Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (10 page)

I stood outside and looked up into a pristine sky, then peered down the road to where a marked police car was parked. Funny, how even something as vile as murder can be forgotten when other things intervene, like a movie, or a good meal.

For the first time since the morning I was overcome with the grim reality that someone had been brutally killed, and whoever did it was still at large.

I willed all my senses into an alert status and quickly crossed the grass to my cabin. I’m not by nature a fearful person, and have always been successful at preventing my mind from playing games with me. But as soon as I was inside, I checked the closets and behind the bathroom shower curtain, then locked the front door.

The killings in the movie had been only make-believe.

This was real life.

“Everyone sleep well?” Jim Cook asked as we gathered for bacon and eggs, and peach coffee cake for dessert. Sheriff Murdie hadn’t come to the ranch that morning, but Bob Pitura was there at breakfast.

Noncommittal murmurs came from around the table. I said nothing; I hadn’t slept well, waking frequently to sounds, real and imagined. But Seth looked refreshed and alert, even jovial.

“The sign-up sheet for today’s supper ride is posted outside the lodge,” Bonnie announced. “Will everybody be joining us? It’s a beautiful ride, and Jim does a great cookout.”

Cousin Willy squirmed in his chair and winced.

“We’ll use the Jeeps for anybody who doesn’t want to ride,” Jim said.

“We will
all
ride,” Evelyn proclaimed. “This is, after all, a ranch.”

“Good to hear,” Jim said. “Got to keep the horses working. Did you hear about the church that hired one of its out-of-work parishioners to paint the church?”

“No,” Seth and I said. “Tell us about the fellow who painted the church.”

Jim laughed and continued: “This fella decided to thin the paint so he’d make a bigger profit. He kept thinning and thinning. Finally, he was at the top of the steeple when lightning lit up the sky. There was a clap of thunder, and a loud voice came from the heavens. ‘Repaint, repaint, but thin no more!’ ”

“Oh, Jim,” Bonnie said, shaking her head.

We all laughed, except Evelyn, who said to Bob Pitura, “I suppose we’ll be subjected to more questioning today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pitura said, “but I’ll try to not interfere with the day’s activities.”

“As though that were possible,” Evelyn said, pushing away from the table, standing, and leading her family from the lodge, like a mother duck being trailed by recent hatchlings. Seth and I joined Jim beneath the overhang at the front of the lodge.

“Going on the morning ride?” he asked.

“Not me,” Seth said. “Still sore from yesterday. But I’ll be ready to saddle up again this afternoon.”

“You, Jess?”

“I think I’ll fish this morning. That trout that got away yesterday is there waiting for me. I can feel it.”

“Go get ’em,” Jim said. “I’ll pop down and capture it for posterity on videotape.”

“Just don’t have the camera rolling if I fall again.”

“Bonnie told me about yesterday. Be careful. Those rocks can be slippery, even if you do have felt soles on your wading boots.”

Jim walked away as Bob Pitura joined us. “Grab a few minutes with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Of course. Is it my turn to be questioned?”

“No. There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“See you later, Jessica,” Seth said. “Think I’ll get back to my book.”

“I’d like you to join us, Dr. Hazlitt, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind a bit.”

We went back inside the lodge and sat in the large main room. Sue, the cabin girl, poured fresh coffee, and placed a platter of leftover peach coffee cake in front of us.

“Before I forget it,” I said, “I was wondering whether you intended to drag the creek for the weapon.”

“It’s on the agenda, if we don’t find it first. The stocked pond, too.”

“Good.”

“Before I left town this morning, I got together with Sheriff Murdie and the medical examiner. Mr. Molloy died of that stab wound. No surprise, of course, but always nice to have things officially confirmed.”

“Did your ME establish a time of death?”

“Sometime between two and eight.”

“That’s a pretty wide window,” Seth said.

“Yes, it is, but it’s unlikely the murder took place during daylight hours. Gets light here about five, five-fifteen. I’d say it happened between two and five.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Has any of your questioning revealed anything? Or maybe that question is out of line.”

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t talk about the results of my questioning. But in your case I think I will.”

“Why? Should I be flattered?”

“Perhaps.” He grinned. “I said I wanted to talk to you about other things, Mrs. Fletcher. With you, too, Dr. Hazlitt.”

“We’re listening,” Seth said.

“I’ve been doing homicide investigations for more years than I’m willing to admit.”

“I didn’t think there were that many homicides to investigate in Gunnison County,” I said.

“There aren’t. But I go way back with Sheriff Murdie, to when we were both Marines in San Diego, and thirteen years with the Denver PD. Plenty of murders in Denver. The point is, it’s been my experience that in a situation like we have here, interviewing the guests and staff probably won’t produce much in the way of information, especially since there’s a large family involved. Of course, you never know. Every once in a while somebody tells you something that’s totally unexpected. I’ll continue with my official questioning for as long as I think it’s productive. My
official
questioning.”

“I take it there’s to be some
unofficial
questioning.”

“I hope so. That is, if you and Dr. Hazlitt are willing.”

“Us?” Seth said.

“Yes, sir. The way I figure it, Mrs. Fletcher has the perfect reason for asking questions. She is, after all, a noted writer of crime novels, and I’m sure you’re always researching crime and criminals.”

“I do a great deal of that.”

“And you, Dr. Hazlitt, being a physician and close friend, gives you your own reason for asking questions. Maybe you help Mrs. Fletcher research the medical aspects of her books.”

“I’ve done a little of that,” Seth said proudly.

“He certainly has,” I said, smiling at my friend.

Pitura continued. “I just thought you might engage the others in conversation, find out more about them, where they’re coming from, their views of what happened, things like that. You know, friendly chitchat, but with a purpose.”

“I see. I’m willing, of course, but I can’t conceive of anyone telling me very much that would be useful.”

“Then again, Mrs. Fletcher, you might come up with something that’s very useful. Willing to try?”

“Of course.”

“You, Dr. Hazlitt?”

“Pardon?”

“That’s Maine for yes,” I said.

“Oh. Well, I appreciate the help. By the way, we did a background check on Paul Molloy. He’s from Las Vegas.”

“So he said.”

“Strange background. A little of this, a little of that. Land deals, most of them gone sour. One of those men who’s always looking for the big score rather than working hard to earn a series of smaller successes. Has some shadowy government background, too.”

“Government?”

“Connected with the CIA, or so he told people. Lived in the old Soviet Union for a while. Middle East, too.”

“Hmmm. What about his wife? How long have they been married?”

“Not long.”

“Really?”

“In fact, they’re not—married.”

Seth and I looked at each other. I said, “But they introduced themselves as man and wife. And I think she said they had a daughter in San Francisco. Estranged from her, I believe.”

“There’s no record of any marriage in the Nevada files. Of course, they might have been married elsewhere. But I doubt it. My sources in Las Vegas say Paul Molloy has been a bachelor for years.”

“Strange,” Seth said.

“Maybe you can start there, Mrs. Fletcher, try to get to the bottom of their relationship.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“And don’t ignore the staff of the Powderhorn. For instance, the chef”—he consulted a small notebook—“Joel Louden. Bonnie told me he was a last-minute substitute for the chef they’d hired for the season. The original guy just picked up and left a week ago. Mr. Louden drives onto the ranch the very afternoon the chef left, has good credentials as a cook, and is hired on the spot. Bonnie and Jim had their reservations about taking on someone whom they don’t know very well. They pick their staff from hundreds of applications each year, and dig deep into their backgrounds, references, things like that. But they were in a real bind. Bonnie says Louden was personable and well-mannered. Cooks good, too, she says.”

“Lucky to get him, I’d say,” said Seth.

“I suppose so. His last cooking job was in Las Vegas.”

“Where Mr. Molloy was from.”

“Right. I’ll catch up with you later.”

When Pitura was gone, Seth said, “Didn’t bargain for this, did we, when we decided to come to the Powderhorn Ranch?”

“No. Sorry we said we’d do it?”

“Not at all. Should provide some added adventure for you, Jessica, maybe displace any notions of flying a plane when we get back.”

“An ulterior motive.”

He grinned. “I have them now and then. Going fishing?”

“Yes. And while I’m catching that trout again, why don’t you go up and see how Mrs. Molloy—if that’s who she really is—is doing. Apply some of your patented bedside manner, chat her up, as the British say.”

“I believe I will. See you at lunch?”

“Yes. Clam chowder and turkey salad, I believe, prepared by a real-life Las Vegas chef.”

I fished for an hour with no success, if success is defined by catching something. For me, and most fly fishers I know, just being on a fast-moving stream, surrounded by nature, is success enough.

After trying a variety of flies, I reeled in my line and slowly walked along the edge of the Cebolla in search of a deeper pool where trout might congregate, or a fallen log beneath which they often take refuge. I found neither after walking a few hundred yards, and decided to return to my cabin. I stepped up onto a relatively flat bit of land and had taken steps away from the creek when something caught my eye. I turned and looked closer. It was a long metal object lying on a patch of close-clipped grass. I crouched and examined it. Could this be the weapon used to stab Paul Molloy to death?

I straightened up and looked around. I didn’t want to touch it, of course, but also didn’t want to leave it unattended. But then I saw the head wrangler, Joe Walker, walking a horse from a small paddock where sick members of the herd were quarantined.

“Joe,” I shouted.

He saw me and waved.

“Could you help me with something?”

“In a minute.” He tied the horse’s reins to a post and came to me. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. What’s up?”

“This.” I pointed to the object on the ground.

“One of the wranglers must have dropped it.”

He started to bend over to pick it up, but I stopped him. “It might be the murder weapon,” I said.

He recoiled.

“Do you recognize it?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s a rasp. A round one.”

“With a very pointed tip.”

“Right.”

“What’s it used for?”

“Filing down things, shaping wood, metal. We have a few of them at the stable.”

“You do? Would you know if one is missing?”

He shrugged. “Probably. Jim insists we maintain a good inventory of every tool. We keep things like this in a separate wooden box.”

“Joe, would you find Investigator Pitura and ask him to come here? I’ll stay with this.”

“Sure.”

They returned a few minutes later. Pitura looked at the rasp, then at me. “It was just lying here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We searched this area thoroughly yesterday. Every inch.”

“I was surprised, too, to stumble across it so easily. It’s sitting on a patch of grass that’s considerably shorter than the grass around it.”

“It must have been put here last night or this morning.”

“Do you think—?”

“That it’s the murder weapon? That’s easy enough to check out with the ME.”

“Mr. Walker says they have a number of these in the stable.”

Pitura turned to Walker. “Would you know if one was missing?”

“Mrs. Fletcher asked me that. I said we probably would.”

“Okay.” Pitura pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and deftly slipped the rasp into it. “I’ll have one of the officers run this into town.”

“Okay if I go now?” Walker asked. “I have to treat one of the horses. He has strangles.”

“Strangles?” I asked.

“A disease. Can be fatal if it’s not treated right.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Pitura said to Walker. “You’ll be around all afternoon?”

“Yup, except when we go on the supper ride.”

“I’ll catch up with you right after lunch.”

“Glad you came across this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Pitura said as we walked to the center of the ranch.

“If I hadn’t,” I said, “someone else certainly would have. Whoever put it there wanted it found, and as soon as possible.”

“I agree. Have you had a chance to follow up on my suggestion that you and the doctor talk to the Morrison family and staff?”

“I’m afraid not. I headed right for the creek. But Dr. Hazlitt was going to see if he could speak with Mrs. Molloy.”

“Good. I’ll be anxious to hear what transpired.”