Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (21 page)

Every Thursday at the Powderhorn was a Thanks-giving of sorts; the dinner menu was turkey with all the holiday trimmings, capped by a superb creamy pumpkin pie.

“We’ll meet for the sing-along and s’mores right after dark,” Bonnie said. “Wear sweaters. It’ll get chilly.”

“I never even want to think about food again,” I said to Seth as we left the lodge and started a walk in the hope of burning off some of the meal.

“I was wondering during dinner why there aren’t any fat cowboys.”

“There must be.”

“Ever see one?”

“Now that you challenge me, I must admit I haven’t. Being around horses all the time must speed up your metabolism.”

We walked past the stable and down the main road, following Cebolla Creek, accompanied by its bubbling, musical sound. At one point, Seth stopped and did a slow hundred-and-eighty degree turn to ensure we were alone before asking, “Are you sure it’s the way you want to go about this, Jessica?”

“Quite sure. Do you see any problems with it?”

“Always the possibility of a problem where murderers are concerned.”

“I mean, do you see any gaps in my reasoning?”

He laughed softly. “That’s always a loaded question, coming from you, Jessica.”

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t see any ... gaps.”

“What I think isn’t as important as what the sheriff and his sidekick, Pitura, think. You went over the entire plan with them?”

“Yes. When I told Bob Pitura what I’d learned at the airport, he insisted we turn around and go back to Sheriff Murdie’s office. I discussed every aspect of it with them. They think it might work.”

“And you talked to that reporter, O’Keefe?”

“Right. When I was finished with the sheriff and Pitura, I caught up with her at the paper. Her final bits of intelligence made me realize how right I am.”

“Should be quite an evening.”

“If it goes the way I plan.”

“Had a chance to run it by Jim and Bonnie yet?”

“I talked briefly with Jim. We agreed to get together after the sing-along, at their house.”

“Am I invited?”

“You’re the guest of honor, Seth.”

 

Despite the change of venue, the gathering around the campfire was pleasant and entertaining. Most of the Morrison clan was there, the two teenagers and Cousin William the absentees. One of the wranglers, Andy Wilson, a lovely young man from Texas, sang and played the guitar. He had a plaintive voice filled with emotion, especially when he sang a song written by the country singer Ricky Skaggs, “Thanks Again,” which Andy sang as a tribute to his own parents of whom he’d often spoken during the week.

Seth and I returned to my cabin following the sing-along and waited until Jim and Bonnie had cleaned up the area and returned to their house. We checked that no one was outside my cabin before leaving, and joined them in their living room.

“Now,” Jim said, “let’s go over what you told me this afternoon.”

“Okay. Your local reporter, Nancy O‘Keefe, has a close friend in Washington, D.C. He’s a journalist, with a ton of close connections within the government, particularly the intelligence community. He fed Ms. O’Keefe the background on Paul Molloy.”

“The arms dealing?” Bonnie said.

“Right. When Ms. O‘Keefe mentioned that some intelligence agency had learned of negotiations between Molloy and Libya concerning the sale of weapons-grade uranium, I thought back to our Jeep ride. Molloy wanted that land you showed me. By the way, the owner, the V.S. Company, is actually the Morrison family. Veronica Morrison’s maiden name was Schwinn. She’s the ‘VS’ in the V.S. Company.”

“Are you saying that Mr. Molloy was murdered over that land?” Bonnie asked.

“I believe so,” I said.

“What about Mrs. Molloy?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe our little show Saturday night will answer that question.”

“What about that picture of the youngster, Pauline?” Jim asked. “If she is Molloy’s daughter, wouldn’t that be a stronger motive for murder than a business conflict over a piece of land?”

“It could be, but I don’t think it was the reason for Molloy’s murder. The question is, can we do tomorrow what I’ve suggested?”

Jim and Bonnie looked at each other.

“I think so,” Jim said.

“It’ll have to be away from the ranch,” Seth said. “We can’t arouse anyone’s suspicion.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Jim said. “The Morrisons are taking an all-day ride up into the hills. They’ll be gone from nine till four.”

“The staff can’t know, either,” I said.

“How about the Powderhorn Community Center?” Bonnie suggested.

“I pointed it out to you on Sunday coming in from the airport,” Jim said.

“I remember it,” I said. “It won’t be used tomorrow?”

“Seldom is,” Bonnie said. “Mostly evening functions. It should be yours for the day.”

“Perfect. Can we go there right after the group leaves on the ride?”

“Sure.”

“And you’ll have the video you’ve been shooting with you?”

“Yup.”

Seth and I walked back to our cabins.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep,” I said.

“A little too much adventure, Jessica?”

I laughed. “It’s more than I bargained for when we came here,” I said. “Two murders. You falling off a horse. International arms dealers. An illegitimate daughter. A hair-raising plane ride. Yes, enough adventure to last a long time.”

“And more to come. Good night, Jessica. No matter what happens, you know I’m with you.”

“Just as you’ve always been.” I kissed his cheek, and we hugged. And I wiped a tear from my eye as I walked away.

Jim Cook, Seth, a video technician from the Gunnison Sheriff’s Department, and I spent almost all day Friday at the Community Center, Powderhorn’s former one-room schoolhouse that was closed when the kids started being bussed to Gunnison, then sold to the town by the school board. It had a small stage with a curtain like a large window shade, on which Gunnison businesses bought advertising space. I felt guilty keeping Jim from his duties at the ranch, but every time I mentioned it, he replied with his usual engaging laugh, “Bonnie will handle it, Jess. She does everything anyway. I’m just the handsome, suave figurehead.”

The video tech returned to Gunnison, and we arrived back at the ranch minutes before the Morrisons rode in from their all-day outing on horseback. At dinner—it was pizza night, the best I’ve ever eaten—Jim detailed the next day’s activities. There would be the morning ride at nine, then a gymkhana at two in the afternoon in which guests would compete on horseback for prizes to be awarded Saturday night, along with awards for the biggest fish caught, and a showing of the week’s videotape.

“I see the police are no longer here,” Evelyn said.

Chris Morrison’s laugh was derisive. “Those clowns have probably given up. They ought to stick to getting cats out of trees and finding lost dogs.”

“To the contrary,” Jim said. “I heard this afternoon that they’ve narrowed in on the killer.”

All eyebrows went up.

“Who is he?” Veronica asked.

“A drifter who settled in here a few months back. He’s been camping out in the shack Uncle Irvy used to live in.”

“Who’s Uncle Irvy?” Robert Morrison asked.

“A hermit, a strange loner but a decent man. His shack is back in the hills near one of the abandoned mines. Lived off the land, always filthy—”

“But sweet,” Bonnie added.

“What about this drifter?” Craig asked. “What’s his name?”

“Not sure,” Jim said. “They say he’s a distant relation of Alfred Packer.”

“The cannibal?” Robert Morrison asked.

“One and the same,” Jim said. “Packer killed and ate five men to get through a severe winter back in the late eighteen-seventies. He was convicted in Lake City, but never hanged. The judge told him at the sentencing, ‘You man-eating SOB, there were only seven Democrats in Hinsdale County and you had to go and eat five of ’em.’ They eventually let him out of prison when he was dying of some disease. Governor Lamb pardoned him posthumously about ten years ago because he said Packer did more for Colorado tourism than any other person in the state’s history.”

“That’s disgusting,” Evelyn said.

“But true,” Jim said. “Every word of it.”

“Back to this drifter,” Robert Morrison said. “They’ve arrested him?”

“I believe so,” Bonnie said. “Have some dessert. We call it Impossible Cherry Pie.”

 

I realized I’d been on horseback only twice since arriving at the ranch, and wanted to enjoy it one last time, so I went on the Saturday morning ride. Bonnie also convinced me to take part in the afternoon gymkhana. Seth, understandably, declined any suggestions that he saddle up again. “I’ll be happy to watch and applaud,” he said.

Pauline Morrison was on the morning ride, along with her grandmother, mother, and father. Pauline and I didn’t speak to each other until we were on the way back and Crystal Kildare, our wrangler, and the Morrison adults had gotten ahead of us, leaving Pauline and me out of their earshot.

“I hope I didn’t upset you on Thursday,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

“I have the feeling you did know that Mr. Molloy was your natural father, Pauline.”

“Why?”

“Because of how upset you were when he was killed.”

She said nothing.

“Pauline, I found your diary at Hidden Lake.”

Her pretty, freckled young face flared into anger.

“You have every right to hate me for looking at it, Pauline, but two people have been brutally killed. Mr. Molloy
was
your biological father.”

“Pauline, come here!” Evelyn shouted from where she’d stopped on the trail.

Pauline continued to glare at me, eyes narrowed, lips trembling.

Evelyn turned her horse and started back.

“I do hate you,” Pauline said, digging her heels into her horse’s side and riding to meet her grandmother.

Poor girl, I thought. The family in which she was growing up might be wealthy, but it was morally bankrupt. That didn’t excuse me for having violated her inner thoughts by reading those few pages that comprised her diary. But there are times, I think, when the end does justify the means, in this case to help solve the barbarous murder of a man and a woman. Whether it was wrong of me to intrude upon her private life was something I’d have to grapple with in the days to come. One thing was certain from having read the diary. She not only knew that Craig wasn’t her natural father, she knew it was Paul Molloy.

After a lunch of chili and toasted cheese sandwiches, we headed for the corral and the gymkhana. I didn’t ride well, but the wranglers enthusiastically applauded my efforts, as did Seth. Although the results wouldn’t be announced until that night, we all knew that Evelyn Morrison would probably win, along with her older son, Craig. Both were skilled riders.

The dinner steak fry was scheduled to be held on the island, but like the sing-along, was moved to where we’d sat around the bonfire on Thursday night. I’d arranged for Seth and me to host a predinner cocktail party. Bonnie added liquor to the daily shopping list, and Joel and Sue helped us set up. To our surprise, all the adult Morrisons showed up, and they were in good spirits.

“This is a lovely thing you’re doing,” Robert, Evelyn’s attorney brother, told me. He actually smiled.

“Our pleasure,” I said. “Always nice to get together for a drink with good people, especially when the cloud of being murder suspects isn’t hanging over our heads any longer.”

“You were never a suspect,” he said.

“Not true,” I said. “The sheriff and his people were looking at me and Seth with as much scrutiny as they looked at anyone else. We’re just relieved it’s over.”

Craig Morrison joined us. “Glad you didn’t stay mad about the flight,” he said, flashing his crooked, thick-lipped smile.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You did me a service. I flew without anyone telling me how to do it and landed safely on a grass strip. I’m rarin’ to go on my solo the minute we get home.”

“Good for you.”

As the Morrisons drifted away, Seth whispered in my ear, “Looks like everyone’s considerably more relaxed this evening.”

“Seems that way.”

“Nice party.”

“Very nice. It’s good to see everyone in a good mood after such a difficult week.”

“Hearing that the police have identified the killer as not being from our cozy little group seems to have done wonders for the spirits.”

I smiled. “As we knew it would. Excuse me. I should mingle with our guests.”

 

After dinner of steaks cooked to perfection, we gathered in the lodge’s main room for coffee and the evening’s activities. Jim served as the MC. First on the program was the awarding of prizes. There were no surprises. Evelyn took top honors in the gymkhana, with her son, Craig, coming in second. Seth received an honorary award for “the week’s best fall from a horse.” The two teenagers received token riding prizes, and Godfrey had caught the biggest fish. It wasn’t very big at all, but there had been little fishing that week, to my chagrin. I just knew that trout I’d hooked, and lost, was still there waiting for me.

“Well, is everyone ready for their screen debut?” Jim asked.

We indicated we were.

“Oh, before we get to that,” he said, “I have to tell you a story. Bob Morrison, as most of you know, had a toothache this week. Fortunately, it seems to have healed itself. But I’d called our dentist in Gunnison just in case he was needed. He told me he had a patient come in just that morning with a serious problem.

“Seems our dentist had made a full upper plate for this patient about six months ago, but the plate was all rotted out. The dentist said he’d never seen anything like it. He asked the patient whether he’d been eating anything unusual.