with Sheriff Murdie and the medical examiner. Mr. Molloy died of that stab wound. No surprise, of course, but always nice to have things officially confirmed.”

  “Did your ME establish a time of death?”

  “Sometime between two and eight.”

  “That’s a pretty wide window,” Seth said.

  “Yes, it is, but it’s unlikely the murder took place during daylight hours. Gets light here about five, five-fifteen. I’d say it happened between two and five.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Has any of your questioning revealed anything? Or maybe that question is out of line.”

  “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t talk about the results of my questioning. But in your case I think I will.”

  “Why? Should I be flattered?”

  “Perhaps.” He grinned. “I said I wanted to talk to you about other things, Mrs. Fletcher. With you, too, Dr. Hazlitt.”

  “We’re listening,” Seth said.

  “I’ve been doing homicide investigations for more years than I’m willing to admit.”

  “I didn’t think there were that many homicides to investigate in Gunnison County,” I said.

  “There aren’t. But I go way back with Sheriff Murdie, to when we were both Marines in San Diego, and thirteen years with the Denver PD. Plenty of murders in Denver. The point is, it’s been my experience that in a situation like we have here, interviewing the guests and staff probably won’t produce much in the way of information, especially since there’s a large family involved. Of course, you never know. Every once in a while somebody tells you something that’s totally unexpected. I’ll continue with my official questioning for as long as I think it’s productive. My official questioning.”

  “I take it there’s to be some unofficial questioning.”

  “I hope so. That is, if you and Dr. Hazlitt are willing.”

  “Us?” Seth said.

  “Yes, sir. The way I figure it, Mrs. Fletcher has the perfect reason for asking questions. She is, after all, a noted writer of crime novels, and I’m sure you’re always researching crime and criminals.”

  “I do a great deal of that.”

  “And you, Dr. Hazlitt, being a physician and close friend, gives you your own reason for asking questions. Maybe you help Mrs. Fletcher research the medical aspects of her books.”

  “I’ve done a little of that,” Seth said proudly.

  “He certainly has,” I said, smiling at my friend.

  Pitura continued. “I just thought you might engage the others in conversation, find out more about them, where they’re coming from, their views of what happened, things like that. You know, friendly chitchat, but with a purpose.”

  “I see. I’m willing, of course, but I can’t conceive of anyone telling me very much that would be useful.”

  “Then again, Mrs. Fletcher, you might come up with something that’s very useful. Willing to try?”

  “Of course.”

  “You, Dr. Hazlitt?”

  “Ayuh.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s Maine for yes,” I said.

  “Oh. Well, I appreciate the help. By the way, we did a background check on Paul Molloy. He’s from Las Vegas.”

  “So he said.”

  “Strange background. A little of this, a little of that. Land deals, most of them gone sour. One of those men who’s always looking for the big score rather than working hard to earn a series of smaller successes. Has some shadowy government background, too.”

  “Government?”

  “Connected with the CIA, or so he told people. Lived in the old Soviet Union for a while. Middle East, too.”

  “Hmmm. What about his wife? How long have they been married?”

  “Not long.”

  “Really?”

  “In fact, they’re not—married.”

  Seth and I looked at each other. I said, “But they introduced themselves as man and wife. And I think she said they had a daughter in San Francisco. Estranged from her, I believe.”

  “There’s no record of any marriage in the Nevada files. Of course, they might have been married elsewhere. But I doubt it. My sources in Las Vegas say Paul Molloy has been a bachelor for years.”

  “Strange,” Seth said.

  “Maybe you can start there, Mrs. Fletcher, try to get to the bottom of their relationship.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “And don’t ignore the staff of the Powderhorn. For instance, the chef”—he consulted a small notebook—“Joel Louden. Bonnie told me he was a last-minute substitute for the chef they’d hired for the season. The original guy just picked up and left a week ago. Mr. Louden drives onto the ranch the very afternoon the chef left, has good credentials as a cook, and is hired on the spot. Bonnie and Jim had their reservations about taking on someone whom they don’t know very well. They pick their staff from hundreds of applications each year, and dig deep into their backgrounds, references, things like that. But they were in a real bind. Bonnie says Louden was personable and well-mannered. Cooks good, too, she says.”

  “Lucky to get him, I’d say,” said Seth.

  “I suppose so. His last cooking job was in Las Vegas.”

  “Where Mr. Molloy was from.”

  “Right. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  When Pitura was gone, Seth said, “Didn’t bargain for this, did we, when we decided to come to the Powderhorn Ranch?”

  “No. Sorry we said we’d do it?”

  “Not at all. Should provide some added adventure for you, Jessica, maybe displace any notions of flying a plane when we get back.”

  “An ulterior motive.”

  He grinned. “I have them now and then. Going fishing?”

  “Yes. And while I’m catching that trout again, why don’t you go up and see how Mrs. Molloy—if that’s who she really is—is doing. Apply some of your patented bedside manner, chat her up, as the British say.”

  “I believe I will. See you at lunch?”

  “Yes. Clam chowder and turkey salad, I believe, prepared by a real-life Las Vegas chef.”

  Chapter Ten

  I fished for an hour with no success, if success is defined by catching something. For me, and most fly fishers I know, just being on a fast-moving stream, surrounded by nature, is success enough.

  After trying a variety of flies, I reeled in my line and slowly walked along the edge of the Cebolla in search of a deeper pool where trout might congregate, or a fallen log beneath which they often take refuge. I found neither after walking a few hundred yards, and decided to return to my cabin. I stepped up onto a relatively flat bit of land and had taken steps away from the creek when something caught my eye. I turned and looked closer. It was a long metal object lying on a patch of close-clipped grass. I crouched and examined it. Could this be the weapon used to stab Paul Molloy to death?

  I s
traightened up and looked around. I didn’t want to touch it, of course, but also didn’t want to leave it unattended. But then I saw the head wrangler, Joe Walker, walking a horse from a small paddock where sick members of the herd were quarantined.

  “Joe,” I shouted.

  He saw me and waved.

  “Could you help me with something?”

  “In a minute.” He tied the horse’s reins to a post and came to me. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. What’s up?”

  “This.” I pointed to the object on the ground.

  “One of the wranglers must have dropped it.”

  He started to bend over to pick it up, but I stopped him. “It might be the murder weapon,” I said.

  He recoiled.

  “Do you recognize it?” I asked.

  “Sure. It’s a rasp. A round one.”

  “With a very pointed tip.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s it used for?”

  “Filing down things, shaping wood, metal. We have a few of them at the stable.”

  “You do? Would you know if one is missing?”

  He shrugged. “Probably. Jim insists we maintain a good inventory of every tool. We keep things like this in a separate wooden box.”

  “Joe, would you find Investigator Pitura and ask him to come here? I’ll stay with this.”

  “Sure.”

  They returned a few minutes later. Pitura looked at the rasp, then at me. “It was just lying here?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We searched this area thoroughly yesterday. Every inch.”

  “I was surprised, too, to stumble across it so easily. It’s sitting on a patch of grass that’s considerably shorter than the grass around it.”

  “It must have been put here last night or this morning.”

  “Do you think—?”

  “That it’s the murder weapon? That’s easy enough to check out with the ME.”

  “Mr. Walker says they have a number of these in the stable.”

  Pitura turned to Walker. “Would you know if one was missing?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher asked me that. I said we probably would.”

  “Okay.” Pitura pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and deftly slipped the rasp into it. “I’ll have one of the officers run this into town.”

  “Okay if I go now?” Walker asked. “I have to treat one of the horses. He has strangles.”

  “Strangles?” I asked.

  “A disease. Can be fatal if it’s not treated right.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Pitura said to Walker. “You’ll be around all afternoon?”

  “Yup, except when we go on the supper ride.”

  “I’ll catch up with you right after lunch.”

  “Glad you came across this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Pitura said as we walked to the center of the ranch.

  “If I hadn’t,” I said, “someone else certainly would have. Whoever put it there wanted it found, and as soon as possible.”

  “I agree. Have you had a chance to follow up on my suggestion that you and the doctor talk to the Morrison family and staff?”

  “I’m afraid not. I headed right for the creek. But Dr. Hazlitt was going to see if he could speak with Mrs. Molloy.”

  “Good. I’ll be anxious to hear what transpired.”

  Seth was sitting on my porch. “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No. You?”

  “You mean did the fish bite?”

  “I suppose you could put it that way.”

  “Well, Mrs. Molloy and I did have a chat.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let me get out of this fishing gear.

  “Was she married to the deceased?” I asked after rejoining him on the porch.

  “I don’t quite know, Jessica. I asked her how long they’d been married. She said, ‘Not too long.’ I mentioned her grown-up daughter in San Francisco, and she said, ‘She’s from a previous marriage.’ I asked her what her husband did for a living. She said, ‘I never really knew.’ You know, Jessica, the woman is a mess. Looks to me like she lives on exercise machines and pills. Probably those damn diet pills that make her hyper, and then she comes down to earth with Valium. She’s in her own world.”

  “That’s sad. Did you talk about anything else?”

  “Ayuh. She asked me to write her a couple of prescriptions. I told her I wasn’t licensed to do that in Colorado. That’s when she suggested that maybe I could call them in to a pharmacy in Maine and have FedEx fly ’em out here.”

  “She’s sick.”

  “Very much so. Ready for lunch?”

  “Yes. But first, let me report on what happened to me.”

  I told him of finding the rasp, and that Investigator Pitura had sent it to the medical examiner for analysis. Seth agreed it was strange that the rasp just showed up the way it did.

  “Of course, we don’t know that it was the weapon,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re pretty sure it is, aren’t you?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll be surprised if it isn’t. And if I’m right, the larger question is, who wanted it found?”

  Chapter Eleven

  A professional fly fishing expert was scheduled to give lessons at the stocked pond after lunch, but I decided to take a long walk instead. I started out along the road, but didn’t get very far. I’d just passed the area where Molloy’s body was found when I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Pauline Morrison, Craig and Veronica’s daughter, closing on me. I stopped and waited for her to catch up.

  “Hello,” I said. “Feeling better?”

  She looked back toward the ranch, as though to confirm that no one else was in the vicinity. “I guess so,” she said. “I’ve been acting pretty dumb.”

  “Oh, don’t say that. This has been extremely upsetting.”

  “Evelyn says I’m being a baby.”

  “Evelyn? Your grandmother?”

  “Yes. She won’t let us call her ‘Grandma.’ She says it makes her sound old.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Evelyn Morrison would feel that way, but I didn’t tell her granddaughter that. Instead, I asked, “Feel like a walk? A good walk always clears my head, makes me feel better.”

  “Okay.”

  We walked in silence for a minute before I said, “I understand there’s a secret little lake with lots of fish. Do you know where it is?”

  “Hidden Lake? Sure.”

  “I’d like to see it. Take me to it?”

  “It’s only a half mile. I used to go there last year a lot to get away.

  We took a narrow, steep rutted road that branched off from the main road and followed it until reaching Hidden Lake, a small, pretty body of water owned by Jim and Bonnie, and stocked with fish. It was eerily silent there, the only sounds the rustling of leaves when a breeze came up, and the happy sound of an occasional songbird.

  “You said you came here often last year, Pauline.”

  “Uh-huh. I always sat over there, on the other side.”

  “Looks like a peaceful place to sit and reflect.”

  We made our way to the other side, having to step carefully on rocks to keep from getting our shoes wet. Pauline sat on a fallen tree, placed her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward, her head nestled in her hands. I observed her. When we were first introduced, she was a lively, happy girl. But since the murder of Paul Molloy, she’d gone into a shell. This was the first time I’d seen her since word of the murder spread through the ranch.

  I sat next to her. “Care to talk about it?” I asked.

  She replied without lifting her head, “What’s to talk about?”

  “The murder. Sometimes it helps to say what’s on our minds, to vent our feelings.”

  I felt comfortable in offering myself as an amateur therapist because I wasn’t a member of her family. It’s often easier to discuss intimate thoughts with a stranger.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Who told you not to?”

/>   She shrugged. Translation: I’d better not say.

  Our silence melded with the absence of nature’s sounds. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and was struck again at how physically different she was from the rest of her family. Funny, I thought, how genes work. There can be a succession of children, all carrying strong familial traits, and then along comes another child who looks as though he or she is from a different set of parents. As dark as the rest of the Morrison family was, Pauline was fair, her hair flaming orange, freckles dotting her pretty face.

  “Do you enjoy coming to the Powderhorn?” I asked, wanting to break the awkward lull.

  “No.”

  “Don’t enjoy riding?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How many years have your mom and dad been bringing you?”

  “A couple.” She suddenly stood, turned her back on me, wrapped her arms about herself, and started to sob softly. I couldn’t hear her, but could see the movement in her body. I came up behind and placed my hands on her shoulders.

  “Just leave me alone,” she said.

  I removed my hands, saying, “I thought you wanted to be with me, Pauline. I thought that was why you followed me on the road.”

  She fought to control herself, slowly turned, and said, “I did. I mean, I wanted to talk to somebody. But I’m afraid.”

  “Of what. Of whom?”

  “Of—” She burst into tears and stumbled away, her feet sloshing through the water at the lake’s perimeter.

  I shouted, “Pauline, I think—”

  She pushed through a clump of bushes and disappeared down the narrow road.

  The abrupt end to our conversation was unsettling, and I drew a couple of deep breaths before slowly walking back to the ranch, where Jim Cook stood at the entrance with homicide investigator Bob Pitura.

  “Were you with Ms. Morrison?” Pitura asked me.

  “Yes. She showed me Hidden Lake.”

  “She just came running past us,” Jim said, “crying her eyes out. What happened?”

  “Nothing. We were talking. Then she started to cry and took off.”

  Pitura looked at me with a questioning expression. I knew what he was asking: Had Pauline told me anything in which he might be interested? I tried to return a nonverbal answer with my eyes.