Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online

want to intrude on you, Jess.”
    “Don’t give it a second thought. What cabin are the Molloys in?”
    “The honeymoon cabin,” Jim said.
    “Which is that?” I asked.
    “The last cabin, just beyond yours, Jess.”
    “Up on that little rise?”
    “Right.”
    “And no one has seen her?” Seth asked.
    A shake of heads all around.
    “I’ll be back,” I said.
    The Morrison clan, fresh from their morning ride, stood around the swimming pool, coffee cups in hand. I said hello as I passed, receiving less than enthusiastic responses. But they weren’t on my mind at the moment. I was curious why Geraldine Molloy hadn’t been seen all morning. Wasn’t she aware that her husband wasn’t with her? If my snap analysis was correct, that the crusted blood on his chest indicated he’d been killed some time during the night, it meant he’d left her alone in their cabin. Unless, of course, she’d been with him.
    Why had he been out on the road at night? Trouble sleeping and took a walk? Always possible. A fight with his wife, causing him to storm out of the cabin? That was another possibility.
    There was a sign on the front of the ranch’s honeymoon cabin, white lettering on dark brown wood:
    THIS CABIN WAS THE FIRST LOVE NEST FOR OUR HAPPY HONEYMONERS. Below was a list of honeymoon couples, and the dates they’d stayed there to launch their married life. Had the reason for my visiting it not been so grim, I might have had a warmer reaction to the sentiment.
    I stood at the door and poised to knock. After a deep breath, I did. Both the screen and inside doors were closed. I looked at the front window. The curtains were drawn. I knocked again. Still no response.
    “Mrs. Molloy?” I called. I repeated it, louder this time, accompanied by more knocking. I cocked my head; someone was moving inside.
    “Mrs. Molloy, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”
    I looked at the interior doorknob as it started to turn, then stopped, as though whoever was turning it—Geraldine Molloy, I presumed—had second thoughts.
    “Mrs. Molloy, it’s Jessica—”
    The inside door opened, revealing Geraldine Molloy. She was in pajamas. Her reddish hair was disheveled, her eyes puffy with sleep.
    “What do you want?” she asked in a thick voice.
    “I need to talk to you,” I said.
    “Come back later. You woke me.”
    “I’m sorry to have done that, but it’s important, Mrs. Molloy. There’s been an ... an accident. Your husband. He’s ... he’s dead.”
    From what I could observe through the screen, her expression didn’t change.
    “Did you hear me, Mrs. Molloy?”
    Was she drugged? I wondered. Had she taken a potent sleeping pill that caused her to sleep so late and to be in a fog?
    Then the news seemed to sink in. She uttered a small involuntary gasp and backed away from the door.
    “Mrs. Molloy, I—”
    She disappeared from my sight, and the sound of a door slamming reached me on the porch. I pulled on the screen door’s handle. It wasn’t latched. I opened it and stuck my head into the cabin. A closed door was to my right, obviously a bedroom into which she’d retreated. I took in the living room without stepping farther inside. It was in disarray. Clothing seemed to have been tossed about, draped over chair backs and on the floor. I crossed the threshold and silently closed the screen door behind me, then cocked my head to hear sounds from the bedroom. There were none. I crossed the living room to the area where the small refrigerator and coffeemaker were located. The coffeemaker was on, the carafe full. I touched the carafe; it was hot.
    I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I knock on the bedroom door, call her name? Or would that have been an unwarranted intrusion into the shock and grief she must have been feeling at the moment? Maybe I shouldn’t have volunteered to be the one to break the news. Perhaps we should have waited for the sheriff’s deputy to arrive, someone more skilled at handling such delicate matters.
    I