Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Page 4

  Soon everyone was on their chosen horses, and we split into two groups, the more experienced riders to follow wrangler Andy Wilson into the higher elevations, and my group of inexperienced riders who would accompany Crystal on a less challenging ride.

  Ten minutes later, the experienced group left the road and veered onto a rutted dirt trail leading up into the mountains. We continued on the flat surface until Crystal led us up a moderate rise leading into the lower foothills.

  We proceeded at a leisurely pace, a slow walk. Seth was directly behind Crystal, who glanced back at regular intervals to make sure all was well with her tenderfoot contingent. The rules at the Powderhom were strict, with safety always uppermost in mind. Jim and Bonnie belonged to the Colorado Dude and Guest Ranch Association, whose book of safety regulations was as thick as one of my novels.

  Although it was barely ten o’clock, the sun had heated the air, which in turn coaxed insects out of their cool homes. Seth repeatedly wiped his face with the red bandana he’d bought especially for the trip and frequently looked back to see that I was okay. I did the same with Willy Morrison. He was slumped in his saddle, his face reflecting his unhappiness. Why, I wondered, had he bothered coming to the ranch in the first place? And he didn’t have to ride a horse. Bonnie had told me that a number of guests come for reasons other than riding. In one case she recounted, a woman, dressed in expensive cowboy clothing, mounted a horse after the briefing, instructed her husband to take a picture, then immediately climbed down and never went near a horse again.

  After forty-five minutes, Crystal brought the column to a halt and suggested we dismount and stretch a little before heading back. We’d climbed higher than I’d realized. The plateau was surrounded by groves of aspen trees and ponderosa pines. From it the views were lovely, mountains providing a rugged backdrop for rolling meadows and pastures. A hawk circled overhead in the cobalt Colorado sky; chipmunks scurried from fallen tree to fallen tree, and two deer watched impassively from a safe distance. Wildflowers set the hills ablaze with color.

  “The Molloys never did show up,” Seth said, arching his back against an ache that had developed.

  “I hope they’re all right,” I said.

  Willy sat on the ground and propped himself against a tree. He was pale and breathing hard, his white shirt stained with perspiration.

  “You all right, young fella?” Seth asked, standing over him.

  Willy looked up. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said. “Damn horse doesn’t know how to walk right.”

  Crystal heard him and laughed. “Takes some getting used to,” she said. “And some horses do walk different than others.”

  We drank from canteens provided by the ranch, then got ready to head back. Socks continued to try to entice one of us to play fetch, but we didn’t take the bait. Holly had a different game to play, which didn’t depend upon human involvement. She enjoyed tearing through brush in pursuit of chipmunks and other small furry animals.

  We started down to the road.

  “Getting used to this,” Seth said, smiling.

  “I know,” I said. “A little sore, but it’s worth it.”

  We were almost to the road when Willy asked us to stop.

  “What’s the matter?” Crystal asked.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, sliding down off his mount.

  “You can walk him back,” Crystal said. “But remember what I said. Don’t wrap the reins around your hand.”

  “I’ll remember,” he grunted.

  Crystal reached the road and waited for us to catch up. We started back to the ranch, meandering along, taking in the scenery and enjoying the moment. We’d just turned onto the short road leading into the ranch when Socks and Holly burst through some low brush in pursuit of a rabbit. Socks, carrying his customary stick, quickly lost interest in the chase. He came to Willy and offered him the stick. Willy pulled it from his mouth.

  “You’re not supposed to do that,” Crystal said.

  Willy ignored her and tossed the stick over a row of bushes lining the road. Socks tore after it. Holly, who’d been outrun by the rabbit, joined him.

  We all laughed at their antics, then prodded the horses to move again. We’d gone maybe another hundred feet and were within fifty yards of the lodge when the dogs’ barking caused Crystal to halt the column and to look back at the canine commotion.

  “They’re sure excited about something,” Seth said.

  Crystal turned Daisy and urged her through a break in the bushes. Socks and Holly continued to bark. We watched as Crystal dismounted and used her foot to part the brush. Suddenly, her scream filled our ears.

  I slid down off Samantha, handed the reins to Seth, and ran to where Crystal stood, her faced etched with shock.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Look.” She pointed.

  I took a few steps in that direction and leaned over to see what had caused her reaction. The lower portion of a leg protruded from beneath the underbrush. At the bottom of it was a brown, ankle-high man’s hiking boot. A bit of white athletic sock protruded from it. There was a four-inch expanse of bare leg between where the sock stopped and the cuff of blue pants began. Burrs from low-lying bushes were stuck to his sock.

  “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 clear a 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.”

  Chapter Five

  “I think someone should stay with the body,” I said, “while we go tell Jim and Bonnie.”

  “I will,” Crystal said, her voice reflecting her ambivalence.

  I returned to where Seth and Willy Morrison waited.

  “What’s going on?” Seth asked.

  “Mr. Molloy’s body is over there.”

  “Molloy? An accident?”

  “It doesn’t look that way to me, but that’s something for the police to decide. Come on. We’d better let Jim and Bonnie know. Coming, Mr. Morrison?”

  Willy was immobile; he looked frightened, in shock. He glanced back at Crystal, who’d retreated from Molloy’s body and stood with her hand covering her mouth. He looked at me, dropped his horse’s reins, and ran toward the cabins. I picked up the extra set of reins, and Seth and I walked the three horses to the house.

  Joe Walker, the chief wrangler, came from the office as we approached. “Good morning,” he said, tapping his wide-brimmed black hat. “How was the ride?”

  “The ride was fine,” Seth said. “Not a happy ending, though.”

  Walker’s expression turned serious. “Was someone hurt?”

  “Someone’s dead,” I said. “Mr. Molloy.”

  “An accident? Was he thrown?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He wasn’t with us. Crystal discovered the body. She’s staying with it.”

  “Oh, boy,” Walker said. “Do Jim and Bonnie know?”

  “We’re on our way to tell them. Would you take these horses back to their stables?”

  “Sure.”

  Bonnie was in the office, doing paperwork. “‘Morning,” she said.

  “Bonnie, something terrible has happened,” I said. “We found Mr. Molloy’s body on our way back from the ride.”

  Jim came through the door from the house as I broke the news. “Molloy? Found his body? What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but you’d better call the local police.”

  “Where is he?” Bonnie asked.

  Seth gave a rough description of where we’d discovered him.

  “Let’s go,” Jim said. “Call the sheriff, Bonnie. I’ll get a couple of wranglers to stand watch until he arrives.”

  We followed Jim out of the
office and up the road to where Crystal continued her lonely sentry duty. We stood with her as Jim parted the bushes and took a close look at Molloy. I came to his side. Molloy was on his back. From what I could see, he’d been stabbed or shot in the chest. A dark, crusty ring of blood dominated the center of the yellow shirt he wore. If he had been stabbed, the assailant had removed the instrument of death.

  “The blood has crusted,” I said. “It didn’t just happen.”

  “Last night?” Jim asked.

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. A medical examiner will make that determination.”

  Jim said to Crystal, “Go get a couple of other wranglers. I want to make sure nobody disturbs the scene. Am I right, Jess?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s important. You haven’t touched anything, have you, Crystal?”

  “No. I never got any closer than this.”

  “Good.”

  Crystal took off at a trot toward the stables.

  “Is there a police force in Powderhorn?” Seth asked.

  “No,” Jim said. “The Gunnison County sheriff’s office covers Powderhorn. It’s a good force. Right up to date on all the new techniques and procedures.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said.

  While we waited, the Morrison family, led by Andy Wilson, came down the road.

  “Howdy,” Andy said.

  “Hello, Andy,” Jim said. He went to the road, motioned for Andy to join him away from the others, and whispered in the young wrangler’s ear. You didn’t have to hear Jim’s words to know what he’d said. Andy’s expression said it all. Obviously, Jim had instructed him to get the Morrisons away from the scene, and to not tell them what had happened.

  “Let’s move on,” Andy said.

  Two other wranglers, Jon Adler and Toby Winters, joined us.

  “You two stay here,” Jim said after filling them in on why they were there. “Keep your distance. If anybody comes by, pretend you’re picking berries or something. Don’t let anybody near the body.” We started back to the house when Jim stopped in the road, crouched, and examined a set of fresh tire marks in the wet dirt.

  “Recent,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see or hear a car or truck come by last night?” I asked.

  “No. We don’t get much traffic here. Days can go by without a car coming by. It’s a car tire.”

  We went to the house, where Bonnie waited in front, anxiety written all over her pretty face. “The sheriff’s out investigating a crime,” she said, “but they’re sending some of his deputies.”

  “Good. They say how long it would be?”

  “As fast as it takes to drive from Gunnison.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Jim said, more to himself than to us. “In the fifteen years we’ve had the Powderhorn, we’ve never had anything serious happen before.” He turned to Bonnie. “What, that broken leg ten years ago? Some scrapes and bruises? One heart attack, and that guest survived, did just fine. He came back the next year. We hear from him all the time.”

  “It has nothing to do with you and the ranch,” I said.

  “But it happened here,” Jim said.

  “It had to be somebody passing through,” Bonnie said, “a stranger, some itinerant drifter.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Molloy?” I asked.

  We looked at each other. Geraldine Molloy had been forgotten in all that had transpired.

  “Must be in her cabin,” Bonnie said. “I’ll go see.”

  “Would you like me to go?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to intrude on you, Jess.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. What cabin are the Molloys in?”

  “The honeymoon cabin,” Jim said.

  “Which is that?” I asked.

  “The last cabin, just beyond yours, Jess.”

  “Up on that little rise?”

  “Right.”

  “And no one has seen her?” Seth asked.

  A shake of heads all around.

  “I’ll be back,” I said.

  The Morrison clan, fresh from their morning ride, stood around the swimming pool, coffee cups in hand. I said hello as I passed, receiving less than enthusiastic responses. But they weren’t on my mind at the moment. I was curious why Geraldine Molloy hadn’t been seen all morning. Wasn’t she aware that her husband wasn’t with her? If my snap analysis was correct, that the crusted blood on his chest indicated he’d been killed some time during the night, it meant he’d left her alone in their cabin. Unless, of course, she’d been with him.

  Why had he been out on the road at night? Trouble sleeping and took a walk? Always possible. A fight with his wife, causing him to storm out of the cabin? That was another possibility.

  There was a sign on the front of the ranch’s honeymoon cabin, white lettering on dark brown wood:

  THIS CABIN WAS THE FIRST LOVE NEST FOR OUR HAPPY HONEYMONERS. Below was a list of honeymoon couples, and the dates they’d stayed there to launch their married life. Had the reason for my visiting it not been so grim, I might have had a warmer reaction to the sentiment.

  I stood at the door and poised to knock. After a deep breath, I did. Both the screen and inside doors were closed. I looked at the front window. The curtains were drawn. I knocked again. Still no response.

  “Mrs. Molloy?” I called. I repeated it, louder this time, accompanied by more knocking. I cocked my head; someone was moving inside.

  “Mrs. Molloy, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”

  I looked at the interior doorknob as it started to turn, then stopped, as though whoever was turning it—Geraldine Molloy, I presumed—had second thoughts.

  “Mrs. Molloy, it’s Jessica—”

  The inside door opened, revealing Geraldine Molloy. She was in pajamas. Her reddish hair was disheveled, her eyes puffy with sleep.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a thick voice.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “Come back later. You woke me.”

  “I’m sorry to have done that, but it’s important, Mrs. Molloy. There’s been an ... an accident. Your husband. He’s ... he’s dead.”

  From what I could observe through the screen, her expression didn’t change.

  “Did you hear me, Mrs. Molloy?”

  Was she drugged? I wondered. Had she taken a potent sleeping pill that caused her to sleep so late and to be in a fog?

  Then the news seemed to sink in. She uttered a small involuntary gasp and backed away from the door.

  “Mrs. Molloy, I—”

  She disappeared from my sight, and the sound of a door slamming reached me on the porch. I pulled on the screen door’s handle. It wasn’t latched. I opened it and stuck my head into the cabin. A closed door was to my right, obviously a bedroom into which she’d retreated. I took in the living room without stepping farther inside. It was in disarray. Clothing seemed to have been tossed about, draped over chair backs and on the floor. I crossed the threshold and silently closed the screen door behind me, then cocked my head to hear sounds from the bedroom. There were none. I crossed the living room to the area where the small refrigerator and coffeemaker were located. The coffeemaker was on, the carafe full. I touched the carafe; it was hot.

  I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I knock on the bedroom door, call her name? Or would that have been an unwarranted intrusion into the shock and grief she must have been feeling at the moment? Maybe I shouldn’t have volunteered to be the one to break the news. Perhaps we should have waited for the sheriff’s deputy to arrive, someone more skilled at handling such delicate matters.

  I decided to leave the cabin and sit on the porch for a few minutes to wait for her to pull herself together and emerge from her bedroom refuge. I was halfway across the living room when the sound of a door opening stopped me. I turned to face the bedroom. Geraldine Molloy stepped from it. She still wore pajamas, and her expression had not changed. What was different was that she held a lethal-looking handgun, and it was pointed at me.<
br />
  I held out both hands as I said, “Mrs. Molloy, there’s no need for a gun. I’m not here to threaten you. I came to break bad news, and I wish I wasn’t the one to do it. Please, put the gun down.”

  “Paul is dead?”

  “Yes. An accident. Well, maybe—the sheriff is on his way now. Until he arrives, we must stay calm. Put the gun down, Mrs. Molloy. We can sit and talk until he’s here.”

  Until that moment, she’d been rock steady, not even a minute tremor in her hand. But now she began to shake, the weapon whipping back and forth. I was afraid it would discharge accidentally. I moved to my right, came closer to her, placed my hand on the gun, and took it from her. My heart was pounding, and perspiration dripped from my forehead down my nose. I drew a deep sigh of relief, placed the gun on a table, and went to her, my arms wrapped around her, allowing her to cry it out, her thin body heaving against me.

  As I held her, I heard footsteps on the porch. I turned to see Jim Cook and Seth Hazlitt at the door.

  “Everything okay?” Seth asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s fine. Why don’t we give Mrs. Molloy a few extra minutes alone. I’m sure she’d like to freshen up and get dressed before the sheriff’s people arrive.” I held her at arm’s length. “That would be a good idea, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Molloy?”

  “Yes,” she managed in a tiny voice. “Yes, I’d like to do that.”

  “I’ll wait out on the porch.”

  Before joining Seth and Jim on the porch, I quietly picked up the gun from the table and carried it with me, closing both doors behind me.

  “How’d she take it?” Seth asked.

  “Badly.” I held up the revolver.

  “Where did you get that?” Jim asked.

  “From her.”

  “She threaten you with it, Jessica?” Seth asked.

  “No. I’m sure she didn’t mean to use it. It was nothing more than a reflex action born of fear and the devastating news I’d delivered.”

  But I did silently admit to myself that her reaction was unusual, something I might follow up with her at a more opportune moment.