Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Jessica Fletcher

  “How are you feeling, Dr. Hazlitt?”

  “Fair to middlin’” Seth looked down the table at Godfrey, whose taking of the last picture on the roll had caused Seth’s horse to buck. The teenager smiled and dug into his second helping of French toast. I considered mentioning it, but wrangler Crystal Kildare saved me the trouble by again reminding everyone to not take photos when the roll was close to the end. Godfrey made a sour face and continued eating.

  My attention kept shifting to Pauline Morrison. Although the photo given me by Pitura was in my purse, I’d studied it so many times I could see it as though it were on the table in front of me. She sat pensively next to her grandmother, eyes downcast, her pretty freckled face void of expression.

  Jim Cook ended breakfast with a joke.

  “These two cops were outside a bar late at night waiting to see if any drunks tried to drive. They saw this one fella come out. He appeared to be very drunk. He stumbled around the parking lot, tried his key on several cars, sat down on the ground, got up again, kept stumbling until he finally found his car, got behind the wheel and started to leave the parking lot. By now, most of the other patrons had left the bar and driven off. The cops stopped the guy they’d been observing and gave him a sobriety test. He was stone-cold sober, hadn’t even had a drink. He told the cops he was the DD. ‘You’re the Designated Driver?’ one cop asked. ‘No,’ the fella replied, ‘I’m the Designated Decoy.’ ”

  “I like that one,” Chris said, standing and slapping Jim on the back.

  “All set to ride?” Joe Walker asked.

  The Morrisons and the wranglers departed as a group. Joel, the chef, and Sue, the cabin girl, cleared the table while Seth and I had fresh cups of coffee in the main room with Jim and Bonnie.

  “No word from the police about Mrs. Molloy?” I asked.

  “No,” Bonnie said. “I almost hope there isn’t any news. It can’t be good.”

  I decided to share the photo with Bonnie and Jim. “Take a look at this,” I said.

  They passed it between them. “Who is it?” Jim asked.

  “I think it’s Pauline Morrison.”

  “Pauline?” Bonnie said. “The daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get it, Jess?” Jim asked.

  “Bob Pitura gave it to me.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “From Paul Molloy’s wallet.”

  Jim and Bonnie looked at each other with quizzical expressions.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Why would Mr. Molloy be carrying a childhood picture of Pauline Morrison?”

  “Maybe it isn’t her,” Jim said.

  “Look at it again,” I said.

  “It is her,” Bonnie said. “As a child.”

  “What are you saying, Jess, that Molloy could be her father?” Jim asked.

  “It’s certainly possible,” I said, “considering their physical resemblance. I was struck when first meeting the Morrisons how different Pauline looks from the others, certainly from her brother. She has the same coloring as Molloy, and there’s something about the eyes that’s similar. Don’t you agree?”

  Bonnie said, “I’m trying to remember what Mr. Molloy looked like. I really never paid any attention. They arrived late, had a quick dinner, and went to their cabin.”

  Seth said, “Any suggestions on how we can find out whether it is the young lady in the picture?”

  “Ask her,” Jim said.

  “That’s too touchy,” I said. “What if it isn’t her? It would be a horrible mistake.”

  Seth stood and arched his back. “I get stiff sitting too long,” he said.

  “Are you going to take Craig Morrison up on his offer to go flying?” Bonnie asked as we walked to the dining room.

  “No,” Seth answered for me.

  I shot him a disapproving look.

  “Maybe you’d like a Jeep ride up in the mountains, Jess,” Jim said. “Pretty day for it. I don’t suppose you’re up for it, Seth.”

  “The last thing I need is to go bouncing around in a Jeep,” Seth said. “Hurts me just to think about it.”

  “I’d love to go,” I said. “Do you mind, Seth?”

  “Of course not. You go ahead and enjoy it. I intend to spend a quiet day on my porch in a rocking chair. You’ll be back by lunch?”

  “Sure will,” Jim said. “Fish fry on the island.”

  Jim had a few chores to do before we could leave. I sat in front of the lodge and watched some of the Morrison family come from their cabins and head for the corral. Evelyn, dressed in her well-tailored riding gear, stood on her porch with Pauline. Judging from her posture, she was angry at something and was obviously uttering harsh words at her granddaughter. Evelyn stormed from the porch and joined her brother, Robert, who’d just come from his cabin. I watched them go to the corral, then looked again at Pauline. The teenager, head lowered, slowly opened the door and disappeared inside.

  I crossed the grassy area, stepped up onto the porch of Evelyn’s cabin, and said through the screen door, “Pauline?”

  “What?” she asked. I could tell from her voice that she’d been crying.

  “It’s Jessica Fletcher. I wonder if we could talk.”

  She appeared on the other side of the screen. “Mrs. Fletcher, I—”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she disappeared from my view. I turned to see what she’d reacted to. Evelyn Morrison stood at the foot of the steps, eyes blazing, lips set in a thin, angry line.

  “I saw that your granddaughter wasn’t going riding this morning and thought we might—”

  “Stay away from her,” Evelyn said.

  “I only thought that—”

  “She has nothing to say to you.”

  “Mrs. Morrison, I—”

  “Stay away from my granddaughter. Do I make myself clear?” The venom in her voice was palpable.

  As I walked away, I could feel her eyes boring into my back. What, I wondered, would cause her to be so strident over my wanting to speak with her granddaughter?

  As I passed other cabins, I saw Cousin Willy sitting on his porch.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “‘Morning.”

  “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day. You’re not riding?”

  “No. I’ve had it with horses, especially after what happened to your friend.”

  “It was a freak accident.”

  “Stupid Godfrey did it.”

  “Godfrey? Oh, with his camera. He didn’t mean anything, I suppose. He wasn’t thinking.”

  “He never does.”

  I laughed. “Are the police still looking for Mrs. Molloy?”

  “I guess so. I saw them a little bit ago.”

  “Have they had any luck?”

  He shrugged.

  He seemed willing to talk, and I wanted to keep the conversation going. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  Another shrug.

  I sat next to him. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much last night. There were dark circles beneath his eyes; a day’s growth of beard added to the look of dissipation. He wore a white shirt, gray slacks, and loafers that needed polishing.

  “Quite a family you have, Willy. Is Willy all right, or is it William? Bill?”

  “Everybody calls me Willy. I hate it. It’s William.”

  “How are the family business meetings going?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

  “I don’t know. They don’t need meetings. They don’t include me. Evelyn makes all the decisions anyway. They say they’re meeting so they can write the week off on their taxes.”

  “Terrible, isn’t it, what happened to Mr. Molloy? And now his wife is missing.”

  “Chris says she killed him.”

  “So I’ve heard. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does the rest of your family say?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I just thought—”

  “I wish t
his week were over. I hate it here.”

  “That’s a shame. It’s such a beautiful ranch.” He hadn’t looked at me as he talked, as though he were speaking to some unseen person beyond the porch. Now he turned and fixed me with his watery green eyes. “How come you ask so many questions?”

  “Was I? Asking questions? I didn’t mean anything by it. Just my natural curious self at work, I guess. Writers tend to be curious.”

  “I’m a writer, too.”

  “Are you? What sort of things do you write?” “Science fiction.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t read much science fiction. Have you been published?”

  “No. I don’t write what publishers want. I write what I like to write. The publishers don’t understand what I’m doing. All they care about is big bucks and big names.” I’d heard that rationalization before from unpublished writers, and wasn’t about to challenge him.

  “I’d like to read something you’ve written, William.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I brought a short story with me.”

  “Let me see it.”

  He returned from the cabin and handed me a manuscript.

  “I’ll read it tonight,” I said. “Does your family like what you write?”

  He guffawed. “They don’t like anything I do, especially Evelyn and Craig. Always on my back. Don’t do this, Willy. Don’t say that, Willy.”

  I felt sorry for him. He evidently was considered the family black sheep, the loser, a disappointment to the others.

  “I’m going on a Jeep ride in a few minutes with Jim Cook. Care to join us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I saw Jim driving one of two Jeeps out of a garage. “I think I’d better go,” I said. “Looks like my ride is ready.”

  I stepped down from the porch and was walking away when Willy stopped me with “That Mrs. Molloy who’s missing.”

  I turned. “What about her?”

  “I saw her last night.”

  I returned to the porch. “When last night?”

  “I don’t know. About six maybe.”

  “Six? Where did you see her?”

  “At her cabin. The honeymoon one.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t come on the ride. Did you talk to her?”

  “No. The cook, Joel, was with her.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “No. Why should I? They think I’m a jerk. I don’t want to talk to them.”

  “Well, William, you may have to because I’ll tell them.”

  “That’s okay. Hope you like my story.”

  I climbed in the front seat of Jim’s vintage Jeep, open except for a roll bar above our heads.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “Let’s go.”

  As he drove through the ranch’s entrance and turned onto the dirt road, homicide investigator Pitura and two uniformed officers came on foot from the other direction. Jim stopped to talk with them. “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Pitura said. “I’m going to call in reinforcements, dogs, the Necro team, probably a chopper, too.”

  “Doesn’t look good, does it?” Jim said.

  “No, it doesn’t. Off for a ride, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t need me, do you?” Jim asked.

  “No, you go on. Best to keep things as normal as possible for you and your guests.”

  “I appreciate that. We’ll be back by lunch.”

  We started up a hill on the road we’d followed on the supper ride, but Jim quickly branched off onto an even narrower trail. Bushes on either side were so close we had to keep ducking to avoid being hit in the face by their branches.

  “Hope you don’t mind a rough ride,” Jim said, continually shifting gears to adjust to the terrain.

  “Not at all,” I said, raising my voice over the loud sound of the Jeep’s straining engine.

  After traveling fifteen minutes, we stopped in a clearing and got out to stretch. He led me to a ponderosa pine tree. “Watch what happens when I scratch this,” he said, using his thumbnail to dig into the bark. “Smell it.”

  “Smells like caramel.”

  “That’s right. Some smell like vanilla.”

  “It’s such a beautiful place you and Bonnie now call home.”

  “We love it, Jess. We count our blessings every day.”

  Before resuming the journey, Jim pointed out various flowers on the perimeter of the clearing. The variety of color was breathtaking. Since moving to Colorado, my friend had become an expert on local flora and fauna and enjoyed demonstrating it. He pointed out white flowers called bedstraw used by early settlers to pack their mattresses and pillows; wild iris, one of three poisonous plants in the area; Canadian pistils; Indian paintbrush, which Jim said was named for a mythical Indian artist who, legend had it, cried over a slain lover, each teardrop becoming a bush; yellow Powderhorn orchids and sun-bursts; violet stonecrop, purple tansy asters, red rose hips, and dozens of others.

  “Ready to move on?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course. I was thinking of what a cruel contrast the beauty of this place makes with murder.”

  “I’m trying not to think about it, Jess. Come on. There’s lots more to see.”

  We drove into an area Jim described as “BLM” land, belonging to the Bureau of Land Management, a federal agency. He pointed to a grassy patch with multiple tombstones. “That’s the Powderhorn cemetery, Jess. Want to guess how many dead people are buried there?”

  I laughed. “How many dead people are buried there, Jim?”

  “All of ’em. We don’t bury live people out here.”

  The higher we climbed, the more Jim had to maneuver the Jeep to keep it going. It took a few minutes to extricate ourselves from deep mud, and to navigate a particularly steep, rocky incline. But the Jeep came through, thanks to Jim’s skillful handling.

  “Look,” Jim said, pointing to the sky.

  “A bald eagle.”

  “We’ve got a family of them living on the east side of the ranch,” he said. “They stay with us most of the year. Once the water freezes, they move west.”

  We continued our bone-jarring ride, stopping from time to time for Jim to point out something, and to take videos of me admiring the scenery. One of our stops was a former copper mine. “A town called Copperville was here years ago, sort of a tent city. About a thousand people worked the mines until the price of copper crashed. They bulldozed the mine and everybody moved out.”

  “Was there much mining in this area?” I asked.

  “There sure was. Gold, silver, tin. The government came in here back in the fifties and found uranium.”

  “Uranium? For making bombs?”

  “Yup. The government cut all these roads you see.”

  “Did they use it?” I asked.

  “Evidently not. Cooler heads prevailed and decided we didn’t need as many bombs as they originally thought.”

  “And this is government land?”

  “No, it’s not, Jess. This is privately owned.”

  “By you?”

  “Nope. This piece of land sits between our ranch and the Bureau of Land Management land.”

  “Who owns it?” I asked. “A local?”

  “Wrong again. Bonnie and I checked the land records when we bought the Powderhorn. It’s registered in the name of a company in Denver. Some sort of real estate trust, I suppose. The V.S. Company.”

  “What does this V.S. Company plan to do with it, Jim? Mine it? Build a ranch?”

  “Couldn’t make a ranch out of it. Too hilly. Mine it? Always a possibility, I suppose. All I know is that since we opened the ranch, we haven’t seen anybody here. Probably just a long-term investment. You know, sit on it for fifty years and hope it goes up in value. Ready to head back?”

  “Sure. This has been wonderful.”

  “I love coming up in the hills, Jess. This is such a special place. In the
winter there isn’t a sound. The creek is under three or four feet of ice, and the birds are all gone. You can’t hear the dogs because they’re running on snow. Sometimes I think somebody’s behind me, but when I look around, I realize it’s just my own blood pressure making noise inside me.”

  Before getting in the Jeep for the ride back to the ranch, Jim pointed to snow-capped mountains in the distance. We call that Indian snow,” he said.

  Sensing a joke coming, I asked, “Why do you call it Indian snow, Jim?”

  “Well, there’s A-patchy here, and A-patchy there.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s the only thing I miss in the winter out here, somebody to tell jokes to. Bonnie’s heard them all too many times.”

  We knew something was wrong the minute we reached the road leading to the ranch. A marked Gunnison County Sheriff’s Department vehicle was posted at the entrance, lights flashing. Another was inside the ranch, but visible from the road. A number of people milled about on the tiny island next to Cebolla Creek, where the fish fry lunch was scheduled.

  The officer with the car at the entrance waved us through. Bonnie stood in front of the office. The minute she saw us, she ran to where Jim parked near the lodge.

  “What’s going on?” Jim asked.

  “They’ve found Mrs. Molloy,” Bonnie said.

  Jim and I looked at each other.

  Bonnie pointed to the island. “Over there,” she said, “in the smoker.”

  Jim took long, quick strides to the island, with me close behind. It seemed that every member of the Powderhorn staff was there. So was Seth Hazlitt. “She’s dead?” I said to him.

  “Ayuh. They found her about a half hour ago. Some of the staff were on the island, getting ready for the fish fry. One of them stumbled upon the body.”

  Bob Pitura came to us.

  “Who found her?” I asked.

  “The cook, Joel. He was down here setting up for lunch.”

  I looked past Pitura to where Geraldine Molloy’s body rested on the grass, covered by a yellow sheet.

  “She was in that box?” I asked.

  “It’s a smoker,” Pitura said.

  “For smoking meats and fish?”

  “Right.”

  “Was it going to be used for the lunch?”

  “I don’t know.” Pitura waved for Jim to join us. “Jim, was that cooker being used today for the fish fry?”