If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery) (20 page)

“Let’s go.”

• • •

The two campfires had already been lit, and from the smell of things were warming cowboy coffee and cooking bacon and eggs and probably some biscuits. A couple trails of smoke reached up to the blue sky as I parked the Nova on the back road, close to Orly’s tent and across from the Express station. My mouth watered with all the breakfast scents.

“You think the ghosts are all gone?” Jake said as he glanced at the station. On the way to the campsite, I had told him the details of our ghostly encounters and departures.

“I haven’t seen or heard from any of them this morning, but it’s early.”

“They left without the answers they were looking for? That’s a first.”

“I know. It bothers me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I hope they’ll all come back someday and we can learn more.”

“If Joe knew Astin, and Jerome had an idea where Astin’s remains were located, we were so close to answering some interesting questions. I must have been wrong about the letter or the reasons for the letter.”

I laughed. “Jake, trust me, none of this ghost business is predictable, and much of it is frustrating. I’m trying not to let it bother me too much. I’m sorry if involving you has made you emotionally invested, too. I probably shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“Are you kidding? I love my involvement. I just wish I was even more involved.”

“Come on, maybe we can figure something else out, something from the world of the living,” I said as I threw the Nova into park.

The morning was as perfect a spring morning as you could get in southern Missouri. The smells from the campfires, the breakfasts being cooked, and the coffee being boiled made me want to find a comfortable chair somewhere and listen to someone recite some cowboy poetry. Of all the activities, skits, and poetry that had surrounded me over the last little bit, I hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the true creativity that the convention had to offer. But neither had Norman Bytheway, and at least I’d still have more chances.

Orly exited his tent just as we closed the Nova’s doors. He waved us over. He wore the same type of clothes I’d already seen him in: jeans and an embroidered cowboy shirt. But the typical vest and hat were missing. He looked incomplete without them.

He carried a blue tin mug. I thought that coffee probably tasted a hundred times better out of those mugs than any others. I hadn’t had my own cup yet this morning, though, so that might have just been caffeine withdrawal speaking.

“Betts and Jake, goodness, it’s early. Come on over, we’ll round up some breakfast for you.”

Orly unfolded a few chairs that had been leaning against the front pole of his tent.

“You two here for something specific or do you have time to sit a bit and chat?” he said as he placed the chairs in a comfortable triangle.

Jake looked at me. I still hadn’t told him why we were there.

“Both,” I said.

“Good enough. Sit.” Orly signaled someone down a neighboring aisle.

Gary appeared a second later. He tipped his hat at me and said. “Miss.”

“Hi, Gary, how are you today?”

“Right as rain rolling through some mane,” he said with what I thought was a hiccup, even though there was no indication he was drunk or had been drinking.

“Good to hear.”

“Gary,” Orly said, “would you grab our guests some breakfast from one of the fires?”

“Yes, sir,” he said before he turned and walked away. The hitch I’d noticed the night before was still present.

“You met Gary?” Orly said.

“I did. Nice man,” I said.

“He is. So, tell me, friends, what can I do for you?” Orly asked.

“I have a question, Orly, and it’s a little uncomfortable to ask it, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I offend you.”

“Of course.”

“You brought some guns to the convention, didn’t you?” I said.

“I did, Betts, and I might know what you’re getting at, but I showed them to the police after Norman was shot. They said he hadn’t been killed with any of them, and they chastised me something fierce for bringing the shotgun out yesterday. I didn’t think the police meant ‘shotgun’ when they confiscated all guns. I was under the impression that they meant handguns. I didn’t fire yesterday, though.”

“Do you know the kind of gun Norman was killed with?” I said.

“No.”

“A .38 Special,” I said. I watched him closely. His eyes pinched but only briefly.

“That’s quite a weapon,” he said.

Gary reappeared quickly and handed Jake and me each a plate overflowing with bacon, eggs, and sausage, and our own blue tin mugs of coffee. I balanced the plate on my lap and took a sip of the hot and perfect coffee. When the gun had been dropped the night before, I hadn’t allowed myself to think too long or hard about how horrible the outcome might have been. We could easily have had another tragedy on our hands. But later last night, long after I’d talked with Cliff on my back porch, an idea had sprung to my mind. Even though everybody was supposed to turn in their firearms to the police, apparently not everyone had. Orly had the shotgun, and the convention attendee’s gun, even with his good intentions of showing it to the police, had been loaded. He’d dropped it. Guns had been forgotten, accidentally and maybe even on purpose. And I’d come to learn that Orly probably never wanted to be forthcoming with the police. It was partially the way of the cowboy, partially just plain old stubbornness.

“You ever have one of those? A .38 Special, I mean,” I said after I swallowed.

Orly looked younger without the hat and the vest, but my question pained him so much that he suddenly looked older than he had in the short time that I’d known him.

“I was afraid of that,” he said.

“You brought one with you?”

“I wasn’t sure if I had or not. I thought I had one in the equipment box of my truck, Betts, but I wasn’t sure.” Orly shook his head. “I’m ashamed to admit that. I should know where every gun is, and whether it’s loaded or not. When Norman was killed and I didn’t see the gun in the truck, I thought there was a chance I hadn’t brought it. There’s no one at home I feel like I can ask to check the gun case. The police wouldn’t tell me what weapon was used on poor Norman, but . . . Well, now I just hope it wasn’t mine. Maybe I should have told them that that gun being here was a possibility, but I thought . . . well, I should have said something.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry, even with the smells wafting up from my plate. It appeared that Jake wasn’t either.

“I didn’t kill him. If it was my gun that was used, it was stolen,” Orly said.

“I’m betting on the fact that you’re telling me the truth, Orly. I don’t think you killed him either, but I do think you should tell the police.” I looked at Jake. He nodded. “Orly, just call Jim or Cliff right now and tell them that you just realized that a gun was missing from your truck. Let them know. They’ll question you, but hopefully you can come up with a few specific people who might have had access to the equipment box.”

His truck and storage box had been accessible to everyone at the convention, parked outside, but maybe there were others who he’d let borrow the vehicle.

“I can do that,” he said with a small, barely noticeable cringe.

“Orly?” I said. “There’s more, isn’t there? You know more? Maybe exactly who took your gun?”

Orly had probably played a game or two of poker over the years, but he must not have done well. He had the worst poker face. The small cringe transformed into a worried frown.

“Isabelle,” a voice said behind me.

I turned quickly and said, “Jerome, you’re back!”

Of course, neither Jake nor Orly could see the ghost. There was so much light that I barely could.

“Excuse me?” Orly said. “Do you see someone you know?”

“I found him, Isabelle. Can you come with me? Now? I think we need to hurry,” Jerome said.

I turned back to Orly and Jake. Orly was looking over my shoulder, and Jake held his cup of coffee halfway to his mouth, his eyes open wide.

“I’m sorry, Orly. Jake and I have to go. I know I’m acting strangely. Forgive me. But whatever you know, you need to call the police and tell them. Right away.” I stood and placed the plate and cup on my chair. I wasn’t even going to offer to wash up. Gram would be disappointed. Even though Jerome had come back or perhaps hadn’t truly left, he might not be staying long. I truly didn’t think Orly had killed Norman or beaten Teddy. I hoped not. I even hoped the murder weapon hadn’t been his gun. I prayed that leaving Orly to call the police on his own wasn’t a stupid move.

“Of course, Betts,” Orly said as he stood, too.

Jake, Jerome, and I made a strange and awkward departure.

“You can count on me, miss.” Gary had followed us to the car. “I’ll make sure the scoundrel calls.”

Scoundrel?

“Thank you, Gary,” I said with one last look at Orly, who watched us as he stood with his hands in his front pockets.

“May we go now, Isabelle?” Jerome said.

“Sure.”

I smiled quickly at Gary, hoping we weren’t hurrying away from something else he wanted or needed to tell us, too. I hoped I wasn’t making two mistakes at once by leaving that campsite when we did.

As I turned the car around and drove away from Orly’s tent and Gary’s friendly wave, I pulled out my cell phone and called Cliff. Surprisingly, the call went straight to his voice mail. I left a message about him needing to talk to Orly about the gun. I hoped he’d pick it up soon.

Jake said, “That was strange. I’m guessing Jerome is with us.”

“He’s in the backseat.”

“Excellent. Good to not see you again, Jerome.”

Jerome laughed, the anxiousness I’d heard in his tone now mellowed, most likely because we’d done what he said and were quickly on our way. “I like him, Betts.”

“He likes you,” I said.

“I like him, too, especially if he shows us Astin Reagal’s remains.”

Jerome laughed again. “He drives a hard bargain.”

“I’ve at least figured out the general vicinity of where the remains were located,” Jerome said. “I don’t understand why it became such an obsession for me, Isabelle, but it did. More important than you, than the memories I’ve had of Elsa, I’ve felt the undeniable need to find this man’s bones. I’ve been looking since I left the campsite last night. I’m sorry you thought I’d left to go—well, left to wherever I go when I’m not in Broken Rope.”

“You were MIA last night when another ghost showed up. Astin Reagal himself. I think he and the other ghosts did leave.”

Jerome huffed an ironic laugh. “That figures. I can’t stop looking for his remains and he showed up when I wasn’t there.”

“I doubt he could have helped much. He wasn’t there long and his memory was still pretty weak.”

“I couldn’t have abandoned my search even if I’d wanted to. I was compelled to be where I was.”

I nodded and looked in the rearview mirror. Jerome’s attention was focused outside the car, off to the left.

“Where should we look, Jerome?” I said.

“Out there.” Jerome pointed toward the east, the left. “Out toward my old farm.”

Before now, I’d never considered visiting the site of Jerome’s old farm. I’d never even asked about it. I didn’t know what might be left of it, but initial appearances told me that nothing was left.

“It’s been unused for a while, right?” I asked.

“I think since I farmed it, but I can’t be sure.”

“No farm, Jake. Just land,” I said.

“I thought as much,” he said as he leaned forward and looked out toward the wide open space that was somewhat woodsy with trees, but mostly just covered in tall grasses.

“Should we go look?” I said.

“Yes, but first I need to tell you something. A story of sorts,” Jerome said.

I conveyed the comment to Jake and told him I’d share the story as soon as Jerome finished.

Jerome began. “You said not long ago that the rules for ‘your’ ghosts keep changing. I think this is another one of those changes.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It’s not too bad. Really. It’s just something new and different, and frankly, not about you at all.”

“Okay.”

“Strange things always happen, right? I mean, life is full of surprises, and even mysteries.”

“That’s true. So is death, apparently.”

“Apparently. Something happened to me, Isabelle, something when I was alive. I only remembered it right before I came to find you this morning. I think it’s what put me in such a hurry. I suppose the incident shouldn’t be too much of a surprise considering the state I’m currently in, but I have a distinct memory that I was haunted when I was alive.”

“Really?” I sat up a little.

“I think so—and I think by the ghost of Astin Reagal.” Jerome chuckled once. “I wasn’t as welcoming as you’ve been to me, though. If I remember correctly, I was scared silly.”

“Well, your experience didn’t include an immediate, though mysterious, attraction.” I smiled.

Even though he wasn’t in on both sides of the conversation, Jake sent me a withering look.

“No,” Jerome said. “I suppose if my ghost had been a pretty redhead, I might have been more curious than scared. Anyway, he wasn’t pretty at all. It was a brief encounter. I was out in my fields. Corn, I think. I had much better luck with cattle than I did any crops, but I surely tried.

“I was working away in the hot humidity and thought I saw something at the end of the row. I left the horses and the tiller because I thought maybe I’d seen a man, a hurt man. I ran to the end of the row, which bordered a patch of trees. There was a road a ways farther down and I know it used to be a path that was heavily traveled, but at the time I didn’t make all the connections.

“The man that I saw was on his side on the ground, and I was certain I saw twisted legs and a bloody face.”

“That’s sounds terrible.”

“It’s why I ran. But when I got to the trees, the image disappeared. I thought I was being overtaken by the heat. Perhaps I just needed some water, maybe some food. But then I heard a voice. It said, ‘Please find me. I’m right here.’ Of course I looked around again for the man, the body, anything attached to the voice. I didn’t find anything right off, but I was surely shaken.”

“You think it was Astin Reagal?” I asked.

Jerome nodded. “I do now. At the time, I tried to forget it. But later on, I searched, out of curiosity more than any other reason. I didn’t find anything in the area where I thought I saw the man, but farther out, more toward where the path had been and the road was, I did find something. This all happened close to the time I died, and there were so many other things that were more important that I didn’t have an opportunity to tell anyone but Elsa what I’d found. And she wasn’t interested in the least. She was with child and not feeling well. She couldn’t have cared less about the remains of a long-dead man, even if they’d been in her own house and haunting her personally.”

I looked up into the mirror again. I’d seen pain cross his face before, but his current memory of Elsa might have caused him to feel a whole new level of anguish. Even though he was so transparent, it hurt him deeply to experience those memories, and I could see it.

“I think I came back this time just so I could help find the remains again,” Jerome said. “I understand that some other strange things have happened—a Pony Express ghost and a descendant of Astin Reagal in town, and now a visit by Astin too. Perhaps one thing is spurring on another, I don’t know.”

“That’s possible.”

“I wonder if all your ghosts were also haunted when they were alive. I’m not sure what that might mean, but it might be something you have to contend with at some point.”

“Good question. Maybe I’ll start asking.”

“Stop here.” Jerome seemed to need to gather himself for a moment. “Look for the trees that make a heart. Let’s go find Astin,” he finally said.

“Look for the trees that make a heart, Jake,” I said. “Point us in the right direction, Jerome, and we’ll take credit for the discovery. Okay, I’ll let Jake take the credit.”

We were out in the middle of nowhere; the road I’d stopped on was not used anymore, and was now a wide dirt path. Where there were woods, they were thick woods, and any open space had tall grasses sprouting from uneven ground. Jake and I both walked slowly over the tangled and bumpy earth.

“Almost there?” I asked after only a few ankle-twisting minutes.

“Just up ahead. There’s no place for an automobile, but we’re not far now.”

Jake had the small shovel from my trunk over his shoulder, and I was carrying a couple partly full water bottles that had been rolling around on the backseat. I’d told Jake what Jerome had said about being haunted and he’d responded with his normal thoughtful interest.

It was still spring enough that the Missouri giant prehistoric bugs—my description—hadn’t come out of their hiding places yet. The journey wasn’t completely bug-free, but nothing I saw made me question evolution.

Without much warning, we were suddenly in a wide clearing that was covered more in short weeds than tall grasses.

“There, past that bunch of trees was my farm.” Jerome pointed.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and peered through the trees. There was another clearing on the other side of them. The remains of an old small house still stood, its nubby corners the only things left.

“Jerome’s farm was over there,” I said to Jake.

“That was a ways out from town.”

“Were those things part of your house?” I asked.

“I think so,” Jerome said. “I don’t know what happened to the place after I died. Miz might be able to answer that better than I can.”

I tried to imagine Jerome there, standing in front of a house or a cabin, or perhaps plowing the earth or wrangling cattle. The mental pictures were clear. He’d never fit into my own time, and “seeing” him there, on his land, was easy and almost expected.

“That’s kind of cool,” Jake said. “We’ll explore it sometime.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“But for now, are those the heart trees he was talking about?” Jake pointed to the far right of the cabin remains.

“Yes,” Jerome said.

“Affirmative,” I said.

Jake led the way again and we stepped over rocks and earth until we finally stopped by the trees. The branches of two different trees had bent and come together so symmetrically that they did, indeed, resemble the shape of a Valentine heart.

“Right there.” Jerome pointed at the ground at the bottom of the heart. “I think that’s something.”

“Here,” I pointed for Jake.

Jake and I crouched. Mostly we just saw ground, but there was something else. Maybe. Something about three inches wide stuck out of the dirt. It was too uniformly shaped and sized to be something organic, but it was also too heavily caked in dirt to be recognizable.

I grabbed the item and rubbed it with my thumb. Only a few seconds later it became clear that we’d found what was probably a leather flap.

“What should we do?” I asked Jake.

He sat back on his heels and inspected the space.

“Probably nothing. We should probably contact the authorities. I imagine you think we’ve found the same thing I think we’ve found.”

“A
mochila
? Probably Astin Reagal’s?”

“Yep, we’re on the same wavelength. And if his
mochila
is around here, maybe so are his bones.”

“You’re not going to look more closely?” Jerome asked.

I paraphrased. “Jerome thinks we should dig and explore.”

“I do,” Jerome said.

“We’ll be careful,” Jake said.

It hadn’t taken much to convince him.

Jake moved slowly and carefully as he put the tip of the small shovel into the ground. He dug up only a little bit of dirt at a time, moving it aside with care and reverence. I would have moved much more quickly and with much less care, but his respect for history was even bigger than his curiosity. I bit back my desire to tell him to hurry, but Jerome and I did share a weary look or two.

“I’m not seeing any bones,” Jake said when the pocket seemed to be almost fully uncovered.

“But I’m sure that’s the pocket to a
mochila
,” I said.

“Me, too. Should I keep digging?” Jake said.

“Sure,” I said. “It might have nothing to do with Astin Reagal.”

Jake looked at me with one lifted eyebrow.

“I know, it’s probably his, but even if there were bones, it’s been so long, maybe there’d be nothing they could tell us,” I said, but I truly had no idea what I was talking about. I wasn’t sure what long-lost bones could and couldn’t tell anyone. I just wanted Jake to keep digging.

“I think we’re curious enough not to care too much. I’ll still be careful, but the rest of whatever is attached to the flap is straight down. I’ll just dig that way, try to keep from digging too wide.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

“It’d be good to get on with it,” Jerome said. “My goodness, I’m dead, and even I’m getting a little tired.”

I smiled but didn’t say anything.

True to his word, Jake had the rest of the
mochila
out of the dirt in another half an hour. It was well caked in grime, but it was clear that the case had been much better preserved than the flap. Even with the layer of dirt, the leather of the case was darker than the faded part of the flap that must have been exposed to the elements for a long time.

Jake sat the freed
mochila
on a clear patch of ground and ran his hand over it.

“It’s amazing. Betts—and Jerome—this is a real part of history. Not just words, but an actual artifact.”

“I think we should open the pockets,” I said. I was much less impressed by the old item, but I did appreciate Jake’s point of view. But still, I wanted to see what was inside.

“Okay.” Jake placed his hand on the flap. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

Jerome smiled at me.

Jake lifted the first flap and a dirty dust cloud puffed around the
mochila
. He held the satchel up and peered inside. He did the same with the other pockets. A moment later he looked at me.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I said as I reached for the
mochila
.

“Absolutely nothing.”

I peered inside, too. Jake was correct. There was nothing in the case. It was empty except for a few grains of dirt. The inside had, of course, been even better preserved than the outside, but some bits of its surrounding burial place had found their way into the pockets.

“Do you think some letters might have fallen out?” I said as I leaned over and looked into the hole.

“I doubt it. But think about it, Betts. If he was on his way home, he might not have had anything to deliver. After he made his run, there might not have been anything for him to bring back. Not as much junk mail back then. It’s conceivable that no one in Broken Rope had a letter coming to them.”

“I suppose.” I put the
mochila
back on the ground and closed the flaps. I tried to look for markings like those on the
mochila
in Jake’s archives, but there were none currently visible. There might be some, but it would take a careful cleaning to find them. This was probably more evidence that Joe wasn’t Astin Reagal. Joe’s bag had letters. If this was truly Astin’s, the real incarnations of the ghostly letters were nowhere to be found. Even considering that inconsistency, though, as well as Astin’s appearance the night before, a small part of me couldn’t let go of the notion that they might be the same person.