Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (20 page)

Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have even considered opening it. But this was no ordinary circumstance.

She hadn’t written much in it, her words occupying only a dozen pages. I read her entries quickly, replaced the diary in the case, closed it, and returned it to where I’d stumbled, literally, upon it.

I reached the ranch at nine-thirty. Jon Adler was waiting in the suburban in front of the lodge for the two Morrison children and their uncle to appear. Bonnie and Jim were inside doing paperwork on one of the dining room tables: “More room to spread out here,” Jim explained. “Enjoy your walk?”

“Yes. It was invigorating, so much so I’m already thinking of a nap.”

“That’s what a week here should be, Jess,” Bonnie said. “Seven days to do whatever you want, when you want to.”

“Thanks for the permission,” I said, laughing.

Bonnie and I stepped out of the lodge as Pauline and Godfrey Morrison left their cabin and came to the suburban.

“All set?” Jon asked, tossing small bags they carried into the backseat.

“I guess so,” Godfrey said.

“Where’s your uncle?”

“He’s not coming,” Pauline said. “He has a toothache.”

“A bad one?” Bonnie asked.

“He says it hurts a lot,” Godfrey said.

“I’ll go see if I can do anything for him, maybe call a dentist in town.”

“You two are going rafting alone?” I asked.

They nodded.

“It’s not dangerous,” Jim, who’d joined us, said. “The Gunnison River is easy Class Two-Plus water, mostly smooth with a few mild rapids. A scenic trip more than adventuresome. Takes two hours. The guides from Scenic River Tours are all pros.”

“You’re sure your uncle isn’t coming?” I asked.

More nods.

The kids climbed in the vehicle and Jon started the engine.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I told Jim. “Can I still go?”

“Sure. Jon’s got extra food for the picnic. Grab what you want to take with you from the cabin.”

“I have everything I need,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The professionalism of our guide that morning, Dick Mann, was evident in the thorough briefing we received at the launch area. He went over everything that could possibly happen, told us the commands he would give, and together with his partner, Anne, made sure our flotation devices were properly fitted and secure.

“All set?” he asked as Jon Adler videotaped us from the bank of the Gunnison River.

Pauline and Godfrey said nothing. “I’m ready,” I confirmed.

The two-hour trip down the river was precisely as Jim Cook had described it. There were a few rapids in which the guide shouted instructions on how to use our paddles to navigate them, but mostly we drifted slowly, taking in the sheer bluffs lining the river, and observing points of interest Dick pointed out. He mentioned that there were a number of other rivers in the area that afforded greater rafting challenges, including the Upper and Lower Taylor, Pine Creek, and the Arkansas, but that the Gunnison was one of the more scenic trips.

Two hours later, we set ashore. Jon was there waiting, Jim Cook’s video camera on his shoulder and rolling.

I realized on the ride to town that I might not have an opportunity to find private time with Pauline. Godfrey was ever present, the guide was with us on the river, and Jon Adler was there at the end. Still, I hoped there would be even a few minutes to speak with her alone.

Bonnie had packed an elaborate picnic spread, which Jon laid out on one of two picnic tables nestled in a grove of trees. The Morrison kids said little during lunch and sat apart from Jon and me. Most of my conversation was with Jon, a bright, pleasant young fellow spending his summer at the Powderhorn to earn money for his senior year at the University of Alabama.

As we were about to pack up, I leaned close to him and said in a quiet voice, “I wonder if there’s some way for me to have a few minutes alone with Pauline. I need to speak with her without her brother present.”

“Is this about—?”

“About the murders? No.” I smiled to reinforce my lie.

“Let’s see. Yeah, I can take Godfrey down to the river and show him some aquatic life. I mean, if he’s interested.”

“Good. Give it a try.”

Fortunately, Pauline took that moment to go to a public lavatory fifty yards away. Jon and Godfrey headed for the river. I didn’t know how long Jon could keep the youngster occupied, but hoped it would be long enough for Pauline to return and for me to ask my questions.

It worked out that way. Pauline came to the table. “Where’s Godfrey?” she asked.

“Down at the river with Jon. He wanted to show him something. Pauline, I’m pleased ... I, well, I wanted to have a few minutes with you alone.”

She looked blankly at me.

“Did you know Mr. Molloy before he came to the ranch Sunday night?”

“Know him? No.”

“But did you know who he was? Did you know he might be—?”

She turned from me and put her index finger in her mouth, clamping down on it.

“Let me show you something.” I pulled her childhood picture from my shoulder bag and placed it on the table. She glanced at it, turned away, then returned to it.

“Where did you get that?” she asked angrily.

“From Mr. Molloy’s wallet. The police gave it to me.”

“He had this?”

“Mr. Molloy? Yes. The question is why?”

She placed her hand over the photo, looked at me, and her eyes filled up.

I placed my hand on hers. “Pauline, I know how painful this can be for you, but I have to ask. Was Mr. Molloy your father ... your biological father?”

She sniffled, ran the back of her hand across her eyes, stood, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I know Craig isn’t my real father. That man, Molloy? You say he is?”

“How did you know Craig wasn’t your natural father?”

“I heard her talk on the phone about it.”

“Heard who?”

“My mother. She doesn’t know I know.”

“But you knew nothing about Mr. Molloy?”

“No, I—”

Godfrey ran to us, followed by Jon. “Ready to head back?” Jon asked.

Pauline and I looked at each other. I tried to convey empathy and sympathy with my eyes, smile, and nod of my head. Whether the message reached her is conjecture. We slowly loaded what was left from the picnic into the suburban and emptied the trash into a wire basket. I was about to enter the vehicle when another car pulled up, driven by homicide investigator Pitura.

“Jim Cook told me you’d come on the raft trip, Mrs. Fletcher. I figured I’d catch you before you went back to the ranch.”

“Your timing is perfect,” I said. “We were just on our way.”

“How about me driving you back? I’d like to talk to you.”

“All right.”

“See you later,” Jon said, starting the suburban and pulling away. I got in next to Pitura.

“Let’s go over to the office,” he said. “Sheriff Murdie would like to see you.”

“Something official?”

“I don’t know. By the way, the Molloys did fly into Gunnison early Sunday evening. Last flight out of Denver. They rented a car at the airport.”

“Interesting.”

“It wouldn’t be except for their telling you they’d been driving around seeing the country.”

“Why would they say that?”

“I assumed you’d have that figured out.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

The Gunnison County Sheriff’s office was in a two-story yellow building in Courthouse Square, at the comer of Virginia Avenue and Iowa Street. Sheriff Murdie’s office was small and neat, with a single window. I noticed the motto over his desk Pitura had mentioned: “We will do the impossible at once, miracles take a little longer, magic will be practiced tomorrow.” Murdie was dressed as casually as when we’d first been introduced.

“Good to see you again, Mrs. Fletcher. Please, sit down.”

We passed a few casual comments before he got to the point. “Mrs. Fletcher, Bob tells me you’ve been asking plenty of questions out at Powderhorn.”

“I hope I haven’t been too obvious. Let’s just say I’ve been doing a lot of socializing.”

Murdie smiled. “I always appreciate a good euphemism. What sort of answers have you been getting? I mean, during your socializing.”

It was my turn to smile. “Dribs and drabs.”

“Care to share them with us?”

“I’d like to very much.”

“Good. In a few days the Morrison family will be leaving, which makes it more difficult for us. We’ll follow up as much as we need to, but it’s always easier, and often more productive, to have suspects nearby.”

“I can imagine.”

 

During the next half hour, I was pleased that much of the information I’d managed to gather wasn’t a surprise to the sheriff or Bob Pitura. The
Gunnison Country Times
reporter, Nancy O’Keefe, had shared with them her knowledge of Paul Molloy’s past as an alleged arms dealer. I was able to add that the woman in the Denver cabal, Veronica Schwinn, was now Mrs. Craig Morrison.

As we spoke, I remembered Jim Cook saying that according to the deed, the land between his ranch and that owned by the Bureau of Land Management was owned by a Denver group called the V.S. Company. V.S.? Veronica Schwinn? I added that possibility to the mix.

When we’d finished exchanging information, Sheriff Murdie ended the meeting. “I appreciate your sharing with us what you know, Mrs. Fletcher. I believe in getting information from every possible source. You’re helping fill in the picture.”

“But there are still too many pieces missing.”

“We’ll find them,” Murdie said. “In the meantime, a word of advice.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t take any risks. There’s still a killer at large at the Powderhorn.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “Don’t worry. I may be curious, but I’m not foolhardy.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Once outside, Pitura asked if I minded making a stop at the airport on our way back to the ranch.

“Not at all. It’s only three o’clock. Ever since taking flying lessons, I’m fascinated with airplanes. I could watch them take off and land all day.”

“Good. Maybe there’ll be some air traffic for you to enjoy. I have to meet with someone for twenty minutes, a half hour at the most.”

“Take your time.”

The airport was busy when we arrived, busier than I thought such a small field would be. Pitura mentioned that in ski season it really hops, its extraordinarily long runway accommodating even huge 747s. A Rocky Mountain Air Express flight touched down as we walked from the parking lot into the small, modern terminal. A few private planes, Cessnas and Pipers, came and went.

“I’ll be meeting upstairs,” Pitura said. “Grab yourself a soft drink in the coffee shop. I’ll catch up with you there.”

I settled at the counter, ordered an iced tea, and looked out the window at the runway. As I did, the flight crew from the Rocky Mountain Air Express that had just landed—captain, first officer, and flight attendant—came into the shop and took stools next to me. The flight attendant, a pert, shapely, middle-aged woman, looked at me, screwed up her face, and said, “You’re Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“I’ve read every book you’ve ever written. I recognized you from all your photos on the book jackets.”

“Nice of you to mention it.”

She introduced me to her two male colleagues.

“Where do you get your ideas for stories,” the youthful captain asked.

“Oh, from many sources,” I said. “But frankly, I’m more interested in what
you
do.”

They laughed. “All we do is take passengers from one place to another,” said the first officer, even younger than the captain. “Pretty dull.”

“Not to me,” I said. “I just started taking flying lessons.”

“Really?”

I told them how it came about, and that I was about to make my first solo flight. I didn’t mention my other solo flight with Craig Morrison. They were sincerely interested in my decision to learn to fly and asked many questions. I eventually shifted the subject back to them. “You say it gets dull flying commercially. Why? Too much of a routine?”

“Something like that,” the captain said.

“It’s not always dull,” the first officer said, finishing off a piece of apple pie. “You should have been with us Monday.”

“Why?”

“It was rough,” said the captain, “the roughest I’ve ever seen.”

The first officer and flight attendant agreed.

“Everything was flying around the cabin,” the flight attendant said. “I’ve flown in heavy weather before, but this was something else.”

“Was it at night?” I asked.

“Afternoon
and
night,” the captain said. “All crews reported heavy turbulence.”

“That weather missed us,” I said.

“Where were you?”

“The Powderhorn Guest Ranch.”

“Just far enough away,” said the pilot.

They paid, told me to keep up the flying lessons—“Apply for a job with us when you’ve got your ticket”—and left, passing Bob Pitura as he came in to the coffee shop.

“See, I wasn’t too long,” he said.

“I enjoyed myself. Had a conversation with that flight crew.”

“Swapping piloting tales?”

“Something like that. I think I have something else to share with you and the sheriff.”

His eyebrows went up.

“I’ll fill you in on the ride back.”

Because the island next to Cebolla Creek was still sealed off—even if it weren’t, it’s doubtful any of us would have wanted to gather there around a campfire to toast marshmallows and sing songs—the sing-along was relocated to an area on the other side of the lodge. That Jim and Bonnie didn’t cancel it was further testimony to their determination to keep things running as normally as possible, murder be dammed.