Free Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher

Murdie and his people must be pretty good at what they do.”
    “I guess they are. The sheriff’s a nice sorta fella. I think you’ll enjoy meeting him. Well, I’ll let you get on to your fishing. If you don’t have any luck, there’s always the stocked pond.”
    “I hope I won’t have to resort to that. Too much like shooting fish in a barrel. See you later, Jim.”
    Cebolla Creek is fast-moving and not difficult to access from the bank, at least the portion immediately on ranch property. It’s a narrow stream with a lot of overhanging branches, making casting difficult. A section of it beyond the stables and corrals is considerably wider, but I decided to save that for another day. Working on the narrow portion would allow me to practice what’s called a roll-cast, in which the rod isn’t brought up behind. Instead, you leave the tip down near the water and “whip” the line out into the current.
    I found a spot with relatively secure footing and went to work, laying the tiny fly where I wanted it and watching it drift with the current until it was time to cast again. I’d been at it for forty-five minutes, during which time the sun disappeared, the skies blackened, rain fell, and then the sun shone brightly again.
    I snagged the fly on a piece of deadwood. I tried to yank it free, but the fly broke away from the tippet, the hair-thin filament at the end of the line. I chose a similar fly from a box in one of my vest’s pockets, tied it on the tippet, and cast. It hadn’t traveled more than six feet when a trout broke the water’s surface and went for it. I yanked back on the line. I had it. My heart tripped as it always does when I’ve managed to fool a fish into thinking my offering at the end of the line is the real thing. But I knew I had to play it with care. I remove the barbs from all my hooks, which makes releasing a fish considerably easier on me, and on the fish, but that more easily slips from the mouth when bringing a fish in.
    Here was where skill was paramount. I made sure my feet were solid and began to haul in line, slowly, keeping it taut to maintain a constant pressure. The fish leaped from the water, then disappeared beneath it. I continued to play it, wanting to net it before it fought too long and exhausted itself.
    I now had it close and reached around to bring the net forward with my right hand, while holding the rod in my left. “Easy now,” I said aloud. “Just another few feet and—”
    The noise was sudden and startling. There was someone in the bushes behind me. I turned. In doing so, I allowed the line to slacken. The fish slipped the hook and was gone. So was I. My right foot went out from under me. As hard as I tried to maintain my balance, I couldn’t, and tumbled into the water, valiantly attempting to hold on to the rod. Water poured into my waders; I’d neglected to wear a belt around my waist to prevent that from happening. As I fell, I managed to see what had caused the noise—a person. I couldn’t make out who it was; he or she pushed through the bushes and was gone from my sight.
    Fortunately, the water at that point in the Cebolla isn’t deep, and I had no fear of being pulled under loons. A surprising number of fly fishermen die each year in just such accidents. I almost did a few years ago in Scotland.
    I dragged myself over rocks to the bank, where I sprawled and caught my breath. My mishap had turned into nothing more than an embarrassment, and the loss of a fish, which I would have let go anyway. I raised my legs to allow some of the water to drain from my waders. Now able to maneuver, I climbed the bank to where the bushes lined the Cebolla. I put my hand to my head. My hat was gone, my favorite fishing hat. Better that than all of me, I decided.
    I started in the direction of my cabin, looking down as I did. Two footprints were directly in front of me. They appeared to be fresh. I bent over and touched the indentation one had made in the earth. It was