Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Unhappy Trails to You ...

  “My God,” I said.

  “Who is it?” Crystal asked.

  “What’s the matter?” Seth shouted from his horse.

  I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes, opened them, and used my hands to part the bushes. It took a moment to make a clear visual path, but when I did, I recoiled as though bitten by a snake.

  “Who is it?” Crystal repeated.

  “It’s Mr. Molloy,” I said. “I’m afraid he’s very dead.”

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  Murder in Moscow

  Murder On the QE2

  The Highland Fling Murders

  A Palette for Murder

  A Deadly Judgment

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  Brandy & Bullets

  Rum & Razors

  Manhattans & Murder

  SIGNET

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May

  Copyright © 1999 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67356-6

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Danielle Perez and Cindy Chang

  For the real cowboys and cowgirls: Joseph

  Webber, Mandy Nesbitt, Joel and Melanie Fonder,

  Amber Kilgore, Jon Sadler, Andy Wallace, and

  Tobi Whitaker

  And with special thanks to

  the Colorado Dude and Guest Ranch Association

  Chapter One

  “Nice and easy, Jessica. Don’t jerk the controls. Just a little nudge here, a slight turn there, and the plane pretty much flies itself.”

  I gently, tentatively placed my hands on the control yoke of the single-engine Cessna 172 and moved it an inch to the left. The plane responded by starting a slow turn.

  “That’s it, Jessica,” Jed said in his low, calm voice. “See how easy it is?”

  Jed Richardson had been a top commercial airline pilot for years before moving to Cabot Cove to start his own small charter airline, flying out of a bare-bones, compact airport on the town’s southern edge. Jed is a central-casting image of a pilot, a wry, knowing, infectious grin always on his round, tanned, deeply creased face. He wore his usual uniform, a distressed brown leather aviator’s jacket, white silk scarf about his neck, and a blue peaked cap with Jed’s Flying Service emblazoned in gold on it.

  “This is so exciting,” I said, barely able to control my glee.

  “Makes you feel free, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling. “As many years as I’ve been doing it, I always get a little excited when I take off. Look down, Jess. Pretty sight, huh?”

  Below and to my right was Cabot Cove, laid out neatly before me.

  “Let’s go take a look at your house. Turn right. While you do, add a little rudder pedal with your right foot. Makes for a smoother turn. That’s it, just a midge of pressure.”

  A few minutes later, with Jed at the controls, we passed over my home.

  “It looks so small from up here,” I said.

  “Picture-perfect, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  I drew a deep breath, grinned, and peered through the windshield into the pristine, blue, late August sky that surrounded us. You’ve done it, I told myself. You’ve actually done it!

  A half hour later, Jed had me guide the aircraft to the airport, make a series of turns that lined us up with the runway—“We always land into the wind,” he said—then took the controls for a smooth touchdown. My first flying lesson was in the books, literally, as Jed filled out my spanking new flight log and signed off on the lesson.

  “There’s Doc Hazlitt,” Jed said, taxiing the Cessna to a corrugated metal hangar on which a large red sign, JED’S FLYING SERVICE, glistened in the late morning sun. He shut down the engine, flipped some other switches, and reached across to open the door for me on the right side of the plane. I stepped down, patted the fuselage, and walked to where my good friend and Cabot Cove’s leading physician, Seth Hazlitt, waited.

  “Well, how was it?” he asked.

  “Wonderful, Seth. A special feeling, so free, so liberating.”

  Jed joined us. “She’ll make a fine pilot,” he said.

  Seth grunted.

  - “Has a nice touch,” Jed continued. “Real easy on the controls.”

  “We flew over my house,” I said as we walked to where they’d parked their cars.

  “Did you now?” Seth said.

  Jed looked
at me and winked. We both knew Seth was against my taking flying lessons. He offered myriad reasons: I didn’t even drive a car; it wasn’t ladylike; it was too dangerous; peering into the sun would give me lines around the eyes, as it had for Jed; and, I suspected, a modicum of jealousy.

  Seth had talked over the years of one day taking flying lessons, but never got around to it. When I suggested he sign up with me, he dismissed the notion as folly. “Too old for such nonsense now,” he’d said.

  “Too old? I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  “Takes a young person’s reflexes,” he said.

  “Not according to Jed. He says flying a plane is easier than driving a car.”

  “Fine for him to say considerin’ he’s been doing it all his life. No, Jessica, I’ll not be taking flying lessons from Jed Richardson, or anybody else. And neither will you.”

  I should explain the tenor of my relationship with Seth Hazlitt. We are the best of friends. I haven’t the slightest doubt that he’d do almost anything for me, and has in the past. I, of course, would do the, same. Because we are such good pals, we are quick to overlook our respective foibles and idiosyncrasies. Mine are legion, but Seth has his, too, the most evident of which is a tendency to try to keep close tabs on me, rein me in when he thinks I’ve reached too far, protect me and ... well, on occasion, run my life. I know he means well, and I seldom allow him to nettle me. But he’d come close over the issue of my signing up with Jed Richardson for flying lessons.

  “Same time tomorrow?” Jed asked as we prepared to leave the airport.

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  Seth scowled.

  “Lunch?” I asked Seth.

  “Was plannin’ on it.”

  After clam chowder and tuna fish sandwiches at Mara’s Luncheonette on the town dock, Seth drove me home.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I admit to being somewhat of a coffee snob, and take pride in mixing flavors to come up with what I consider the perfect blend, at least to my taste. We settled at my kitchen table, breathed in the rich aroma from our mugs, touched rims, and sipped.

  “Excellent, as usual,” he said.

  “Thank you, for the compliment and for the lunch.”

  “My pleasure. Jessica, about this flying lesson nonsense, I—”

  “Pardon me for interrupting, Seth, but it isn’t nonsense. It represents something I have the need to experience. Nothing nonsensical about that.”

  “I suppose not. But I just can’t figure out why you’re doing it.”

  I looked out the window to where birds fluttered about my ten-quart feeder, vying for space on the four perches. The sun cast a pretty pattern on my kitchen counter. I thought of the morning and my introduction to flying—not just being in a plane, even a small one; my frequent flier bank is overflowing— but to have placed my hands, and feet, on the controls and making the plane do what I wanted it to do. I broke into a grin.

  “Pleasant thought you’re havin’, I take it.”

  “Extremely pleasant.” I sat forward and placed my hands on one of his. “Seth, haven’t you ever felt a compelling need to challenge yourself, to reach beyond what you’re comfortable with and conquer something you’d always considered unattainable?”

  “‘Course I have. Do it all the time.”

  “I think we’re talking about different things,” I said. “I know you’re always seeking new advances in medicine, and that you take courses to learn about subjects that interest you. You thoroughly enjoyed that series of cooking courses you took last year. And the seminar on collecting rare, first-edition books had you glowing. Remember?”

  “Ayuh. Those were mind-expanding experiences.”

  “They certainly were. But I’ve reached a point in my life where I feel a need to challenge myself physically. Run a marathon, climb a mountain, drive a race car—leam to fly.”

  He said nothing.

  “Don’t you understand?”

  “I suppose I do. I think I do. I just don’t want you to be doing something that’s dangerous.”

  “I know, and I appreciate your concern. But flying a plane doesn’t have to be dangerous. Jed says more people are killed every year at railroad crossings than die in airplane accidents around the world. He says—”

  My defense of my newest hobby was interrupted by the ringing phone. I picked up.

  “Jessica? Jim Cook.”

  “Jim! What a pleasant surprise.”

  Jim and Bonnie Cook had lived in Cabot Cove for years until fulfilling their dream of owning and operating a dude ranch out west. They looked at many ranches for sale in Colorado until deciding on an eighty-acre property in the town of Powderhorn, five hours southwest of Denver, nestled in the Powderhom Valley and adjacent to more than a million acres of uninhabited wilderness. The closest commercial airport is a forty-five-minute drive from the ranch, in the town of Gunnison.

  We threw a lavish going-away party for the Cooks when they left Cabot Cove. They were active, well-liked, respected members of the community. I’d kept in touch with them over the years via an occasional letter, phone call, and the yearly Christmas card. They’d invited me on many occasions to be their guest at the ranch. Unfortunately, my schedule never cooperated. The Powderhorn was open only from early June through mid-September.

  After some preliminary chitchat, Jim said, “Bonnie and I decided we won’t take no for an answer this time.”

  “About what?”

  “About you coming out here to visit. We’ve got a horse all picked out for you, the trout are jumping, and one of our best cabins has your name on it. Besides, we’re always looking for another square dance partner.”

  Bonnie Cook got on an extension. “Please come, Jess. It’s been years. We miss you.”

  “And I miss you, too.

  “No excuses,” Jim said. “If you’re working on another book, we’ll set you up with a computer.”

  Seth indicated he wanted to join the conversation.

  “I’m here with Seth Hazlitt,” I said. “He wants to talk to you.” I handed him the phone.

  “Howdy,” Seth said.

  I refilled our coffee cups while he talked with the Cooks, half listening to what he was saying. But when I heard, “Jessica and I would love to come out to the ranch,” he had my full attention.

  “We?” I mouthed.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “That’ll give us two weeks to get ourselves ready, clear my slate of patients for the week, and let Jessica get herself geared up to go.”

  I retrieved the phone.

  “Can’t wait to see you,” Jim Cook said. “It’s a perfect week for you and Doc to come.”

  “But I—”

  “We’ll send you all the info you’ll need, travel arrangements, clothes to bring, stuff like that.”

  “How wonderful we’ll be seeing you again,” Bonnie Cook said. “I can’t wait for these next two weeks to pass.”

  I looked at Seth, who sat at the table, hands folded over his stomach, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Bonnie, Jim, can I get back to you?” I said. “I have to ... to handle something.”

  “Of course,” said Jim. “We’ll be here all day. By the way, the week you’ll be coming is perfect for us. The Morrison family picked that week for its annual reunion. They come every year. We don’t book anybody else that week, which means we have three cabins available, one for you, one for the doc, and—one empty one.”

  “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience this family,” I said.

  “That’s no problem, Jess. I asked them whether they’d mind having other guests, and they said they’d be honored to share the week with you. You’re famous even out here in the wilds of Colorado.”

  “I’ll call you later, Jim.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  “Well, Dr. Hazlitt,” I said after hanging up, “I know you’re my physician, but I didn’t realize you’d become my social secretary
, too.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful trip, Jessica. I’ve been looking to get away for a week. It’s been a hectic couple’a months at the office. I could use a week in that clean, crisp Colorado air, good, hearty home-cooked meals, songs around the campfire. I figured you’d enjoy those things, too.”

  “I would, but—”

  “Seems to me that saddling up a big, strong steed and ridin’ him up into the rugged Colorado mountains would fit in just fine with your new need for adventure.”

  “I haven’t ridden a horse in ... in a very long time.”

  “How long a time?”

  “Oh, thirty years. Maybe more.”

  “You never forget.”

  “But the horse might.”

  He stood, stretched, and gave me a friendly smile. “Of course, maybe riding tall in the saddle is a little too adventuresome for you.”

  “Oh no, it’s—”

  “Have to run. Give Jim and Bonnie a call and let ’em know you’ll be accompanying me. Think I’ll mosey down to Charles Department Store and see what sort of duds they have. Maybe a Stetson hat and a red bandana.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Next thing I know you’ll be singing like Roy Rogers and calling me ma’am.”

  “Nothing of the sort—ma’am. Or should I say pardner?”

  Chapter Two

  By the time Seth and I were to leave for Colorado, I’d managed to squeeze in seven more flying lessons with Jed Richardson, giving me eight hours of dual instruction.

  “Time for you to solo,” Jed said as he signed my log book following my eighth hour in the right seat.

  “Solo? Me?”

  “Right you are, Jess. You’re ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He laughed. “Wouldn’t put you up there alone if I wasn’t. The only difference will be a slight shift in weight with me out of the plane. Piece’a cake.”

  I went home feeling both exuberant and apprehensive. Take the Cessna 172 up alone? I didn’t share Jed’s confidence in me. Jed told me that soloing after eight hours was the norm. But maybe I wasn’t normal, at least when it came to flying a plane. Despite having become comfortable piloting the aircraft, my takeoffs and landings smooth, my in-air maneuvers executed to Jed’s satisfaction, the contemplation of taking the controls without him next to me was anathema. In a sense, the trip to Colorado would get me off the hook for a week, giving me time to think about whether I’d go through with a solo flight after only eight hours of instruction.