Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (9 page)

“Wrong place, wrong time, I’m afraid.”

“Well, this looks like another case of that. Mind if I pick your brain as we go forward?”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll have plaster casts made of those prints.”

“If you wish.”

“I wish. See you at dinner.”

Sue, the cabin girl, had carried the evening’s fare—fried chicken, “melt in your mouth” potatoes, broccoli casserole, homemade biscuits, and apple pie—to Geraldine Molloy in the honeymoon cabin. Whether the grieving widow would be up for such a large dinner was conjecture. Bonnie had suggested to Mrs. Molloy that she might feel better if she was with people, but Geraldine declined the advice. “I need to be by myself,” she’d said. Which, of course, we all understood.

There was a sense of heightened anticipation in the main lodge when we gathered for dinner. The main room was large enough for factions to congregate in opposite comers. The Morrison family had grown; Craig’s wife, Veronica, had arrived in late afternoon, driven in the Cooks’ suburban by wrangler Jon Adler. I’d watched as she was greeted by Jim, his omnipresent video camera rolling as she stepped from the vehicle. She was a stunning woman, approximately forty years old, tall and full-figured-buxom would be an appropriate word—her features fine, long blond hair allowed to fall naturally over her shoulders. No one had bothered to introduce her, so I went to where she sat and extended my hand.

“The young man who drove me from the airport said the famous murder mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher, was here,” she said.

“Unfortunately, there’s been a
real
murder,” I said. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Yes, Craig told me.”

“Did you just fly into Gunnison this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Smooth flight?”

“Yes. Smooth as silk, as they say. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I hope we can find some time to talk while we’re here.”

I rejoined Seth at the games table. “This Mrs. Morrison seems more pleasant and gracious than the others,” I said into his ear.

“That’s nice to hear,” he said.

Sheriff Murdie and his homicide investigator, Bob Pitura, sat next to each other near the entrance to the dining room and spoke to each other in hushed tones. Jim and Bonnie were in and out as they juggled preparing for dinner and being host and hostess to their guests. Unlike the previous evening, the staff did not mingle with us before dinner. It was as though sides had been chosen and we were preparing for competition, maybe a game of charades, or statues.

Jim eventually appeared in the doorway and, with his customary wide smile, announced that dinner was ready. We filed into the dining room and took what had become our usual seats at the long table. I was glad to see that some of the wranglers joined us. Their presence tended to perk up spirits. The only guest missing was Craig Morrison’s teen daughter, Pauline. I asked about her.

“This episode has upset her terribly,” Evelyn Morrison said. “She’s been in tears all day.”

“Sheriff Murdie will be saying a few words,” Jim said as he started passing platters. “Any time it suits you, Richard.”

The sheriff was six feet tall, solidly built, close-cropped black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore glasses. He was dressed in a striped sport shirt and jeans.

“Maybe your guests would rather eat first, Jim.”

“Up to them.”

“I
have some questions I’d like answered,” Evelyn Morrison said sternly.

Murdie smiled. “I’ll answer anything I can, Mrs. Morrison, although there will be some areas I’ll have to avoid.”

“Why are we being questioned?” Evelyn asked.

“You mean you and your family?”

“Yes. We’re guests at this ranch for the week. We’ve been coming here for years. We not only use this week each year to bond together, we use it as a retreat at which to discuss sensitive, important business.”

Murdie listened attentively, helping himself to chicken as the platter reached him.

Evelyn’s brother, Robert, added, “Your interrogation of us represents an unnecessary intrusion, Sheriff. It’s obvious that the murder—if it
was
murder—was committed by some outsider, some nut passing by.”

A pleasant, concerned expression never left the sheriff’s face. He asked, “Why do you think it might not have been murder, Mr. Morrison?”

“It could have been an accident. One look at Molloy and it was obvious to me he drank a lot.”

“Oh?” said Murdie. “What in his appearance led you to that conclusion?”

“It was written all over his face.”

“An Irish face,” Murdie said, buttering a biscuit, the subtle accusation that Morrison was dealing in stereotypes not lost on me.

“Maybe we ought to see what the sheriff and Mr. Pitura have come up with before we get into why he has to question us—
all
of us,” Bonnie said.

“Good idea,” Seth said. “Any progress, Sheriff?”

Murdie turned to Pitura. “Why don’t you fill these good folks in on the investigation, Bob.”

Pitura said, “Not too much to report.” He turned to Robert Morrison. “It
was
murder, Mr. Morrison. Mr. Molloy was stabbed in the chest by some sort of weapon. I spoke to the ME before dinner. It wasn’t a sharp knife. It was thick and rough, based upon his initial examination of the wound.”

“Seems to me finding such a weapon shouldn’t be difficult,” Chris Morrison said. “The killer probably dropped it in the woods. Right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I said nothing.

“We’ve searched the woods,” Pitura said. “Naturally, I’m sorry you’ve had to take some time from your week at the Powderhorn to be questioned. I’ve tried to keep the intrusion to a minimum, and will continue to do so as the week progresses.”

“There’s to be more?” Evelyn asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Pitura. “Our questioning of you has only been preliminary. But again, I’ll try to—”

“This is outrageous,” Robert Morrison said.

“Perhaps we should simply pack up and go home,” said Evelyn.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, at least for a few days,” Sheriff Murdie said.

“I beg to differ with you, Sheriff,” Robert Morrison said. “I’m an attorney. You have no legal right to detain us here.”

“Well, I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Morrison, but I do know that I have the legal authority to do exactly that; detain you until I’m satisfied we’ve completed our questioning of each of you. Of course, no one’s going to stand guard to make sure you don’t leave. But if you do decide to take off, I’ll just have to dispatch some of my people to Denver and continue questioning you in conjunction with your local authorities. But do you know what?”

“What?”

“It seems to me that if you and your family had absolutely nothing to do with this—and, I hasten to add I’m sure that’s the case—it seems to me you’d want to stay and be as helpful as possible. It seems to me that anyone who can’t deal with being questioned might—and I emphasize
might—
have some reason for it.”

I covered my smile with my hand. This sheriff of Gunnison County, Colorado, knew exactly how to deal with people like the Morrisons.

“I asked Mrs. Fletcher if she had any leads,” Chris Morrison said. “She said she didn’t, but I don’t believe her.”

Homicide Investigator Pitura looked at me and said, “I’ve already suggested I might pick Mrs. Fletcher’s sizable brain, considering her track record in solving murders.”

The sheriff said, “Good idea. Well, Mrs. Fletcher,
do
you have any leads, any good ideas about who might have done this?”

“None whatsoever,” I said.

Chris said, “Come on, Mrs. Fletcher. Tell us who done the dastardly deed, and we can all forget about it and enjoy the rest of the week.” He was beginning to annoy me.

“Jessica Fletcher
writes
about murder,” Seth said. “She doesn’t involve herself personally.”

“Ready for pie?” Jim Cook asked. He asked it of Willy, the nervous Morrison cousin who’d been with us on the ride when Paul Molloy’s body was discovered. He responded by pushing back his chair and saying, “Excuse me. I have a headache.”

When he was gone, Sheriff Murdie said, “Taking this pretty hard, I see.”

“Willy is high-strung,” Evelyn said. “Being questioned by the police puts a terrible strain on him. I hope you won’t put any credence in what he might tell you.”

I glanced at the sheriff and his homicide investigator and could almost see their minds working. Evelyn’s comment said something quite apart from what she might have intended, and I was certain the police would now make it a point to spend more time with Cousin Willy.

As the staff cleared the table, Jim asked, “Have you decided on a movie?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” I said.

“Got some fine old Tom Mix and Gene Autry flicks. Plenty of John Wayne, too.”

“I’d enjoy seeing a good old-fashioned western shoot-em-up,” I said. “Seth?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’ll make popcorn,” Jim said. “Go pick a film, and I’ll rack it up.” He turned to Sheriff Murdie and Investigator Pitura. “You fellas want to stay?”

“No,” Murdie said. “We have to get back to town. I’m leaving a uniformed officer on the premises. He’ll be in his car at the main entrance to the ranch. Naturally, no one is to go near the crime scene. Bob will be back first thing in the morning to continue the investigation. Good night, everybody. A pleasure to share a meal with you. The chicken was especially good, Bonnie.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Safe home. Come in time for breakfast, Bob.”

I was surprised that most of the Morrisons stayed for the movie. I wondered whether they did so to show that they were not intimidated or deterred by something as mundane as murder. Perhaps that was being unduly cynical. Maybe they simply loved western movies.

Since no one seemed especially interested in selecting a film, Seth did the honors, choosing one of director John Ford’s greatest,
My Darling Clementine,
a 1946 black-and-white classic starring Henry Fonda as Marshal Wyatt Earp and Victor Mature as Doc Holliday. Jim handed us bowls of popcorn, inserted the video in the VCR, dimmed the lights, and we settled back for a night at the movies.

But as engrossing as the story was, my mind kept wandering to everything that had happened since our arrival at the Powderhorn Ranch. Foremost in my thoughts was the weapon used to kill Paul Molloy. Either the murderer had taken it with him, or had ditched it somewhere in the vicinity. Cebolla Creek, or the stocked fishing pond, would be the most logical of places, and I made a mental note to suggest to Bob Pitura in the morning that they be dragged. I also wondered whether the cabins had been searched. Mine certainly hadn’t been, at least not to my knowledge. Pitura had said the weapon was rough, unlike a knife. What could it be, then? Some sort of poker? A screwdriver? Whatever it was had certainly done the job.

I also thought during the movie of someone having observed me while fishing that afternoon. Pitura said he would have plaster casts made of the footprints, but to what end? Whoever it was behind the bushes hadn’t done anything nefarious. But why hadn’t that person stayed when I turned at the sound he or she had made? Why the need to crash through the bushes to escape being seen by me?

I’d taken note of shoes worn by people at dinner, an unproductive exercise. The prints in the dirt had measured size eleven—maybe eleven and a half. There didn’t seem to be any distinguishing marks left by the soles. An unusually small or large print would have helped narrow it down.

Seth dozed off during the film, not an unusual occurrence. When THE END appeared on the screen, Jim turned up the lights. I looked around. Most of the Morrison family had left. Only Chris, the younger brother, and Craig’s wife, Veronica, remained.

“Enjoy it?” I asked.

“Henry Fonda has always been one of my favorites,” Veronica said.

“Mine, too,” I said.

“I don’t like westerns,” Chris said.

“They’re just stories with a western setting,” I said.

“I think they’re dumb.”

Seth yawned, stretched, and stood. “Past my bedtime,” he said. “Jessica?”

“I’m not sleepy. I think I’ll sit here a bit.”

“As you wish. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Morrison.”

“Good evening, Doctor. Sleep well.”

Jim excused himself. So did Chris Morrison. Veronica crossed the room and sat next to me on the couch. “I understand you discovered the body,” she said.

“No. One of the wranglers did. I was riding with the group she led.”

“Did you actually see the body?”

“Yes.”

“How dreadful. They say he was stabbed in the chest.”

“So it seems, although a final determination of cause of death hasn’t been made yet.”

“Did you know Mr.—? His name escapes me.”

“Molloy. Paul Molloy. He and his wife had dinner with us last night. A nice couple. Quiet.”

“Here one moment having a pleasant dinner, dead the next.” She wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered.

“Makes you appreciate each day you’re alive,” I said.

“It certainly does. Chris says the local police are probably a bunch of bunglers and will never solve it.”

“That’s not my impression of them,” I said. “They seem quite astute and professional.”

“I hope you’re right. Well, I suppose I’d better get back to the cabin. Oh, Craig tells me you’re a pilot.”

“A fledgling one.”

“I fly, too. I got my license a year ago.”

“How wonderful. Do you get a chance to fly much?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good night. And it’s Jessica.”

She gave me her hand. “And I’m Veronica.”

I watched her walk from the room. She was a stunning woman who might easily have been a model. I recalled Evelyn’s harsh words to Craig about her and wondered if it could involve jealousy—two beautiful, proud women vying for attention within a family.