Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (11 page)

 

Seth was sitting on my porch. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“You mean did the fish bite?”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

“Well, Mrs. Molloy and I did have a chat.”

“Glad to hear it. Let me get out of this fishing gear.

“Was she married to the deceased?” I asked after rejoining him on the porch.

“I don’t quite know, Jessica. I asked her how long they’d been married. She said, ‘Not too long.’ I mentioned her grown-up daughter in San Francisco, and she said, ‘She’s from a previous marriage.’ I asked her what her husband did for a living. She said, ‘I never really knew.’ You know, Jessica, the woman is a mess. Looks to me like she lives on exercise machines and pills. Probably those damn diet pills that make her hyper, and then she comes down to earth with Valium. She’s in her own world.”

“That’s sad. Did you talk about anything else?”

“Ayuh.
She asked me to write her a couple of prescriptions. I told her I wasn’t licensed to do that in Colorado. That’s when she suggested that maybe I could call them in to a pharmacy in Maine and have FedEx fly ’em out here.”

“She’s sick.”

“Very much so. Ready for lunch?”

“Yes. But first, let me report on what happened to me.”

I told him of finding the rasp, and that Investigator Pitura had sent it to the medical examiner for analysis. Seth agreed it was strange that the rasp just showed up the way it did.

“Of course, we don’t know that it was the weapon,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re pretty sure it is, aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say I’ll be surprised if it isn’t. And if I’m right, the larger question is, who wanted it found?”

A professional fly fishing expert was scheduled to give lessons at the stocked pond after lunch, but I decided to take a long walk instead. I started out along the road, but didn’t get very far. I’d just passed the area where Molloy’s body was found when I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Pauline Morrison, Craig and Veronica’s daughter, closing on me. I stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“Hello,” I said. “Feeling better?”

She looked back toward the ranch, as though to confirm that no one else was in the vicinity. “I guess so,” she said. “I’ve been acting pretty dumb.”

“Oh, don’t say that. This has been extremely upsetting.”

“Evelyn says I’m being a baby.”

“Evelyn? Your grandmother?”

“Yes. She won’t let us call her ‘Grandma.’ She says it makes her sound old.”

It didn’t surprise me that Evelyn Morrison would feel that way, but I didn’t tell her granddaughter that. Instead, I asked, “Feel like a walk? A good walk always clears my head, makes me feel better.”

“Okay.”

We walked in silence for a minute before I said, “I understand there’s a secret little lake with lots of fish. Do you know where it is?”

“Hidden Lake? Sure.”

“I’d like to see it. Take me to it?”

“It’s only a half mile. I used to go there last year a lot to get away.

We took a narrow, steep rutted road that branched off from the main road and followed it until reaching Hidden Lake, a small, pretty body of water owned by Jim and Bonnie, and stocked with fish. It was eerily silent there, the only sounds the rustling of leaves when a breeze came up, and the happy sound of an occasional songbird.

“You said you came here often last year, Pauline.”

“Uh-huh. I always sat over there, on the other side.”

“Looks like a peaceful place to sit and reflect.”

We made our way to the other side, having to step carefully on rocks to keep from getting our shoes wet. Pauline sat on a fallen tree, placed her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward, her head nestled in her hands. I observed her. When we were first introduced, she was a lively, happy girl. But since the murder of Paul Molloy, she’d gone into a shell. This was the first time I’d seen her since word of the murder spread through the ranch.

I sat next to her. “Care to talk about it?” I asked.

She replied without lifting her head, “What’s to talk about?”

“The murder. Sometimes it helps to say what’s on our minds, to vent our feelings.”

I felt comfortable in offering myself as an amateur therapist because I wasn’t a member of her family. It’s often easier to discuss intimate thoughts with a stranger.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Oh?” I said. “Who told you not to?”

She shrugged. Translation: I’d better not say.

Our silence melded with the absence of nature’s sounds. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and was struck again at how physically different she was from the rest of her family. Funny, I thought, how genes work. There can be a succession of children, all carrying strong familial traits, and then along comes another child who looks as though he or she is from a different set of parents. As dark as the rest of the Morrison family was, Pauline was fair, her hair flaming orange, freckles dotting her pretty face.

“Do you enjoy coming to the Powderhorn?” I asked, wanting to break the awkward lull.

“No.”

“Don’t enjoy riding?”

“Sometimes.”

“How many years have your mom and dad been bringing you?”

“A couple.” She suddenly stood, turned her back on me, wrapped her arms about herself, and started to sob softly. I couldn’t hear her, but could see the movement in her body. I came up behind and placed my hands on her shoulders.

“Just leave me alone,” she said.

I removed my hands, saying, “I thought you wanted to be with me, Pauline. I thought that was why you followed me on the road.”

She fought to control herself, slowly turned, and said, “I did. I mean, I wanted to talk to somebody. But I’m afraid.”

“Of what. Of whom?”

“Of—” She burst into tears and stumbled away, her feet sloshing through the water at the lake’s perimeter.

I shouted, “Pauline, I think—”

She pushed through a clump of bushes and disappeared down the narrow road.

The abrupt end to our conversation was unsettling, and I drew a couple of deep breaths before slowly walking back to the ranch, where Jim Cook stood at the entrance with homicide investigator Bob Pitura.

“Were you with Ms. Morrison?” Pitura asked me.

“Yes. She showed me Hidden Lake.”

“She just came running past us,” Jim said, “crying her eyes out. What happened?”

“Nothing. We were talking. Then she started to cry and took off.”

Pitura looked at me with a questioning expression. I knew what he was asking: Had Pauline told me anything in which he might be interested? I tried to return a nonverbal answer with my eyes.

“Bob told me about your finding the rasp, Jess,” Jim said. “Looks like it came from the stable.”

“You know that so soon?”

“I went there and checked on the tools. We keep a pretty good inventory.”

“So Joe Walker said.”

“We had three of those rasps. They’re special, about the thinnest ones you can buy. One’s missing.”

“I’m waiting to hear from the ME once he gets a chance to examine it,” Pitura said. “In the meantime—”

He was interrupted by Evelyn and Robert Morrison, who approached, stem expressions on their faces.

“Hello there,” Jim said. “I see some of your family took advantage of the free fishing lesson.”

“I don’t wish to talk about fishing,” Evelyn said. “I understand you’ve found the murder weapon.”

We looked at each other.

“Who told you that?” Pitura asked.

“It doesn’t matter who told us,” Robert Morrison said. “As we understand it, it was a tool from the stables.”

“It’s a little premature to speculate on whether it’s the weapon, Mrs. Morrison,” Pitura said. “Might just be a tool one of the wranglers dropped.”

“Exactly,” Evelyn said, “dropped by a wrangler who is also a murderer.”

“Now hold on a second,” Jim said. “Nobody knows whether it is the weapon used to kill Mr. Molloy. And even if it turns out to be, that doesn’t justify pointing a finger at one of my staff.”

Evelyn’s nostrils flared, and her eyes blazed. “You have the responsibility for the safety of my family, Mr. Cook. A man has been killed in cold blood, and that murderer is still among us.” She said to Pitura, “I insist that you stop this ridiculous questioning of my family and focus your attention where it belongs, on the wranglers.”

“We’re questioning each of them, too, Mrs. Morrison. No one has been ruled in or out.”

Robert Morrison said, “As an attorney for Morrison Enterprises, sir, I will hold you and your department personally and legally responsible for any harm that may befall this family.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Pitura said.

“I really would like to know how you found out about the rasp.” As I said it, head wrangler Joe Walker came from the main lodge.

“Joe,” Jim yelled. “Got a minute?”

Walker came to us and tapped an index finger against the wide brim of his black hat. “Yes, sir?”

“Joe, I understand you were with Mrs. Fletcher when she found the rasp down by the creek.”

“She called me over and asked me to find Investigator Pitura.”

“But you knew she’d discovered it in the grass.”

“Right. Is there a problem?”

“Depends,” Pitura said. “Who did you tell about it?”

Walker shrugged. “Andy. I think Jon was there, too. I told Joel. Nobody told me not to.”

“No, it’s okay, Joe,” Jim said. “Just trying to figure out how the Morrisons here learned of it.”

“None of this is of interest to us,” Robert Morrison said. “But remember my warning. You too, Mr. Cook. If anything were to happen to any of us, we’ll own this ranch.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

We watched the Morrisons walk away with the same purposeful strides as when they’d arrived.

“Real pleasant folks, huh?” Pitura said.

“They’ve never been particularly friendly and warm,” Jim said, “but nothing like this. Always pretty much kept to themselves, did some riding, some fishing, held their family meetings. But no particular trouble with them. The staff didn’t especially take to them, but the tips at the end of the week were always big enough to smooth any hurt feelings or ruffled egos.”

“They’re okay,” Walker said. “A little demanding, but I figure that’s what we’re here for, to meet guests’ demands.”

“That’s right,” Jim said. “Of course, we never figured on a murder happening. Joe, did you tell any of the Morrisons about Mrs. Fletcher’s finding the rasp?”

“No. Just some of the staff, like I said.”

“Okay. Thanks. Everything ready for the supper ride?”

“I think so. Joel’s got all the cookout stuff packed, and the horses are ready to go.”

“Good. See you later.”

“He’s the best wrangler we’ve ever had,” Jim said. “Knows more about tending to sick horses than any vet I’ve known.”

“I’m going to my cabin to get ready for the ride,” I said.

“Good idea,” Jim said. “I’d better take some video of the folks getting fishing lessons.”

“I’ll walk you,” Pitura said to me.

Once there were just the two of us, Pitura asked, “I have a feeling the Morrison youngster might have said something to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Not really. She’s very upset about the murder. She told me she wanted to talk to someone, but was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I tried to get that out of her, but failed. She said she went to Hidden Lake a great deal last year, as she put it, ‘to get away.’ ”

“I think
I’d
want to get away now and then from her family,” Pitura said. “Hard bunch.”

“Yes. Have you interviewed her brother, Godfrey?”

“An hour ago, just before he and his uncle and aunt took fishing lessons.”

“And?”

“Surly kid. A teenage malady these days. Grunted his answers and even laughed a few times.”

“A nervous laugh?”

“I suppose so. He had nothing to offer.”

“I’ll bet he knows why his sister is so upset.”

Pitura looked puzzled. “Murder can upset anyone.”

“But she’s upset beyond what might be expected,” I said. “After all, it wasn’t a member of her family who was killed. Paul Molloy was a stranger. They spent an hour together at dinner the night he was killed. No, even less time than that. The two kids left the table as soon as they were finished.”

“Maybe you’ll have a chance to talk to some of them on the supper ride.”

“I’ll try. Are you coming with us?”

“No. I have to get back to town for a meeting with Sheriff Murdie.”

“About this case?”

“Yes. Dick Murdie is a thorough guy. We meet every day.”

I smiled.

“Thinking of one of Jim’s jokes?”

“No. I’m thinking of how surprised I was when I first met the sheriff. He certainly doesn’t dress like one.”

Pitura laughed. “I guess we’re a lot less formal out here than where you’re from.

“We’re pretty informal back in Cabot Cove, too,” I said.

Pitura laughed. “Dick says that if he’s ever seen in his uniform, it must mean he’s on his way to an official event, a funeral, or it’s Halloween. He says the Wrangler sneakers he wears make him ‘official.’ ”

“Say hello for me.”

“I certainly will. Enjoy the ride.”

“How was your fishing lesson?” I asked Chris Morrison as we gathered in front of the lodge for the supper ride, our every move captured by Jim Cook on videotape.

“Good. The instructor was a nice guy. I never did get into fishing. Too much trouble, all that knot tying and heavy gear. But Godfrey wanted to take a lesson, so I went with him.”

I asked Godfrey whether he enjoyed the lesson.