Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (7 page)

“No.”

“Where was she all night?”

“In bed, I think. I woke her this morning.”

“After your ride?”

“Yes, after the body was discovered.”

“Late sleeper.”

“Evidently.”

“I’d like to speak with everyone at the ranch. They all here, Jim?”

Jim replied, “I suppose so. All the guests, certainly. The staff. I don’t think anyone’s gone into town. No, sure of it. By the way, I noticed those tire tracks on the road.”

Pitura examined them, said something to a deputy, then turned to Jim and said, “Well, might as well get to it. Sheriff Murdie will be out later. Had another scene to go to.”

We stood together as the emergency medical team brought Paul Molloy’s lifeless body to the road on a gurney and slid it into the ambulance. Investigator Pitura conferred with the uniformed officers, dismissed one of them, and told the other two to stay with him.

As we approached the house, the Morrison family stood together by the pool, taking in our activities. They were all there, except for Willy. He’d probably taken to his cabin to try to calm down.

Evelyn Morrison broke from the group and came to where we’d stopped in front of the office. Jim introduced her to Investigator Pitura.

“This is extremely distressing,” she said to Jim calmly. She’d changed into a tan shirt, blue blouse, and yellow sweater, all undoubtedly bearing designer labels. “We certainly didn’t anticipate something like
this.”

“Neither did we, Mrs. Morrison,” Jim said, keeping his tone pleasant.

“I’d like to discuss this with you further.”

“Happy to, Mrs. Morrison. But right now, I think there are more important things going on.”

She glared at him.

He smiled.

Investigator Pitura said to her, “I’d appreciate it if you and your family remain here at the ranch and be available for questioning, Mrs. Morrison.”

“Questioning?
Why would you want to question
us?”

Pitura grinned and said, “Just part of my job, ma’am. I’ll try not to make it too painful.”

Investigator Pitura instructed the uniformed officers to resume their examination of the area where Molloy’s body had been found, and to go through the honeymoon cabin in search of anything that might shed light on his activities leading up to his death. We gathered in the Cooks’ living room—Pitura, Seth, Jim and Bonnie Cook, and Geraldine Molloy.

The Gunnison County homicide investigator was as gentle as he was large. He offered comforting words to Mrs. Molloy. Once he’d established that he was a sympathetic participant, he eased into his questioning, an open notebook on his lap.

“When was the last time you saw your husband?” he asked.

She sighed, rolled her eyes as though to summon an accurate recollection, then looked at him and said, “Last night.”

“About what time?”

“Ten. No, closer to eleven.”

“In your cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Did you both go to bed at eleven?”

“I think so. I went first, I think. Yes, I’m certain I did.”

“And what did he do?”

“Stayed up to read.”

“A book?”

“I don’t know. A magazine, maybe.”

“Know the name of it?”

“No.”

“Were you awake when he came to bed?”

“I don’t remember. I took a pill. I’d had trouble sleeping lately. I don’t think I was awake when Paul came to bed.”

“So you’re not sure he ever did—come to bed.”

“I guess not.”

“What was his state of mind last night, Mrs. Molloy?”

“State of mind?”

“Yes. Was he depressed, agitated, angry about something?”

“No.”

“Had he been down about anything lately?”

“Not especially.”

“What business was he in?”

“Land development.”

Pitura smiled and shook his head. “Afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, Mrs. Molloy. What does a land developer do?”

“Develop land. I don’t mean to be evasive, but I’ve never been sure what Paul did. I didn’t pay much attention to his business.”

“He have his own company?”

“Yes. Back home, in Nevada.”

“Las Vegas?”

“Just outside.”

“I see. What brought you to Powderhorn Ranch?”

“Paul wanted to get away for a week. I suggested Hawaii or the Caribbean. But he said he just wanted to get in the car and drive, see some of the country. A friend had been here a few years ago and suggested we spend a week. At least that’s what Paul told me. He said he had trouble getting a reservation because there was a family that had booked the ranch for some sort of reunion, but that he managed to convince the owners to take us.”

“That the way it was?” Pitura asked Jim Cook.

“That’s the way it was,” Jim said. “Mr. Molloy really wanted to be here this week, said it was the only week he had. We had one empty cabin and invited them to join us.”

“How did he seem to you when he checked in?”

Jim shrugged. “Fine, I guess. A quiet fella. Didn’t have much to say at dinner.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Didn’t make it for breakfast.”

“You slept in, Mrs. Molloy?”

“Yes. The pill I took was potent. I never woke up until Mrs. Fletcher came to the cabin.”

“Mind if I see the pill bottle?”

“I ... I don’t have one. I carry medications in a plastic container—vitamins, things like that. I only had one sleeping pill with me.”

“I suppose your pharmacist can tell us what sort of pill it was.”

“I’m sure he can. But why is this of interest to you? My husband was killed by some deranged person. What does it have to do with my sleeping pill?”

“Probably nothing,” Pitura said pleasantly. “If I have any other questions, we can get together again.”

“I intend to go home,” Geraldine said.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone that for a few days, Mrs. Molloy.”

“But I’ll have to make funeral arrangements.”

“Your husband won’t be released until the autopsy has been completed,” Pitura said. Could be three or four days, maybe longer. In the meantime, everyone at the ranch, guests and staff alike, will have to stay for questioning.”

Geraldine stood. “This is outrageous.”

“Mrs. Molloy, it appears that someone murdered your husband. It happened right here on the Powderhom Ranch. I understand your wanting to get back home, but until my investigation is completed, that just won’t be possible. You have children?”

“A daughter, in San Francisco.”

“Maybe she can come and be with you,” Bonnie offered. “She can stay with us in the house.”

“My daughter and I haven’t spoken in years.”

After a moment of silence, Jim Cook put his arm around Mrs. Molloy and said in his low, calm voice, “It won’t be long, Mrs. Molloy, before Mr. Pitura will have this all wrapped up and you can get back home. In the meantime, Bonnie and I will do everything we can to make it easier on you, serve meals in your cabin if you’d like, get you anything you need from town.” He turned to Pitura. “Speaking of that, Bob, I have to send one of the boys into Gunnison to pick up another guest. Her plane’s due in an hour.”

“Another guest?” I said.

“Mr. Craig Morrison’s wife. Couldn’t come in with the rest of the family. It okay with you, Bob, if I send somebody to pick her up?”

“I suppose so, but let me talk to who you decide to send before he goes.”

“Fair enough. I’ll send Jon. He should be down at the garage, fixing one of the Jeeps.”

“I’ll talk to him there,” Pitura said. “Sorry for your loss, Mrs. Molloy. You take care.”

“I’d like to lie down,” Geraldine said. “I don’t feel well.”

“Of course,” Bonnie said.

“I’ll be happy to walk Mrs. Molloy to her cabin,” Seth said.

“Thank you,” Bonnie said. “We’ll check in on you later, see if you feel like some lunch.”

Seth and Mrs. Molloy were almost out the door when Pitura said, “Mrs. Molloy, one last question before you go.”

“Yes?”

“I understand you had a handgun with you this morning.” I hadn’t mentioned it to the investigator, but Seth or Jim must have.

“That’s right,” she said.

“Belong to you?”

“It belonged to my husband.”

“Was it registered?”

“I don’t know. He’d been attacked a year or so ago and bought the gun for protection. I assume it was registered.”

“We can check. Naturally, we’ll hold it until this is resolved. If it was properly registered, you can have it back.”

“I don’t care about getting it back. When I heard someone in the cabin, I grabbed it. I didn’t know who it was.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Pitura said. “Thank you.”

When they were gone, Bonnie and I went to the kitchen, where she made a pot of tea.

“I feel terrible about this,” she said.

“Hardly calculated to make anyone feel good,” I said.

“That poor man, Mr. Molloy, and his wife.”

“I suppose it gives credence to that old saying, ‘Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”’

“It certainly does. I feel bad for everyone, Jess, including you. Jim and I finally get you to visit, and someone is murdered. Hardly a respite from the murders you write about.”

“That’s the least of it, Bonnie. As upsetting as this is, I agree with you and Jim that we should all try to make the best of it, have things go along as normally as possible. I’m sure you’re right, that whoever did this has nothing whatsoever to do with the ranch.”

“I pray that’s true.”

Seth returned.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Drained. Thanked me for walking her back and said she was going to bed. Best place for her.”

“There’s nothing scheduled for the rest of the day,” Bonnie said, “except lunch at twelve-thirty. There’s a two-thirty ride for anyone who’s interested, and we show a movie after dinner. Jim’s always happy to take guests on a Jeep ride up into the mountains. But I suppose everything’s subject to change, depending upon what Investigator Pitura and his people decide.”

“I’m sure he’ll try to accommodate everyone, Bonnie. I’ll be back in my cabin if you need anything. And please, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“That goes for me, too,” Seth said.

“You’re both very good friends, and very understanding. Thanks—for everything.”

Seth and I decided that to deliberately not go to lunch as a symbolic reaction to what had happened didn’t make sense. We wanted to support Jim and Bonnie’s desire to keep things going as normally as possible. Besides, we were hungry.

Evidently, most of the others didn’t share our view. We were joined only by Chris and Marisa Morrison, Evelyn’s brother, Robert, and a handful of staff. Joel served a taco salad with bowls of chopped onions, sour cream, and salsa, peaches with cream cheese, and chocolate chip brownies for dessert.

“The rest of your family skipping lunch?” Seth asked Chris.

“They said they weren’t hungry. Can’t blame them, I guess, considering what’s happened.”

“I was interviewed by the police,” wrangler Andy Wilson said. “Jon was, too, before he went to town to pick up Mrs. Morrison.”

“What did they ask you?” Sue, one of the cabin girls, said.

“Where I was last night and this morning.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Where I was. I did my laundry last night before we got together to watch TV. Remember?”

“I didn’t see you in the laundry room,” Sue said. “I did my laundry last night, too.”

“I must have been there before you,” Andy replied, a tinge of anger to his voice.

“The investigator—what’s his name? Pitura?—wants to interview us this afternoon,” Chris Morrison said.

“Why they would interview us is beyond me,” said his wife, Marisa. She guffawed. “Surely, he doesn’t suspect anyone from this family.”

“They have to do their job,” Seth said. “They can’t rule anyone out when a murder’s been committed.” He took another helping of taco salad.

“Jon said he saw a stranger on the road early this morning,” Andy said.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Did he tell the investigator?”

“I guess so. He interviewed us separately.”

“Has any of your family seen anything unusual?” I asked Chris. “I saw that some of you were up early this morning.”

“Not that anybody said. How about you, Mrs. Fletcher? I saw you walking early.”

“Yes, I was, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You’ll probably solve this before the cops,” Chris said, laughing. “I mean, with all the murder mysteries you’ve written, you probably already have a theory. Am I right?”

“No, you are wrong, Mr. Morrison. I haven’t a clue.”

“What about his wife?” Marisa asked. “She’s a strange-o.”

“She’s very upset, as can be imagined. She doesn’t know when he left their cabin.”

“How can that be?” Chris asked. “You know what they say about murder.”

“What do they say, Mr. Morrison?” Seth asked.

“What does that mean?” Sue, the cabin girl, asked.

“It means ‘Look for the woman in the case,”’ I said. “Alexandre Dumas.”

Hand on hip, Sue asked, “Why the woman?”

“Most murders are crimes of passion,” Chris Morrison responded. “You always look to the spouse first. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“If you ask me, his wife did him in,” Chris said. “They didn’t look all that happy at dinner last night.”

“Ready, Seth?” I asked, standing.

Robert Morrison, Evelyn’s brother, hadn’t said anything during lunch. As Seth and I stepped outside, he followed.

“A word, Mrs. Fletcher?”