Free Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher Page B

Cooks’ suburban by wrangler Jon Adler. I’d watched as she was greeted by Jim, his omnipresent video camera rolling as she stepped from the vehicle. She was a stunning woman, approximately forty years old, tall and full-figured-buxom would be an appropriate word—her features fine, long blond hair allowed to fall naturally over her shoulders. No one had bothered to introduce her, so I went to where she sat and extended my hand.
    “The young man who drove me from the airport said the famous murder mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher, was here,” she said.
    “Unfortunately, there’s been a real murder,” I said. “But I’m sure you already know that.”
    “Yes, Craig told me.”
    “Did you just fly into Gunnison this afternoon?”
    “Yes.”
    “Smooth flight?”
    “Yes. Smooth as silk, as they say. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I hope we can find some time to talk while we’re here.”
    I rejoined Seth at the games table. “This Mrs. Morrison seems more pleasant and gracious than the others,” I said into his ear.
    “That’s nice to hear,” he said.
    Sheriff Murdie and his homicide investigator, Bob Pitura, sat next to each other near the entrance to the dining room and spoke to each other in hushed tones. Jim and Bonnie were in and out as they juggled preparing for dinner and being host and hostess to their guests. Unlike the previous evening, the staff did not mingle with us before dinner. It was as though sides had been chosen and we were preparing for competition, maybe a game of charades, or statues.
    Jim eventually appeared in the doorway and, with his customary wide smile, announced that dinner was ready. We filed into the dining room and took what had become our usual seats at the long table. I was glad to see that some of the wranglers joined us. Their presence tended to perk up spirits. The only guest missing was Craig Morrison’s teen daughter, Pauline. I asked about her.
    “This episode has upset her terribly,” Evelyn Morrison said. “She’s been in tears all day.”
    “Sheriff Murdie will be saying a few words,” Jim said as he started passing platters. “Any time it suits you, Richard.”
    The sheriff was six feet tall, solidly built, close-cropped black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore glasses. He was dressed in a striped sport shirt and jeans.
    “Maybe your guests would rather eat first, Jim.”
    “Up to them.”
    “I have some questions I’d like answered,” Evelyn Morrison said sternly.
    Murdie smiled. “I’ll answer anything I can, Mrs. Morrison, although there will be some areas I’ll have to avoid.”
    “Why are we being questioned?” Evelyn asked.
    “You mean you and your family?”
    “Yes. We’re guests at this ranch for the week. We’ve been coming here for years. We not only use this week each year to bond together, we use it as a retreat at which to discuss sensitive, important business.”
    Murdie listened attentively, helping himself to chicken as the platter reached him.
    Evelyn’s brother, Robert, added, “Your interrogation of us represents an unnecessary intrusion, Sheriff. It’s obvious that the murder—if it was murder—was committed by some outsider, some nut passing by.”
    A pleasant, concerned expression never left the sheriff’s face. He asked, “Why do you think it might not have been murder, Mr. Morrison?”
    “It could have been an accident. One look at Molloy and it was obvious to me he drank a lot.”
    “Oh?” said Murdie. “What in his appearance led you to that conclusion?”
    “It was written all over his face.”
    “An Irish face,” Murdie said, buttering a biscuit, the subtle accusation that Morrison was dealing in stereotypes not lost on me.
    “Maybe we ought to see what the sheriff and Mr. Pitura have come up with before we get into why he has to question us— all of us,” Bonnie said.
    “Good idea,” Seth said. “Any progress, Sheriff?”
    Murdie turned to Pitura.