could call them in to a pharmacy in Maine and have FedEx fly ’em out here.”
“She’s sick.”
“Very much so. Ready for lunch?”
“Yes. But first, let me report on what happened to me.”
I told him of finding the rasp, and that Investigator Pitura had sent it to the medical examiner for analysis. Seth agreed it was strange that the rasp just showed up the way it did.
“Of course, we don’t know that it was the weapon,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re pretty sure it is, aren’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’ll be surprised if it isn’t. And if I’m right, the larger question is, who wanted it found?”
Chapter Eleven
A professional fly fishing expert was scheduled to give lessons at the stocked pond after lunch, but I decided to take a long walk instead. I started out along the road, but didn’t get very far. I’d just passed the area where Molloy’s body was found when I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Pauline Morrison, Craig and Veronica’s daughter, closing on me. I stopped and waited for her to catch up.
“Hello,” I said. “Feeling better?”
She looked back toward the ranch, as though to confirm that no one else was in the vicinity. “I guess so,” she said. “I’ve been acting pretty dumb.”
“Oh, don’t say that. This has been extremely upsetting.”
“Evelyn says I’m being a baby.”
“Evelyn? Your grandmother?”
“Yes. She won’t let us call her ‘Grandma.’ She says it makes her sound old.”
It didn’t surprise me that Evelyn Morrison would feel that way, but I didn’t tell her granddaughter that. Instead, I asked, “Feel like a walk? A good walk always clears my head, makes me feel better.”
“Okay.”
We walked in silence for a minute before I said, “I understand there’s a secret little lake with lots of fish. Do you know where it is?”
“Hidden Lake? Sure.”
“I’d like to see it. Take me to it?”
“It’s only a half mile. I used to go there last year a lot to get away.
We took a narrow, steep rutted road that branched off from the main road and followed it until reaching Hidden Lake, a small, pretty body of water owned by Jim and Bonnie, and stocked with fish. It was eerily silent there, the only sounds the rustling of leaves when a breeze came up, and the happy sound of an occasional songbird.
“You said you came here often last year, Pauline.”
“Uh-huh. I always sat over there, on the other side.”
“Looks like a peaceful place to sit and reflect.”
We made our way to the other side, having to step carefully on rocks to keep from getting our shoes wet. Pauline sat on a fallen tree, placed her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward, her head nestled in her hands. I observed her. When we were first introduced, she was a lively, happy girl. But since the murder of Paul Molloy, she’d gone into a shell. This was the first time I’d seen her since word of the murder spread through the ranch.
I sat next to her. “Care to talk about it?” I asked.
She replied without lifting her head, “What’s to talk about?”
“The murder. Sometimes it helps to say what’s on our minds, to vent our feelings.”
I felt comfortable in offering myself as an amateur therapist because I wasn’t a member of her family. It’s often easier to discuss intimate thoughts with a stranger.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Oh?” I said. “Who told you not to?”
She shrugged. Translation: I’d better not say.
Our silence melded with the absence of nature’s sounds. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and was struck again at how physically different she was from the rest of her family. Funny, I thought, how genes work. There can be a succession of children, all carrying strong familial traits, and then along comes another child who looks as though he or she is from a different set of parents. As dark as the rest of the Morrison family was, Pauline was fair, her hair flaming orange,
“She’s sick.”
“Very much so. Ready for lunch?”
“Yes. But first, let me report on what happened to me.”
I told him of finding the rasp, and that Investigator Pitura had sent it to the medical examiner for analysis. Seth agreed it was strange that the rasp just showed up the way it did.
“Of course, we don’t know that it was the weapon,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re pretty sure it is, aren’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’ll be surprised if it isn’t. And if I’m right, the larger question is, who wanted it found?”
Chapter Eleven
A professional fly fishing expert was scheduled to give lessons at the stocked pond after lunch, but I decided to take a long walk instead. I started out along the road, but didn’t get very far. I’d just passed the area where Molloy’s body was found when I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Pauline Morrison, Craig and Veronica’s daughter, closing on me. I stopped and waited for her to catch up.
“Hello,” I said. “Feeling better?”
She looked back toward the ranch, as though to confirm that no one else was in the vicinity. “I guess so,” she said. “I’ve been acting pretty dumb.”
“Oh, don’t say that. This has been extremely upsetting.”
“Evelyn says I’m being a baby.”
“Evelyn? Your grandmother?”
“Yes. She won’t let us call her ‘Grandma.’ She says it makes her sound old.”
It didn’t surprise me that Evelyn Morrison would feel that way, but I didn’t tell her granddaughter that. Instead, I asked, “Feel like a walk? A good walk always clears my head, makes me feel better.”
“Okay.”
We walked in silence for a minute before I said, “I understand there’s a secret little lake with lots of fish. Do you know where it is?”
“Hidden Lake? Sure.”
“I’d like to see it. Take me to it?”
“It’s only a half mile. I used to go there last year a lot to get away.
We took a narrow, steep rutted road that branched off from the main road and followed it until reaching Hidden Lake, a small, pretty body of water owned by Jim and Bonnie, and stocked with fish. It was eerily silent there, the only sounds the rustling of leaves when a breeze came up, and the happy sound of an occasional songbird.
“You said you came here often last year, Pauline.”
“Uh-huh. I always sat over there, on the other side.”
“Looks like a peaceful place to sit and reflect.”
We made our way to the other side, having to step carefully on rocks to keep from getting our shoes wet. Pauline sat on a fallen tree, placed her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward, her head nestled in her hands. I observed her. When we were first introduced, she was a lively, happy girl. But since the murder of Paul Molloy, she’d gone into a shell. This was the first time I’d seen her since word of the murder spread through the ranch.
I sat next to her. “Care to talk about it?” I asked.
She replied without lifting her head, “What’s to talk about?”
“The murder. Sometimes it helps to say what’s on our minds, to vent our feelings.”
I felt comfortable in offering myself as an amateur therapist because I wasn’t a member of her family. It’s often easier to discuss intimate thoughts with a stranger.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Oh?” I said. “Who told you not to?”
She shrugged. Translation: I’d better not say.
Our silence melded with the absence of nature’s sounds. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and was struck again at how physically different she was from the rest of her family. Funny, I thought, how genes work. There can be a succession of children, all carrying strong familial traits, and then along comes another child who looks as though he or she is from a different set of parents. As dark as the rest of the Morrison family was, Pauline was fair, her hair flaming orange,
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