Wrong.
There was also Evelyn Morrison and her brother, Robert.
Killing someone would have meant dirtying Evelyn’s hands, something I was certain she would never allow to happen. But people like Evelyn were used to commanding others to do their dirty work.
It was possible that Robert, an attorney with a sour disposition, shared the view of too many lawyers that because he knew the law, he was free to break it.
My mental exercise was interrupted by Seth. He sat heavily in a chair, wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief, and caught his breath. “Haven’t had this much exercise in years,” he said.
“You look like you’re enjoying it,” I said. “No aches and pains from the fall?”
“Plenty of ’em, Jessica, but I decided I wouldn’t let that hamper me. Care to dance the next one?”
“Sure.”
The square dance ended an hour later. Everyone seemed happy, even the vinegary Morrisons. Bob and April Pitura stopped on their way out. “I’ll check first thing in the morning on how the Molloys got to Gunnison,” he said.
“Good. I’ll be interested in what you find out.”
“Enjoy yourselves?” Bonnie asked as the Pituras left the lodge, and Seth and I also prepared to leave.
“Very much,” Seth said.
“Riding tomorrow, or going on the raft trip?”
“That’s tomorrow?” I said. “I haven’t even thought about it.”
“We need to know tonight,” Bonnie said.
I looked at Seth. “Game?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “But now that you’re into adventure, I’d be shocked if you didn’t.”
Bonnie laughed. “I didn’t know you were into adventure, Jess.”
“I suppose I am. That’s why I took up flying.”
“How was your flight with Craig?”
“Uneventful.”
“Lacking in adventure?”
“I suppose you could say that. I think I’ll shock my good doctor friend here and pass on the raft trip. I need a day just to laze around, nap, read a book.”
“Okay. Sleep tight, you two.”
“I’m certain we will,” Seth said, “after this work-out. Good night, Bonnie.”
We paused in front of Seth’s cabin.
“So, tell me about your airplane ride with Mr. Morrison. And don’t tell me it was uneventful. I heard what he said, that he almost gave you a heart attack.”
“Actually, I thought he’d had one.”
“You don’t say. Tell me more.”
We went inside, and I recounted my afternoon’s experience. Predictably, Seth was furious.
“It’s over,” I said. “Here I am in one piece and very much alive. I told Morrison what I thought of his stupid stunt. I’d just as soon leave it at that.”
“As you wish, Jessica, but I think the moron ought to be reported to the proper authorities. The FAA. Some agency that can take his license away.”
“We can talk about that in the morning. In the meantime, I’m ready for bed.”
“Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve come to a conclusion about who killed the Molloys.”
“I’m suddenly wide awake.”
“I don’t think it was anybody at the ranch. I think there’s a madman in the area, a serial killer.”
“Who just happened to pick a husband and wife?”
“Ayuh. They were both simply out and alone in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Interesting theory,” I said. “Don’t lose your thoughts, Seth. Write them down.”
“I’ll do just that.”
“Good. Get to bed, and don’t square dance in your sleep.”
“I wasn’t very good at it when I was awake. Don’t suppose I’ll be any better in my sleep. I’ll walk you to your cabin.”
“Not necessary.”
“It certainly is, Jessica, with a demented killer on the loose.”
By the time I fell asleep, I knew two things.
Seth was wrong.
And I wished he were right.
Chapter Eighteen
When I got up Thursday morning, Socks, the black-and-white border collie, was waiting on my porch, stick in mouth.
“Good morning,” I said.
He wagged his tail and lifted his head to offer me the stick.
“Oh, no. Go find another patsy.”
He ran off the porch and disappeared up the road.
I’d slept fitfully. As much as I dismissed Seth’s thesis that the Molloys had been murdered by a deranged stranger, I couldn’t get the image of such a person out of my mind. He—and my serial killer was a he—had long fangs, crazed white eyes, and drooled at the mouth. “Silly,” I repeatedly told myself while tossing and turning. But that didn’t do much good, and I awoke fatigued, as though I hadn’t slept at all.
I showered, dressed, and took a walk before breakfast. The staff was busy getting ready for another day at the Powderhorn. I stopped to look at the small island where Geraldine Molloy’s body had been found. It was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, and a uniformed officer stood watch.
I was heading back to the cabin when a small object flew past my head, followed by Socks and Holly. Socks retrieved the stick that had been thrown by William, aka Cousin Willy, and returned it to him.
“Sorry,” he said as he grabbed the stick from Socks’s mouth and threw it again.
“The Cooks don’t want guests playing with Socks,” I said.
“So what? There’s nothing else to do around here. Did you read my story?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. There was the square dance and—”
“Forget it. You won’t like it anyway.”
“I’m sure I will. Have you seen Veronica this morning?”
“No. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to her about something. I think we have a mutual friend.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Someone who knew her before she married your cousin Craig. What was her maiden name? It’s on the tip of my tongue but—”
“Schwinn.”
“That’s it. Like the bike.”
“Yeah. Like the bike.”
“Thanks. Are you going on the raft trip?”
“No. That’s for the kids. I’ve got other things to do.”
He walked away, and I was now able to vent my exhilaration.
I’d been thinking since getting up about what Nancy O’Keefe had told me at the square dance, that the Denver group involved with Paul Molloy to sell bomb-making materials to Libya had included a woman named Veronica Schwinn. I hadn’t planned to pursue it until bumping into William. My question about Veronica Morrison’s maiden name had just come out, a spur-of-the-moment, impetuous act not destined to result in anything.
But it had. There was now a firm link between at least one member of the Morrison family and Paul Molloy.
My mind raced as I entered my cabin. Molloy and Veronica had been involved in a nefarious business undertaking. The next obvious question was whether that business relationship had extended to a romantic one, perhaps resulting in a child named Pauline.
If that was the case, it provided motive for someone like Craig Morrison to kill the man who’d had an affair with his wife, and fathered a child by her. And if that was so—and I had nothing to prove it—why would he also kill Molloy’s wife? Strike that. Kill Molloy’s girlfriend, Geraldine?
I then questioned why I’d immediately looked to Craig Morrison. Any member of the family might have killed Molloy to gain revenge for his having fathered an illegitimate child. The Morrison family was obviously a strong, centered one. Evelyn, the titular head, was capable, I was sure, of going to any lengths to right a perceived wrong.
I realized that I was focusing almost exclusively on a personal motive for killing Paul Molloy. To what extent did their tangled business relationship play a part?
I was enmeshed in these thoughts when Seth knocked on
my door. “Come on in,” I yelled.
“Ready for breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes. You look spry and full of energy.”
“Never felt better, Jessica.”
“Ranch life seems to agree with you.”
“It seems to, especially now that I know none of my fellow guests, or the young folks serving us, murdered anybody.”
“That is comforting,” I said. “Care to hear another possible scenario?”
“Always open to conflicting viewpoints.”
“Yes, you always are, Seth. Sit down. I want to run something by you, see what you think.”
“Delicious breakfast, Bonnie,” Seth said after we’d finished a breakfast of Mexican eggs, bacon, flour tortillas, and a cream cheese coffee cake with honey for dessert.
“I’ll have to have every piece of clothing I brought on the trip let out when we get home,” I said.
“Or buy a new wardrobe,” Bonnie said with a chuckle.
I stood with Seth and Bonnie in front of the lodge.
“Looks like it’s going to be a fat day,” Bonnie said, using a favorite Maine expression for good weather. The sun was shining brightly, and a cool northwest breeze rustled trees and kissed our faces.
“Looks that way,” Seth said.
Jon Adler, the wrangler who seemed to do most of the shuttling between the ranch and Gunnison, pulled up in the large suburban vehicle. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning.”
“How many are going rafting?” Jon asked Bonnie.
“Down to just three, the two teenagers and their uncle, Robert. Two others cancelled.”
“I’ll get this beast gassed up. Are we leaving at nine-forty-five?”
“Yup,” said Bonnie. “Sure you don’t want to go, Jess? Jon drops you where you cast off, then meets you about noon at the other end of the river with a picnic lunch. You’d be back by two-thirty.”
“No thanks, Bonnie.”
I didn’t mention that I considered going when I heard that Pauline would be on the trip. But having her uncle, Robert, along dashed the idea. I wanted to get Pauline alone again, just the two of us, and ask a few pointed questions, maybe even whether she knew whether Paul Molloy was her natural father, provided I could muster the courage to do it.
“See you at lunch,” Bonnie said, spotting Jim striding toward the stables and running to catch up with him.
“Lots of work running a dude ranch,” Seth said.
“It certainly is. Feel like a walk?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think I will, walk off the breakfast.”
He laughed. “It was so good I’d like to hold on to it as long as possible.”
I checked my watch. It was eight-thirty. Hidden Lake was a fifteen-minute brisk walk. I set off at a power-walk pace, which I often do at home. It was a perfect morning for walking, not hot or humid. As I filled my lungs with Colorado’s pristine air, a general feeling of well-being gripped me, as it usually does under such circumstances. I reached the lake in thirteen minutes, breathing hard but feeling good. I leaned against a tree for a minute, then circumvented the lake until coming to where Pauline said she came “to get away.” I sat on the largest rock there, one I assumed she used when seeking solitude, and tried to imagine what was going through her young mind.
A fish broke the water to snare an insect, leaving a series of concentric circles. A rabbit appeared on the far shore, looked around, then scurried beneath a bush. Birds sang. I could see why Pauline chose this particular place for repose.
I sat there until nine, stood, and was about to head back to the ranch when I stepped on a loose rock, lost my balance, and fell to my knees, my hands instinctively reaching out to break the fall. I laughed. Clumsy you, I thought.
I started to push myself upright when my right hand touched something unusual. It wasn’t a rock or a piece of wood. It felt like metal. I stayed on my knees and wrapped my hand around it. It was metal, a silver case of some kind, not very large, maybe eight inches by six inches. I sat on the rock again and examined it. It appeared to be the sort of container for ammunition I’d seen in the homes of friends back home who are hunters. It had a latch that secured its cover. The latch was slightly rusted, and I had some difficulty opening it. There were no bullets inside. Instead, there was a slim diary. On its cover was written: PROPERTY OF PAULINE MORRISON.
Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have even considered opening it. But this was no ordinary circumstance.
She hadn’t written much in it, her words occupying only a dozen pages. I read her entries quickly, replaced the diary in the case, closed it, and returned it to where I’d stumbled, literally, upon it.
I reached the ranch at nine-thirty. Jon Adler was waiting in the suburban in front of the lodge for the two Morrison children and their uncle to appear. Bonnie and Jim were inside doing paperwork on one of the dining room tables: “More room to spread out here,” Jim explained. “Enjoy your walk?”
“Yes. It was invigorating, so much so I’m already thinking of a nap.”
“That’s what a week here should be, Jess,” Bonnie said. “Seven days to do whatever you want, when you want to.”
“Thanks for the permission,” I said, laughing.
Bonnie and I stepped out of the lodge as Pauline and Godfrey Morrison left their cabin and came to the suburban.
“All set?” Jon asked, tossing small bags they carried into the backseat.
“I guess so,” Godfrey said.
“Where’s your uncle?”
“He’s not coming,” Pauline said. “He has a toothache.”
“A bad one?” Bonnie asked.
“He says it hurts a lot,” Godfrey said.
“I’ll go see if I can do anything for him, maybe call a dentist in town.”
“You two are going rafting alone?” I asked.
They nodded.
“It’s not dangerous,” Jim, who’d joined us, said. “The Gunnison River is easy Class Two-Plus water, mostly smooth with a few mild rapids. A scenic trip more than adventuresome. Takes two hours. The guides from Scenic River Tours are all pros.”
“You’re sure your uncle isn’t coming?” I asked.
More nods.
The kids climbed in the vehicle and Jon started the engine.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I told Jim. “Can I still go?”
“Sure. Jon’s got extra food for the picnic. Grab what you want to take with you from the cabin.”
“I have everything I need,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Nineteen
The professionalism of our guide that morning, Dick Mann, was evident in the thorough briefing we received at the launch area. He went over everything that could possibly happen, told us the commands he would give, and together with his partner, Anne, made sure our flotation devices were properly fitted and secure.
“All set?” he asked as Jon Adler videotaped us from the bank of the Gunnison River.
Pauline and Godfrey said nothing. “I’m ready,” I confirmed.
The two-hour trip down the river was precisely as Jim Cook had described it. There were a few rapids in which the guide shouted instructions on how to use our paddles to navigate them, but mostly we drifted slowly, taking in the sheer bluffs lining the river, and observing points of interest Dick pointed out. He mentioned that there were a number of other rivers in the area that afforded greater rafting challenges, including the Upper and Lower Taylor, Pine Creek, and the Arkansas, but that the Gunnison was one of the more scenic trips.
Two hours later, we set ashore. Jon was there waiting, Jim Cook’s video camera on his shoulder and rolling.
I realized on the ride to town that I might not have an opportunity to find private time with Pauline. Godfrey was ever present, the guide was with us on the river, and Jon Adler was there at the end. Still, I hoped there would be even a few minutes to speak with her alone.
Bonnie had packed an elaborate picnic spread, w
hich Jon laid out on one of two picnic tables nestled in a grove of trees. The Morrison kids said little during lunch and sat apart from Jon and me. Most of my conversation was with Jon, a bright, pleasant young fellow spending his summer at the Powderhorn to earn money for his senior year at the University of Alabama.
As we were about to pack up, I leaned close to him and said in a quiet voice, “I wonder if there’s some way for me to have a few minutes alone with Pauline. I need to speak with her without her brother present.”
“Is this about—?”
“About the murders? No.” I smiled to reinforce my lie.
“Let’s see. Yeah, I can take Godfrey down to the river and show him some aquatic life. I mean, if he’s interested.”
“Good. Give it a try.”
Fortunately, Pauline took that moment to go to a public lavatory fifty yards away. Jon and Godfrey headed for the river. I didn’t know how long Jon could keep the youngster occupied, but hoped it would be long enough for Pauline to return and for me to ask my questions.
It worked out that way. Pauline came to the table. “Where’s Godfrey?” she asked.
“Down at the river with Jon. He wanted to show him something. Pauline, I’m pleased ... I, well, I wanted to have a few minutes with you alone.”
She looked blankly at me.
“Did you know Mr. Molloy before he came to the ranch Sunday night?”
“Know him? No.”
“But did you know who he was? Did you know he might be—?”
She turned from me and put her index finger in her mouth, clamping down on it.
“Let me show you something.” I pulled her childhood picture from my shoulder bag and placed it on the table. She glanced at it, turned away, then returned to it.
“Where did you get that?” she asked angrily.
“From Mr. Molloy’s wallet. The police gave it to me.”
“He had this?”
“Mr. Molloy? Yes. The question is why?”
She placed her hand over the photo, looked at me, and her eyes filled up.
I placed my hand on hers. “Pauline, I know how painful this can be for you, but I have to ask. Was Mr. Molloy your father ... your biological father?”
She sniffled, ran the back of her hand across her eyes, stood, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I know Craig isn’t my real father. That man, Molloy? You say he is?”
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Page 15