If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery) (8 page)

“That presents a number of challenges. How do I find them? How do I tell them about a letter that they can’t see? Why would they believe me?”

Gram nodded slowly. “I’ve handled everything differently; every time a different lie. I’ve even forged my own versions of the letters sometimes. I’ve said that my mother once told me about the letter, or that I heard a story. No one has ever questioned me. Everyone is so happy to hear what I have to share that they’re just grateful for the news and don’t ponder the validity—they
want
to believe. As for how to begin, you have a resource that I have never been able to use—Jake. I can’t imagine a better connection for finding living descendants of those from the past.”

“What kinds of letters have you delivered?” I asked.

Gram shrugged. “All kinds. One or two, I think, needed money. One had money included. Jake would have loved to be able to see that one. One was particularly sad; a girl had run away from home because she was pregnant and unmarried, which, of course, was worse than death back then. She wrote her parents to let them know she was fine but ashamed and would never return home, in order to save her family from that same shame. Turned out to be a happy story though. I tracked down her people around here and they did some research and found that missing part of their family. The girl and her baby ended up living good lives, and the family, though many generations after the letter was written, was able to reconnect. And, of course, there are extraordinarily sad ones, too.” Gram paused. “Betts, I know I’ve told you that there’s nothing to be done for these ghosts. They’re dead; that’s never going to change, and you simply cannot alter what happened in their lives. It’s impossible. And, though we don’t know what will happen to Joe when the letters are delivered, we know he won’t come back to life. But for the living, perhaps there’s time to make things better, or, if not better, at least give them some answers they might enjoy having. It’s tricky. I’ve thought about this for many years. I’ve debated the importance of delivering these letters. I’ve debated whether it’s ethically wrong to deliver something that perhaps wasn’t—for whatever reason—supposed to be delivered. I guess that what it ultimately comes down to is this: Even answers that come late are answers, and I believe that I’d personally want to know, even if there was absolutely nothing I could do to change a situation.”

“And . . .” Joe added quickly.

“What?” I said.

“It’s something I
have
to do.
Have
to do. If I don’t . . . well, I’m not sure, but it’s something I can’t ignore.”

There was something
off
about this ghost. He was less aware, even while seeming to know more about his purpose for being here. The other ghosts I’d met all wanted answers to something, but there was more to them than just their ultimate goals. Events from their lives came back to them as they visited. They seemed to blossom a little. I didn’t think Joe would. I suspected his singular focus was all he could handle.

I was suddenly tired. It had been one of the most emotionally taxing days I could remember. Beyond tired—I was on sensory overload. I hadn’t told Gram that Teddy was hurt or that Jerome was back, and I didn’t have the energy to do so at the moment. However, I had no doubt that I would help Joe. But not right this second.

“I promise I’ll work on this. Starting tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Joe said.

Gram smiled.

“The show must go on, I guess,” I said as I looked out over the cooking school’s parking lot. The six Dutch oven stations were perfectly spaced, and from all indications, the cooking lessons were going to be as popular as Orly had predicted. Three large busses had brought the poets to the cooking school from the campsite right after sunrise. Though I didn’t think everyone who had come for the convention was attending the Dutch oven extravaganza, the vast majority certainly were.

Gram and I had thought long and hard about the six recipes to use. We hoped one wouldn’t be lots more popular than the others. We wanted a fairly equal distribution of observers at each station. It looked like we’d achieved our goal with our variety of both sweet and savory options. The six recipes were monkey bread, cowboy stew, apple crisp, chili mac, breakfast cornbread, and Dutch oven pizza. Some of the recipes required the Dutch ovens only to be set on hot coals, but others required heat from both above and below, so they would have some coals on top, too.

Orly had told us that most of the poets already knew their way around a Dutch oven, but that pretty much all of them would nevertheless be interested in demonstrations because their techniques might need tweaking, everyone enjoyed taste-testing, or you could never have too many recipes. He was right.

The stations were manned by some of our nighttime students. We offered a variety of night classes to Broken Rope locals. The Dutch oven night class had taken three weeks, and six of our students were more than happy to dress the part and show off their Gram’s Country Cooking School–acquired Dutch oven skills. Gram and I would be free to roam from fire to fire and offer help or suggestions, or answer any questions that the night students couldn’t answer.

“The turnout is a little surprising,” Gram said. “I guess I’m glad Orly wanted to keep this on the schedule.”

“I think he feels like he owes it to them, the attendees. Many traveled far to get to the convention, and some were still on their way when Norman was killed. I’m sure he’s worried about anyone else getting hurt, but the police are doing a good job.”

They were. No more blending with the crowd for Jim’s crew. Every police officer was now dressed in his or her official uniform, and not one of them was cracking anything close to a smile. I didn’t know them all; our police force just wasn’t big enough to handle emergency situations that require lots of manpower. Fortunately, neighboring communities were more than willing to share some of their forces. A number of the tough-looking officers were currently roaming the parking lot and would stay through the demonstrations.

Gram sighed and glanced back toward the cemetery. Joe and the horse were weaving their way up and down it, looking at the tombstones.

“We’ll get to the letter right after this,” I said. The fish fry at the campsite was scheduled for late afternoon, early evening. I thought we’d have time to attend to Joe’s letter in between the two cooking events, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t point out the tight schedule to Gram, but she’d figure it out as we went along. My experience had been that she would never put the ghosts’ needs over real-life people or commitments, but with Joe I wondered.

“Oh, I know. I just hope he sticks around. We’re so close, you know.”

“Speaking of sticking around, Jerome’s back. Well, he was. I’m not sure if he still is, but he was.”

“Why? Was your life in danger?” Gram asked.

I shrugged. “Dunno, Gram.”

“So, how’s it between the two of you?”

I shrugged again. “Dunno that either.”

“But you’re working on it?”

“Yes.”

“I guess that’s all any of us can ask of ourselves. I hope I get the chance to see Jerome, though he’s been back so often lately that I haven’t had much time to miss him.”

I wished I could say the same. I just smiled.

“Come along, Betts,” Gram said. “Let’s get to work.”

As Gram and I ventured from station to station, it was difficult not to feel extraordinarily proud of our nighttime students. They knew their stuff, and they’d all been around Broken Rope long enough to know to add some Old West oomph to their characters and teaching methods. Their demonstrations were all peppered with just the right amount of knowledge and Old West humor and fun.

“Hi there, Betts,” someone said from over my shoulder as I observed the chili mac demonstration.

“Oh, hi, Cody, how are you today?” I said.

“I’m good. I ’fessed up to my past criminal behavior, and you were right—the police couldn’t have cared less. I feel much better.”

“Good.”

Cody was much less Western than he’d been in his costume the day before. He still wore jeans, but they were topped off by a simple green golf shirt. I hadn’t noticed that his hair had been crushed by his hat yesterday, but it was full and bouncy today. He was a cute young man, and I was surprised I didn’t see a gathering of cute young women around him.

“Cody, you have a minute?” I said.

“Sure. What’re we going to do?” he asked.

“I just have some questions about the convention, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Why not?”

We stepped back from the chili mac demonstration and moved to the far edge of the parking lot.

“I haven’t been around the campsite at night. Is it just one big party?” I asked.

“Well, not really. Oh, kind of, I suppose, but not super rowdy.”

“What do you mean? Are there more private parties, in tents and campers and such?” I said, hoping he caught on to what I was saying. He did.

“There’s some of that,” he said without needing extra time to understand my overt code. “They’re a nice group of people though. All I’ve really noticed is that the ones who’ve attended the convention for lots of years kind of hang out together, and the newbies hang out in their own group. The old-timers—that’s what I call them—are more fun than the new ones. I’ve been lucky to get to hang out with some of the old-timers. I like the guy running the show, Orly. He’s been busy, but when he’s just sitting around the campfire reading a poem or listening to someone else read one, he’s a very real kind of guy.”

“He’s been pretty involved in the poetry?”

“Sure. When he’s not handling a situation, he’s having fun.”

“What’s an example of a situation?”

“Usually it’s been when someone drinks too much or something.”

“I see. That happen a lot?”

Cody thought a moment. “He had to get my wife straightened out once.”

“Your wife?”

“Oh, sorry. I mean my wife in the skit. I take my roles seriously, so I call her my wife.”

“Jezzie? Jezzie was drunk and disorderly?”

“Something was going on a couple nights ago. She was upset about something, and so was Orly. I just assumed that’s what it was. I guess I don’t know for sure.”

“I see. Anyone else?”

“Yeah, some guy who’d been hanging around was a mess a couple nights ago, too. In fact, he’d been hanging around the good guy—I mean, the guy who was killed. Norman.”

“Tell me more about him.”

“All the girls watched this one. Good-looking fella. He wasn’t a poet or an actor. He was just hanging out. He wasn’t causing any problems before, but he sure had too much to drink a couple nights ago.”

Teddy. I was sure he was talking about Teddy.

“What did Orly do?” I asked.

“He handled the whole thing like a pro. He grabbed the guy and escorted him to his own tent.”

“Did you by chance see them go into the tent?”

“No, but that’s the direction they were going.”

Which was also the same direction as the woods where Teddy had been found.

“I see. Do you remember anything else about them?”

Cody’s eyes focused in the distance a moment. “No, don’t think so.”

“Thank you, Cody,” I said. If I’d had any more questions for him, I’d forgotten them now. I hadn’t even intended to learn more about Orly and Teddy, and now I just wanted to talk to them.

“Welcome.”

I excused myself and melted back into the crowd. I couldn’t call Teddy, just in case he was sleeping, and I couldn’t immediately find Orly. And I couldn’t leave to search elsewhere for anyone. I needed to stay in the general area, at least until the demonstrations were over.

As I roamed and tried to tell myself that it was never a good thing to make an assumption based upon a third-party story, it was difficult to keep my focus where it needed to be. So when I saw Esther venturing through the tombstones as Joe rode his horse right behind her, it was an easy decision to join them.

I approached as she was glancing at a tombstone on the far side of the cemetery. She either noticed me out of the corner of her eye or heard my footsteps as I got closer.

“Oh! Hi, Betts, how are you?” she asked.

“Good. You?” I wanted to ask about her date with Jake, but that seemed inappropriate. I’d ask Jake, though. I also wanted to ask her more about Teddy, but the timing didn’t seem right for that either.

“I’m fine. Look who I found.” She pointed at the small tombstone.

“Charlie Reagal,” I said. I looked at Joe, who was also interested in the tombstone, looking at it over Esther’s shoulder as the horse stood mostly still. It was a small rectangular stone that had gotten slightly off-kilter with the passing of time. The words on it were simple, stating only his name and birth and death dates. “Esther, any chance you know what Astin looked like, or maybe his son, Charlie?”

“Not at all. I’ve never seen pictures.”

I nodded and inspected Joe again. He was very transparent in all the sunlight, but his interest in the tombstone was unmistakable, even though I wasn’t sure it meant much of anything.

“No one has ever told you what Astin looked like?” I said.

“No, never.”

I had no idea what my great-great-grandparents looked like either, so it was understandable. Maybe if Astin’s disappearance had been bigger news, his legend and his looks would have been better passed down.

“Jake dug a little deeper and told me that Charlie definitely was successful. He and his wife, Laura, ran the general store for all their married lives.”

“I bet Jake can line up your whole family tree from there if you’d like,” I said.

“He offered, but I hate to ask him to do anything else.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. He enjoys that kind of stuff.” I paused. “You two have a good evening?” I asked as casually as possible.

Esther looked at me and laughed. “He told me that you and he were best friends and that you’d probably pump me for details if you saw me before you saw him.”

“Guilty.” I smiled.

“We had a great time. He’s a special guy.”

“Yes!” I cleared my throat. “Yes, he is.”

Esther blushed, and then turned her attention back to the tombstone.

“Hey, can I ask you about something else?” I said.

“Sure.”

“My brother, Teddy, was hanging out at the campsite. Do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“A really good-looking guy.”

Esther thought a second. “Norman’s friend?”

I swallowed and then nodded. I wasn’t completely sure they were friends, but I went with it.

“Okay, yeah, I know him.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I think I did. Once. Briefly.”

“Can I ask what you were talking about?”

“I don’t think it was more than a friendly greeting.”

“Did you see what happened after you talked to him? Did you see anyone take him anywhere?”

“Betts, is your brother missing?”

“No, no, I’m just trying to figure out what happened that night. I know that sounds strange, but I’m extra protective of him.”

“Oh, well, the only person I saw him with was Norman, but I spent a good chunk of time over at the Pony Express station that night. My curiosity has been recently piqued, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” I said distractedly. “So, how about Norman, did you know him at all?”

“We just chatted, too.”

“Hmm.”

Esther put her hand on my arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get some answers, but it’s nothing serious.” It wasn’t common knowledge that Teddy had been beaten, though I wondered about the spread of gossip at the campsite. Teddy’s condition was more than serious, but if Esther hadn’t heard about it, I wasn’t ready to disseminate the news.

“Okay.” She looked at the tombstone one more time, and then at me. “I think I’ll head back over to the parking lot. The cooking demonstrations are interesting. I just couldn’t pass up the chance to look for Charlie. You want to come with me?”

“Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, being a less-than-perfect host.

“Sure,” she said before she smiled at me again and then made her way across the cemetery.

Once she was out of earshot, I looked up at Joe. His focus was still on the tombstone.

“You’re Charlie or Astin, aren’t you?” I said.

“I know my name is Joe.”

I looked into the horse’s eyes. “You know anything else?”

The horse nodded, but unfortunately still wasn’t talking.