Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Jessica Fletcher

  I expressed my concerns to Seth Hazlitt the day before we were to depart Cabot Cove for the Cooks’ Powderhorn Guest Ranch. “I just don’t know if I can do it,” I told him as we sat in his office, enjoying tea and macaroons.

  “Then don’t do it,” he said. “Just because you’ve learned to fly a plane doesn’t mean you have to fly it—alone. Thank Jed, and put the experience behind you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “All set for the trip?”

  “Ayuh. Everything’s packed ’cept for a few last-minute things. You?”

  “Getting there. I bought new jeans and a flannel jacket. I’m hoping to find a good pair of boots today.”

  “Make sure they’ve got a good heel on them. Makes riding a horse easier.”

  “I know. Bonnie made that point in the material she sent.”

  “Talked to Jim last night. The man is as funny as ever. Always has a joke at the ready.”

  I fondly recalled when Jim and Bonnie Cook lived in Cabot Cove. Jim’s fondness for jokes, and his wonderful way of telling them, enlivened many a party.

  “I’m really excited about the trip,” I said.

  “Me, too. I’ll confirm our flight before we leave.”

  “As you always do. Have to run and look for those boots. Been practicing your western drawl?”

  “Ayuh.”

  “That’s not western talk. That’s pure Maine.”

  “I’ll work on it,” he said.

  I eventually found my boots at Charles Department Store, where the owners, brothers Jim and David, gave me their usual undivided attention. I went home from there to finish packing. Satisfied I’d included everything listed on my packing list—I’m an inveterate list-maker, especially when it comes to traveling—I settled in my study to again read the material Jim and Bonnie Cook had sent in advance of the trip. The more I read, the more enthusiastic I became, and wished Seth and I were already there, breathing in the clean Colorado air, and hearing Jim Cook’s jokes again. It will be soon enough, I told myself as I chose a couple of books to take on the trip from a pile of recently purchased novels and biographies.

  I’m an early-to-bed person. But on Saturday night I was under the covers even earlier than usual. Our flight to Denver from Bangor left at nine the next morning, which meant our hired car would be picking us up at five-thirty. Actually, we could have left an hour later, but Seth Hazlitt likes getting to airports early. Very early.

  We were driven by Dimitri Cassis, a Greek immigrant who’d settled with his family in Cabot Cove after buying the local taxi company from Jake Monroe. Dimitri was a delightful, hard-working man who’d quickly expanded his taxi company to include a Lincoln Town Car, which he used to transport residents to points out of town. Because I don’t drive, I use his services often, and have a house account. He’d driven me to my last three flying lessons and had stayed twice to watch me shoot landings and takeoffs under Jed Richardson’s watchful tutelage. I actually saw Dimitri applauding after one particularly smooth landing, which made me smile, and feel even greater pride in my performance at the controls.

  My experience piloting the controls of an aircraft, as brief and rudimentary as it might have been, caused me to view commercial aircraft and crews with a different eye. Silly as it may sound, I now felt one with them, and understood why they chose to spend their working lives in an airplane high above the earth.

  As we boarded the large jet in Bangor, I paused to peek through the open cockpit door at the maze of dials and switches, and wanted to slip in there and sit in the captain’s seat.

  “Jessica, you’re holding up traffic,” Seth said.

  “What? Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  “Appears you were. Let’s take our seats.”

  The flight was uneventful, and on time. My brief brush with piloting an aircraft gave me a different perspective on being a passenger. Although the huge jet was considerably more complex than my Cessna 172, the basic principles of flight are the same, and I took pleasure in understanding why the multi-ton jet was able to take off at all: the Bernouli principle at work.

  A plane’s wing is slightly curved on top, causing air moving over it to have to go faster than air moving beneath it. That’s because, according to Mr. Bernouli’s theory, the air flowing over both the top and bottom of a wing must arrive at the trailing edge at the same time. Faster-moving air exerts less pressure than slower-moving air. The increased pressure beneath the wing causes “lift,” enabling the aircraft to break the proverbial bonds of earth and become airborne.

  “What are you thinking about?” Seth asked.

  I explained my understanding of the Bernouli theory to him.

  “Didn’t know that,” he said when I’d finished.

  “See?” I said smugly. “Look how much I’m learning by taking flying lessons.”

  I spent the rest of the flight reading one of the books I’d packed. Before I knew it, we’d landed at Denver’s sprawling new airport and were about to board a smaller aircraft for the forty-five-minute flight to Gunnison. Until learning how to fly, I never paid attention to the type of plane on which I was traveling. But I took note that we’d now be on a Mountain Air Express Dornier 328, a twin-engine turbo-prop craft with a row of narrow seats on either side of the passenger cabin. Seth had some trouble squeezing into his seat, but he managed, and we took off with a roar, flying relatively low over the majestic Colorado terrain, multicolored desert giving way to pink canyons and redrock mountains. After a turn to the right, which brought us over the Sawatch Mountain Range, we landed on a very long runway for such a small airport. The captain reversed the pair of powerful engines to help us slow down, left the runway, and taxied to the small, functional terminal where Jim Cook, resplendent in jeans, blue denim shirt, boots, and a large Stetson hat, was waiting. Jim is a tall, handsome man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile always at the ready.

  “Welcome,” he announced loudly as we approached. “You two are a sight for sore eyes.”

  I hugged him, and Seth energetically shook his hand. We gathered our luggage and went to the parking lot immediately outside the main entrance, where Jim had parked his large utility vehicle. I sat up front with him while Seth settled in the rear seat.

  “How have you and Bonnie been?” I asked.

  “Just fine,” he said, turning on to a road leading from the airport.

  “Beautiful day,” Seth said.

  “Typical,” Jim said. “Starts off crisp and cool, but by the time you come out of breakfast, the sun’s warmed things up nicely. Was below freezing when I got up. Must be sixty now.”

  “Heavenly,” I said.

  “Close as you can get,” said Jim. “Of course, the winter can be rough. Some of the coldest temperatures ever recorded in the U.S. were recorded right here in Gunnison.”

  The ride to the ranch took us through spectacular scenery, particularly along the perimeter of Blue Mesa, one of three reservoirs and Colorado’s largest body of water. The state’s reputation as a haven for outdoor sports enthusiasts was evident; people were camped all along the shoreline and in the low hills surrounding Blue Mesa, and the reservoir was dotted with boats of every description.

  “Everyone seems so at peace,” I said.

  “Colorado does that to you,” Jim said. “A peaceful, idyllic paradise, as far as Bonnie and I are concerned. That’s why people flock here on vacation, to get away from pollution and stress, crime and noise and rudeness.” He looked at me and laughed. “After a week with us at the ranch, Jess, you’ll be calling back to Cabot Cove to have somebody sell your house and ship your things out here.”

  “Unlikely,” Seth said in his usual compact way.

  I turned. “Maybe more likely than you think.”

  We ended up on a dirt road running along a river and past other ranches. Then the Powderhorn Ranch came into view. Jim turned into the property, waved at young men and women working with horses in a corral, and came to a stop in front of the home Jim and Bonnie
had built for themselves after buying the ranch. It also served as the office.

  “Here we are,” Jim said, hopping out of the vehicle and coming around to help me down. Bonnie Cook came from the office. She, too, wore western clothing-jeans, blue denim shirt with fancy, colorful embroidery, and boots. She hadn’t changed a bit since leaving Cabot Cove, petite and trim with a glowing smile. She embraced us, asked about our trip, and led us inside where she’d laid out a tea service and sandwiches.

  “What a pretty home,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Bonnie said, “although it can use some sprucing up. Once the season starts, we just don’t have time. But there’s always the long winter.”

  Jim drove the utility vehicle to our cabins and unloaded the luggage, while Bonnie escorted us on foot. All cabins at the Powderhorn were constructed of Ponderosa pine, and were identified either by the name of one of Santa’s reindeers, or the seven dwarfs. The sign on my cottage read PRANCER. Seth’s was a few cabins down the line and consisted of two attached units with doors leading to a common porch. It was called BLITZEN. All the porches were painted red.

  Inside, my cabin was inviting and comfortable. There was a living room, two bedrooms, and a bath. A coffeemaker sat atop a small refrigerator.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled,” Jim Cook said.

  “Has that family arrived yet?” I asked.

  “The Morrisons? They’re due here any minute, at least most of them. One of them—his name’s Craig—the older son, I think, and very rich—arrives in his own plane.”

  “Is there an airport in Powderhorn?”

  “Just a little grass strip a few miles north. Craig Morrison owns a twin-engine jet, but the runway’s not long enough to accommodate it. He flies his other plane, a Cessna.”

  “I’ve been taking flying lessons,” I said proudly.

  “You have? Last thing I’d think you’d be interested in doing.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just can’t see you flying a plane.”

  “Neither can Seth. Can you see me riding a horse?”

  He laughed. “I can see that very clearly. First thing in the morning. Well, you get settled, put your feet up and relax. Dinner’s in the lodge at six-thirty. We’ll introduce everybody before we sit down. Great seeing you and Doc Hazlitt again, Jess. Bonnie’s thrilled you’re here.”

  I watched him saunter down the dirt road, meet up with Bonnie, who’d just come from Seth’s cabin, and walk together to their home. How wonderful, I thought, to have been able to fulfill a lifelong dream, in their case owning and operating a dude and guest ranch in the Colorado wilderness. So few people ever actually get to see their dreams realized. It couldn’t have happened to nicer people.

  While I was unpacking, it turned dark outside, and rain begin pelting the roof and windows. It was over in minutes, and the sun came out again. Powderhorn, Colorado, was obviously a place that gave credence to the adage that if you didn’t like the weather, all you had to do was wait a few minutes for it to change.

  A bottle of sparkling water had been placed in the cabin. I poured a glass and sat on the porch, watching dark storm clouds move swiftly along a high ridge, blocking the sun every few moments, then racing by to allow it to shine through.

  Two long black limousines arrived while I sat there. They pulled up in front of the house/office, and their passengers went inside. The Morrison family, I assumed, ready to start its annual one-week reunion. As I watched the comings and goings, the sound of an aircraft engine captured my attention. I went to the railing and leaned out to be able to see beyond the roof’s overhang. Sure enough, a Cessna 172, the same sort of aircraft in which I’d been taking lessons, approached from over Bonnie and Jim’s house. It was low; I judged it to be no higher than two hundred feet. Its flaps were lowered, which said to me it was on its final approach to landing.

  It passed directly in front of me, close enough for me to see the man at the controls, undoubtedly Craig Morrison, the wealthy, oldest son of the Morrison clan. It quickly disappeared from view.

  Witnessing the arrival of Mr. Morrison at the controls of his own plane caused my heart to trip. Soon, I’d be back in Cabot Cove faced with the decision of whether to make my first solo flight. That contemplation was, at once, exciting and daunting.

  Before leaving the cabin to join the others for dinner, I changed into my newly acquired western outfit. Satisfied with what I saw in the bedroom’s full-length mirror, I stepped out onto the porch, took a deep breath of early evening air, smiled at the sound of horses neighing in the corral, heard a bell announcing it was dinnertime, and headed for the lodge, refreshed and relaxed, and happy to be there.

  Chapter Three

  As I left my cabin and started across a grassy area separating the cabins from the main lodge, I was joined by one of Jim and Bonnie Cook’s two dogs, Socks, a black-and-white border collie who earned his keep by helping to herd the horses each night into the stables. He carried a stick in his mouth.

  “Oh, no,” I said, remembering what Bonnie had told us over tea. A year ago, one of the guests had tossed a stick, which Socks dutifully retrieved. When the guest attempted to take the stick from Socks’s mouth, the dog nipped the guest’s finger. The guest was gracious about it, but Bonnie instituted a rule that guests were not to play catch with Socks.

  “Go on, get away,” I said.

  He followed me, the stick still in his mouth.

  “No games,” I said. “That’s the rule.”

  Socks spotted others heading for the lodge and ran to them in search of a playmate.

  “Frisky little devil,” Seth said, coming up behind.

  “So cute. Did you nap?”

  “Didn’t intend to, but dozed off for a spell. This change in altitude is hard on the breathing. You sleep?”

  “No. I sat with my feet up on the porch and relaxed. Did you see the plane?”

  “Ayuh. Damn fool pilot woke me up, flyin’ so low.”

  “It must have been Mr. Morrison.”

  “I’ll have a few words with him at dinner.”

  “Now don’t get yourself all jo-jeezly while we’re here,” I said. Seth Hazlitt can become ornery at times. “He won’t be flying his plane again until we leave.”

  Bonnie and Jim stood with other people beneath an overhang in front of the lodge. Jim yelled, “Jessica, Seth, come meet the Morrisons.”

  We were introduced to four members of the family.

  Chris Morrison, the younger of the two adult Morrison brothers, was a handsome young man with a boyish face. He wore clothing more appropriate to a Caribbean resort—white slacks, teal V-neck sweater over a blue button-down shirt, and alligator loafers, sans socks. I judged him to be in his early thirties. His wife, Marisa, was reed thin and as taciturn as her husband was gregarious.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Craig Morrison said, beaming as he shook my hand. “You’re my favorite writer.”

  I graciously accepted what was undoubtedly an overstatement. I extended my hand to his wife, which she took tentatively. Her clothing was more befitting of a dude ranch vacation—blue jeans, tan riding boots, and a fleece-lined brown leather jacket over a white blouse.

  The two other members of the Morrison family standing with the Cooks were teenagers. Pauline Morrison, we were told, was Craig Morrison’s daughter, age fifteen, a pretty girl with red hair, large green eyes, and a crop of freckles splashed across her cheeks. Her brother, Godfrey, was sixteen. That they came from the same parents was surprising. Godfrey was dark-skinned. His hair was thick and black, and was cut into what seemed to be the fashion of the day, shaved a few inches above his ears, the top full and slicked back with some sort of gel. Pauline was outgoing and friendly; Godfrey was more the shy, brooding type.

  “Ready for a hearty meal?” Jim Cook asked.

  “I could use some dinner,” Seth said. “Airline food wasn’t much to write home about.”

  “Well, let’s get ins
ide and see what Joel’s whipped up for us this evening.” He turned to Chris Morrison. “Where’s the rest of the family?”

  “Running late, as usual,” he replied. “They’ll be along shortly.”

  I stopped to read a sign posted above a water fountain on the porch: FREE SOFT DRINKS—HELP YOURSELF. Jim Cook’s sense of humor on display, I thought, as I followed everyone inside.

  The lodge consisted of two spacious rooms and a professionally equipped kitchen. The smaller of the two rooms, the one you entered from the outside, contained tables set for dinner. The kitchen was through a doorway on the back wall. A flashing, antique Seeburg jukebox dominated one comer of the dining oom. “Don’t put any money in it,” Bonnie cautio ed. “Everything works except the music.”

  Standing next to the jukebox was a bigger-than-life cardboard cutout of John Wayne, dressed in a cowboy outfit and holding a carbine. Stuffed elk and deer heads observed everything from their vantage points on the walls. A large, glass-faced bookcase housed hundreds of books left behind by previous guests.

  “I see a couple of your books, Jess,” Seth said after a quick perusal.

  “We have all your books at the house,” Jim said. “Come on, let me show you the new wing.”

  We passed into an even larger room, where we were introduced to young wranglers and other ranch staff, whose friendliness and enthusiasm were contagious. The room contained a piano, pool table, tables piled with books and games, a huge projection TV system, a massive fireplace, and a dozen oversized lounge chairs. All the decorations had an Indian motif, with the exception of an autographed picture of the late, great comedian George Bums.