If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery) (3 page)

“I wasn’t in town,” I said. “I was back there, fishing.” I pointed toward the back wall of the jail. I wished I was still there, beyond the wall and the crowd, with the fake worm in the water or hunting down the evil catfish. “I heard a gunshot, but I couldn’t tell you if it was from a popgun or from something real.”

“Catch anything?” Cliff asked.

“Yep. It was huge, but it freed itself, gave me the evil eye, and took off,” I said with a sad smile.

“The one that got away, huh?”

There was no good reason for the two of us to have stepped back from the crowd for a moment just so we could both make sure the other one was okay. Cliff had a job to do, and taking time away from that job wasn’t fair, but we’d done it anyway. He’d told me he was glad to see me, because he hadn’t been able to find me in the crowd after the shooting.

“Do you think we were all in danger or just Norman?”

Cliff shrugged. “We don’t know, Betts. This is bigger than anything we’ve ever dealt with. I won’t say that Jim and the rest of us are in over our heads, but we simply don’t have the manpower to effectively deal with something like this—someone shot out in the open who was in the middle of a larger crowd. We’re doing the best we can, and we’ve called in some help.”

“Do you know where the shot came from?” I asked.

Cliff nodded. “Yes, we think so, but we can’t find any solid evidence; we’re basing our knowledge on measurement and distance guesses, and Jim’s the only one who has had any training with that stuff. Someone more experienced from St. Louis will be here soon to evaluate what we’ve come up with so far.”

I bit my lip. Were we dealing with someone on the loose who was going around killing randomly, perhaps just building a list of victims, or had someone wanted Norman dead? How in the world could the police begin to figure
that
out with only measurements and distances?

As if reading my mind, Cliff said, “Betts, there are ways to investigate this. I don’t want you to think we’re standing around wondering what to do next. We do have some ideas.”

“I know,” I said, even though I hadn’t until he’d said so.

For a long moment, Cliff held my eyes with his. Though we were in a corner of the room, there was no real privacy. There were people everywhere. I’d been nudged by the elbows of passersby as we’d attempted the somewhat discreet conversation. And he was a police officer. Even though he was one who’d taken the casual-wear idea seriously, everyone still knew he was an officer. We had to keep it professional. A comforting hug would have been weird.

Cliff squinted. “I’ll call you later, but it will probably be much later.”

“I expected as much.”

He put his hand on my arm, smiled, and then turned to get back to work. I watched him melt into the crowd.

“Betts! Hi! Is this crazier than a three-horned toad?”

Cliff’s cousin Jezzie squeezed her shoulders through a small crowd on my other side.

“Jezzie, you okay?” I said.

She was still dressed in the period costume she wore for the skit—a yellow dress with a starched white apron. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a low bun and her pleasant face was free of any makeup. I didn’t think she ever wore any, which was only one of the things she and I had in common. We’d also both tried law school and both found that it wasn’t for us, and we both adored Cliff, though her adoration was strictly cousinly. Just the day before, she told me that Cliff was her favorite relative and that she was grateful he’d found his way back to me and to Broken Rope. I told her I was, too.

“I’m fine, sweetie, just shaken up. The whole thing was so shocking. The skit happened, and then when Norman was supposed to be shot, he
really
was. Golly, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No need for you to be sorry at all. Unless you were the one to pull the trigger, I suppose.” Jezzie laughed and then put her hand to her mouth. “Good gravy, Betts, why in the world would I laugh about anything at all right now?”

“Stress, Jezzie. It happens. Don’t be hard on yourself for that.”

“I’ll try not to be.” She sighed. “He was a nice fella.”

“Did you get to know him?”

“Only a little. We did the skit together, but I also saw him over at the campsite last night. I was going to talk to him, but he was busy with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Oh! And he was hanging out with Teddy, too.”

“My Teddy?” I said, meaning my brother, Teddy.

“Yes, that one,” she said.

“I haven’t seen him today. Have you?”

“No.”

There was no reason to be concerned about Teddy just because neither Jezzie nor I had seen him today, but the circumstances did make me wonder about his time at the campsite with the murder victim.

“What was he doing last night?”

“I’m not sure. I saw him with Norman, but I also saw both of them flirting with the girls.”

“Teddy and the girls,” I mumbled. Teddy’s ways with girls had frequently caused issues, both when he was paying attention to them and when he was ignoring them.

“Yeah, he’s adorable,” Jezzie said. There was no added weight to her words, as if she wanted me to fix the two of them up—which was something I frequently dealt with. She was only stating a fact.

I nodded.

“Oh my, and the girls were so darn pretty,” Jezzie said. “One had the reddest hair I’d ever seen, and the other looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor.”

Her description fit the two women I’d met at Stuart’s. I craned my neck to look for them so I could point them out to Jezzie, but I couldn’t find them anywhere.

“Were they all together? I mean, were the girls together?” I thought back to the two women. Esther had said that she and Vivienne met only the night before. I hadn’t sensed any sort of bond between them, but I wondered about the logistics of them both potentially vying for the attention of the same guys.

Jezzie seemed to be thinking about her answer, but I didn’t learn anything further from her, because Jim called her over to a spot next to one of the holding cells. Apparently, it was her turn to answer some questions. Once again, I was left to my own thoughts amid the bumps and
excuse me
s of the crowd. I pulled my phone out and called and texted Teddy, but didn’t make immediate contact either way. He’d call or text back when he got the messages. It wasn’t unusual not to reach him on the first ten or so tries.

The area that contained the jail—the holding cells and office space for the police officers—wasn’t big, and it was currently so crowded that it wasn’t easy to spot anyone specific. I looked for Gram, for the two women—Esther and Vivienne—for Teddy, for Jake, and then for Cliff again. In due time, Jim called me over, but we didn’t talk for long when he found out I’d been fishing at the time of the murder. As Jim questioned me, my attention went to someone sitting inside one of the holding cells. The doors to the two cells were open, and a few people had gathered in each space; some were sitting on the cots, and some were just standing.

I’d gotten to know Cody, aka the bad guy from the skit, as well as I’d gotten to know Norman. I’d made friendly acquaintance with them both, just easy small talk as I observed a few rehearsals and offered my little bit of input.

Cody sat on one end of the cot in the closest cell. He was slumped, as he was also leaning back against the wall. His face was pale and drawn and he seemed to not be in the moment.

“Jim, have you talked to Cody yet?” I pointed.

“Oh, yeah, poor guy. He’s pretty shook up.”

“But there’s no evidence that he killed Norman, right?”

“Not at all. All indications are that he had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“He doesn’t look well. Has he seen Dr. Callahan?”

“No, but you’re right, he doesn’t look well. I’ll have an officer take him over to the doc.”

“You’re short-staffed as it is. I’ll take him,” I offered.

Jim looked around at the crowd and grimaced a moment. “All right. That would help, Betts. I appreciate it. We are certain we’ve secured the area around downtown, but stay alert.”

I threaded my way through the crowd and into the holding cell. I lightly touched Cody’s shoulder. He blinked and jumped before his eyes focused on me.

“Hi,” he said uncertainly.

“I’m Betts,” I said.

“I know.”

“Come with me, Cody.”

He didn’t question my request, but lifted himself off the cot as I held on to his elbow and led him out of the jail.

“Phew,” he exclaimed when we were outside. “That place was hot and crowded.”

Though he sounded relieved, he didn’t look much better.

“You look a little pale,” I said.

“Yeah, I needed to get out of there. When can I just go home?”

“Soon,” I said. “But for now, let’s get some air.”

I’d changed my mind. Cody didn’t need a doctor; he just needed some elbow room.

“Sounds good to me.” He looked up and down the boardwalk as if he wasn’t sure which way to go.

“This way,” I said as I turned toward the Jasper Theater.

Cody was still in costume. He wore jeans and a black Western shirt. Our normal summer costumes didn’t usually include jeans, but Jake had kept to a budget by asking the male cast members to bring their own denim. Cody was young, maybe barely twenty, which had originally given me doubts about his ability to play a husband whose wife had cheated on him, but he proved to be one of the best actors at the convention—one of the best I’d ever seen in Broken Rope, actually. His dark eyes belonged on someone much older and, frankly, much wiser. When he wasn’t reciting lines, the word I thought best described him was
goofy
.

“Oh, man, Betts, I just want to get out of here. This was fun and all until Norman got killed. Now, well, now, it’s just bad.”

“I understand,” I said as we sauntered, the wooden boardwalk creaking every now and then with our footfalls. “But I think the police want to make sure they know who all is here first. Check up on everybody.”

I heard him gulp before he stopped walking. “Check up on us? What do you mean?”

“Questions and stuff.” I kept it simple.

“Damn.”

“Why are you concerned?”

Cody looked around. Up and down the boardwalk again. He was a good-looking kid, and even for someone who was goofy, he had an intensity about him that I suspected had made his high school years very social.

“I have a record,” he said quietly.

Or maybe those high school years weren’t social as much as they were just spent in juvie.

“Uh-oh, what’d you do?”

Cody put his hands in his pocket and sighed. “You won’t tell, will you?”

“Of course not,” I lied.

“I borrowed a car. The owner said I stole it, but he lent it to me, I swear. I’d just turned eighteen, so it’ll show on my record.”

“Oh. Who was the owner?”

“Just a guy I went to school with. A big group of us were out having a good time, and a girl needed to go home, so I asked if I could borrow the guy’s car and get her home. He said I could, but then he called the police. The girl wouldn’t even back me up.”

I knew that wasn’t the whole story, but I said, “I think you can explain that to the police, Cody. They’ll understand.” I didn’t know if they would or wouldn’t, but I doubted they’d care too much.

“Oh, good. That’s a relief.”

And, just like that, Cody seemed to feel better about everything. The color had even returned to his face.

“Hey,” he said, “got any money?”

“Uh. Why?”

“You think that cookie shop is open? I’d love a cookie. I’d pay you back,” he said with his actor’s voice, and his actor’s stance and stare, too.

I laughed at the almost perfect James Dean love-me eyes. I hadn’t been around someone like Cody in a long time.

“I doubt they’re open, but we’ll see if Mabel, the owner, is in. I bet I could round up a couple cookies.”

“And milk?”

“What good’s a cookie without a little milk?” I said.

“Exactly.”

So, instead of a doctor’s appointment, I took Cody to Broken Crumbs and got some cookies for us both. I tried to learn more about what he’d observed with the goings-on at the convention, but instead I ended up learning more about Cody—his favorite music, television shows, movies, etc.

I convinced him that he shouldn’t try to leave town, but it took three cookies to do it. I doubted he had it in him to kill someone, but he needed to stick around for another possible round of questioning. When we were done and as I watched him walk away down the boardwalk, I thought there was a small chance that he wouldn’t listen to me, but only a small one. He was such a good actor that the thought also crossed my mind that one cookie might have done the trick, but he just wanted to see how many he could bilk. I had to give him credit.

Even for April, downtown Broken Rope was way too quiet. There were no tumbleweeds in the area, but I could picture one rolling down the empty unpaved road and stirring up the dry earth.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind me.

“Yes?” I said as I turned. It was the redhead, Esther. “Hi again.”

“Hi.” Esther smiled. “Thanks for what you did back at the shoe repair place. You and your grandmother were great.”

“Our pleasure. Is your friend okay?”

“Vivienne is fine. We’re not really friends . . . oh, no matter. Yes, she’s fine.”

I had a few more questions for Esther, but it didn’t seem like the right moment to add on to the police’s interrogation, and without a little more information I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of whatever had happened between her, Vivienne, Teddy, and Norman. I’d have to ease into that conversation, considering that her personal life was truly none of my business.

“I’m happy to hear that,” I said.

She smiled and winced at the same time. “Look, I know it’s been beyond a terrible day so far, and I’m upset, of course, but I have an ulterior motive for coming to the cowboy poetry convention, and I’m afraid we’ll all be asked to leave soon or something now because of the . . . Well, I would understand and all, but I’d really like to try to do what I came here to do before heading back home.”

“How can I help?”

“I was hoping to find some record of one of my ancestors, my great-great-grandfather. He lived here at one time.”

“We’re pretty good at that sort of thing. Can you tell me anything else about him? Do you know where he’s buried?”

She shook her head. “No one knows where he’s buried. He became a Pony Express rider and disappeared on the trail. I know he grew up here. His name was Astin Reagal.”

I’d never heard of Astin or his disappearance, but that wasn’t too surprising; I wasn’t nearly as on top of our history as Jake was. However, a
ding
of sudden awareness chimed in my head when she described her ancestor. The Pony Express was pretty big around these parts. The route had originated in St. Joseph, Missouri, and then snaked through the western United States all the way to California. Even I had been to see the stable tourist attraction in St. Joseph. And there was a replica of one of the Express stations right in Broken Rope. The ding of awareness had rung because of Joe, the newest visiting ghost, with whom I had only become briefly acquainted. He was a young man, like most of the riders had been, and he had a satchel of sorts over his saddle. At one time I knew the name of the satchel that fit over the Express riders’ saddles, but at the moment I was at a loss. That satchel; did people other than the Express riders use something like it? I didn’t know, but I suddenly wondered if by some crazy chance Joe actually was Astin Reagal, Esther’s long-lost relative. It seemed like the perfect coincidence. It also seemed like a wonderfully easy way to perhaps resolve whatever issues the ghost might have, and I was sure he had an issue or two. They all did.

Even more coincidentally, the Broken Rope Pony Express stop was right across from the field behind the high school, which was also the spot for the poets’ campsite. It was set back in an area that had once been considered out in the middle of nowhere. I wondered if all the elements of whatever was going on would come together that easily, even though past experience told me nothing was quite that simple with the ghosts.

“The best place to start is with Jake,” I said. “He knows the history of Broken Rope and its citizens more than anyone. His office is right there.” I signaled with a nod. “Come on. I’ll be happy to introduce you if he’s in.”

“Do you think it’s a bad time?”

“I guess I’m not sure. He might not even be there, but if he was excused from the jail, I’m sure he went back to his building. He’ll tell us if we need to come back later.”

“Thank you.”

Jake’s fake sheriff’s costume was cleaned, pressed, and put away until the summer tourist season, but in deference to the poets and their garb, he’d been trying to follow the same request he’d made to the actors and police officers. He’d been wearing mostly Western shirts, cowboy boots, and jeans. But today he was completely civilian in jeans and a nice blue pinstriped button-up shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows. He wasn’t a big man, but he was surely one of the most handsome guys in town—maybe in the whole county. He’d been my best friend since high school, and I hoped we’d be friends forever. He sat on a stool behind the raised podium that was in the front room of his building. During the summer, he’d stand behind the podium as he recited his original Western-themed poem with his deep baritone voice. At the moment, he was somber and seemed to be concentrating on something on the podium.

“Betts,” he said as he raised his head. When he noticed it wasn’t just me, he stood and tried to erase the sadness from his demeanor. He stepped toward us.

“Hey, Jake, this is Esther . . .”

“Oh,” she said. “Reagal. It’s Reagal.”

“Esther Reagal. She’s in town with the poets, but is looking for some information regarding her great-great-grandfather.”

“Okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Esther said to Jake. “The timing is awful and probably rude and wrong, but I don’t know what might happen now and I don’t want to leave town without trying.”

“I understand,” Jake said. “It’s fine. What was his name?”

“Astin Reagal.”

“Hmmm, there’s something familiar about that, but maybe it’s just because it’s such a great name.” Jake smiled a friendly smile.

Ester smiled, too, and her cheeks blushed lightly. I was caught off guard for a moment. Jake wasn’t much of a flirt, but that had definitely been flirting. Should I stay or should I go?

“He was a Pony Express rider,” I interjected. I looked at Esther. “He disappeared on the trail. His body wasn’t found, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’ve heard that story, of course.” Jake looked at Esther and then at me. “I’m sure I have some information, though I’m not sure how much.” He hesitated. I realized he was silently debating whether or not to share the location of his secret room with an outsider. Ultimately, he probably concluded that Esther was harmless enough, or maybe just cute enough to want to spend more time with. “I have an archive room in the back. Would the two of you like to join me?”

I didn’t really want to. I would have rather left to go about my own business, but I was suddenly under the impression that I was being asked for the purpose of either witnessing or chaperoning. Jake had done as much for me a time or two.

“Sure,” I said.

“That’d be great,” Esther said.

Jake led us through the door on the back wall. I’d become used to the transformation from the front office to the back room. The front room was decorated with remnants from an Old West sheriff’s office, but the spacious back archive room had tall, packed shelves, a large worktable, and the old saloon chandelier that had been wired for our century. I was one of the lucky few who got to frequent the room. Jake didn’t like to share his archive space with lots of people.

“Wow,” Esther said as she glanced around and then behind us to the door we’d come through. “It’s like magic.”

Jake laughed lightly. “Our storefronts are very much for decoration and entertainment, but some of our back rooms are taller than the front rooms’ short ceilings, and they’re built for business. It’s an illusion, and we’re pretty good at illusion.”

“No kidding,” Esther said.

“Have a seat,” Jake said as he pulled two stools out from under one side of the large worktable. “I have a file on things pertinent to the Pony Express and Broken Rope. It’s not thick, but I’m pretty sure it has some information regarding your ancestor.”

“Really?” Esther said.

“Jake’s done an amazing job of keeping a living record of our history. He’s the best,” I said, though I cleared my throat immediately after—I’d sounded like I was trying to sell him. He didn’t need selling. He blinked at me and then moved on.

“Let’s see.” He ran his fingers over some of the big archival folders, stopping at one almost directly in the middle of a set of shelves. “Here it is.”

The file was neither thick nor tall, and my heart sunk a little. Jake was right, he didn’t have much information.

“You know,” Jake said as he reached into the folder and pulled out a short stack of items, “many people think that the Pony Express existed for a long time. Not true. In fact,” he lifted a small piece of paper from the top of the stack and inspected it, “it was in existence only from 1860 to 1861. Let’s see, yes, April to the following October, eighteen months. Before the telegraph was completed, the country needed a way to get communication—mostly government papers and such—across to California, so some freighting businessmen founded the Pony Express. There were stops for the riders to change horses or riders or both, drop off things, and pick up things, about every ten miles. The trail originated up in St. Joseph. The stable’s still there, but I haven’t been there for years.”

“How long did it take them to get from Missouri to California?” I asked.

“I think they got it down to about ten days to make the trip.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Esther said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, shiny object. “I have this. I guess it was my great-great-grandfather’s, but no one has been able to tell me for sure. This is the item that sparked my curiosity, and it made me want to study both my past and the history of the Pony Express. And that’s why I came to Broken Rope.”

“Oh, my, is that a real badge?” Jake said as he reached for the item that reminded me somewhat of his fake sheriff’s badge, and unquestionably of the badge I’d seen on Joe’s chest. Jake pulled his hand back, but Esther smiled and handed it to him.

“Yes, I think so. I think it’s a real one,” she said.

“But your great-great-grandfather disappeared. Wouldn’t his badge have disappeared with him?” I said.

Esther shrugged. “He must have had more than one.”

Jake held the item so I could look at it, too. An eagle rode the top of the badge, which was emblazoned with a rider on a horse and the words
Pony Express Messenger.
I was never as touched or affected by items from the past as Jake was, but I thought this was a pretty interesting artifact, and it was clear that it was working its magic on him. One side of his mouth smiled as he gently held the old, tarnished item.

“It’s beautiful,” he said as he handed it back to Esther. He cringed slightly when she simply put it back into her pocket. “Oh! Wait, I have something else, something other than the information in the file. I can’t believe I forgot about it. Hang on a second,” he added.

Esther and I watched as Jake pulled a good-sized box from a bottom shelf and placed it on the table.

“I wrapped it and then put it in this box, but it’s quite valuable, and I’ve considered talking to a preservationist to see what else I could do to keep it as intact as possible.”

He lifted the lid and pulled out the one item inside.

“I don’t even think it should be out of the wrapping much, but it might be kind of fun for you to see this, Esther.” Jake looked at me. “Don’t tell anyone I have it.”

I nodded.

It was a saddle. Kind of. It was a duplicate of the satchel I’d seen over Joe’s saddle.

“This is called . . .” Jake began.

“A
mochila
,” Esther interrupted. “It’s how they carried the mail.”

Mochila!
That’s it.

The item looked kind of like saddlebags, but it was made to ride
over
the saddle, so it had its own formed seat cover. Its pockets weren’t baglike, but more boxy and with flaps; one of the flaps was still secured with an old metal latch. The leather was mostly tan, but time had worn it darker in spots. The letters
SP CA
had been tooled into it. The other flap was decorated with
XP
. It also looked as though a number of different words had been inscribed on its surface.

“Are those names?” Esther asked as she peered closely at the
mochila
.

“I think so. I think riders signed the
mochilas
. They didn’t have their own because whenever the riders changed at the stops, the
mochila
with the mail went with the new rider. It was a pretty efficient system.”

“Wow, so this is an original?” I asked.

“I think so,” Jake said as he nodded.

“May I touch it?” Esther asked.

“Sure. Gently.”

“Of course.”

Esther inspected every inch of the
mochila
. Once she’d memorized one side, she turned it over and did the same on the other side.

“Wait. What do you suppose this is?” she asked.

Jake and I leaned in to look at letters, which were small and had become dark with time and air and simple grime.

“Well, I think . . .” Jake began. He stood straight and raised his eyebrows. “Esther, I can’t be completely sure, but look closely. Tell me if you don’t think that says Astin Reag. I can’t make out the other letters, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were
A–L
. We might be just wishing. But how amazing would that be?”