Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (16 page)

“Six? Where did you see her?”

“At her cabin. The honeymoon one.”

“Oh, that’s right. You didn’t come on the ride. Did you talk to her?”

“No. The cook, Joel, was with her.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No. Why should I? They think I’m a jerk. I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Well, William, you may have to because I’ll tell them.”

“That’s okay. Hope you like my story.”

I climbed in the front seat of Jim’s vintage Jeep, open except for a roll bar above our heads.

“All set?” he asked.

“Let’s go.”

As he drove through the ranch’s entrance and turned onto the dirt road, homicide investigator Pitura and two uniformed officers came on foot from the other direction. Jim stopped to talk with them. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Nope,” Pitura said. “I’m going to call in reinforcements, dogs, the Necro team, probably a chopper, too.”

“Doesn’t look good, does it?” Jim said.

“No, it doesn’t. Off for a ride, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need me, do you?” Jim asked.

“No, you go on. Best to keep things as normal as possible for you and your guests.”

“I appreciate that. We’ll be back by lunch.”

We started up a hill on the road we’d followed on the supper ride, but Jim quickly branched off onto an even narrower trail. Bushes on either side were so close we had to keep ducking to avoid being hit in the face by their branches.

“Hope you don’t mind a rough ride,” Jim said, continually shifting gears to adjust to the terrain.

“Not at all,” I said, raising my voice over the loud sound of the Jeep’s straining engine.

After traveling fifteen minutes, we stopped in a clearing and got out to stretch. He led me to a ponderosa pine tree. “Watch what happens when I scratch this,” he said, using his thumbnail to dig into the bark. “Smell it.”

“Smells like caramel.”

“That’s right. Some smell like vanilla.”

“It’s such a beautiful place you and Bonnie now call home.”

“We love it, Jess. We count our blessings every day.”

Before resuming the journey, Jim pointed out various flowers on the perimeter of the clearing. The variety of color was breathtaking. Since moving to Colorado, my friend had become an expert on local flora and fauna and enjoyed demonstrating it. He pointed out white flowers called bedstraw used by early settlers to pack their mattresses and pillows; wild iris, one of three poisonous plants in the area; Canadian pistils; Indian paintbrush, which Jim said was named for a mythical Indian artist who, legend had it, cried over a slain lover, each teardrop becoming a bush; yellow Powderhorn orchids and sun-bursts; violet stonecrop, purple tansy asters, red rose hips, and dozens of others.

“Ready to move on?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I was thinking of what a cruel contrast the beauty of this place makes with murder.”

“I’m trying not to think about it, Jess. Come on. There’s lots more to see.”

We drove into an area Jim described as “BLM” land, belonging to the Bureau of Land Management, a federal agency. He pointed to a grassy patch with multiple tombstones. “That’s the Powderhorn cemetery, Jess. Want to guess how many dead people are buried there?”

I laughed. “How many dead people are buried there, Jim?”

“All of ’em. We don’t bury live people out here.”

The higher we climbed, the more Jim had to maneuver the Jeep to keep it going. It took a few minutes to extricate ourselves from deep mud, and to navigate a particularly steep, rocky incline. But the Jeep came through, thanks to Jim’s skillful handling.

“Look,” Jim said, pointing to the sky.

“A bald eagle.”

“We’ve got a family of them living on the east side of the ranch,” he said. “They stay with us most of the year. Once the water freezes, they move west.”

We continued our bone-jarring ride, stopping from time to time for Jim to point out something, and to take videos of me admiring the scenery. One of our stops was a former copper mine. “A town called Copperville was here years ago, sort of a tent city. About a thousand people worked the mines until the price of copper crashed. They bulldozed the mine and everybody moved out.”

“Was there much mining in this area?” I asked.

“There sure was. Gold, silver, tin. The government came in here back in the fifties and found uranium.”

“Uranium? For making bombs?”

“Yup. The government cut all these roads you see.”

“Did they use it?” I asked.

“Evidently not. Cooler heads prevailed and decided we didn’t need as many bombs as they originally thought.”

“And this is government land?”

“No, it’s not, Jess. This is privately owned.”

“By you?”

“Nope. This piece of land sits between our ranch and the Bureau of Land Management land.”

“Who owns it?” I asked. “A local?”

“Wrong again. Bonnie and I checked the land records when we bought the Powderhorn. It’s registered in the name of a company in Denver. Some sort of real estate trust, I suppose. The V.S. Company.”

“What does this V.S. Company plan to do with it, Jim? Mine it? Build a ranch?”

“Couldn’t make a ranch out of it. Too hilly. Mine it? Always a possibility, I suppose. All I know is that since we opened the ranch, we haven’t seen anybody here. Probably just a long-term investment. You know, sit on it for fifty years and hope it goes up in value. Ready to head back?”

“Sure. This has been wonderful.”

“I love coming up in the hills, Jess. This is such a special place. In the winter there isn’t a sound. The creek is under three or four feet of ice, and the birds are all gone. You can’t hear the dogs because they’re running on snow. Sometimes I think somebody’s behind me, but when I look around, I realize it’s just my own blood pressure making noise inside me.”

Before getting in the Jeep for the ride back to the ranch, Jim pointed to snow-capped mountains in the distance. We call that Indian snow,” he said.

Sensing a joke coming, I asked, “Why do you call it Indian snow, Jim?”

“Well, there’s A-patchy here, and A-patchy there.”

“I see.”

“That’s the only thing I miss in the winter out here, somebody to tell jokes to. Bonnie’s heard them all too many times.”

We knew something was wrong the minute we reached the road leading to the ranch. A marked Gunnison County Sheriff’s Department vehicle was posted at the entrance, lights flashing. Another was inside the ranch, but visible from the road. A number of people milled about on the tiny island next to Cebolla Creek, where the fish fry lunch was scheduled.

The officer with the car at the entrance waved us through. Bonnie stood in front of the office. The minute she saw us, she ran to where Jim parked near the lodge.

“What’s going on?” Jim asked.

“They’ve found Mrs. Molloy,” Bonnie said.

Jim and I looked at each other.

Bonnie pointed to the island. “Over there,” she said, “in the smoker.”

Jim took long, quick strides to the island, with me close behind. It seemed that every member of the Powderhorn staff was there. So was Seth Hazlitt. “She’s dead?” I said to him.

“Ayuh.
They found her about a half hour ago. Some of the staff were on the island, getting ready for the fish fry. One of them stumbled upon the body.”

Bob Pitura came to us.

“Who found her?” I asked.

“The cook, Joel. He was down here setting up for lunch.”

I looked past Pitura to where Geraldine Molloy’s body rested on the grass, covered by a yellow sheet.

“She was in that box?” I asked.

“It’s a smoker,” Pitura said.

“For smoking meats and fish?”

“Right.”

“Was it going to be used for the lunch?”

“I don’t know.” Pitura waved for Jim to join us. “Jim, was that cooker being used today for the fish fry?”

“No. The previous owners used it a lot, but we haven’t since we bought the ranch.”

“Any idea when she was killed and put in it?” Seth asked.

Pitura shook his head. “The ME is on his way.”

“Two murders,” Jim Cook said, dejectedly. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Seth slapped Jim on the back. “Buck up, my friend,” he said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“It had to have been the same killer,” Bonnie said.

“That’s a safe assumption,” Pitura said. “Excuse me.” He joined his officers searching the island for clues.

I led Seth away from Jim and Bonnie to a place removed enough so we wouldn’t be overheard.

“I had a conversation this morning with the cousin, Willy. He prefers to be called William.”

“Does he now?”

“He’s a sad individual, Seth—talks as though he’s been beaten down by the rest of the Morrison family. We actually chatted for a while. He told me when I was leaving that he saw the cook, Joel, with Geraldine Molloy last night at about six.”

“Hmmm. I wonder if he was the last person to see her alive. You should pass the information along to Investigator Pitura.”

“I will. But first I want to talk to Joel myself.”

“You don’t want to step on Pitura’s toes, Jessica.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. But he did ask me—us—to try to find out more about the people at the ranch, guests and staff alike. I’d like to see what Joel’s reaction is.”

Seth frowned and ran an index finger over his bruised lip.

“Bonnie told Pitura that Joel was a last-minute substitute for the regular cook, and that he came from Las Vegas. That’s where the Molloys hailed from.”

Dr. Scudari, the Gunnison County medical examiner, arrived in an ambulance and performed his visual examination of Geraldine Molloy before instructing the med-techs to remove the body. He came over to us.

“Hate to keep meeting under these circumstances,” he said.

“How was she killed?” I asked.

“Looks like somebody hit her on the side of the head.”

“A different M.O.,” I said.

“But equally as vicious,” Scudari said.

“Have you found the weapon?” Seth asked.

“I believe we have. It was on the ground next to the smoker. A hammer.”

“A plain, ordinary hammer?” I asked.

“No. A special type used to shoe horses.”

Another weapon from the stables,
I thought. Only this time it was left at the scene of the crime.

Members of the Morrison family arrived back from the morning ride. They halted their horses and took in the scene on the island, then moved on, following wranglers Crystal and Andy to the stables.

I looked in the direction of the cabins. Cousin Willy’s porch was empty, but Pauline Morrison stood on her porch, watching us. A few minutes later, Evelyn Morrison went to her granddaughter, and they disappeared inside the cabin.

Bonnie said, “Joel is putting together some sandwiches for lunch at the lodge. Obviously, we can’t go ahead with the fish fry on the island.” My good friend seemed on the verge of tears. She quickly walked away, replaced by Craig Morrison.

“More bad news, huh?” he said.

“That’s an understatement,” said Seth.

“How was your morning in town?”

“I got done what I had to. Do I have a passenger this afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher?”

It took me only a second to say, “Yes. What time do we take off?”

“Right after lunch. I’m hungry.”

“Murder stimulates your appetite, Mr. Morrison?” Seth asked.

Morrison shrugged his large shoulders and smiled. “Going hungry won’t bring anybody back, Doc. See you at lunch.”

We watched him swagger away.

“I do not like that man,” Seth said. “I do not like being called ‘Doc.’ ”

“That’s because he isn’t especially likable.”

“Sure you want to go flying with him?”

“I wasn’t going to, Seth, but I changed my mind. An hour in the air, just the two of us, is a good opportunity to get to know him a little better.”

“I’d prefer you get acquainted on the ground.”

“Not to worry. Come on. We’ll have some tea at the cabin and do a little talking.”

Lunch was a catch-as-catch-can affair, with people passing through at staggered intervals, grabbing a sandwich and a glass of lemonade and taking them back to their cabins. Bonnie reminded everyone that there would be a square dance that night after dinner. I had to admire her for not succumbing to what would be a natural temptation to cancel the rest of the week’s activities, considering the events of the past few days.

Seth and I took our lunch at the games table in the large room. He ate slowly, taking bites between reading articles in the Denver Post that was delivered each day. I finished quickly, then wandered into the kitchen, where Joel Louden was busy making two large pans of lasagna for that evening’s dinner.

“Not easy changing the menu at the last minute,” I said.

“Not so bad, Mrs. Fletcher. Sort of like having the fish fry rained out.”

“Cancelled by murder,” I said. • “Sounds like a good title for one of your books.”

He continued his food preparation.

“Yes, it does. I understand you were the last person to see Mrs. Molloy alive.”

My words stopped him; he slowly turned to face me. “What makes you think that?”

“Someone mentioned it to me.”

“Who?”

“One of the Morrison family. Don’t read anything into it. After all, you were bringing meals to her in the cabin.”

“So was Sue.”

“Who brought her dinner last night?”

“Sue did.” He resumed folding ingredients into the pans.

“I’m only trying to put things into perspective.”

“I thought that was the cops’ job.”

“It is. But being a mystery writer, I have this need to tie up loose ends and make sense of murder, if that’s possible.”