Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (2 page)

“Pardon me for interrupting, Seth, but it isn’t nonsense. It represents something I have the need to experience. Nothing nonsensical about that.”

“I suppose not. But I just can’t figure out why you’re doing it.”

I looked out the window to where birds fluttered about my ten-quart feeder, vying for space on the four perches. The sun cast a pretty pattern on my kitchen counter. I thought of the morning and my introduction to flying—not just being in a plane, even a small one; my frequent flier bank is overflowing— but to have placed my hands, and feet, on the controls and making the plane do what I wanted it to do. I broke into a grin.

“Pleasant thought you’re havin’, I take it.”

“Extremely pleasant.” I sat forward and placed my hands on one of his. “Seth, haven’t you ever felt a compelling need to challenge yourself, to reach beyond what you’re comfortable with and conquer something you’d always considered unattainable?”

“‘Course I have. Do it all the time.”

“I think we’re talking about different things,” I said. “I know you’re always seeking new advances in medicine, and that you take courses to learn about subjects that interest you. You thoroughly enjoyed that series of cooking courses you took last year. And the seminar on collecting rare, first-edition books had you glowing. Remember?”

“Ayuh. Those were mind-expanding experiences.”

“They certainly were. But I’ve reached a point in my life where I feel a need to challenge myself physically. Run a marathon, climb a mountain, drive a race car—leam to fly.”

He said nothing.

“Don’t you understand?”

“I suppose I do. I
think
I do. I just don’t want you to be doing something that’s dangerous.”

“I know, and I appreciate your concern. But flying a plane doesn’t have to be dangerous. Jed says more people are killed every year at railroad crossings than die in airplane accidents around the world. He says—”

My defense of my newest hobby was interrupted by the ringing phone. I picked up.

“Jessica? Jim Cook.”

“Jim! What a pleasant surprise.”

Jim and Bonnie Cook had lived in Cabot Cove for years until fulfilling their dream of owning and operating a dude ranch out west. They looked at many ranches for sale in Colorado until deciding on an eighty-acre property in the town of Powderhorn, five hours southwest of Denver, nestled in the Powderhom Valley and adjacent to more than a million acres of uninhabited wilderness. The closest commercial airport is a forty-five-minute drive from the ranch, in the town of Gunnison.

We threw a lavish going-away party for the Cooks when they left Cabot Cove. They were active, well-liked, respected members of the community. I’d kept in touch with them over the years via an occasional letter, phone call, and the yearly Christmas card. They’d invited me on many occasions to be their guest at the ranch. Unfortunately, my schedule never cooperated. The Powderhorn was open only from early June through mid-September.

After some preliminary chitchat, Jim said, “Bonnie and I decided we won’t take no for an answer this time.”

“About what?”

“About you coming out here to visit. We’ve got a horse all picked out for you, the trout are jumping, and one of our best cabins has your name on it. Besides, we’re always looking for another square dance partner.”

Bonnie Cook got on an extension. “Please come, Jess. It’s been years. We miss you.”

“And I miss you, too.

“No excuses,” Jim said. “If you’re working on another book, we’ll set you up with a computer.”

Seth indicated he wanted to join the conversation.

“I’m here with Seth Hazlitt,” I said. “He wants to talk to you.” I handed him the phone.

“Howdy,” Seth said.

I refilled our coffee cups while he talked with the Cooks, half listening to what he was saying. But when I heard, “Jessica and I would love to come out to the ranch,” he had my full attention.

“We?” I mouthed.

“Sounds good,” he said. “That’ll give us two weeks to get ourselves ready, clear my slate of patients for the week, and let Jessica get herself geared up to go.”

I retrieved the phone.

“Can’t wait to see you,” Jim Cook said. “It’s a perfect week for you and Doc to come.”

“But I—”

“We’ll send you all the info you’ll need, travel arrangements, clothes to bring, stuff like that.”

“How wonderful we’ll be seeing you again,” Bonnie Cook said. “I can’t wait for these next two weeks to pass.”

I looked at Seth, who sat at the table, hands folded over his stomach, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Bonnie, Jim, can I get back to you?” I said. “I have to ... to handle something.”

“Of course,” said Jim. “We’ll be here all day. By the way, the week you’ll be coming is perfect for us. The Morrison family picked that week for its annual reunion. They come every year. We don’t book anybody else that week, which means we have three cabins available, one for you, one for the doc, and—one empty one.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience this family,” I said.

“That’s no problem, Jess. I asked them whether they’d mind having other guests, and they said they’d be honored to share the week with you. You’re famous even out here in the wilds of Colorado.”

“I’ll call you later, Jim.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

“Well, Dr. Hazlitt,” I said after hanging up, “I know you’re my physician, but I didn’t realize you’d become my social secretary, too.”

“Sounds like a wonderful trip, Jessica. I’ve been looking to get away for a week. It’s been a hectic couple’a months at the office. I could use a week in that clean, crisp Colorado air, good, hearty home-cooked meals, songs around the campfire. I figured you’d enjoy those things, too.”

“I would, but—”

“Seems to me that saddling up a big, strong steed and ridin’ him up into the rugged Colorado mountains would fit in just fine with your new need for adventure.”

“I haven’t ridden a horse in ... in a very long time.”

“How long a time?”

“Oh, thirty years. Maybe more.”

“You never forget.”

“But the horse might.”

He stood, stretched, and gave me a friendly smile. “Of course, maybe riding tall in the saddle is a little too adventuresome for you.”

“Oh no, it’s—”

“Have to run. Give Jim and Bonnie a call and let ’em know you’ll be accompanying me. Think I’ll mosey down to Charles Department Store and see what sort of duds they have. Maybe a Stetson hat and a red bandana.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Next thing I know you’ll be singing like Roy Rogers and calling me ma’am.”

“Nothing of the sort—ma’am. Or should I say pardner?”

By the time Seth and I were to leave for Colorado, I’d managed to squeeze in seven more flying lessons with Jed Richardson, giving me eight hours of dual instruction.

“Time for you to solo,” Jed said as he signed my log book following my eighth hour in the right seat.

“Solo? Me?”

“Right you are, Jess. You’re ready.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Wouldn’t put you up there alone if I wasn’t. The only difference will be a slight shift in weight with me out of the plane. Piece’a cake.”

I went home feeling both exuberant and apprehensive. Take the Cessna 172 up
alone
? I didn’t share Jed’s confidence in me. Jed told me that soloing after eight hours was the norm. But maybe I wasn’t normal, at least when it came to flying a plane. Despite having become comfortable piloting the aircraft, my takeoffs and landings smooth, my in-air maneuvers executed to Jed’s satisfaction, the contemplation of taking the controls without him next to me was anathema. In a sense, the trip to Colorado would get me off the hook for a week, giving me time to think about whether I’d go through with a solo flight after only eight hours of instruction.

I expressed my concerns to Seth Hazlitt the day before we were to depart Cabot Cove for the Cooks’ Powderhorn Guest Ranch. “I just don’t know if I can do it,” I told him as we sat in his office, enjoying tea and macaroons.

“Then
don
’t do it,” he said. “Just because you’ve learned to fly a plane doesn’t mean you have to fly it—alone. Thank Jed, and put the experience behind you.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “All set for the trip?”

“Ayuh.
Everything’s packed ’cept for a few last-minute things. You?”

“Getting there. I bought new jeans and a flannel jacket. I’m hoping to find a good pair of boots today.”

“Make sure they’ve got a good heel on them. Makes riding a horse easier.”

“I know. Bonnie made that point in the material she sent.”

“Talked to Jim last night. The man is as funny as ever. Always has a joke at the ready.”

I fondly recalled when Jim and Bonnie Cook lived in Cabot Cove. Jim’s fondness for jokes, and his wonderful way of telling them, enlivened many a party.

“I’m really excited about the trip,” I said.

“Me, too. I’ll confirm our flight before we leave.”

“As you always do. Have to run and look for those boots. Been practicing your western drawl?”

“That’s not western talk. That’s pure Maine.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said.

I eventually found my boots at Charles Department Store, where the owners, brothers Jim and David, gave me their usual undivided attention. I went home from there to finish packing. Satisfied I’d included everything listed on my packing list—I’m an inveterate list-maker, especially when it comes to traveling—I settled in my study to again read the material Jim and Bonnie Cook had sent in advance of the trip. The more I read, the more enthusiastic I became, and wished Seth and I were already there, breathing in the clean Colorado air, and hearing Jim Cook’s jokes again. It will be soon enough, I told myself as I chose a couple of books to take on the trip from a pile of recently purchased novels and biographies.

I’m an early-to-bed person. But on Saturday night I was under the covers even earlier than usual. Our flight to Denver from Bangor left at nine the next morning, which meant our hired car would be picking us up at five-thirty. Actually, we could have left an hour later, but Seth Hazlitt likes getting to airports early.
Very early.

We were driven by Dimitri Cassis, a Greek immigrant who’d settled with his family in Cabot Cove after buying the local taxi company from Jake Monroe. Dimitri was a delightful, hard-working man who’d quickly expanded his taxi company to include a Lincoln Town Car, which he used to transport residents to points out of town. Because I don’t drive, I use his services often, and have a house account. He’d driven me to my last three flying lessons and had stayed twice to watch me shoot landings and takeoffs under Jed Richardson’s watchful tutelage. I actually saw Dimitri applauding after one particularly smooth landing, which made me smile, and feel even greater pride in my performance at the controls.

My experience piloting the controls of an aircraft, as brief and rudimentary as it might have been, caused me to view commercial aircraft and crews with a different eye. Silly as it may sound, I now felt one with them, and understood why they chose to spend their working lives in an airplane high above the earth.

As we boarded the large jet in Bangor, I paused to peek through the open cockpit door at the maze of dials and switches, and wanted to slip in there and sit in the captain’s seat.

“Jessica, you’re holding up traffic,” Seth said.

“What? Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming.”

“Appears you were. Let’s take our seats.”

The flight was uneventful, and on time. My brief brush with piloting an aircraft gave me a different perspective on being a passenger. Although the huge jet was considerably more complex than my Cessna 172, the basic principles of flight are the same, and I took pleasure in understanding why the multi-ton jet was able to take off at all: the Bernouli principle at work.

A plane’s wing is slightly curved on top, causing air moving over it to have to go faster than air moving beneath it. That’s because, according to Mr. Bernouli’s theory, the air flowing over both the top and bottom of a wing must arrive at the trailing edge at the same time. Faster-moving air exerts less pressure than slower-moving air. The increased pressure beneath the wing causes “lift,” enabling the aircraft to break the proverbial bonds of earth and become airborne.

“What are you thinking about?” Seth asked.

I explained my understanding of the Bernouli theory to him.

“Didn’t know that,” he said when I’d finished.

“See?” I said smugly. “Look how much I’m learning by taking flying lessons.”

I spent the rest of the flight reading one of the books I’d packed. Before I knew it, we’d landed at Denver’s sprawling new airport and were about to board a smaller aircraft for the forty-five-minute flight to Gunnison. Until learning how to fly, I never paid attention to the type of plane on which I was traveling. But I took note that we’d now be on a Mountain Air Express Dornier 328, a twin-engine turbo-prop craft with a row of narrow seats on either side of the passenger cabin. Seth had some trouble squeezing into his seat, but he managed, and we took off with a roar, flying relatively low over the majestic Colorado terrain, multicolored desert giving way to pink canyons and redrock mountains. After a turn to the right, which brought us over the Sawatch Mountain Range, we landed on a very long runway for such a small airport. The captain reversed the pair of powerful engines to help us slow down, left the runway, and taxied to the small, functional terminal where Jim Cook, resplendent in jeans, blue denim shirt, boots, and a large Stetson hat, was waiting. Jim is a tall, handsome man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile always at the ready.

“Welcome,” he announced loudly as we approached. “You two are a sight for sore eyes.”