Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (14 page)

“Good. Then I won’t be the only tired one in the morning. Let’s get together over breakfast and compare notes.”

“All right. Oh, as Seth and I were leaving the ranch for the hospital, Jim Cook said Mrs. Molloy had left her cabin.”

“Where did she go?”

“No one seemed to know. He had the chef looking for her.”

We went to the kitchen, where Bonnie and Joel were almost finished with their chores.

“I understand Mrs. Molloy is up and around,” Pitura said.

“Yes, it seems that way,” Bonnie said.

“Is she back in her cabin?”

“No,” Joel said. “We can’t find her.”

“How long has she been gone?” Pitura asked.

“It’s been hours,” I said.

“I’ll go talk with Jim about Mrs. Molloy’s whereabouts,” Pitura said. “I don’t like that she’s been gone for hours.”

“I think I’ll check in on Seth, then get to bed,” I said. “It’s been quite a day.”

“It certainly has,” Bonnie said. “Sorry for what’s happened, the murder, and now Seth’s accident.”

“Don’t give it a second thought.” Bonnie and I hugged, and I went to Seth’s cabin. He’d changed into pajamas and robe and sat stiffly in a chair. I told him that Mrs. Molloy was still missing.

“Should be easy to ascertain whether she left the ranch,” Seth said. “She couldn’t have just walked into town. Someone would have seen a car pick her up.”

“Unless she was picked up down the road, away from the ranch.”

“I just hope ...”

“You hope what, Seth?”

“I just hope she hasn’t ended up the way her husband, or so-called husband, did.”

“That’s a grim contemplation.”

“But realistic. You go on back to your cabin, Jessica, and get a decent night’s sleep.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’ll be fine. I took one of those pills they gave me at the hospital. It should kick in any minute now, take care of the pain.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you. Want me to stay in the other bedroom?”

“No. You go on back. I’ll be just fine.”

I considered sharing with Seth the photo Pitura had given me, but decided against it. I didn’t want to do anything that would stimulate him. He needed what sleep he could get that night. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell him about it. I kissed him on the cheek and went to my cabin. I changed into pajamas and robe and was sitting in the living room, staring at the photo Pitura had given me, when I heard footsteps on the porch, followed by a knock at the door. I got up and looked through the window. It was homicide investigator Pitura.

“Sorry to intrude on you like this, Mrs. Fletcher, but I thought you’d want to know that we can’t find a trace of Mrs. Molloy.”

“That’s troubling,” I said. “Come in, please.”

“Thanks, but I have to get to town.”

“Any sign in her cabin that she decided to leave?”

“No. Everything’s the way it was the last time we went through it, clothes in the closet, suitcases still there.”

“That’s even more troubling.”

“Yes, it is. I’m dispatching officers tonight to conduct a more formal search of the ranch and surrounding property. Of course, we’ll also check with the airlines, rental car agencies, cab companies, and the like. But if I was betting, I’d say she wandered off on foot and is somewhere in the vicinity.”

“And hopefully alive.”

“That, too. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I locked the door and resumed my seat in the living room. My thoughts were many and varied, ranging from dismay at what these events were doing to my friends, Jim and Bonnie Cook, to vivid, unpleasant mental images of Geraldine Molloy being found dead somewhere in the vicinity. I absently picked up the schedule for the next day’s events. There would be the morning and afternoon rides, and a fish fry for lunch on the small island on the banks of Cebolla Creek.

I considered reading in bed, but decided not to. Instead, I examined the faded photograph Pitura had given me.

Was it Pauline Morrison as a small child?

I was convinced of it.

Paul Molloy had carried that picture with him in his wallet.

She certainly looked enough like him to be his daughter.

Geraldine, his supposed wife, probably wasn’t his wife, and was now missing.

Someone had placed a rasp where it would easily be found, but it wasn’t the murder weapon.

A fresh pot of brewed coffee had been in the Molloy’s cabin when I went there the morning of Paul Molloy’s murder. Yet Bob Pitura had agreed with me that the murder had probably been committed before dawn. Had Paul Molloy made the coffee in the middle of the night before venturing out? Why would he have done that? More intriguing, why had he left the cabin in the first instance? To meet with someone? His killer?

One of the wranglers, Jon Adler, said he’d seen a stranger on the road early that morning.

Another wrangler, Andy Wilson, when mentioning he’d been doing his laundry on Monday night, was challenged by Sue, the cabin girl.

Had Paul Molloy been an international arms dealer, as Nancy O’Keefe claimed? If so, what connection might that have had with the events at the Powderhorn Ranch?

My final question before succumbing to sleep was whether any member of the Morrison family knew that Paul Molloy might be the real father of Craig and Veronica Morrison’s teen daughter. None of them indicated any recognition of the Molloys when they arrived Sunday night, which didn’t necessarily prove that at least one of them knew something about him.

One thought mingled with the next, the questions melding into one large, unfathomable blur, until sleep put it all to rest.

I showered and dressed before sunrise. Despite a lack of sleep, I was brimming with energy—and consumed with questions.

Although the sun had not yet risen, its promise created the beginnings of a dim, gentle light in which the buildings of the Powderhorn Dude and Guest Ranch were barely visible. It occurred to me as I stood on the porch of my cabin that the murder of Paul Molloy had, in a sense, killed a little in all of us. It’s one thing to read about someone’s murder in the newspapers, or to hear about it on television. That’s bad enough. But to have met someone, to have had dinner with him, and then to look down at his lifeless body the next morning, plays havoc with your mind and emotions. It certainly had for me.

There was a pervasive quiet on the ranch that time of the morning. The staff and guests were still asleep. The silence of the horses seemed to say that they, too, recognized it was too early to make their presence known.

I scanned the ranch in search of the officers Pitura had dispatched to help search for Mrs. Molloy, but saw no one. Had they located her while I slept? Was she dead or alive?

I went back inside and retrieved a small pocket flashlight that’s part of my standard traveling paraphernalia. I stepped back onto the porch and did another visual sweep of the ranch before going down the few steps and following the road in the direction of the stables. As I passed Jim and Bonnie’s home, lights came on. Running a popular dude and guest ranch meant no sleeping in during the season. Their winter hibernation was when they would catch up on sleep, and lots of other things.

I had to navigate a fence and a quirky gate to reach the stables. It also meant crossing the corral and its minefield of horse droppings. I used my flashlight sparingly. Better to have to scrape off my boots than to alert someone that I was there.

I wondered whether any of the wranglers would be working in the stables at that early hour. If they were, I planned to say that I had trouble sleeping and was simply taking a walk. As it turned out, I seemed to be alone except for the horses peacefully lined up in their individual stalls, awaiting another day of transporting guests into the splendiferous Colorado hills.

I paused at a door leading into the stables, then tentatively pushed it open. Its hinges made a grating, rusty sound, not very loud but magnified in the relative stillness. I drew a breath, turned on m
^y
flashlight, and stepped inside. It was pitch-black. A musty odor combined with the smell of horses was surprisingly pleasing.

I played the light on the walls. A variety of tools and gear the wranglers used with the horses was neatly arranged. Twenty feet ahead of me was a room, its door partially open. I took slow, deliberate steps until reaching it and shone the light on a crude wooden sign: TOOL ROOM. I opened the door fully and trained my tiny source of light on a workbench on the far wall. I stepped into the room, went to the workbench, and examined a neat row of wooden boxes lined up against the wall. I went from box to box, using my light to illuminate their contents, until I found the one I was looking for. It contained an assortment of metal files and rasps. I sorted through them, removed the sort of rasps I’d found by the creek the day before, and laid them side by side on the table. There were three, one identical to the next, and to the one I’d turned over to the police.

I picked up the first, trained the beam of light on it, and brought it close to my face. I did the same with the other two. Once I’d looked at all three, I replaced two in the box and wrapped the remaining rasp in a handkerchief.

I was poised to leave when a sound froze me in place. I slowly turned my head in the direction from which it had come, but was faced with nothing but darkness.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”

The sudden, unexpected man’s voice caused me to drop the flashlight and rasp to the dirt floor.

An overhead light came on.

“Sorry to startle you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Robert Pitura said, stepping into the light from behind a cabinet.

“You scared the wits out of me,” I said breathlessly.

He picked up the flashlight and rasp, and handed the flashlight to me.

“You were hiding there when I came in?”

“Yes. Sorry. I heard someone enter the stable, but didn’t know it was you. What are you doing here?”

“I was ... looking for the murder weapon.”

“The other rasp.”

“Exactly. Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes. I see you found it.”

“I don’t know whether it is or not. It appears to have stains on it, in the grooves.”

“Oh, I think it is the weapon used to kill Mr. Molloy. I did a preemptive. It’s blood all right.”

“Why did you put it back in the box?” I asked.

“To see whether whoever came in after me was looking for the same thing. You were.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Most of the night. I went home, but couldn’t sleep. I came back with one of the officers.”

“Any word on Mrs. Molloy?”

“No.”

“I looked for your people when I got up, but didn’t see any.”

“I told them to wait until daylight. Stumbling around in the dark won’t accomplish much. Bonnie and Jim set them up with coffee and Danish in the lodge.”

“Always the gracious host and hostess.”

He laughed. “You won’t find better people than the Cooks. How’s your doctor friend?”

“Sleeping, I assume. I looked in on him last night. He was in pain, but seemed to be doing okay.”

“Given any more thought to the photo I gave you?”

“Plenty. The person who might have an answer is Mrs. Molloy, but she’s not available.”

“What about the kid?”

“Pauline? I’d be hesitant about broaching it with her. If Molloy
was
her biological father, it would be the sort of shock no youngster needs.”

“But we do need an answer.”

“We? You make it sound as though I’ve joined the Gunnison sheriff’s department.”

“We’d be happy to have you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

We were interrupted by Joe Walker and Crystal Kildare as they entered the stable and joined us in the tool room.

“Good morning,” Pitura and I said in unison.

They returned our greeting. “Up pretty early, I see,” Walker said.

“That we are,” Pitura said. “Well, you young folks have a good day.”

We left the stable and stood outside. Pitura stretched and yawned. “Getting a little too old to be pulling all-nighters,” he said.

Four uniformed officers came from the lodge, led by Bonnie Cook. “Good morning,” she said.

“You fellas well fed?” Pitura asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s get to it.” He handed the rasp wrapped in my handkerchief to one of them. “Run this in to Doc Scudari.” He gave the others instructions on how to proceed with the search for Geraldine Molloy. “I’m assuming the best case scenario,” he told Bonnie and me. “But if we don’t come up with her by this afternoon, I’ll bring in the dogs and the Necro team.”

“Necro team?” I asked.

“Also known as the ‘pig team.’ All volunteers. They started out years ago by burying pigs and observing how the soil and plant life changes in an area where something’s been buried. Most of them are scientists of one stripe or the other, university professors, lab workers, that sort of thing.”

“I hope she found a way into town and is home in Las Vegas by now,” Bonnie offered, her voice not exuding any confidence in that possibility.

“Sheriff Murdie’s already been in touch with the Las Vegas police,” Pitura said. “We’ll find her one way or the other. The sheriff’s got a sign over his desk that says, ‘We will do the impossible at once, miracles take a little longer, magic will be practiced tomorrow.’ He means it.”

“Will you be riding this morning?” Bonnie asked me.

“I don’t think so, Bonnie. I’d like to stay close to Seth. He’ll be feeling the effects of the fall.”

“I imagine so.”

As we walked to the lodge, Bonnie asked, “Mind if I ask what you and Bob were doing in the stables so early this morning?”