If Fried Chicken Could Fly (8 page)

We were a small community and the tourist dollars took care of most of our town’s needs, but the schools didn’t always see the benefits, so Mom came up with the rebuild-a-clunker idea, and it stuck. Over the last ten years, the rebuilt cars had paid for bus trips, uniforms, and equipment for the high school athletes.

The fact that my mom was the local expert grease monkey hadn’t ever seemed odd to me. Even before her rebuild-a-clunker idea, she’d taught at the high school and tinkered with car stuff. “Some people, like your gram, like to spend time in the kitchen, Betts. I prefer to be under a hood.”

It was Mom’s other skill that made everything else she did or knew how to do pale in comparison. She knew everyone’s birthday. Not only did she know the dates, it was how she remembered people, and it was sometimes how she greeted them. “Hello, Heather Binton, October 18, 1987.”

It was embarrassing, but over the years she’d learned to control it a little and not always include the birthday with the greeting.

If you mentioned a date, she could list the people she knew who were born on that day. I knew it was weird and savantlike even though I’d grown up with it. It was roughest when an October date was recited. For some reason, Mom knew lots of people who were born in October.

So, after waking them and discussing who would do what, I finally made it back to my own home and into my own bed, where I slept for approximately four hours. When the alarm sounded I wondered if it would have been better just to stay awake.

I lived one block over from Gram and across town from my parents. It took about five minutes to get across town. Gram and I both lived in small 1950s houses. Our floor plans were similar except the stairs to her attic were in her front room and mine were off the kitchen that was behind the front room and at the back of the house. Each had one bathroom and two small bedrooms. I had a basement because the previous owners had wanted one so much that they’d dynamited under the house to create one. I’d heard the stories of the big explosion for years. My basement contained a washer and dryer, and it led to the outside with an old heavy single-panel garage door that I kept closed. My car wouldn’t have fit in the space anyway.

My southern Missouri basement always smelled wet with humidity and I never went downstairs without shoes for fear I step on one of the big fat slugs that came out during the warm summer months. Gram could sweep one of those things twenty feet with just the right push of a broom. I hadn’t
mastered that skill yet, and one of my greatest fears was squishing one of them with my bare feet.

After a refreshing shower and a full pot of coffee I thought I might be able to function okay. While I was in the shower I missed a call from Jim. His message gave us the all clear to go back into the school but I needed to get the mess from the fire cleaned up as quickly as possible. I was glad to hear the news. We still had the catering order for the library, and I knew Gram would skin me alive if I didn’t make sure it got taken care of. It would be much easier to prepare the cupcakes at the school than in my own small kitchen.

I hoped Gram was still sleeping but I doubted it. If she was awake, Dad was supposed to try to keep her home. I doubted that would work either, but it was worth a try. The students were originally supposed to make the cupcakes for the library read-a-thon. Since they’d been forced into taking a day off and unless Gram had wrestled her way through my dad, which was a possibility, I’d be making the cupcakes by myself. Gram’s recipe for red velvet cake and cupcakes wasn’t difficult, but after the practice session the day before, I couldn’t remember if we still had enough of her “secret” ingredient. Gram would skin me alive twice and then pinch me hard if I didn’t include it in the cupcakes. After a quick detour to the grocery store, I was still close to being on schedule.

I didn’t know if it was the coffee or the sunshine of a new day, but a zip of optimism ran through me as I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot. I was deeply sad and sorry about Everett, but I knew Gram wouldn’t be under suspicion for long. Everything would get worked out quickly and we could get back to mostly normal.

And then, as I was looking both ways before exiting onto Massacre Lane, I caught sight of Cliff. His return to Broken Rope had been something I’d driven out of my mind; I’d literally forced myself not to think about him since last night.

Seeing him surveying a parked car in front of the local herb supplement specialist’s establishment caused another wave of dread to rock my stomach.

“Why did you have to come back?” I slapped the steering wheel.

Cliff glanced at the front license plate of the car and then walked around to the driver’s side and peered into the window. He pulled out a pen and a notebook and started to write something. He looked great in a uniform.

This was not good.

Why hadn’t I made a better effort to find someone else? Why wasn’t I married with two children and Saturday afternoon soccer games? Why hadn’t I let go all those years ago? Why hadn’t I recovered from Cliff Sebastian, and even more important, why had I allowed him to be something I needed to recover from?

Even when we dated, I wasn’t all about Cliff. I had my own life, my own dreams. My brother tells me the problem was that I never considered that Cliff might have plans of his own and wouldn’t want to be a part of
my
future dreams.

“You set yourself up, sis,” he’d say. “You expected too much from him and when he couldn’t give you exactly what you wanted you wouldn’t compromise. You two would still be together if you hadn’t told him you should cool it while you were getting your ‘educations.’ ”

I wasn’t sure if my brother was right about whether Cliff
and I would still be together, but I
had
been the one to tell Cliff that we should put our focus on school.

I just thought he’d do what I did—dive in and ignore the social world around him until we could get back together.

I should have known better. Cliff was a much better multi-tasker than I was.

Thankfully, a horn beeped and pushed me on my way and out of my unpleasant stroll down memory lane.

I pulled into the school’s parking lot at about 10:00 a.m. I had plenty of time to bake the cupcakes and get them delivered. And, the bicycle leaning against the front door told me I would have help after all.

Jake Swanson’s bike was a modern version of old-fashioned. It was bright green with a thick and curvy middle bar. The seat was cushioned and comfortable, and the handlebars were set high—sissy bars, my brother called them. When he was the fake sheriff, Jake kept a child’s stick horse in plain sight, but when not in character Jake rode his bike all over town. It was what he attributed his trim build to. I thought he was just blessed with a metabolism that the rest of us would pay to have. He ate whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it and didn’t gain a pound.

Though he was one year older than me, we met in high school when he moved to town at the beginning of his sophomore year. He was the new kid, neither big nor athletic, and had been a prime target for the bullies at the school. It was Cliff who’d come to his rescue, but it was me he’d really hit it off with. We shared a love of cooking and the law. We’d been in home economics and the Debate Club together. When I’d gone off to college, Jake had stayed in town, made money in the stock market, and devoted himself to the
town’s Historical Society and his character. He’d been making noises like he was going to open a restaurant someday, but his plans never seemed well developed.

I was glad to see the bike. Both the company and the help would be welcomed.

I knew the doors were locked, and Jake wasn’t anywhere to be seen on this side of the school. I parked the car, grabbed the grocery bag, and peered into the cemetery. Jake was there, sitting on the ground, staring at a tombstone. He had his arms wrapped around his knees and his eyes were so focused forward that I wondered if he was meditating.

“Jake!” I shaded my eyes from the sun.

He blinked, looked my direction, and waved. “Isabelle. Come here.”

I stepped over the low rope that separated the parking lot from the cemetery and walked carefully on the uneven ground, passing old tombstones, some simple, some ornate and beautiful. The cemetery groomers would be here soon to even out the grass and get rid of the weeds. I’d never taken a lot of time to study the criminals and victims of Broken Rope’s shady past, but some of the tombstones were interesting and even humorous.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I reached him.

He stood, brushed off his behind, and pointed at the tombstone he’d been next to.

“Look,” he said.

“It’s Jerome Cowbender. Well, his final resting place, that is. He died young.” The tombstone read: here lies jerome cowbender. 1872–1918. he could charm the ladies and the bank tellers, but he couldn’t shoot diddly.

“I know. I mean, look what’s on top of the tombstone.”

The tombstone was just an upright curved block of concrete that was worn and tilted slightly with time. I peered at the top slope.

“There’s a coin there,” I said as I reached for it. Jake slapped my hand away.

“Don’t touch it. It could be important.”

“Important to what?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t look like a normal coin. It’s an”—he counted—“octagon. Who would put such a thing here?”

“It looks like a piece of gold,” I said. “You sure I can’t touch it and see if it’s real? It might just be a piece of plastic.”

Jake debated silently for a moment, his bright blue eyes squinting in thought.

“Let’s grab it by its outsides. Let’s not get fingerprints on the face or back of it.”

“Why not?”

He looked up at me, his eyebrows coming together. “There was a murder here last night, right?” I nodded. “Thanks for calling to share the scoop, by the way.”

“Sorry, I’ve been distracted.”

“Yeah, I heard about Cliff.”

“No, I haven’t been distracted by Cliff!”

“Anyway, there was a murder here. A gold coin on the tombstone could be evidence.”

I didn’t make the same connection, but I honored his request and picked up the coin carefully and by its edges.

“It feels heavy, substantial,” I said. “It’s not plastic, but I don’t know how to tell if it’s gold or not. Do you suppose it’s a doubloon or something fun like that?”

“I don’t know what a doubloon is, but isn’t it more associated with pirates than bank robbers?”

“You think this has something to do with Jerome?” I asked as we carefully transferred the coin from my fingers to his.

“Maybe. It seems odd doesn’t it?”

Suddenly I wondered if I was the subject of a prank, something Jake concocted to get back at me for not calling him last night.

“Did you put this here?” I asked.

“What? No, I saw Miz and Everett, the man who was killed—thanks again for letting me know about the murder—looking at this tombstone yesterday. I came out to see if I could see what they were looking at.”

“You did? When? Tell me the details.”

“Oh, now you want
me
to share?”

“Jake, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I didn’t get home before four a.m. or so and I’m running on a little sleep and a lot of caffeine, so that’s the best I can do for now, but I will find a way to make it up to you.”

He smiled as he held the coin in the air. “Thank you. I forgive you. And yes, I stopped by yesterday at lunch to talk to you. Miz and Everett were out here looking at Jerome’s tombstone. Their tête-à-tête seemed serious and I had to yell at Miz twice before she turned and saw me. She said you’d gone out for lunch, but she wasn’t sure where.”

“So, Everett was here yesterday at noon? Gram was with him?” I said. “Are you sure that was yesterday?”

“Positive.”

“That’s…”

“What? What is it?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Gram,” I said. Did she forget that Everett had been here earlier yesterday? Did she lie? If so, why?

“What should I do with this?” Jake inspected the coin in between his fingers.

It took me a second to notice that he was still talking. “Put it back where you found it, I suppose,” I finally said.

Jake placed the coin back on top of the tombstone. “Yeah, someone might have put it here to honor good ol’ Jerome.”

“Good ol’ Jerome? He was a bank robber.”

“My dear, for someone whose best friend is the town historian, you don’t know nearly enough about Broken Rope.”

“He wasn’t a bank robber?” I said. “Are you going to tell me he was misunderstood?”

“Maybe. He was a bank robber, but he was much more.” Jake brushed his fingers next to the coin, flicking some dirt off the tombstone. “You need a history lesson.”

“How about you tell me all about it while you help me with some cupcakes for the library read-a-thon?”

“Cupcakes? Let me see.” He pointed to the grocery bag that I was still holding.

I opened it and he peered inside. “Very good. You didn’t forget Miz’s secret ingredient.”

“She could be handcuffed behind bars and she’d still hurt me if I forgot the secret ingredient,” I said. I’d meant to make light of the moment, perhaps a forced levity because I was now even more worried about Gram’s possible connection to Everett’s death. But the comment wasn’t met with a smile or a laugh from Jake. Instead, we were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to come at us from all
directions. Jake’s short brown hair was pushed both forward and backward at the same time and my long ponytail got in my eyes from both sides. We looked around for something that might explain the disruptive anomaly. But after the wind gusted once, it was over. The day returned to sunny, calm, and was warming up quickly.

Jake looked at me and said, “What was that?”

“I have no idea.”

We both looked around again.

“All righty then. How about we get to making those cupcakes?” Jake said.

“I think that’s a good idea.” I was more than ready to be out of the cemetery.

“Did you really say ‘doubloon’?” Jake asked as we stepped around graves and over the rope.

“Yes. My mind is tired and that’s the first thing that surfaced.”