Free Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher Page A

pointed away from the creek, toward the cabins. Same with the second print.
    As I headed for my cabin—waddled is more accurate—Bonnie Cook was crossing the grassy strip. “What happened to you?” she asked, eyes wide.
    “Slipped in the stream. No damage except for a lost favorite fishing hat.”
    “Those rocks in there can be slippery.”
    “I know. I was startled by—”
    “By what?”
    “Must have been a bird, or one of the dogs. Anyway, Bonnie, I caught a trout and almost netted it.”
    “You fishing fanatics always amaze me. Nothing fazes you as long as you catch a fish.”
    “I’d better get out of these wet clothes,” I said, “before I catch cold.”
    “Yes, you’d better.”
    “How’s things going with the investigation?”
    “All right, I guess. Bob Pitura is staying for dinner. So is Sheriff Murdie. They’d like to talk to us as a group.”
    “Okay. See you then.”
    I changed into a running suit and sneakers, grabbed a small point-and-shoot camera and cloth measuring tape from my bag, left the cabin, and returned to where I’d seen the footprints. I knelt and examined them closely. They’d obviously been made by a man’s shoe or boot—or a woman wearing such a shoe. I snapped a picture of each print, then measured them, aware that what I came up with could be considered only approximate. They measured size eleven.
    There certainly was nothing wrong with someone standing on the bank of the Cebolla and watching me fish. People do it all the time. But why would he, or she, have bolted the minute I turned around? If I’d seen someone slip and fall in the water, my immediate reaction would have been to offer to help, not run. My assumption had to be that whoever it was didn’t want me to know that he, or she, had been observing me.
    As I stood there pondering, homicide investigator Pitura came up behind.
    “Looking for clues?” he asked pleasantly, and with a broad smile.
    “No. I was just—”
    He bent over and looked closely at one of the footprints. “Is this what piqued your interest, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Yes. Actually, I—”
    “Think they belong to Mr. Molloy’s killer?”
    “No.” I explained what had happened.
    “I agree with you,” he said. “Why would someone not want you to know he was watching you?”
    “Terminal shyness,” I offered, tongue in cheek.
    “Hmmm.”
    “I understand you and the sheriff want to speak with us as a group at dinner.”
    “That’s right. I think everyone at the ranch deserves to be kept abreast of what we’ve done, and what we’ll be doing.”
    “An unusual approach for someone investigating a murder.”
    “How so?”
    “Keeping suspects informed of the investigation’s progress.”
    He smiled. “Maybe I’m taking a page from one of your murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve read most of them. Many feature unusual investigative techniques. I understand you’ve solved your share of real murders.”
    “Wrong place, wrong time, I’m afraid.”
    “Well, this looks like another case of that. Mind if I pick your brain as we go forward?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I’ll have plaster casts made of those prints.”
    “If you wish.”
    “I wish. See you at dinner.”

Chapter Eight
    Sue, the cabin girl, had carried the evening’s fare—fried chicken, “melt in your mouth” potatoes, broccoli casserole, homemade biscuits, and apple pie—to Geraldine Molloy in the honeymoon cabin. Whether the grieving widow would be up for such a large dinner was conjecture. Bonnie had suggested to Mrs. Molloy that she might feel better if she was with people, but Geraldine declined the advice. “I need to be by myself,” she’d said. Which, of course, we all understood.
    There was a sense of heightened anticipation in the main lodge when we gathered for dinner. The main room was large enough for factions to congregate in opposite comers. The Morrison family had grown; Craig’s wife, Veronica, had arrived in late afternoon, driven in the