Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher Page B

against the wide brim of his black hat. “Yes, sir?”
    “Joe, I understand you were with Mrs. Fletcher when she found the rasp down by the creek.”
    “She called me over and asked me to find Investigator Pitura.”
    “But you knew she’d discovered it in the grass.”
    “Right. Is there a problem?”
    “Depends,” Pitura said. “Who did you tell about it?”
    Walker shrugged. “Andy. I think Jon was there, too. I told Joel. Nobody told me not to.”
    “No, it’s okay, Joe,” Jim said. “Just trying to figure out how the Morrisons here learned of it.”
    “None of this is of interest to us,” Robert Morrison said. “But remember my warning. You too, Mr. Cook. If anything were to happen to any of us, we’ll own this ranch.”
    Jim raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
    We watched the Morrisons walk away with the same purposeful strides as when they’d arrived.
    “Real pleasant folks, huh?” Pitura said.
    “They’ve never been particularly friendly and warm,” Jim said, “but nothing like this. Always pretty much kept to themselves, did some riding, some fishing, held their family meetings. But no particular trouble with them. The staff didn’t especially take to them, but the tips at the end of the week were always big enough to smooth any hurt feelings or ruffled egos.”
    “They’re okay,” Walker said. “A little demanding, but I figure that’s what we’re here for, to meet guests’ demands.”
    “That’s right,” Jim said. “Of course, we never figured on a murder happening. Joe, did you tell any of the Morrisons about Mrs. Fletcher’s finding the rasp?”
    “No. Just some of the staff, like I said.”
    “Okay. Thanks. Everything ready for the supper ride?”
    “I think so. Joel’s got all the cookout stuff packed, and the horses are ready to go.”
    “Good. See you later.”
    “He’s the best wrangler we’ve ever had,” Jim said. “Knows more about tending to sick horses than any vet I’ve known.”
    “I’m going to my cabin to get ready for the ride,” I said.
    “Good idea,” Jim said. “I’d better take some video of the folks getting fishing lessons.”
    “I’ll walk you,” Pitura said to me.
    Once there were just the two of us, Pitura asked, “I have a feeling the Morrison youngster might have said something to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “Not really. She’s very upset about the murder. She told me she wanted to talk to someone, but was afraid.”
    “Afraid of what?”
    “I tried to get that out of her, but failed. She said she went to Hidden Lake a great deal last year, as she put it, ‘to get away.’ ”
    “I think I’d want to get away now and then from her family,” Pitura said. “Hard bunch.”
    “Yes. Have you interviewed her brother, Godfrey?”
    “An hour ago, just before he and his uncle and aunt took fishing lessons.”
    “And?”
    “Surly kid. A teenage malady these days. Grunted his answers and even laughed a few times.”
    “A nervous laugh?”
    “I suppose so. He had nothing to offer.”
    “I’ll bet he knows why his sister is so upset.”
    Pitura looked puzzled. “Murder can upset anyone.”
    “But she’s upset beyond what might be expected,” I said. “After all, it wasn’t a member of her family who was killed. Paul Molloy was a stranger. They spent an hour together at dinner the night he was killed. No, even less time than that. The two kids left the table as soon as they were finished.”
    “Maybe you’ll have a chance to talk to some of them on the supper ride.”
    “I’ll try. Are you coming with us?”
    “No. I have to get back to town for a meeting with Sheriff Murdie.”
    “About this case?”
    “Yes. Dick Murdie is a thorough guy. We meet every day.”
    I smiled.
    “Thinking of one of Jim’s jokes?”
    “No. I’m thinking of how surprised I was when I first met the sheriff. He certainly doesn’t dress like one.”
    Pitura laughed. “I guess we’re a lot less formal out here than where you’re