Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (15 page)

“Looking for the murder weapon.”

“Really? I thought the rasp you found was it.”

“Turns out it wasn’t. But I think the one we came up with this morning will prove to be. See you at breakfast after I’ve checked in on Seth.”

To my surprise, Seth was in the shower when I arrived at his cabin. I waited on the porch until he joined me, wearing a robe and slippers. His face was still black and blue and swollen, and he moved like a person in pain. But his spirits were high.

“You look remarkably well,” I said.

“Lots of aches and pains, Jessica, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Took it real easy getting out of bed. The hot shower felt good. Anything new on the murder and Mrs. Molloy?”

“No. We found what seems to be the real murder weapon.”

“We?”

I explained the circumstances of having met Pitura at the stables, and Seth gave me one of his patented disapproving looks.

“I fear the worst for Mrs. Molloy,” I said.

“For good reason. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“I thought I’d stay around the ranch, maybe see if I can talk with some of the Morrisons.”

“The daughter?”

“Possibly. Let me show you something.” I handed him the photo found in Paul Molloy’s wallet and offered my thoughts about it.

He handed the picture back. “Very interesting, Jessica.”

“I thought so. Today is Wednesday.”

“That means we have four more days here, counting today.”

“We leave on Sunday.”

“That’s right. We have four more days to determine who murdered Paul Molloy.”

“And if we don’t?”

“I go home to Cabot Cove a disappointed lady.”

“Why is it so important that you solve the murder, Jessica?”

“My natural curiosity, I suppose.”

“Might it be this newfound need of yours for adventure?”

“Could be that, too. All I know is that we ended up at Jim and Bonnie’s Powderhorn Ranch for a pleasant, relaxing week, and had a murder committed right under our noses. I think it would be helpful to Jim and Bonnie if we wrapped this up before we leave. Besides, Vaughan is always after me to try my hand at a true crime book. Maybe this is the one.” Vaughan Buckley’s Buckley House had published most of my mystery novels.

“All I can say, Jessica, is that I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“Thanks, Seth. I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to make that offer.”

“Just trying to protect my best friend. Leave you on your own, and there’s no tellin’ what trouble you’ll get into.”

I kissed his cheek, smiled, and said, “That’s what friends are for. Feel like breakfast? It’s French toast this morning.”

“I believe I do, Jessica. I believe I do.”

Everyone was at breakfast that morning, and the disappearance of Geraldine Molloy didn’t seem to have dampened spirits. The Morrison clan knew she was missing, yet they were in an expansive mood, at least when compared to their usual dour demeanor.

“Have they made any progress in the investigation, Mrs. Fletcher?” Evelyn Morrison asked, not sounding as though she really cared as she plucked a grape from a fruit basket and brought it to her lips with precision, pinky extended.

“I believe they have,” I replied.

“They’re searching for Mrs. Molloy,” Chris Morrison said. “No doubt about it now. She killed him.”

“And why do you say that, young man?” Seth asked.

“You’d have to be brain dead not to see it,” Chris said. “She’s taken off because she’s guilty. I’ll bet even these clowns from the local police know that.”

Veronica and Craig Morrison sat across the table from me. “Are you going riding this morning?” I asked them, to change the subject.

“I am,” Veronica said.

“Not me,” said Craig. “Looks like a perfect day for flying. I thought I’d do a little aerial sightseeing. Care to join me, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I glanced at Seth, whose expression said he wasn’t in favor of it.

“Maybe,” I said. “When do you plan to go?”

“This afternoon, after lunch. I’m going in to town this morning.”

“I’ll let you know later. Thanks for asking.”

“How are you feeling, Dr. Hazlitt?”

“Fair to middlin’” Seth looked down the table at Godfrey, whose taking of the last picture on the roll had caused Seth’s horse to buck. The teenager smiled and dug into his second helping of French toast. I considered mentioning it, but wrangler Crystal Kildare saved me the trouble by again reminding everyone to not take photos when the roll was close to the end. Godfrey made a sour face and continued eating.

My attention kept shifting to Pauline Morrison. Although the photo given me by Pitura was in my purse, I’d studied it so many times I could see it as though it were on the table in front of me. She sat pensively next to her grandmother, eyes downcast, her pretty freckled face void of expression.

Jim Cook ended breakfast with a joke.

“These two cops were outside a bar late at night waiting to see if any drunks tried to drive. They saw this one fella come out. He appeared to be very drunk. He stumbled around the parking lot, tried his key on several cars, sat down on the ground, got up again, kept stumbling until he finally found his car, got behind the wheel and started to leave the parking lot. By now, most of the other patrons had left the bar and driven off. The cops stopped the guy they’d been observing and gave him a sobriety test. He was stone-cold sober, hadn’t even had a drink. He told the cops he was the DD. ‘You’re the Designated Driver?’ one cop asked. ‘No,’ the fella replied, ‘I’m the Designated Decoy.’ ”

“I like that one,” Chris said, standing and slapping Jim on the back.

“All set to ride?” Joe Walker asked.

The Morrisons and the wranglers departed as a group. Joel, the chef, and Sue, the cabin girl, cleared the table while Seth and I had fresh cups of coffee in the main room with Jim and Bonnie.

“No word from the police about Mrs. Molloy?” I asked.

“No,” Bonnie said. “I almost hope there isn’t any news. It can’t be good.”

I decided to share the photo with Bonnie and Jim. “Take a look at this,” I said.

They passed it between them. “Who is it?” Jim asked.

“I think it’s Pauline Morrison.”

“Pauline?” Bonnie said. “The daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get it, Jess?” Jim asked.

“Bob Pitura gave it to me.”

“Where did
he
get it?”

“From Paul Molloy’s wallet.”

Jim and Bonnie looked at each other with quizzical expressions.

“Exactly,” I said. “Why would Mr. Molloy be carrying a childhood picture of Pauline Morrison?”

“Maybe it isn’t her,” Jim said.

“Look at it again,” I said.

“It is her,” Bonnie said. “As a child.”

“What are you saying, Jess, that Molloy could be her father?” Jim asked.

“It’s certainly possible,” I said, “considering their physical resemblance. I was struck when first meeting the Morrisons how different Pauline looks from the others, certainly from her brother. She has the same coloring as Molloy, and there’s something about the eyes that’s similar. Don’t you agree?”

Bonnie said, “I’m trying to remember what Mr. Molloy looked like. I really never paid any attention. They arrived late, had a quick dinner, and went to their cabin.”

Seth said, “Any suggestions on how we can find out whether it is the young lady in the picture?”

“Ask her,” Jim said.

“That’s too touchy,” I said. “What if it isn’t her? It would be a horrible mistake.”

Seth stood and arched his back. “I get stiff sitting too long,” he said.

“Are you going to take Craig Morrison up on his offer to go flying?” Bonnie asked as we walked to the dining room.

“No,” Seth answered for me.

I shot him a disapproving look.

“Maybe you’d like a Jeep ride up in the mountains, Jess,” Jim said. “Pretty day for it. I don’t suppose you’re up for it, Seth.”

“The last thing I need is to go bouncing around in a Jeep,” Seth said. “Hurts me just to think about it.”

“I’d love to go,” I said. “Do you mind, Seth?”

“Of course not. You go ahead and enjoy it. I intend to spend a quiet day on my porch in a rocking chair. You’ll be back by lunch?”

“Sure will,” Jim said. “Fish fry on the island.”

Jim had a few chores to do before we could leave. I sat in front of the lodge and watched some of the Morrison family come from their cabins and head for the corral. Evelyn, dressed in her well-tailored riding gear, stood on her porch with Pauline. Judging from her posture, she was angry at something and was obviously uttering harsh words at her granddaughter. Evelyn stormed from the porch and joined her brother, Robert, who’d just come from his cabin. I watched them go to the corral, then looked again at Pauline. The teenager, head lowered, slowly opened the door and disappeared inside.

I crossed the grassy area, stepped up onto the porch of Evelyn’s cabin, and said through the screen door, “Pauline?”

“What?” she asked. I could tell from her voice that she’d been crying.

“It’s Jessica Fletcher. I wonder if we could talk.”

She appeared on the other side of the screen. “Mrs. Fletcher, I—”

Her eyes opened wide, and she disappeared from my view. I turned to see what she’d reacted to. Evelyn Morrison stood at the foot of the steps, eyes blazing, lips set in a thin, angry line.

“I saw that your granddaughter wasn’t going riding this morning and thought we might—”

“Stay away from her,” Evelyn said.

“I only thought that—”

“She has nothing to say to you.”

“Mrs. Morrison, I—”

“Stay away from my granddaughter. Do I make myself clear?” The venom in her voice was palpable.

As I walked away, I could feel her eyes boring into my back. What, I wondered, would cause her to be so strident over my wanting to speak with her granddaughter?

As I passed other cabins, I saw Cousin Willy sitting on his porch.

“Good morning,” I said.

“‘Morning.”

“Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day. You’re not riding?”

“No. I’ve had it with horses, especially after what happened to your friend.”

“It was a freak accident.”

“Stupid Godfrey did it.”

“Godfrey? Oh, with his camera. He didn’t mean anything, I suppose. He wasn’t thinking.”

“He never does.”

I laughed. “Are the police still looking for Mrs. Molloy?”

“I guess so. I saw them a little bit ago.”

“Have they had any luck?”

He shrugged.

He seemed willing to talk, and I wanted to keep the conversation going. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

Another shrug.

I sat next to him. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much last night. There were dark circles beneath his eyes; a day’s growth of beard added to the look of dissipation. He wore a white shirt, gray slacks, and loafers that needed polishing.

“Quite a family you have, Willy. Is Willy all right, or is it William? Bill?”

“Everybody calls me Willy. I hate it. It’s William.”

“How are the family business meetings going?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

“I don’t know. They don’t need meetings. They don’t include me. Evelyn makes all the decisions anyway. They say they’re meeting so they can write the week off on their taxes.”

“Terrible, isn’t it, what happened to Mr. Molloy? And now his wife is missing.”

“Chris says she killed him.”

“So I’ve heard. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does the rest of your family say?”

“Who cares?”

“I just thought—”

“I wish this week were over. I hate it here.”

“That’s a shame. It’s such a beautiful ranch.” He hadn’t looked at me as he talked, as though he were speaking to some unseen person beyond the porch. Now he turned and fixed me with his watery green eyes. “How come you ask so many questions?”

“Was I? Asking questions? I didn’t mean anything by it. Just my natural curious self at work, I guess. Writers tend to be curious.”

“I’m a writer, too.”

“Are you? What sort of things do you write?” “Science fiction.”

“I’m afraid I don’t read much science fiction. Have you been published?”

“No. I don’t write what publishers want. I write what I like to write. The publishers don’t understand what I’m doing. All they care about is big bucks and big names.” I’d heard that rationalization before from unpublished writers, and wasn’t about to challenge him.

“I’d like to read something you’ve written, William.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“I brought a short story with me.”

“Let me see it.”

He returned from the cabin and handed me a manuscript.

“I’ll read it tonight,” I said. “Does your family like what you write?”

He guffawed. “They don’t like anything I do, especially Evelyn and Craig. Always on my back. Don’t do this, Willy. Don’t say that, Willy.”

I felt sorry for him. He evidently was considered the family black sheep, the loser, a disappointment to the others.

“I’m going on a Jeep ride in a few minutes with Jim Cook. Care to join us?”

“I don’t think so.”

I saw Jim driving one of two Jeeps out of a garage. “I think I’d better go,” I said. “Looks like my ride is ready.”

I stepped down from the porch and was walking away when Willy stopped me with “That Mrs. Molloy who’s missing.”

I turned. “What about her?”

“I saw her last night.”

I returned to the porch. “When last night?”

“I don’t know. About six maybe.”