Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (8 page)

“Yes?”

Morrison looked at Seth.

“Think I’ll stroll up and see if Mrs. Molloy is awake,” Seth said, “and ask if she needs anything.”

“That would be nice, Seth. Let me know if I can help.”

Morrison and I walked to the end of the main lodge and turned the corner, stopping at a large outdoor sink where lucky fishermen cleaned their catch. It had clouded over since we went to lunch, and turned chilly.

“I understand you’re good friends with Mr. and Mrs. Cook, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That’s right. We were neighbors in Maine.”

“I’m sure you can understand that my sister and I are extremely upset over what’s happened.”

“As we all are.”

“Perhaps not. You and your physician friend are here as guests of the Cooks. A relaxing, carefree week. We, on the other hand, are here not only to allow family members to get together socially, but to iron out some family business.”

“Oh? What sort of business?”

“Succession issues, corporate structure—we always use this week as a retreat of sorts, a chance to get away from the pressures of the boardroom and discuss things in a peaceful atmosphere. The point I wish to make, Mrs. Fletcher, is that to be intruded upon by this investigation will hamper our ability to resolve certain business issues.”

“It will be an intrusion into all our lives,” I said, not pleased at the direction the conversation was taking. Obviously, he felt he and his wealthy family were above being investigated.

“Let me get to the point,” he said. His voice was flat, a monotone, and grating. “Mr. and Mrs. Cook obviously are well known in this area. I noticed that the homicide investigator—Pitura, is it?—is on a first-name basis with them. They call him by his first name, too. Surely, they could make a case with him that no member of my family could possibly be involved in this sordid mess. He could also prevail, using the health of his business as a basis. We’re very good customers of this ranch, Mrs. Fletcher. We come here every year and are generous with our treatment of the staff. I really think that—”

“Are you suggesting I intervene with the Cooks, Mr. Morrison, and ask them to seek some sort of special treatment for you and your family?”

“That would be very much appreciated.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. There’s been a brutal murder committed on the ranch. Everyone must be considered a suspect until the police solve the case. I understand how painful this is for your family, but—”

“I thought you might be more cooperative, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I
am
cooperative, Mr. Morrison, but at the moment, my cooperation is extended to Investigator Pitura and his people. Excuse me. I want to check on Mrs. Molloy—the widow.”

The Morrison gene, the one that seemed to imbue each family member with a sourness, came through on his face. I started to leave, stopped, turned, and asked, “Mr. Morrison, what business is your family in?”

He answered by walking in the direction of the cabins.

Seth was coming from the honeymoon cabin as I approached.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Still resting. I spoke with her for a few minutes. I think the shock has set in. Always takes a while for that to happen. Any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

“No. I considered asking Jim to take me on a Jeep ride, but I’m sure he won’t be free to do that for a day or two, until the investigation winds down.”

“Sounds unduly optimistic,” Seth said. “Probably will be going on all week and beyond.”

“Cup of tea?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

I made tea in my cabin, and we sat on the porch, watching the comings and goings of Investigator Pitura and the other officers. The main lodge had been established as the center for interviews. Members of the Morrison family entered individually, each emerging a half hour later while another person waited to go in.

“Wonder when the investigator will get around to us,” Seth said.

“Soon enough, I’m sure. Have you heard anything about the weapon?”

“No.”

“Once they determine what sort of weapon was used, it might help narrow the inquiry.”

“If
they find it. Hardly likely.”

“You never know.”

We lingered for a half hour until I announced I might put in an hour’s fishing on Cebolla Creek.

“Feelin’ up to it, Jessica?”

“It would take my mind off things like murder. The world—the
real
world—always disappears when I’m on a stream. Care to join me?”

“You know I don’t fish, at least not anymore.”

“Good chance to take it up again.”

“No, you go on. I think I’ll do some reading back at my cabin.”

Fly fishing takes preparation. I went inside and slipped into lightweight stockingfoot waders, which came up to my chest and were secured over my shoulders with suspenders. Next came protective wading socks, after which I put on my wading boots and laced them up. That portion of the ritual completed, I donned my wading vest with its multiple pockets, attached a small net to a ring at the back of the vest with an elastic cord, put together my four-piece Hardy rod and reel, chose a small dry fly that had been tied to emulate natural insect life on a stream, put on my peaked fishing hat, and left the cabin. Already, the tragic event of the morning was fading from consciousness.

Jim Cook saw me heading for the creek. He’d just come from the lodge, accompanied by Investigator Pitura, who patted him on the back and walked to the house. Jim caught up with me.

“Glad to see you’re taking it in stride, Jess,” he said, “going on with some sort of normal activity.”

“I think it’s important to do that,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“How are the interviews going?”

“Pretty well, I guess. Bob Pitura has a nice way of getting people to open up.”

“Yes. I noticed that when he was questioning Mrs. Molloy. Have you been present at any of the interviews?”

“Yes, I have. Surprised that Bob would allow that. But he said he thought having either Bonnie or me there would put some of the staff at ease.” He laughed ruefully. “Questioning the staff must be just routine for Bob. I’m sure he knows nobody working at this ranch could possibly have murdered anyone.”

I didn’t voice my thought of the moment. It was natural for Jim to feel that way, just as the Morrison family found it inconceivable that any of its members would be viewed with suspicion. I suppose I felt the same about Seth and me.

But
somebody
had killed Paul Molloy.
Someone
had stabbed or shot him in the chest.

“Any word on the weapon?” I asked.

“No. I spoke with Sheriff Murdie a little while ago. He said he’d be here late afternoon. He’s tied up with another investigation.”

“Is there much crime out here?” I asked.

“Hardly any. Not murder, anyway. I think there’s been two since we bought the Powderhorn. They recently solved one going back seventeen years. A young girl was killed then. The murderer was doing twenty years in Tennessee for armed robbery. Amazing, huh, how they could come up with the killer after all those years?”

“It certainly is. Your Sheriff Murdie and his people must be pretty good at what they do.”

“I guess they are. The sheriff’s a nice sorta fella. I think you’ll enjoy meeting him. Well, I’ll let you get on to your fishing. If you don’t have any luck, there’s always the stocked pond.”

“I hope I won’t have to resort to that. Too much like shooting fish in a barrel. See you later, Jim.”

Cebolla Creek is fast-moving and not difficult to access from the bank, at least the portion immediately on ranch property. It’s a narrow stream with a lot of overhanging branches, making casting difficult. A section of it beyond the stables and corrals is considerably wider, but I decided to save that for another day. Working on the narrow portion would allow me to practice what’s called a roll-cast, in which the rod isn’t brought up behind. Instead, you leave the tip down near the water and “whip” the line out into the current.

I found a spot with relatively secure footing and went to work, laying the tiny fly where I wanted it and watching it drift with the current until it was time to cast again. I’d been at it for forty-five minutes, during which time the sun disappeared, the skies blackened, rain fell, and then the sun shone brightly again.

I snagged the fly on a piece of deadwood. I tried to yank it free, but the fly broke away from the tippet, the hair-thin filament at the end of the line. I chose a similar fly from a box in one of my vest’s pockets, tied it on the tippet, and cast. It hadn’t traveled more than six feet when a trout broke the water’s surface and went for it. I yanked back on the line. I had it. My heart tripped as it always does when I’ve managed to fool a fish into thinking my offering at the end of the line is the real thing. But I knew I had to play it with care. I remove the barbs from all my hooks, which makes releasing a fish considerably easier on me, and on the fish, but that more easily slips from the mouth when bringing a fish in.

Here was where skill was paramount. I made sure my feet were solid and began to haul in line, slowly, keeping it taut to maintain a constant pressure. The fish leaped from the water, then disappeared beneath it. I continued to play it, wanting to net it before it fought too long and exhausted itself.

I now had it close and reached around to bring the net forward with my right hand, while holding the rod in my left. “Easy now,” I said aloud. “Just another few feet and—”

The noise was sudden and startling. There was someone in the bushes behind me. I turned. In doing so, I allowed the line to slacken. The fish slipped the hook and was gone. So was I. My right foot went out from under me. As hard as I tried to maintain my balance, I couldn’t, and tumbled into the water, valiantly attempting to hold on to the rod. Water poured into my waders; I’d neglected to wear a belt around my waist to prevent that from happening. As I fell, I managed to see what had caused the noise—a person. I couldn’t make out who it was; he or she pushed through the bushes and was gone from my sight.

Fortunately, the water at that point in the Cebolla isn’t deep, and I had no fear of being pulled under loons. A surprising number of fly fishermen die each year in just such accidents. I almost did a few years ago in Scotland.

I dragged myself over rocks to the bank, where I sprawled and caught my breath. My mishap had turned into nothing more than an embarrassment, and the loss of a fish, which I would have let go anyway. I raised my legs to allow some of the water to drain from my waders. Now able to maneuver, I climbed the bank to where the bushes lined the Cebolla. I put my hand to my head. My hat was gone, my favorite fishing hat. Better that than all of
me,
I decided.

I started in the direction of my cabin, looking down as I did. Two footprints were directly in front of me. They appeared to be fresh. I bent over and touched the indentation one had made in the earth. It was pointed away from the creek, toward the cabins. Same with the second print.

As I headed for my cabin—waddled is more accurate—Bonnie Cook was crossing the grassy strip. “What happened to you?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Slipped in the stream. No damage except for a lost favorite fishing hat.”

“Those rocks in there can be slippery.”

“I know. I was startled by—”

“By what?”

“Must have been a bird, or one of the dogs. Anyway, Bonnie, I caught a trout and almost netted it.”

“You fishing fanatics always amaze me. Nothing fazes you as long as you catch a fish.”

“I’d better get out of these wet clothes,” I said, “before I catch cold.”

“Yes, you’d better.”

“How’s things going with the investigation?”

“All right, I guess. Bob Pitura is staying for dinner. So is Sheriff Murdie. They’d like to talk to us as a group.”

“Okay. See you then.”

I changed into a running suit and sneakers, grabbed a small point-and-shoot camera and cloth measuring tape from my bag, left the cabin, and returned to where I’d seen the footprints. I knelt and examined them closely. They’d obviously been made by a man’s shoe or boot—or a woman wearing such a shoe. I snapped a picture of each print, then measured them, aware that what I came up with could be considered only approximate. They measured size eleven.

There certainly was nothing wrong with someone standing on the bank of the Cebolla and watching me fish. People do it all the time. But why would he, or she, have bolted the minute I turned around? If I’d seen someone slip and fall in the water, my immediate reaction would have been to offer to help, not run. My assumption had to be that whoever it was didn’t want me to know that he, or she, had been observing me.

As I stood there pondering, homicide investigator Pitura came up behind.

“Looking for clues?” he asked pleasantly, and with a broad smile.

“No. I was just—”

He bent over and looked closely at one of the footprints. “Is this what piqued your interest, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes. Actually, I—”

“Think they belong to Mr. Molloy’s killer?”

“No.” I explained what had happened.

“I agree with you,” he said. “Why would someone not want you to know he was watching you?”

“Terminal shyness,” I offered, tongue in cheek.

“Hmmm.”

“I understand you and the sheriff want to speak with us as a group at dinner.”

“That’s right. I think everyone at the ranch deserves to be kept abreast of what we’ve done, and what we’ll be doing.”

“An unusual approach for someone investigating a murder.”

“How so?”

“Keeping suspects informed of the investigation’s progress.”

He smiled. “Maybe I’m taking a page from one of your murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve read most of them. Many feature unusual investigative techniques. I understand you’ve solved your share of real murders.”