(12/40) Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

by Donald Bain

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

  “Joel said Veronica convinced him to put that other rasp on the grass to focus suspicion on the wranglers,” Jim said.

  “And he claims it was Veronica who shoved it into Molloy, although I doubt that,” Seth said. “He admits they confronted Molloy together. Seems more likely that he did the deadly deed, with her cheering him on.”

  “How did you narrow in on him, Jess?” Bonnie asked.

  “No one thing, Bonnie, just an amalgamation of factors. He lied about having been the last person to see her alive when he brought dinner to the honeymoon cabin. Sue was supposed to do it, but Joel switched the schedule at the last minute. Also, he took off Sunday night to—I think you said—see a friend in Gunnison. That gave him the opportunity to pick up Veronica, drive her back here for her clandestine meeting with Molloy, kill him, then drive her back to town. The fact that he just seemed to show up here when you needed a substitute cook and was from Las Vegas, where Molloy had been living, added to the mix. I suggested to Bob Pitura that he check Gunnison motels. Sure enough, the night clerk at one of them identified Joel from a photo I took off the bulletin board in front of the lodge. It was convenient having all those Polaroid shots of staff. The clerk said Joel checked in late Sunday night with a stunning blond woman, but left a half hour after arriving. I’m sure that same clerk will identify Veronica, too, when he’s shown a picture of her.”

  “By the way, Jessica, did you ever figure out who was spying on you down by the creek?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter. No harm came from it. I have a feeling it was William, Cousin Willy. A sad soul. I read his science fiction story. It was, to be kind, not very good.”

  “We owe a debt to Nancy O’Keefe,” Bonnie said.

  “We certainly do,” I said. “Without her, none of Molloy’s background would be known to us.”

  “I’ll give her a call and see if she’d like to have brunch tomorrow. Plenty of food now that we’re the only ones here, along with the staff. I’ll see if Bob and April Pitura and Sheriff Murdie and his wife can make it, too.”

  “Looks like I’m back in the kitchen,” Bonnie said.

  “And a good thing,” Jim said. “Bonnie’s as good a cook as anybody we hire.”

  “Poor Pauline,” I said. “Not only is she the daughter of someone other than the man supposed to be her father, her mother is about to be charged with double murder.”

  “Breaks your heart,” Bonnie said.

  “I just hope she has the strength to overcome it,” I said.

  The limos arrived, and the Morrisons got in them without another word to anyone. We stood in front of the house and watched them drive away. Jim waved. Bonnie was no longer able to keep her pleasure under wraps, and sighed with relief. We all did.

  “Glad to be rid of them,” Jim said. “All season long we have the nicest people in the world coming here, good and decent folks who enjoy themselves. After a week, it becomes one big family. Lots of them stay close long after they’re gone.”

  Socks ran up and offered me a stick.

  “No, you don’t,” I said.

  “I think he deserves a little play,” Seth said, pulling the stick from the dog’s mouth and throwing it.

  “You’re breaking the rules,” I said.

  “Seems you’ve been breaking them ever since we got here, Jessica.”

  Sheriff Murdie couldn’t accept Jim’s invitation for Sunday morning brunch, but the Pituras did, along with Nancy O’Keefe.

  “Sorry to see you folks leave,” Pitura said. “Enjoy your stay?”

  “It was ... an adventure,” I answered.

  “You and Seth had better make plans to get back here, and soon,” Jim said. “I promise you there won’t be any more murders.”

  “Happy to take you up on your offer,” Seth said, helping himself to another stack of pancakes. “Anxious to get back on a horse.”

  “Even after what happened to you?” Bonnie asked.

  “Nothing like a little adventure in one’s life. Am I right, Jessica?”

  “Yes, Seth, you are right.”

  “I always knew it was Joel,” Sue Wennington said as she cleared my plate. “He was a wierdo.”

  “Turned out that way,” I said.

  “You know, Bonnie, I’m a real good cook,” Sue said. “Happy to take Joel’s place for the rest of the season.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on it,” Bonnie said. “Isn’t it time we headed for the airport?”

  “Certainly is,” Jim said.

  “We’ll take you into town,” April Pitura said.

  “Thanks, but we want to spend every possible minute with our friends from Maine,” Bonnie said. “It’s been too long.”

  “We’ll be anxious to hear how things turn out,” I said.

  “I’ll keep Jim and Bonnie informed,” Pitura said.

  We arrived at the airport in plenty of time for our flight to Denver, connecting there for a Boston plane. We kissed, hugged, and shed some tears.

  “Remember now,” said Bonnie, “you promised to come back within the year.”

  “Count on it,” I said. “I might even fly us here once I have my pilot’s license.”

  Seth coughed.

  “Before you go,” Jim said, “I don’t think I told you about my experience with a snake when I was driving guests in the Jeep a while back.”

  “A snake?” I asked.

  “Yup. Biggest snake I ever saw. Stopped just before I ran him over. His name was Nate.”

  “A snake named Nate,” Seth said. “I sense one of your stories coming on.”

  Jim laughed and continued. “I got talking to this snake and asked him what he was doing in the middle of the road. He pointed to a big bush with his tail end and told me it was his responsibility to keep anyone from pulling a lever in the middle of that bush. He said that if anyone pulled the lever, the world would blow up. By now, the guests in the Jeep thought I was crazy talking to a snake, so I got back behind the wheel and took off.

  “I was back on that road alone the next day and there was Nate. Problem was I didn’t see him until it was too late. Ran him over and killed him. You know the moral of this story?”

  “No, Jim, what’s the moral of this story?”

  “Better Nate than lever.”

  Seth and I and four others from Cabot Cove returned to the Powderhorn Guest Ranch ten months later, two weeks after Veronica Morrison and Joel Louden had been convicted and sentenced in a Denver courtroom for the murders of Paul Molloy and Geraldine Jankowski. A month prior to that, major newspapers reported that two companies, Morrison, Ltd. and the V.S. Company, had been indicted for illegal arms sales to Libya. Part of the story focused on their plans to mine uranium on the tract of land between Jim and Bonnie’s ranch and BLM land, under the guise of mining for gold and silver. Briefly mentioned was a former partner in the V.S. Company’s scheme, Paul Molloy, now deceased.

  “Did you ever get your pilot’s license?” Jim asked on our first night at the ranch.

  I proudly handed him my license to fly single-engine, land aircraft.

  “Congratulations,” Bonnie said, then turned to Seth. “Have you been up with her yet?”

  “Haven’t found the time,” he replied.

  I smiled sweetly at him. At least he didn’t express what he’d admitted to me, that he would be uncomfortable going up in a plane with me as the pilot.

  “Always a first time,” Jim said. “How about renting a plane in Gunnison and taking us all for a ride?”

  “When in Powderhorn, do as the Powderhornians do,” I said, not sure whether that’s what residents of Powderhorn were called. “Horses, not planes. Maybe on our next trip here.”

  The second visit was everything the first one wasn’t—no murders, no nasty people—just pleasant rides into the Colorado mountains, delicious food, sing-alongs around a roaring campfire, days and nights spent with wonderful people, and for me a g
ood deal of fishing. I caught a trout my first day on Cebolla Creek and was certain it was the one that got away almost a year before. I gently released him and promised I’d be back again.

  A promise I intend to keep.

  Don’t miss the

  Murder, She Wrote mystery

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Available from Signet

  It had been a long, occasionally frustrating, always exhilarating nine months, an appropriate length of time considering birth was imminent of a Broadway stage version of my latest murder mystery novel, Knock ’Em Dead.

  I’d been involved in every stage of the undertaking—the backers’ audition, casting, working closely with the playwright on the adaptation, and being asked to offer suggestions during the grueling rehearsals, It was a heady experience for someone for whom live theater has always held a special magic.

  At the same time, the artistic temperaments of everyone connected with the show had erupted into a tension level bordering on hysteria, especially on this, the night of dress rehearsal.

  I’d sat through the morning and afternoon technical rehearsals, and returned to my hotel at four to catch a much-needed nap. But I couldn’t sleep. Visions of the theater marquee with my name emblazoned in lights kept flashing before me. It was a dream come true; that it had the potential of becoming a nightmare of conflicted personalities took the edge off my enthusiasm.

  I wasn’t due back at the theater until seven, but because sleep wouldn’t come I showered, dressed, and headed there at five-thirty. The marquee was just as it had been earlier in the day:

  KNOCK ’EM DEAD, A BRILLIANT NEW MURDER MYSTERY—BASED ON THE NOVEL BY JESSICA FLETCHER—DIRECTED BY CYRUS WALPOLE—STARRING APRIL LARSEN—A HARRY SCHRUMM PRODUCTION.

  I carried the pride and excitement of again seeing my name up in lights with me past the security guard and inside to where last-minute preparations were under way for the dress rehearsal. It was, as usual, chaotic: crew members shouting at each other; Cy Walpole, the corpulent British director, barking orders at cast members who’d disappointed him in the previous rehearsal; the actor playing Jerry, the older son, brooding in a darkened comer; the star, April Larsen, pacing back and forth and mouthing her lines to herself; and the producer, Harry Schrumm, scowling as he took it all in.

  “Hello, Harry,” I said.

  He spun around as though I’d referred to him with an obscenity, mumbled something, and stalked away.

  Hanna Shawn, who played the young daughter, Waldine, approached me. “Big night,” she said.

  “I should say so. It seems so far away from being ready, but I suppose you’re used to all this commotion.”

  She laughed. “Never fails, Jessica. There’s always some complication no one thought of to foul things up. But it’ll get done.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Waldine, the character I’d created in the book, was a teenager, but Schrumm insisted she be in her early twenties, Ms. Shawn’s age because, as it was explained to me, she was part of “Harry’s stable” of young lovers.

  But that was only one of many disappointments I’d experienced, none of them serious enough to douse my ardor about seeing one of my books adapted for Broadway, but disconcerting nonetheless.

  The playwright who’d done the adaptation, Aaron Manley, sat at a small table stage left, using a laptop computer and small ink jet printer to write and print out what seemed to be an unending series of rewrites. Although my contract called for me to be consulted on all aspects of the script, it also clearly stated that final decision making rested with Manley, Walpole, and Harry Schrumm. I’d stood firm against certain changes and had been accommodated, usually with a sigh and roll of the eyes, but that was all right. Enough of the script faithfully reflected the book to satisfy me.

  “Has anyone seen Linda?” the assistant director asked of anyone within hearing distance.

  “No,” I answered. “Is she supposed to be here?”

  “Yeah. That damn replacement for Jenny Forrest is one big pain in the butt.” He fairly ran toward the stage in search of Linda Amsted, the play’s casting director with whom I’d become especially friendly during the past nine months. The Jenny Forrest mentioned by the assistant director had originally been cast to play the girlfriend of the younger son in the show, but had been fired three weeks earlier by Cy Walpole. When he announced it to the rest of us, he said in his charming British accent, “Our darling Ms. Forrest will no longer be part of this play. I’m sure you all share my relief in referring to the talented, albeit bitchy, Ms. Forrest in the past tense. Linda is scouring her files as we speak for a suitable replacement. In the meantime, drinks are on me this evening to celebrate Ms. Forrest’s departure.”

  It took Linda only a day to find another actress for the role. I was sorry to see Jenny go, not because I liked her—it was virtually impossible to do that—but because she was superb in the part of Marcia. But I had to admit that her replacement, culled from Linda Amsted’s thousands of resumes and photographs on her computers, was an able substitute.

  At six-thirty, Harry Schrumm gathered everyone around him on the stage.

  “We’ll break for dinner. An hour. Dress starts promptly at eight-thirty. I want everyone here and in costume at seven-thirty, no exceptions.”

  I retreated to the dark theater and settled in a seat halfway back in the empty house. It was getting close; Knock ’Em Dead on Broadway would soon be a reality. All the tensions, the infighting, the blowups between actors and actresses, between the director and the playwright and the producer, faded from my mind as I gazed upon the stage on which the show would open for previews in a week.

  The cast and stage crew filed out of the theater. The actor playing the detective, Charles Flowers, stopped to ask me to join them for dinner. I politely declined. I wasn’t at all hungry, having nibbled earlier in the afternoon from trays of snack food that seemed always to be present during rehearsals.

  A minute later, I realized I was alone in the theater, and a sudden chill caused me to wrap my arms about myself. But then I had to smile. Like so many theaters, there were stories of theatrical ghosts inhabiting this one—one in particular, Salem Drummond. He had been an actor who, the story went, had been knifed to death backstage fifty years ago.

  “Ghosts indeed!” I said aloud, standing and slowly walking down the aisle toward the stage. As I did, it occurred to me that Linda Amsted hadn’t been among those huddled around Harry Schrumm a few minutes ago. She either hadn’t come to the theater, or was busy doing something in another part of it. I decided to look for her; maybe a quick sandwich wasn’t a bad idea, and I preferred to have company.

  I ascended a short set of steps stage right and went to stage center. It was eerily quiet in contrast to all the noise and commotion of fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Linda?” I said to the empty stage. There was no reply.

  I crossed to the wings, navigated lighting paraphernalia strewn on the floor, and made my way to a narrow, poorly lighted hallway behind the stage, off which opened a series of rooms and offices. I poked my head in Schrumm’s office, then into the tech director’s space. Both were empty.

  At the end of the hall were the two largest rooms, one devoted to props and costumes, the other the actors’ dressing and makeup room. Because Knock ’Em Dead was relatively contemporary, costumes were not elaborate. The story took place in the late nineteen-forties, and the characters wore clothing appropriate to that era.

  “Linda?” I called again.

  Nothing.

  The door to the costume and prop room was partially closed. Light from within spilled through the slight opening and slashed across the hallway floor.

  I went to the door, raised my hand to knock, then pressed my fingers against it. It opened slowly. I stepped inside. The clothing to be worn by the actors and actresses hung from portable metal garment racks with wheels. There were three of them, one for each act.

  I sighed. Linda Amsted wasn
’t here either. She must not have come to the theater, although I knew she’d planned to attend the dress rehearsal.

  I started to leave the costume and prop room, and would have, if something hadn’t caught my eye. Shoes worn by the actors and actresses were neatly lined up beneath the rack of clothing for each act. The woman in charge of the room was a stickler for detail and order, and had had more than one tantrum when someone failed to hang up their costume with the left-hand sleeve facing out. What captured my attention was a white sneaker lying on its side among the other shoes. I crouched and grabbed it with the intention of setting it right with the others. But it was immediately evident that it wouldn’t move because—because there was a foot in it.

  I stood and backed away, then slowly, with trepidation, approached the costume rack once again. I was tempted to close my eyes, but forced them to remain open as I wheeled one end of the rack toward the center of the room. By doing so, I was able to see the person whose foot occupied the sneaker. It was Linda Amsted, my friend, the casting director. She was slumped against the wall, the foot I’d grabbed jutting out beneath the rack, her other foot tucked beneath her. I didn’t know which was more shocking—the round circle of blood the color of cardinals oozing from her chest through her white T-shirt, or the macabre scene someone had created. The hat worn by the father in the play was propped on her head, and his pipe hung from her slack mouth. Her eyes were open wide, and for a moment I thought she might be alive and looking at me.

  Then, the initial shock wore off and the horror of it sunk in. I spun around and raced from the room, yelling, “Someone help. There’s been a murder.”

  This was no playacting.

  This murder was real.