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

was still wet. She was dressed in a simple blue denim dress and white cardigan sweater.
    “Sorry about the news, Mrs. Molloy,” Jim said.
    “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Paul dead? It’s inconceivable. What happened? Did he fall off a horse? Was he kicked?”
    “We don’t know yet, ma’am. The police are on the way. Coroner, too.”
    The word coroner caused Geraldine to shudder and to grip the porch railing for support.
    “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Molloy,” Seth suggested, pulling a chair closer to her. She sat, closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head.
    “Would you like some water?” Seth asked. “Coffee? I’ll get some from the lodge.”
    “No need for that,” I said. “There’s coffee brewing in the cabin.”
    Geraldine opened her eyes. “There is?” she asked.
    “Yes. Didn’t you put it up?”
    “No, I—Paul must have before he left this morning.”
    “You know for certain he left this morning?” I asked.
    “No. I just assumed he did.”
    I stopped myself from saying that judging from what I’d seen of the body, Paul Molloy had been killed last night. But that was pure speculation on my part.
    We all turned in the direction of the house, where two vehicles kicked up dust as they turned in to the ranch, lights flashing. One was a marked Gunnison County sheriff’s car. The other was the ambulance. “We’d better get over there,” Jim said.
    “You go ahead,” I suggested. “Seth and I will stay with Mrs. Molloy until she’s needed.”
    Jim took purposeful strides to the house. From where we stood, we could see that the vehicles had carried a number of people; we counted three in police uniforms, and the ambulance discharged a man and a woman wearing white—emergency medical personnel was the assumption.
    I fetched Geraldine Molloy coffee from inside. As I poured it into a cup—she took it plain black—I paused to ponder what she’d said. If she was to be believed, and I had no reason not to, her husband had put up the pot. But when? It was unlikely he would have done that if he’d left during the night. And if my preliminary analysis was correct, he hadn’t been there in the morning to do it.
    “Here you are,” I said, handing the steaming cup to Mrs. Molloy.
    She seemed to have relaxed and gave me a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.” She was certainly not the gun-wielding woman I’d first encountered when coming to the cabin to break the news of her husband’s death. I preferred this version.
    We watched Jim lead the entourage from the house to where the body was being guarded by the two wranglers.
    “I think I’ll join them,” I said. “Mind staying with Mrs. Molloy, Seth?”
    “No need for anyone to stay with me,” she said, standing. “I’ll be fine. I’d like to be there, too.”
    “I don’t think that’s wise,” Seth said. “Maybe we can stay in the house with Bonnie.”
    “Good idea,” I said.
    I walked with them to where Bonnie stood outside the office, her face set in anguish. “Mrs. Molloy and Seth will stay here with you, Bonnie,” I said.
    I went to where the others now surrounded the body. A uniformed officer stopped me.
    “It’s okay,” Jim Cook said. “This is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer. She’s a guest at the ranch this week. She was one of the people who found him.”
    They’d cleared away the brush, leaving Paul Molloy’s body exposed. The coroner was on his knees examining it, fingers gently probing certain areas. Molloy’s eyes were open. Years of research into homicide investigations for my crime novels had taught me plenty, including that upon death the muscles controlling the pupils relax, causing them to lose the symmetrical appearance characteristic of being alive. His eyelids had become flabby, another sure sign of death.
    The coroner, a large, beefy man wearing slacks, a yellow V-neck sweater over a white shirt, and elaborately tooled cowboy boots, continued his physical