Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Page 3

  “Tomorrow night’s movie night,” Jim announced. “Every Monday. Plenty of Western videos to choose from.”

  We went to where the videos were lined up and immediately started a debate over which film we would watch the following night when the rest of the Morrison clan came through the door, led by Evelyn Morrison, a stunning patrician older woman who defined the term matriarch. Her youthful figure nicely filled out her tight-fitting designer jeans, silk plaid shirt and down vest. Her silver-blond hair was perfectly coiffed beneath a black Stetson studded with rhinestones, her makeup expertly applied to a smooth, slightly elongated, perfectly tanned face that was remarkably free of wrinkles. The immediate impression was a woman who took meticulous care of herself and was no stranger to personal pampering or plastic surgeons.

  With her was the rest of the brood. Introductions established them as her oldest son, Craig, who’d flown in in his own plane; Willy Morrison, who I would learn later was an unmarried cousin; and Robert, Evelyn’s brother.

  “This is the seventh year the Morrisons have held their reunion at Powderhorn,” Jim Cook announced.

  “A lovely tradition,” I said to Evelyn Morrison. “You’re fortunate to be able to bring everyone together like this.”

  “Family is everything,” she said haughtily. “I would kill for my family.”

  Her blunt, uncalled-for statement brought a moment of silence to the room. The staff and Jim and Bonnie left to get dinner moving. Once Evelyn was seated regally in a chair, the other Morrisons clustered about her and fell into conversation with one another, leaving Seth and me pretty much on our own. We settled at the games table and were in the process of discovering what was on it when Craig Morrison came to us. He was a crudely handsome man, powerfully built, his face square and with a heavy beard line, his thick lips and perpetually furrowed brow creating a look that might be termed arrogant or menacing, and even cruel. At least that’s how I would have described him as a character in one of my novels.

  “Jim Cook says you’re taking flying lessons, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

  “That’s right. I saw you arrive this afternoon in your plane. I’m flying a Cessna 172, too. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say I’m flying one. I’m scheduled to make my first solo flight when I get back to Maine.” I glanced at Seth, who raised his eyebrows and sighed.

  “First solo flight, huh? I made mine a long time ago. I was a teenager.”

  “I understand you also fly a more sophisticated business jet, Mr. Morrison.”

  “That’s right. You a pilot, too, Doctor?”

  “Nope. Just as soon have somebody else fly me where I’m going.”

  Morrison ignored Seth and said to me, “Let’s find a few hours this week to do some flying together.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m up to that.”

  “I’ll put you through the paces, get you ready for your solo.”

  “Well, maybe. We’ll see how the week goes. And please call me Jessica.”

  Jim Cook appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

  I was pleasantly surprised that the ranch’s staff ate with the guests. At other resorts at which I’d been a guest, staff was segregated at mealtimes. Having the ebullient young people at the table livened things up considerably. The cook, Joel Louden, was slightly older than the rest but not by much. He verbally gave us the evening’s menu: barbecue beef brisket, homemade potato salad and bread, baked beans, a salad of pickled vegetables, and banana cream pie for dessert. I was glad I hadn’t bought tight clothing for the trip. You leave your diets at home when visiting a western dude ranch.

  “Take your vitamin E,” Bonnie said, pointing to a large bottle of the vitamin on the table. “It’ll help you acclimate to the altitude change.”

  Seth eagerly opened the bottle and washed one down with water.

  “Do you know what you call a dog with no legs?” Jim Cook asked as plates were placed in front of us.

  Seth and I looked at each other, remembering that Jim always set up a joke by asking a question. “What do you call a dog with no legs, Jim?” we asked in unison, playing the game.

  “Nothing. He won’t come anyway.”

  The laughter was interrupted by the sound of a car passing the lodge. Bonnie stood and said, “That must be the Molloys.”

  “Who are the Molloys?” Evelyn Morrison asked from where she sat at one end of the table.

  “Guests,” Bonnie said. “A last-minute booking. We have one vacant cabin and—”

  “We were to have the ranch to ourselves,” Evelyn said sternly.

  “We told you Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt would be here,” Jim said.

  “Which we agreed to,” said Craig, the older son.

  “Nice folks, the Molloys,” Jim said, smiling. “Really wanted to come this week, couldn’t make it any other week. Fairly begged for us to take them. So, we did.” He looked up at one of the girls serving dinner. “I’d appreciate another biscuit, Sue.”

  As Bonnie left to check in the later arrivals, I silently complimented Jim on taking his subtle stand with the Morrisons. As gracious a host and hostess as Jim and Bonnie were, they also obviously ran the ranch in a way that satisfied their needs, too.

  Bonnie returned with the Molloys as dessert was being served. She introduced them and said two extra dinners had been saved for them. “Joel, our cook, had to take the rest of the night off. Something about seeing a friend in Gunnison. But he made sure to whip up two extra dinners.” Room was made, and they joined us at the table.

  “The Molloys are from Nevada,” Bonnie said. “They’re on a driving tour of the Rocky Mountain area.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Molloy?” Evelyn Morrison asked bluntly.

  Paul Molloy was a beefy, middle-aged man with a ruddy face and gray hair the consistency of steel wool. “Land management,” he replied, seemingly not offended by the rudeness of the question.

  “In Nevada?” Evelyn asked.

  “And elsewhere,” Molloy said, taking a bite of a biscuit. His wife, Geraldine, was no taller than five feet. Her nose and cheekbones were sharply chiseled, the look of someone who takes exercising seriously, perhaps too seriously. They ate their dinners and had little to say for the rest of the meal. When asked by Jim whether they’d be riding in the morning, Mrs. Molloy said, “Maybe in a day or two. I think we’ll just relax tomorrow.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jim said.

  The Morrison children, Godfrey and Pauline, bolted from the table immediately following dessert, and the other family members, with the exception of Cousin Willy, drifted away. Jim explained to Willy, Seth, and me that he needed to get a sense of our experience with horses in order to choose the right mount for each of us. Willy was the only Morrison who hadn’t been to the ranch before; the others’ horses had been chosen long ago. The ranch’s chief wrangler, Joe Walker, had remained at the table to help Jim decide which horses were appropriate for the group’s tenderfoots.

  Willy was a nervous fellow, eyes always in motion, his hands engaged in a variety of gestures. He was in his late thirties, I surmised, and he did not share the rest of the family’s healthy, robust appearance. He was a slight man who’d balded prematurely, the expanse of bare skin made more evident by the irregular, bumpy surface of his head. Wearing a suit and tie to dinner had prompted a few amusing comments.

  “Horses scare me,” Willy said.

  Jim laughed. “Nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Have you had a bad experience with a horse before?”

  “No.”

  “They’re as gentle as they’re treated,” Jim said. “We’ll pair you up with a nice easy horse, teach you a few simple tricks in the morning, and you’ll get along just fine.” He turned to me. “Been riding much lately, Jess?”

  “No. It’s been years.”

  “You, Doc?”

  “Not afraid of horses, Jim, but haven’t been in the saddle in a long time.”

  “We’ll take that into account, won’t we, Joe?”
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  Walker, an amiable, enthusiastic young man with clear, sparkling eyes and a sweet, perpetual smile, said, “That’s what’s good about having so many horses. There’s a perfect one for every rider.” He handed us cards to fill out, which contained spaces for our height and weight.

  “Do we have to say how much we weigh?” I asked pleasantly.

  “At least we’re not asking for your age,” Jim said. “Knowing your height and weight helps Joe pick the right horse for you.”

  We filled out the cards, thanked Jim for a wonderful meal, and Seth and I went outside.

  “Feel like a walk?” I asked.

  “Not a long one. I’m looking forward to getting to bed early.”

  We looked up. Nighttime heavens in Maine can be startlingly clear, but I’d never seen anything like the Colorado sky. Billions of distinct stars were highlighted against a black scrim, like diamonds on black velvet.

  “Puts us in perspective, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “Ayuh. Nature always does.”

  We strolled down the road, the sound of Cebolla Creek, a fast-moving trout stream that ran directly through the ranch, providing pleasant, gurgling background sounds. I’d brought a four-piece Hardy fly rod, lightweight wading boots and waders, and an assortment of my favorite artificial flies. I love fly fishing and do as much of it back home as time permits. Trout fishing in Colorado was worthy of legends, I’d been told, and I intended to find some fishing time on the creek each day.

  We crossed a red footbridge over a narrow stream that fed a stocked trout pool, to a private island on the banks of the Cebolla, where barbecues were held, and where we would sit around a campfire later in the week swapping stories and, according to Bonnie, be entertained by Andy, one of the wranglers, who played guitar and sang.

  “It’s so lovely here,” I said.

  “Peaceful,” Seth said. He drew a deep breath.

  I shivered and verbally expressed the chill I suddenly felt.

  “Time to get back to the cabins,” Seth said. “No sense catchin’ a cold first day here.”

  “It is chilly,” I said, “but there’s something else.”

  “Which is?” he asked as we retraced our steps toward the lodge.

  “The Morrison family. Do you get the feeling that all isn’t well among them?”

  “Strange bunch, I agree. Not an especially happy group.”

  “The mother, Evelyn, is a cold woman.”

  “That she is. Seems to run the family with an iron fist.”

  “The kids seem nice.”

  “The girl, maybe. The boy looks like he’s brimmin’ over with anger.”

  We crossed the grassy area, causing us to pass other cabins. As we did, voices from one—angry voices—spilled through the slightly open window.

  “She’ll be here tomorrow,” a man said. I recognized the voice as belonging to Craig Morrison, the older son. Seth and I paused.

  “What was so important that she had to stay in Denver an extra day?”

  “You know Veronica, Mother. She always has to be different.”

  “I don’t like it, Craig.”

  “You don’t like her, Mother.”

  “What’s to like? How you could have married her is beyond me. You barely knew her.”

  “You know damn well why I married her. It seemed like a good idea at the time, for me and for you.”

  “It was a mistake. I’ve never trusted her.”

  “I’ll keep tabs on her, make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  Seth tugged on my sleeve. I nodded. We were eavesdropping, not an especially noble activity. But as we started to leave, Evelyn Morrison said, “Tell me more about this Molloy.”

  “I don’t know, Mother. I just have this feeling I’ve met him, or at least know something about him. I have a call in to Rick Swales. I’ll know more when he gets back to me.”

  Seth and I said good night in front of his cabin.

  “Seems the Morrisons have more on their minds than a relaxing week at a dude ranch,” Seth said.

  “My thoughts exactly. Well, it’s none of our business. All that’s on my mind is a relaxing week at the Powderhorn Ranch. Good night, Seth. Sleep tight.”

  “You, too, Jessica. Morning will be here before we know it.”

  Chapter Four

  I was up at dawn and took a brisk walk around the property. It had rained hard during the night; the grass and dirt trails were wet. The wranglers were already at work in the stables, grooming the horses, putting out their feed, cleaning mud from their hooves, and performing the seemingly hundred other chores that go with being a wrangler.

  I showered and dressed for the day, then whiled away the time till breakfast on the porch, reading the book I’d started on the flight to Denver, a sweater wrapped tightly around me to ward off the morning chill. I hadn’t felt the altitude yesterday, but by the time I returned from my walk, I’d decided to add vitamin E to the breakfast menu.

  Craig Morrison jogged past and returned my greeting with a cursory nod. Members of the ranch’s staff pleasantly went about their duties, waving when they spotted me, stopping to chat now and then when passing my cabin. Before I knew it, it was seven-thirty, and Jim was ringing the bell announcing it was time for a half hour of coffee before breakfast.

  “All set for a nice ride this morning?” Bonnie asked as we sat down for blueberry pancakes, sausage links, and cherry rings. Bonnie and Jim serve dessert at every meal, breakfast no exception. Everyone was there, except for the Molloys.

  “She looks like she eats only one meal a week,” Chris Morrison said of Geraldine Molloy, laughing.

  “Not good to skip breakfast,” Seth offered, “especially with a strenuous day ahead.”

  “We’ll have a half-hour lesson in the corral,” Jim said. “Then we’ll head off. One of the wranglers will lead a short ride into the lower hills, ease you into it. Those with more experience will go higher up. Let me get some video of you.” He produced an elaborate camcorder and panned the table, explaining that he’d be videotaping us all week, the finished movie to be shown after dinner the following Saturday.

  We went directly to the corral after breakfast, where the wranglers awaited our arrival, along with the two ranch dogs, Socks, with his usual stick in his mouth, and Holly, a caramel-and-white mixed breed, only slightly more docile than her frenetic brother. Their paws were covered with mud, as our shoes and boots would soon be.

  The only female wrangler, Crystal Kildare, stood holding the reins of a fine-looking chestnut mare. Despite having dressed in what I thought was authentic western gear, I felt very much the city slicker in the company of the wranglers, who looked as though they were born in their jeans and shirts, boots and broad-brimmed hats.

  “Good morning,” Crystal said. “Everybody well fed and ready to ride?”

  Evelyn Morrison, her older son, Craig, and Craig’s son, Godfrey, stood apart from the group, boredom written all over their faces. Next to me was Craig’s daughter, Pauline, who was intensely interested in what Crystal was about to say. Willy Morrison stood a few feet behind us. He’d discarded his suit jacket and tie, but wore a white shirt, suit pants, and high-top white sneakers. One of the wranglers told him that riding in sneakers wasn’t a good idea, and found him a pair of boots from the ranch’s sizable collection.

  As we waited for Crystal to begin her instructions, my attention was drawn to Robert Morrison, Evelyn’s brother. It was as though he’d been absent at dinner and breakfast, despite having been there physically. I judged him to be about ten years younger than his sister. He shared Evelyn’s intensity, particularly in the eyes. Their faces, sharp and angular, further testified to their common parentage. But what bound them together as a family—all except Pauline—was a look of anger and suspicion, disdain and sourness.

  “This is Daisy,” Crystal said. “She’s my horse while I’m at Powderhorn. There are a few basic things you should know about horses. First, they don’t see straight ahead. They only have perip
heral vision, so always approach them from the side, not from the front. And there’s a proper way to mount. Let me demonstrate.”

  She placed her left foot in the stirrup, reached up, grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane, and pulled herself up and over. Once in the saddle, she said, “Notice how I used the mane, not the saddle horn? If you use the saddle horn, you’re shifting the saddle, which you don’t want to do. Using the mane doesn’t hurt the horse and gives you a better grip when mounting. Now, let me show you a few ways to get your horse to go where you want it to go.”

  I smiled as she put Daisy through its paces. Crystal was a tall, attractive young woman who was supremely confident in the saddle as she turned her horse left and right, then made a complete circle using the reins and gentle pressure from her knees. She explained verbally what she was doing while performing the exercise. Jim Cook videotaped us, and Pauline Morrison took pictures with a small point-and-shoot camera.

  Crystal brought Daisy to where we stood and said, “Take all the pictures you want while we’re on our ride, but don’t use the last shot on the roll. Most cameras have an automatic rewind once the final picture has been taken. That noise tends to spook horses.”

  “Interesting,” Seth said.

  “I’m excited,” I said.

  The other wranglers brought our horses from the stables. Mine was a lovely midsized black steed named Samantha. Seth’s horse, Blazer, was the biggest horse on the ranch. I glanced at Seth. His eyes were wide, his forehead furrowed.

  “He’s a big one,” I said.

  “Ayuh. Long way to fall.”

  “But you won’t be falling.”

  Crystal positioned a step stool next to Blazer and invited Seth to use it to help him mount. We watched as my dear friend, caring physician, and civic leader struggled valiantly to follow Crystal’s advice and haul his corpulent self up on Blazer. It took a few tries, but suddenly he was in the saddle and looking as though he belonged there, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes like a character in a western shoot-em-up.

  “Something else to remember,” Crystal said. “Never wrap the reins around the saddle horn. And when you get off your horse to walk him, don’t wrap it around your hand. If he should decide to take off, you don’t want to be dragged behind.”