Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Why?”

  “Because of how upset you were when he was killed.”

  She said nothing.

  “Pauline, I found your diary at Hidden Lake.”

  Her pretty, freckled young face flared into anger.

  “You have every right to hate me for looking at it, Pauline, but two people have been brutally killed. Mr. Molloy was your biological father.”

  “Pauline, come here!” Evelyn shouted from where she’d stopped on the trail.

  Pauline continued to glare at me, eyes narrowed, lips trembling.

  Evelyn turned her horse and started back.

  “I do hate you,” Pauline said, digging her heels into her horse’s side and riding to meet her grandmother.

  Poor girl, I thought. The family in which she was growing up might be wealthy, but it was morally bankrupt. That didn’t excuse me for having violated her inner thoughts by reading those few pages that comprised her diary. But there are times, I think, when the end does justify the means, in this case to help solve the barbarous murder of a man and a woman. Whether it was wrong of me to intrude upon her private life was something I’d have to grapple with in the days to come. One thing was certain from having read the diary. She not only knew that Craig wasn’t her natural father, she knew it was Paul Molloy.

  After a lunch of chili and toasted cheese sandwiches, we headed for the corral and the gymkhana. I didn’t ride well, but the wranglers enthusiastically applauded my efforts, as did Seth. Although the results wouldn’t be announced until that night, we all knew that Evelyn Morrison would probably win, along with her older son, Craig. Both were skilled riders.

  The dinner steak fry was scheduled to be held on the island, but like the sing-along, was moved to where we’d sat around the bonfire on Thursday night. I’d arranged for Seth and me to host a predinner cocktail party. Bonnie added liquor to the daily shopping list, and Joel and Sue helped us set up. To our surprise, all the adult Morrisons showed up, and they were in good spirits.

  “This is a lovely thing you’re doing,” Robert, Evelyn’s attorney brother, told me. He actually smiled.

  “Our pleasure,” I said. “Always nice to get together for a drink with good people, especially when the cloud of being murder suspects isn’t hanging over our heads any longer.”

  “You were never a suspect,” he said.

  “Not true,” I said. “The sheriff and his people were looking at me and Seth with as much scrutiny as they looked at anyone else. We’re just relieved it’s over.”

  Craig Morrison joined us. “Glad you didn’t stay mad about the flight,” he said, flashing his crooked, thick-lipped smile.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You did me a service. I flew without anyone telling me how to do it and landed safely on a grass strip. I’m rarin’ to go on my solo the minute we get home.”

  “Good for you.”

  As the Morrisons drifted away, Seth whispered in my ear, “Looks like everyone’s considerably more relaxed this evening.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Nice party.”

  “Very nice. It’s good to see everyone in a good mood after such a difficult week.”

  “Hearing that the police have identified the killer as not being from our cozy little group seems to have done wonders for the spirits.”

  I smiled. “As we knew it would. Excuse me. I should mingle with our guests.”

  After dinner of steaks cooked to perfection, we gathered in the lodge’s main room for coffee and the evening’s activities. Jim served as the MC. First on the program was the awarding of prizes. There were no surprises. Evelyn took top honors in the gymkhana, with her son, Craig, coming in second. Seth received an honorary award for “the week’s best fall from a horse.” The two teenagers received token riding prizes, and Godfrey had caught the biggest fish. It wasn’t very big at all, but there had been little fishing that week, to my chagrin. I just knew that trout I’d hooked, and lost, was still there waiting for me.

  “Well, is everyone ready for their screen debut?” Jim asked.

  We indicated we were.

  “Oh, before we get to that,” he said, “I have to tell you a story. Bob Morrison, as most of you know, had a toothache this week. Fortunately, it seems to have healed itself. But I’d called our dentist in Gunnison just in case he was needed. He told me he had a patient come in just that morning with a serious problem.

  “Seems our dentist had made a full upper plate for this patient about six months ago, but the plate was all rotted out. The dentist said he’d never seen anything like it. He asked the patient whether he’d been eating anything unusual.

  “The patient told him his wife is always making asparagus with hollandaise sauce.

  “‘That’s it!’ the dentist said. ‘It’s all that lemon juice in the hollandaise that rotted your upper plate. I’ll make you a new one made out of chrome.’

  “‘Chrome?’ the patient said. ‘That’ll look funny.’

  “Do you know what the dentist told the patient?”

  “What did the dentist tell the patient, Jim?” Seth and I asked in concert.

  He sang his response to the tune of the popular Christmas song: “There’s no plate like chrome for the hollandaise.”

  Mixed groans and laughter from the guests.

  “Okay,” Jim said. “Time for the video of the week’s activities. Fortunately, I didn’t have my camera to document the two unplanned activities—” He paused for effect. “Murder!”

  There was some uncomfortable shifting of chairs.

  “All right,” he said, “Lights! Action! Camera!” Bonnie turned off the lights, and the large TV screen came to life.

  It started with the arrival of guests on Sunday. Seth and I were seen leaving Jim and Bonnie’s house after tea, Socks and Holly racing around our feet, and Jim took additional footage of us on the porch of my cabin. The next group to arrive were the Morrisons, in their limousines from Gunnison, all except Craig, who would fly in later Sunday afternoon.

  There was footage of us at dinner Sunday night. Jim panned our faces, pausing at each, hoping for a reaction. Young Godfrey obliged by sticking out his tongue.

  The Molloys’ late arrival was captured, although Jim was busy and grabbed only a few seconds of them at the table. There were a few postprandial shots of us milling about the lodge, and the staff lined up for a group picture.

  The second segment of the video showed breakfast Monday morning. Then it was out to the corral, where Crystal’s riding lessons were captured. The two groups, the novices and the more experienced, were seen riding from the corral in the direction of the road.

  The staff dominated the next sequence, Jim building a montage of them handling their chores, most of them involving the horses and their care. Chief wrangler Joe Walker was seen treating with tender loving care one of the herd suffering from strangles. Jim must have handed the camera to someone else because his face suddenly filled the screen, and he said, “Joe here knows more about treating horses than any vet I’ve ever met.”

  There were a few random shots of the ranch, some of which included glimpses of the police presence following the discovery of Paul Molloy’s body. Veronica Morrison’s arrival now dominated the screen. She was seen exiting the large suburban vehicle driven by wrangler Jon Adler. It was a wide shot to begin with. But as Socks and Holly joined the Cooks in the greeting, encircling her, Jim zoomed in tight on her feet.

  That shot suddenly froze on the screen. Chris Morrison laughed. “Nice shoes, Veronica.” The longer the still-frame remained, the more comments came from those in the room. Had the camera malfunctioned? some wondered. Was this another Jim Cook joke, video-style?

  Those questions were answered when my face replaced the picture of Veronica’s shoes. “As you know,” my recorded voice said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a guest this week at the Powderhorn, just as you are.”

  “What’s going on?” Robert Morrison asked.

  I answered from the scr
een as the shot of Veronica’s shoes reappeared. “Please notice that her shoes have mud caked on them, and that there are two burrs stuck to the bottom of her slacks.”

  More laughter now. The consensus in the room was that this was a joke.

  “Mrs. Morrison said she arrived by plane Monday afternoon. It rained late Sunday night. Judging from the mud on those shoes, Mrs. Morrison must have been walking at some point on muddy ground.”

  The laughter turned to instant silence.

  “On with the show,” I said.

  A flurry of comments and questions were interrupted as the video started running again, depicting routine ranch activities. As it ran, I quietly got up from where I was sitting and retreated to the dining room, from where I could still see the screen and the people watching it. Joel Louden and Sue Wennington were almost finished cleaning up the dining room and kitchen, stopping frequently in their chores to see what was going on in the darkened other room.

  “What was that all about?” Louden asked me.

  “What?”

  “You on the video talking about her shoes.”

  I laughed lightly. “Oh, just having fun. Stay tuned. There’s more to come.”

  The guests settled down as the video continued to show ranch scenes—the guests captured going about their daily activities; taking riding lessons; Godfrey and his uncle, Chris, fishing; swimming in the pool; lolling in the hot tub next to the pool; gathered for meals in the dining room; all those things that guests of the Powderhorn Guest Ranch have been enjoying for years.

  But then the scene on the screen faded into another one distinctly not of ranch life. Reporter Nancy O’Keefe was seated in her office at the newspaper. What the audience couldn’t see was the video technician rom the sheriff’s office taping her from behind the camera. He’d done it the night before we went to work at the Powderhorn Community Center.

  “I’m Nancy O’Keefe, a reporter for the Gunnison Country Times. Gunnison may be a small town, and this newspaper a small town paper, but that doesn’t mean we don’t chase big stories.”

  This interruption in the ranch video—the Morrisons were well aware of the departure from the standard Saturday night video because they’d sat through it when they’d been guests before—caused another round of questions.

  “There have been two murders at the Powderhorn,” Nancy continued. “A Paul Molloy and his alleged wife, Geraldine. But of course, you already know that. What you don’t know is who they really were, and I’m here to tell you.”

  “Hey, what the hell is going on here?” Craig Morrison asked loudly, looking for Jim Cook in the darkness.

  Veronica, who sat between her husband and her mother-in-law, Evelyn, turned and looked back to where I stood. I had the feeling she was about to get up and leave.

  Nancy O’Keefe continued. “Paul Molloy was once reputed to be an international arms dealer, peddling weapons to rogue countries at odds with the United States. They never convicted him of anything, or at least that was the official line. In reality, they cut a deal with him. By ‘them’ I mean the government. They let him off the hook in return for helping them, the government, identify others in the same dirty business. That’s why he came to the Powderhorn Ranch, to help in an investigation.”

  Veronica stood. So did Jim Cook. “Why don’t you stay through to the end,” he said to her.

  “What’s the point of this,” Robert Morrison asked.

  Jim put his index finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh,” he said. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  “The woman who said she was Paul Molloy’s wife, Geraldine, was a government agent,” O’Keefe continued. “She’d been working undercover on this case for the U.S. Customs Department.”

  Veronica started to leave, but her husband grabbed her arm. “Relax, sweetie. You can’t walk out on a good movie. You’ll miss the ending.”

  I replaced Nancy O‘Keefe on the screen. “I’ve been taking flying lessons. If I hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have spent time at the Gunnison Airport on Thursday. Interesting what you can learn talking to pilots. They said the flying weather on Monday afternoon was terrible, the worst they’d ever seen. You, Mrs. Morrison—may I call you Veronica?—you said you’d flown in to Gunnison on Monday, but you also said the flight was ‘smooth as silk.’ I think you arrived on Sunday. The weather on Sunday was smooth—as silk.”

  Scenes from Seth’s fall from his horse, and his rescue up the steep incline, now flooded the screen.

  Bonnie raised the lights slightly, allowing people to see each other, as well as the video.

  Veronica stood again, shook off her husband’s grasp, and made her way to where I stood with Joel Louden, the cook. She gave me a hard look, then turned to see who would follow her. No one did. Although the video continued to run, all eyes were now on us.

  “Veronica,” I said, now speaking directly, “there’s no sense leaving. The sheriff and his people are outside waiting for you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “I think you know that what I’m saying is correct—Ms. Schwinn.”

  My use of her maiden name startled her. The defiant look was replaced by a flash of panic. It lasted only a second.

  “When did you and Mr. Molloy have your affair?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This.” I handed her the photo of Pauline that had been in Molloy’s wallet. She looked at it, made a disgusted face, and dropped the photo to the floor.

  “You go back a long way, don’t you?” I said, referring to her and Paul Molloy.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Correct, except your long-standing relationship resulted in his murder—and the murder of a government undercover agent.”

  I don’t know what tended to unravel her more, what I was saying, or the fact no one came from the main room to stand by her.

  “Why did you kill him?” I asked.

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Are we being literal?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You might not have rammed the rasp into his chest, or bludgeoned Geraldine—by the way, her real name was Geraldine Jankowksi—but you ordered it done.”

  “I’ve had enough. Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re in my way and I don’t like it.”

  As she slowly, nonchalantly walked to the door, I turned to Joel Louden. “Going with her?” I asked.

  Veronica’s departure brought others from the main room. The rest of the Morrison adults stood close together, their faces void of expression.

  I smiled at them. “You all knew what she was up to, didn’t you?”

  “You’ve got your killer,” Evelyn said. “Now I suggest we all go to our cabins and enjoy what’s left of the evening.”

  I again looked at Louden. “Well?” I asked.

  He looked from person to person, then directly at me.

  “She’s waiting for you, Joel. You should have stuck to a hot kitchen. The heat put on a murderer is more than anyone can bear.”

  Louden bolted from us, flung open the door, and rushed outside where Sheriff Murdie, Investigator Pitura, and four uniformed officers stood in a group. We followed. Veronica Morrison could be seen walking toward the road. Louden ran after her.

  “They’re heading for the air strip,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to go after them?” Jim Cook asked Sheriff Murdie.

  “No need,” I said. “They aren’t flying anywhere tonight.” I held up the key for the Cessna parked at the grass strip. I’d taken it earlier in the day from beneath the left-hand seat.

  “Round them up at the strip,” Murdie told his uniformed men.

  Pitura said to the Morrisons, “I think we should go back inside and do some talking. I’m sure there are a few questions Mrs. Fletcher and I would like answered.”

  We filed back into the lodge. The only person who hadn’t come outside was Pauline Morrison. She was crou
ched on the floor, her discarded childhood picture in her hands. I bent over, placed my hand on her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”

  She responded by crushing the picture in her hand and running out into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Veronica Morrison and Joel Louden were taken away by Gunnison police to be charged with the murder of Paul Molloy and Geraldine Jankowski. The rest of the Morrison family asked to have limousines dispatched immediately to the ranch to drive them to Gunnison, where they’d ordered a private jet to pick them up.

  “I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Cook, that you will never see us again at this ranch,” Robert Morrison said.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jim said, glancing at Bonnie and stifling a smile. She, too, was successful at masking her giddiness.

  While the Morrisons packed, Seth and I sat with Jim and Bonnie in their living room, a large picture window affording a view of the ranch.

  “Bob Pitura says he doesn’t think charges can be brought against the rest of the family, at least not for these murders,” Jim said, “but he’s passing along whatever he has to federal authorities. If what you say is true, Jess, this family business is more than land development.”

  “I suspect that’s the case,” I said. “The only reason Mr. Molloy and Ms. Jankowski could have had for being here was to investigate the Morrisons’ plans for the land adjacent to your ranch.”

  “What upsets me is that we hired the actual killer.” Bonnie wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered. “We never should have taken Joel on without checking his background.”

  “You were in a bind,” Seth offered. “Happens to everyone.”

  “He certainly wasn’t reluctant to talk,” Jim said. “Started babbling the minute they put the cuffs on him down at the landing strip. Ms. Veronica Morrison was quite the swinger, having an affair all those years ago with Molloy when they were secret partners in arms dealing, and sleeping with Joel. No wonder her husband didn’t offer a word on her behalf. Probably happy to see her spend the rest of her life in jail.”

  “The grandmother, too,” Seth said. “No love lost there.”