Read Online Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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think the shock has set in. Always takes a while for that to happen. Any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”
“No. I considered asking Jim to take me on a Jeep ride, but I’m sure he won’t be free to do that for a day or two, until the investigation winds down.”
“Sounds unduly optimistic,” Seth said. “Probably will be going on all week and beyond.”
“Cup of tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
I made tea in my cabin, and we sat on the porch, watching the comings and goings of Investigator Pitura and the other officers. The main lodge had been established as the center for interviews. Members of the Morrison family entered individually, each emerging a half hour later while another person waited to go in.
“Wonder when the investigator will get around to us,” Seth said.
“Soon enough, I’m sure. Have you heard anything about the weapon?”
“No.”
“Once they determine what sort of weapon was used, it might help narrow the inquiry.”
“If they find it. Hardly likely.”
“You never know.”
We lingered for a half hour until I announced I might put in an hour’s fishing on Cebolla Creek.
“Feelin’ up to it, Jessica?”
“It would take my mind off things like murder. The world—the real world—always disappears when I’m on a stream. Care to join me?”
“You know I don’t fish, at least not anymore.”
“Good chance to take it up again.”
“No, you go on. I think I’ll do some reading back at my cabin.”
Fly fishing takes preparation. I went inside and slipped into lightweight stockingfoot waders, which came up to my chest and were secured over my shoulders with suspenders. Next came protective wading socks, after which I put on my wading boots and laced them up. That portion of the ritual completed, I donned my wading vest with its multiple pockets, attached a small net to a ring at the back of the vest with an elastic cord, put together my four-piece Hardy rod and reel, chose a small dry fly that had been tied to emulate natural insect life on a stream, put on my peaked fishing hat, and left the cabin. Already, the tragic event of the morning was fading from consciousness.
Jim Cook saw me heading for the creek. He’d just come from the lodge, accompanied by Investigator Pitura, who patted him on the back and walked to the house. Jim caught up with me.
“Glad to see you’re taking it in stride, Jess,” he said, “going on with some sort of normal activity.”
“I think it’s important to do that,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“How are the interviews going?”
“Pretty well, I guess. Bob Pitura has a nice way of getting people to open up.”
“Yes. I noticed that when he was questioning Mrs. Molloy. Have you been present at any of the interviews?”
“Yes, I have. Surprised that Bob would allow that. But he said he thought having either Bonnie or me there would put some of the staff at ease.” He laughed ruefully. “Questioning the staff must be just routine for Bob. I’m sure he knows nobody working at this ranch could possibly have murdered anyone.”
I didn’t voice my thought of the moment. It was natural for Jim to feel that way, just as the Morrison family found it inconceivable that any of its members would be viewed with suspicion. I suppose I felt the same about Seth and me.
But somebody had killed Paul Molloy. Someone had stabbed or shot him in the chest.
“Any word on the weapon?” I asked.
“No. I spoke with Sheriff Murdie a little while ago. He said he’d be here late afternoon. He’s tied up with another investigation.”
“Is there much crime out here?” I asked.
“Hardly any. Not murder, anyway. I think there’s been two since we bought the Powderhorn. They recently solved one going back seventeen years. A young girl was killed then. The murderer was doing twenty years in Tennessee for armed robbery. Amazing, huh, how they could come up with the killer after all those years?”
“It certainly is. Your Sheriff
“No. I considered asking Jim to take me on a Jeep ride, but I’m sure he won’t be free to do that for a day or two, until the investigation winds down.”
“Sounds unduly optimistic,” Seth said. “Probably will be going on all week and beyond.”
“Cup of tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
I made tea in my cabin, and we sat on the porch, watching the comings and goings of Investigator Pitura and the other officers. The main lodge had been established as the center for interviews. Members of the Morrison family entered individually, each emerging a half hour later while another person waited to go in.
“Wonder when the investigator will get around to us,” Seth said.
“Soon enough, I’m sure. Have you heard anything about the weapon?”
“No.”
“Once they determine what sort of weapon was used, it might help narrow the inquiry.”
“If they find it. Hardly likely.”
“You never know.”
We lingered for a half hour until I announced I might put in an hour’s fishing on Cebolla Creek.
“Feelin’ up to it, Jessica?”
“It would take my mind off things like murder. The world—the real world—always disappears when I’m on a stream. Care to join me?”
“You know I don’t fish, at least not anymore.”
“Good chance to take it up again.”
“No, you go on. I think I’ll do some reading back at my cabin.”
Fly fishing takes preparation. I went inside and slipped into lightweight stockingfoot waders, which came up to my chest and were secured over my shoulders with suspenders. Next came protective wading socks, after which I put on my wading boots and laced them up. That portion of the ritual completed, I donned my wading vest with its multiple pockets, attached a small net to a ring at the back of the vest with an elastic cord, put together my four-piece Hardy rod and reel, chose a small dry fly that had been tied to emulate natural insect life on a stream, put on my peaked fishing hat, and left the cabin. Already, the tragic event of the morning was fading from consciousness.
Jim Cook saw me heading for the creek. He’d just come from the lodge, accompanied by Investigator Pitura, who patted him on the back and walked to the house. Jim caught up with me.
“Glad to see you’re taking it in stride, Jess,” he said, “going on with some sort of normal activity.”
“I think it’s important to do that,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“How are the interviews going?”
“Pretty well, I guess. Bob Pitura has a nice way of getting people to open up.”
“Yes. I noticed that when he was questioning Mrs. Molloy. Have you been present at any of the interviews?”
“Yes, I have. Surprised that Bob would allow that. But he said he thought having either Bonnie or me there would put some of the staff at ease.” He laughed ruefully. “Questioning the staff must be just routine for Bob. I’m sure he knows nobody working at this ranch could possibly have murdered anyone.”
I didn’t voice my thought of the moment. It was natural for Jim to feel that way, just as the Morrison family found it inconceivable that any of its members would be viewed with suspicion. I suppose I felt the same about Seth and me.
But somebody had killed Paul Molloy. Someone had stabbed or shot him in the chest.
“Any word on the weapon?” I asked.
“No. I spoke with Sheriff Murdie a little while ago. He said he’d be here late afternoon. He’s tied up with another investigation.”
“Is there much crime out here?” I asked.
“Hardly any. Not murder, anyway. I think there’s been two since we bought the Powderhorn. They recently solved one going back seventeen years. A young girl was killed then. The murderer was doing twenty years in Tennessee for armed robbery. Amazing, huh, how they could come up with the killer after all those years?”
“It certainly is. Your Sheriff
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