Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Jessica Fletcher

  “How did you know Craig wasn’t your natural father?”

  “I heard her talk on the phone about it.”

  “Heard who?”

  “My mother. She doesn’t know I know.”

  “But you knew nothing about Mr. Molloy?”

  “No, I—”

  Godfrey ran to us, followed by Jon. “Ready to head back?” Jon asked.

  Pauline and I looked at each other. I tried to convey empathy and sympathy with my eyes, smile, and nod of my head. Whether the message reached her is conjecture. We slowly loaded what was left from the picnic into the suburban and emptied the trash into a wire basket. I was about to enter the vehicle when another car pulled up, driven by homicide investigator Pitura.

  “Jim Cook told me you’d come on the raft trip, Mrs. Fletcher. I figured I’d catch you before you went back to the ranch.”

  “Your timing is perfect,” I said. “We were just on our way.”

  “How about me driving you back? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  “See you later,” Jon said, starting the suburban and pulling away. I got in next to Pitura.

  “Let’s go over to the office,” he said. “Sheriff Murdie would like to see you.”

  “Something official?”

  “I don’t know. By the way, the Molloys did fly into Gunnison early Sunday evening. Last flight out of Denver. They rented a car at the airport.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It wouldn’t be except for their telling you they’d been driving around seeing the country.”

  “Why would they say that?”

  “I assumed you’d have that figured out.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  The Gunnison County Sheriff’s office was in a two-story yellow building in Courthouse Square, at the comer of Virginia Avenue and Iowa Street. Sheriff Murdie’s office was small and neat, with a single window. I noticed the motto over his desk Pitura had mentioned: “We will do the impossible at once, miracles take a little longer, magic will be practiced tomorrow.” Murdie was dressed as casually as when we’d first been introduced.

  “Good to see you again, Mrs. Fletcher. Please, sit down.”

  We passed a few casual comments before he got to the point. “Mrs. Fletcher, Bob tells me you’ve been asking plenty of questions out at Powderhorn.”

  “I hope I haven’t been too obvious. Let’s just say I’ve been doing a lot of socializing.”

  Murdie smiled. “I always appreciate a good euphemism. What sort of answers have you been getting? I mean, during your socializing.”

  It was my turn to smile. “Dribs and drabs.”

  “Care to share them with us?”

  “I’d like to very much.”

  “Good. In a few days the Morrison family will be leaving, which makes it more difficult for us. We’ll follow up as much as we need to, but it’s always easier, and often more productive, to have suspects nearby.”

  “I can imagine.”

  During the next half hour, I was pleased that much of the information I’d managed to gather wasn’t a surprise to the sheriff or Bob Pitura. The Gunnison Country Times reporter, Nancy O’Keefe, had shared with them her knowledge of Paul Molloy’s past as an alleged arms dealer. I was able to add that the woman in the Denver cabal, Veronica Schwinn, was now Mrs. Craig Morrison.

  As we spoke, I remembered Jim Cook saying that according to the deed, the land between his ranch and that owned by the Bureau of Land Management was owned by a Denver group called the V.S. Company. V.S.? Veronica Schwinn? I added that possibility to the mix.

  When we’d finished exchanging information, Sheriff Murdie ended the meeting. “I appreciate your sharing with us what you know, Mrs. Fletcher. I believe in getting information from every possible source. You’re helping fill in the picture.”

  “But there are still too many pieces missing.”

  “We’ll find them,” Murdie said. “In the meantime, a word of advice.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take any risks. There’s still a killer at large at the Powderhorn.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I said. “Don’t worry. I may be curious, but I’m not foolhardy.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Once outside, Pitura asked if I minded making a stop at the airport on our way back to the ranch.

  “Not at all. It’s only three o’clock. Ever since taking flying lessons, I’m fascinated with airplanes. I could watch them take off and land all day.”

  “Good. Maybe there’ll be some air traffic for you to enjoy. I have to meet with someone for twenty minutes, a half hour at the most.”

  “Take your time.”

  The airport was busy when we arrived, busier than I thought such a small field would be. Pitura mentioned that in ski season it really hops, its extraordinarily long runway accommodating even huge 747s. A Rocky Mountain Air Express flight touched down as we walked from the parking lot into the small, modern terminal. A few private planes, Cessnas and Pipers, came and went.

  “I’ll be meeting upstairs,” Pitura said. “Grab yourself a soft drink in the coffee shop. I’ll catch up with you there.”

  I settled at the counter, ordered an iced tea, and looked out the window at the runway. As I did, the flight crew from the Rocky Mountain Air Express that had just landed—captain, first officer, and flight attendant—came into the shop and took stools next to me. The flight attendant, a pert, shapely, middle-aged woman, looked at me, screwed up her face, and said, “You’re Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “I’ve read every book you’ve ever written. I recognized you from all your photos on the book jackets.”

  “Nice of you to mention it.”

  She introduced me to her two male colleagues.

  “Where do you get your ideas for stories,” the youthful captain asked.

  “Oh, from many sources,” I said. “But frankly, I’m more interested in what you do.”

  They laughed. “All we do is take passengers from one place to another,” said the first officer, even younger than the captain. “Pretty dull.”

  “Not to me,” I said. “I just started taking flying lessons.”

  “Really?”

  I told them how it came about, and that I was about to make my first solo flight. I didn’t mention my other solo flight with Craig Morrison. They were sincerely interested in my decision to learn to fly and asked many questions. I eventually shifted the subject back to them. “You say it gets dull flying commercially. Why? Too much of a routine?”

  “Something like that,” the captain said.

  “It’s not always dull,” the first officer said, finishing off a piece of apple pie. “You should have been with us Monday.”

  “Why?”

  “It was rough,” said the captain, “the roughest I’ve ever seen.”

  The first officer and flight attendant agreed.

  “Everything was flying around the cabin,” the flight attendant said. “I’ve flown in heavy weather before, but this was something else.”

  “Was it at night?” I asked.

  “Afternoon and night,” the captain said. “All crews reported heavy turbulence.”

  “That weather missed us,” I said.

  “Where were you?”

  “The Powderhorn Guest Ranch.”

  “Just far enough away,” said the pilot.

  They paid, told me to keep up the flying lessons—“Apply for a job with us when you’ve got your ticket”—and left, passing Bob Pitura as he came in to the coffee shop.

  “See, I wasn’t too long,” he said.

  “I enjoyed myself. Had a conversation with that flight crew.”

  “Swapping piloting tales?”

  “Something like that. I think I have something else to share with you and the sheriff.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  “I’ll fill you in on the ride back.”


  Chapter Twenty

  Because the island next to Cebolla Creek was still sealed off—even if it weren’t, it’s doubtful any of us would have wanted to gather there around a campfire to toast marshmallows and sing songs—the sing-along was relocated to an area on the other side of the lodge. That Jim and Bonnie didn’t cancel it was further testimony to their determination to keep things running as normally as possible, murder be dammed.

  Every Thursday at the Powderhorn was a Thanks-giving of sorts; the dinner menu was turkey with all the holiday trimmings, capped by a superb creamy pumpkin pie.

  “We’ll meet for the sing-along and s’mores right after dark,” Bonnie said. “Wear sweaters. It’ll get chilly.”

  “I never even want to think about food again,” I said to Seth as we left the lodge and started a walk in the hope of burning off some of the meal.

  “I was wondering during dinner why there aren’t any fat cowboys.”

  “There must be.”

  “Ever see one?”

  “Now that you challenge me, I must admit I haven’t. Being around horses all the time must speed up your metabolism.”

  We walked past the stable and down the main road, following Cebolla Creek, accompanied by its bubbling, musical sound. At one point, Seth stopped and did a slow hundred-and-eighty degree turn to ensure we were alone before asking, “Are you sure it’s the way you want to go about this, Jessica?”

  “Quite sure. Do you see any problems with it?”

  “Always the possibility of a problem where murderers are concerned.”

  “I mean, do you see any gaps in my reasoning?”

  He laughed softly. “That’s always a loaded question, coming from you, Jessica.”

  “I’ll take that to mean you don’t see any ... gaps.”

  “What I think isn’t as important as what the sheriff and his sidekick, Pitura, think. You went over the entire plan with them?”

  “Yes. When I told Bob Pitura what I’d learned at the airport, he insisted we turn around and go back to Sheriff Murdie’s office. I discussed every aspect of it with them. They think it might work.”

  “And you talked to that reporter, O’Keefe?”

  “Right. When I was finished with the sheriff and Pitura, I caught up with her at the paper. Her final bits of intelligence made me realize how right I am.”

  “Should be quite an evening.”

  “If it goes the way I plan.”

  “Had a chance to run it by Jim and Bonnie yet?”

  “I talked briefly with Jim. We agreed to get together after the sing-along, at their house.”

  “Am I invited?”

  “You’re the guest of honor, Seth.”

  Despite the change of venue, the gathering around the campfire was pleasant and entertaining. Most of the Morrison clan was there, the two teenagers and Cousin William the absentees. One of the wranglers, Andy Wilson, a lovely young man from Texas, sang and played the guitar. He had a plaintive voice filled with emotion, especially when he sang a song written by the country singer Ricky Skaggs, “Thanks Again,” which Andy sang as a tribute to his own parents of whom he’d often spoken during the week.

  Seth and I returned to my cabin following the sing-along and waited until Jim and Bonnie had cleaned up the area and returned to their house. We checked that no one was outside my cabin before leaving, and joined them in their living room.

  “Now,” Jim said, “let’s go over what you told me this afternoon.”

  “Okay. Your local reporter, Nancy O‘Keefe, has a close friend in Washington, D.C. He’s a journalist, with a ton of close connections within the government, particularly the intelligence community. He fed Ms. O’Keefe the background on Paul Molloy.”

  “The arms dealing?” Bonnie said.

  “Right. When Ms. O‘Keefe mentioned that some intelligence agency had learned of negotiations between Molloy and Libya concerning the sale of weapons-grade uranium, I thought back to our Jeep ride. Molloy wanted that land you showed me. By the way, the owner, the V.S. Company, is actually the Morrison family. Veronica Morrison’s maiden name was Schwinn. She’s the ‘VS’ in the V.S. Company.”

  “Are you saying that Mr. Molloy was murdered over that land?” Bonnie asked.

  “I believe so,” I said.

  “What about Mrs. Molloy?” Jim asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe our little show Saturday night will answer that question.”

  “What about that picture of the youngster, Pauline?” Jim asked. “If she is Molloy’s daughter, wouldn’t that be a stronger motive for murder than a business conflict over a piece of land?”

  “It could be, but I don’t think it was the reason for Molloy’s murder. The question is, can we do tomorrow what I’ve suggested?”

  Jim and Bonnie looked at each other.

  “I think so,” Jim said.

  “It’ll have to be away from the ranch,” Seth said. “We can’t arouse anyone’s suspicion.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Jim said. “The Morrisons are taking an all-day ride up into the hills. They’ll be gone from nine till four.”

  “The staff can’t know, either,” I said.

  “How about the Powderhorn Community Center?” Bonnie suggested.

  “I pointed it out to you on Sunday coming in from the airport,” Jim said.

  “I remember it,” I said. “It won’t be used tomorrow?”

  “Seldom is,” Bonnie said. “Mostly evening functions. It should be yours for the day.”

  “Perfect. Can we go there right after the group leaves on the ride?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ll have the video you’ve been shooting with you?”

  “Yup.”

  Seth and I walked back to our cabins.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep,” I said.

  “A little too much adventure, Jessica?”

  I laughed. “It’s more than I bargained for when we came here,” I said. “Two murders. You falling off a horse. International arms dealers. An illegitimate daughter. A hair-raising plane ride. Yes, enough adventure to last a long time.”

  “And more to come. Good night, Jessica. No matter what happens, you know I’m with you.”

  “Just as you’ve always been.” I kissed his cheek, and we hugged. And I wiped a tear from my eye as I walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Jim Cook, Seth, a video technician from the Gunnison Sheriff’s Department, and I spent almost all day Friday at the Community Center, Powderhorn’s former one-room schoolhouse that was closed when the kids started being bussed to Gunnison, then sold to the town by the school board. It had a small stage with a curtain like a large window shade, on which Gunnison businesses bought advertising space. I felt guilty keeping Jim from his duties at the ranch, but every time I mentioned it, he replied with his usual engaging laugh, “Bonnie will handle it, Jess. She does everything anyway. I’m just the handsome, suave figurehead.”

  The video tech returned to Gunnison, and we arrived back at the ranch minutes before the Morrisons rode in from their all-day outing on horseback. At dinner—it was pizza night, the best I’ve ever eaten—Jim detailed the next day’s activities. There would be the morning ride at nine, then a gymkhana at two in the afternoon in which guests would compete on horseback for prizes to be awarded Saturday night, along with awards for the biggest fish caught, and a showing of the week’s videotape.

  “I see the police are no longer here,” Evelyn said.

  Chris Morrison’s laugh was derisive. “Those clowns have probably given up. They ought to stick to getting cats out of trees and finding lost dogs.”

  “To the contrary,” Jim said. “I heard this afternoon that they’ve narrowed in on the killer.”

  All eyebrows went up.

  “Who is he?” Veronica asked.

  “A drifter who settled in here a few months back. He’s been camping out in the shack Uncle Irvy used to live in.”

 
“Who’s Uncle Irvy?” Robert Morrison asked.

  “A hermit, a strange loner but a decent man. His shack is back in the hills near one of the abandoned mines. Lived off the land, always filthy—”

  “But sweet,” Bonnie added.

  “What about this drifter?” Craig asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Not sure,” Jim said. “They say he’s a distant relation of Alfred Packer.”

  “The cannibal?” Robert Morrison asked.

  “One and the same,” Jim said. “Packer killed and ate five men to get through a severe winter back in the late eighteen-seventies. He was convicted in Lake City, but never hanged. The judge told him at the sentencing, ‘You man-eating SOB, there were only seven Democrats in Hinsdale County and you had to go and eat five of ’em.’ They eventually let him out of prison when he was dying of some disease. Governor Lamb pardoned him posthumously about ten years ago because he said Packer did more for Colorado tourism than any other person in the state’s history.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Evelyn said.

  “But true,” Jim said. “Every word of it.”

  “Back to this drifter,” Robert Morrison said. “They’ve arrested him?”

  “I believe so,” Bonnie said. “Have some dessert. We call it Impossible Cherry Pie.”

  I realized I’d been on horseback only twice since arriving at the ranch, and wanted to enjoy it one last time, so I went on the Saturday morning ride. Bonnie also convinced me to take part in the afternoon gymkhana. Seth, understandably, declined any suggestions that he saddle up again. “I’ll be happy to watch and applaud,” he said.

  Pauline Morrison was on the morning ride, along with her grandmother, mother, and father. Pauline and I didn’t speak to each other until we were on the way back and Crystal Kildare, our wrangler, and the Morrison adults had gotten ahead of us, leaving Pauline and me out of their earshot.

  “I hope I didn’t upset you on Thursday,” I said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I have the feeling you did know that Mr. Molloy was your natural father, Pauline.”