A Little Yuletide Murder (26 page)

Accompanying us were Jim and Bonnie’s two dogs—Socks, a border collie who earned his keep by herding the ranch’s horses at feeding time, and Holly, a mixed breed with a sweet disposition and a penchant for crashing through bushes and brush in search of small animals.

It had been a chilly forty degrees when I got up. Now, with the sun rising high into the deep blue sky, it had warmed up to sixty, a typical pristine day on tap in Western Colorado.

Initially, when we left the corral, I was tentative being so high off the ground. I hadn’t been on a horse in years, and Rebel was a big one, the largest of the ranch’s forty-two steeds. But after an hour, I settled into a comfortable synergy with his gait and felt as though I’d been riding him all my life. Adding to the pleasure of having become one with my horse was the sheer joy of being there: the views became increasingly breathtaking as we continued our ascent, the horses were sure-footed on the narrow, twisting rutted trails winding through groves of aspen trees and ponderosa pines. A hawk circled overhead; chipmunks scurried across the trail; and deer watched impassively from a safe distance.

The other guests that week were from one family, the Morrisons, and a couple who’d arrived at the last minute, Paul and Geraldine Molloy. Jim and Bonnie had explained that each year the Morrison clan gathered for a family reunion at the Powderhom, the annual event arranged by Craig Morrison, the oldest of four brothers and a wealthy real estate developer from Denver. Nine Morrisons attended this year’s reunion, including Craig. But only six were on the ride this morning. Craig was working in his cabin, according to another brother, Chris, whose wife, Marisa, joined us on horseback that morning. Craig’s teenage son and daughter were also part of the riding group, as was an unmarried cousin, Willy, and the family matriarch, Evelyn Morrison, a patrician woman who looked younger than her years, and whose youthful figure nicely filled out the jeans, designer plaid shirt, and down vest she wore. She rode tall and erect in the saddle, her hair perfectly coifed beneath a black Stetson studded with rhinestones. An impressive group, I thought upon meeting them at breakfast, proud of what was obviously a staunch and successful family. Mrs. Molloy rounded out our group.

We stopped on the ridge of the mountain we’d climbed to stretch our legs and take in the vistas. Our wrangler, a young woman named Amber, pointed out various mountain peaks in the far distance, and identified some of the wildflowers that painted the countryside with bursts of color.

“Ready to head back?” Amber asked.

“Whenever you are,” Chris Morrison said.

The teenagers had wandered off, and we had to round them up before mounting our horses and starting back down the series of trails that had led us to the top.

“Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Fletcher?” Evelyn Morrison asked as we slowly retraced our steps.

“Immensely so,” I said. “This is paradise.”

“Will you be setting one of your mysteries on a guest ranch?”

“Goodness, no. This is vacation time for me. No books, no plots, no nefarious characters, and certainly no murders.
Especially
no murders, at least for a week.”

She laughed.

“Can’t we go faster?” one of the teens asked. “This is boring.”

“We go as fast as our guide allows us to go,” the family matriarch said haughtily.

“Grandma looks like a cowboy,” his sister said, laughing.

“Cowgirl is more appropriate,” Evelyn said. “And I have told you countless times not to call me Grandma. I am not old enough to be your grandmother. I am Evelyn.”

I kept my smile to myself. Evelyn Morrison was obviously as vain as she was beautiful.

It was a little past noon when we turned onto the final trail leading to the ranch. We rode in single file; I’d ended up first in line directly behind Amber. Evelyn was directly behind me, followed by the rest of her family.

It was when we reached flat ground and were on a dirt road, the ranch looming in the distance, that Holly tore off into the bushes and barked.

Amber brought us to a halt and said, laughing, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her bark.”

The dog continued to sound off, barking at one moment, whining the next. Socks, her canine step-sibling, joined her.

Amber signaled us to resume the ride, and slowly headed down the road. I started to follow, but as I passed where the dogs were making a ruckus, I saw something out of the comer of my eye. I pulled on the reins, bringing Rebel to a halt. The others halted behind me.

“What is it?” Evelyn Morrison asked.

I pointed to the bushes.

“What?” she repeated.

“That,” I said, referring to the lower portion of a human leg that had been uncovered by the dogs’ thrashing about.

“It’s a leg,” Chris Morrison said.

“Ugh,” the teenage girl said.

Amber got down off her horse, handed the reins to me, and went to where the dogs waited, tails wagging. She parted the bushes with her boot and leaned over to see better.

“What is it?” Evelyn Morrison said in a voice she undoubtedly used when demanding answers from underlings in boardrooms.

“It’s—”

Amber stepped back as though physically pushed, and returned to us.

“It’s—it’s Mr. Molloy,” she said.

“Molloy?” Evelyn said.

“My husband?” Geraldine Molloy said.

“Yes,” said Amber.

“Oh, boy,” Cousin Willy said.

Evelyn turned to face her son, Chris. “Get back to the ranch and call Walter in Denver. The phone is in the laundry room.”

“Walter?” I said.

“Our attorney,” Evelyn replied.

“It must have been an accident,” Cousin Willy said.

I climbed down from Rebel, handed the reins to Amber and stepped closer to the body. Amber was right. It was Paul Molloy. After observing his bloody face, I straightened up, turned and said, “This was no accident. This was murder.”

“So much for your idyllic vacation, Mrs. Fletcher,” Evelyn Morrison said. To the others: “Stop gawking and follow me. We have things to do.”