If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery)

by Paige Shelton

  “What was her name?” Jake asked.

  “Amelia Reagal.”

  Stepping around the table and Esther, Jake moved to his computer and started typing.

  “I can’t find her,” he said. “I have a database of Broken Rope cemetery residents. She’s not listed.”

  “That part of the story is vague, but we think she left town after years of searching.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  Esther shook her head. “Their son, my great-grandfather, stayed here. Amelia just stopped being a mom. She stopped everything except searching for her husband. It’s not known where she ended up, but it’s been speculated that Springfied, Jefferson City, or Rolla were all possible places.”

  “What was their son’s name?” Jake asked.

  “Charlie Reagal.”

  Jake typed more. “There he is. He’s buried in the cemetery next to where Betts works. She and her Gram run a cooking school.”

  “That cemetery’s yours? I drove by it, and I wondered about the school. What a great building.”

  “The school is ours; the cemetery is just part of the scenery,” I said. “It isn’t under our care, but it is right next to the school.” I hadn’t noticed Esther visiting the cemetery, but I hadn’t been there very often over the last few days. My duties away from the school had consisted of sewing a few ripped costume seams; fishing, of course; helping Orly with a number of little things that no one else would attend to; prepping for our fish-frying and Dutch-oven-cooking lessons; and other glamorous chores that had kept me on the move. Orly and I had hit it off, and I remembered that I hadn’t been able to find him earlier. I silently noted to myself that I needed to track him down. Along with Teddy, Gram, Jerome, and the new ghost, Joe.

  “It’s a charming cemetery,” Esther said.

  “I agree.” The name Charlie Reagal was familiar, but I couldn’t place exactly where he was buried. I’d ask Gram if Charlie had ever visited her in his ghostly form. If so, we might end up with an even bigger chunk of Esther’s history to share with her. I liked the idea of the shortcut.

  “What family did Charlie stay with?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know,” Esther said. “That part of the story is missing. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  Jake typed again. “Well, I can’t be completely sure, but I think he owned the general store. Someone by that name owned it, but I’d have to look a little deeper to confirm that this Charlie Reagal was your Charlie Reagal. If it is, then he was successful. I know I’ve got some stuff on the old general store, but I haven’t digitized the information yet. I’ll find it, hopefully today sometime. Maybe it’ll tell us more.”

  “That’s . . . wow, that’s so much more than I thought I’d be able to learn. Thank you.”

  “Trust me, my pleasure.” Jake stood and moved back to the table. “May I ask you some more questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “What else do you know—I mean, are there any other stories about the Pony Express riders that were passed down to you? There are legends and there are facts, and sometimes those stories tend to melt together a little, but can you remember anything else that your family discussed?”

  Esther thought a moment. “No, not really. I wish I could.”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve actually heard an Express story,” I said. Jake and Esther nodded me on. “Well, they weren’t supposed to carry heavy weapons, no shotguns, but a rider did, and I’m not sure if I believe this, but the story is that halfway through his first ride, he threw the rifle off the horse mid-stride and it fired, scaring both the rider and the horse, but the noise also sped the horse up. They arrived at the next post in record time. The rider was a company star on his first ride, because he shot at himself.”

  “That’s a good one,” Jake said, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He wouldn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable, but I understood his doubt regarding the validity of the story.

  “They needed weapons—though not shotguns—to protect themselves from, among other things, Native American attacks—at that time they were Indians. This doesn’t really have anything to do with Astin, but in Nevada, four Express men were killed and a station was burned by Paiutes in retribution for the rape of some young Paiute girls,” Jake added. “History isn’t always pretty and romantic, but I think it’s important to acknowledge the bad stuff with the good stuff.”

  “Oh, Astin helped deliver a baby once,” Esther said.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes, he came upon a stalled stagecoach, and though it was against policy to ever stop, the riders were clearly in distress, so he broke policy, stopped, and helped deliver the baby. The woman who gave birth was the only female on board; she was traveling with her husband and the stagecoach driver. Apparently, neither of the men were up for the challenge. Astin had helped with Charlie’s birth—they lived out in the woods; everybody lived out in the woods at the time—so he had some idea of what to do. The baby was a healthy girl.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jake said, but he doubted her story, too, I could hear it in his voice, though he hid it better with her story than with mine.

  Esther blinked and then fell into thought. “Yes, it’s a wonderful story.” She ran her finger over the letters on the mochila again. “This is more than I could have ever expected. Thank you,” she said. It seemed she was suddenly tired.

  “It’s meant a lot to me, too, truly. Thank you for sharing,” Jake said.

  “I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’m not going to faint again, and you’ve both been so kind, but I think I’d better head back to the campsite and rest a little.”

  “Certainly.” Jake touched the phone to end the recording.

  Before the faint, Esther hadn’t struck me as delicate or frail, but now I wondered if she’d be okay. I debated taking her back to the campsite myself as we stood and moved toward the door, but she seemed fine.

  Esther turned and looked at us both. “It was terrible what happened out there today. I feel a little guilty for enjoying all this, but as long as I’m in town, I’ll let you know if something else comes to mind.”

  “That would be great, and I’ll let you know what else, if anything, I find,” Jake said.

  “I wish your museum was set up.”

  “Someday,” Jake said.

  “I don’t suppose . . . Well, I don’t know if this is inappropriate or not, but I’d love to take you to dinner, perhaps this evening?”

  There was nowhere for me to go. I could open the door and go into the front room or all the way out the front door, but not without Esther having to move a little, which would interrupt the moment. The idea of hiding under the table ran through my mind briefly, but thankfully I realized that would have been ridiculous. I simply looked away—at the ceiling, then over toward the files. On second thought, the ceiling was better, because it had the interesting chandelier. Yes, I could inspect the chandelier parts.

  “I . . .” Jake began.

  Come on, Jake, do NOT say no. I almost shot him a stern look, but I just squinted as I continued to inspect the light fixture.

  Jake had never had much of a personal life. He’d dated, and even had a girlfriend or two since high school, but nothing had stuck. He never seemed particularly lonely, but there were times when I thought he might appreciate some female company other than me and Gram.

  “Actually, I’d love to. May I pick you up?” Jake said.

  I held back a fist pump, but the pull of a smile was too strong to ignore, so I gave into it. I smiled at the chandelier, and then at Jake.

  “I’m at the campsite. I’ll meet you in front of the high school at seven o’clock?” Esther said.

  I liked her style.

  “That’s perfect. I look forward to it.”

  “Great.” Esther glanced at me shyly, her cheeks blushing like any good redhead’s.

  I just smiled at everyone as I opened the door and let Esther go through first.

 
Of course, Jake rolled his eyes at my grin.

  Chapter 7

  Though I was becoming anxious to find Gram again, and Joe, and change out of my overalls, my plans were diverted, but at least it was by someone I wanted to talk to. Orly signaled to me as he steered his big old pickup truck down a side street at the end of the boardwalk.

  “Miss Winston,” he said after he stopped the truck and reached over to open the passenger door with a push on some extra squeaky hinges. “You have a minute?”

  I’d only known Orly for a few days, but our relationship had been built on things that either bring people together quickly or not. We’d chatted as we were setting up a mess hall of sorts, while unfolding some cots and transporting cooking utensils. I’d learned that he was born in Hutchinson, Kansas, and had lived there all his life, minus a brief time in Tennessee and a “little-more-than-brief” stint in Georgia. His love of Kansas, specifically the small town of Hutchinson, was, frankly, kind of cute. There were a lot of small towns in the Midwest, and most of them were populated with a healthy number of people whose goal was to leave small-town life behind and move to a big city. Not Orly, though. He was, in his own words, “as deep into Kansas dirt as all that wheat.”

  He’d been married once, but his wife had died about ten years earlier. He had two daughters, only one of whom, so far, had given him a grandson to dote on. He said he’d be happy with a whole herd of grandbabies to spoil rotten. His use of the word “herd” could probably be attributed to the fact that he was also a cattleman back in Hutchinson, with a “smallish” ranch. I hadn’t been privileged to hear one of his poems yet, but he told me that his cattle and the cattleman’s life were his biggest writing inspirations.

  I’d liked him immediately, even though I’d sensed that he wasn’t comfortable with welcoming new friends into his life. Despite the fact that he was the president of the International Cowboy Poetry Association and had been involved with it for twenty-five years, in positions that required a multitude of communication skills, it was evident that he purposefully kept things close to the vest. Scratch that—close to the very Western-style vest. He was silent and observant much more than he was talkative. He also gave the impression that he was efficient in everything he did. No matter what task he was attending to, there were no wasted movements, no backtracking, no repeating. He was one of those people who probably was good at everything.

  And he and I had not only hit it off well, but quickly, too. We’d been able to work together without needing to discuss much—we knew what had to be done and somehow we both knew what abilities we could each contribute, so we made a good team. This had begun the day before the poets even came to town. Since our initial connection, Orly had sought me out when something needed doing. I’d become his sidekick of sorts, and though I hadn’t expected such responsibility, I had enjoyed it.

  However, I didn’t really know him. And there’d been a murder. And he was asking me to get into his truck.

  “Sure, but Gram is probably wondering where I am. Let me text her that I’ll be with you for the next little bit.”

  “Thanks.”

  The truck’s engine revved a little rich as Orly waited patiently. I sensed that I was overreacting and being silly, but sending the text seemed like a smart and harmless move.

  “Okay, what’s up?” I asked after I hit send, and then hoisted myself onto the passenger side of the bench seat.

  “I want to show you something at the campsite.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  Both my parents work at Broken Rope High School. My dad is the principal and my mom is the auto shop teacher, so even long after finishing high school I still spent plenty of time in the building, where the typical scents of floor cleaner and Tater Tots greeted visitors each time they walked through the front doors.

  The high school had been built in the late 1800s, but the powers that had been had decided to forgo the typical brick building design of most American high schools of the time. Instead, Broken Rope High School resembled the Alamo. Jake knew the whole story much better than I did, but someone on the town’s planning commission thought Spanish baroque would be an interesting design for the building that sat on the edge of town and served not only residents of Broken Rope but also those from other small towns throughout the county. It was wide, one story, the front facade rising with an ornate rounded peak in the middle above the front doors. The front lawn was also wide, and mostly tree-filled, giving the entire setting some terrific curb appeal.

  The timing of spring break had been helpful when it came to scheduling the convention. Gram had always scheduled the cooking school’s break at the same time as the rest of the area schools’, so fortunately we’d both been available to help, and the high school was also void of students, who couldn’t wait to get as far away from there as they could for a week. School staff were still working if they wanted to; very few wanted to, though, so there was little traffic to be disturbed by the influx of visitors who camped in the big field behind the school.

  The field had been deemed a perfect setup for the poets. It sat beyond the school building, a soccer field, and a football stadium. Another structure stood at one far corner of the field; a big shed had been constructed and placed there only a couple months earlier for the school district to use as a storage facility. Though the walls of the shed were made of aluminum, my dad had asked for a design that wasn’t as cold and utilitarian as a typical storage shed. The district had built a big red aluminum barn. It wasn’t exactly what Dad had had in mind, but he’d decided to like it. It wasn’t all that bad, and it sat back far enough that you could only see it once you got past the football stadium.

  At the other corner of the campsite, a good fifty yards away, and across what used to be a heavily used stagecoach trail—if you looked hard or just happened to catch one with your toe, you could still find wheel ruts in the mostly overgrown ground—sat the reproduced Pony Express station. The stable in St. Joseph was different than our station; different than any of the reproduced stations through the western United States. The stable in St. Joseph was bigger and had housed more horses and men than the smaller, more simply built stations. Our station was ramped up with a little extra technology and a real door, which I’d heard wasn’t typical of most of the other modern incarnations. Also, in our station, small podiums with plaques telling the story of the Pony Express lined three of the four inside walls. Electricity had been added so that track lighting attached to the wooden ceiling beams could be used to illuminate the plaques. Jake had told me that a solid door had been needed to protect the modern-day additions, but that the typical station back in the day didn’t have a door, just a large opening. Behind the station was more Missouri woods—lots and lots of Missouri woods.

  Orly turned the truck onto the road next to the school, steering us past the adobe structure.

  “I found something, and I wanted you to see it,” he said. He hadn’t had much to say since we’d left Main Street, but I’d asked him if he was okay, considering the brutal turn of the morning. He assured me that he was fine, though understandably shaken up. He asked me the same question. I promised him I’d be okay, too. He also noted that no matter what the reality was, and even though the police had questioned everyone, it might not have soaked in totally with convention attendees that what they’d seen had been real and as awful as anything could be. There might be more trauma to come for some. I didn’t know what I could do to help with that, but I decided I’d talk to Cliff about it later.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you when we get there. You can tell me if you think I should show it to the police.”

  I blinked as the gears in my head starting spinning up to full throttle. “Wait, Orly, is this something that has to do with the murder?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  I sat up straighter. “I think you should definitely show it to the police, then.”

  “I’d like you to se
e it first.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know who to trust, ’cept for you, your gram, and that Jake fella.”

  “You can trust the police. They’re the best.”

  “Maybe, but this place—Broken Rope—has quite a reputation. I just dunno.”

  “I promise. They can be trusted. Do you want me to call them?” I fished my phone out of my overalls pocket.

  “Hang on. We’re almost there. You look at it first and then we’ll call them if you think it’s necessary. If you say it’s okay to trust them, then I will, but like I said, we’re almost there.”

  I was silent, a million questions and scary scenarios going through my mind.

  Orly glanced over at me. “It’s nothing to worry about. I just want you to see it.”

  I nodded without looking at him.

  When we passed the football stadium and I could get an even better look at the campsite, my discomfort got replaced by surprise.

  “More people came today?” I said, noticing the larger number of tents and campers.

  “Sure. Not everybody likes all the early events, but everyone loves the late nights; the party. Lots of the new arrivals weren’t even at the show this morning. I had a good chat with Jim, that police fella, about keeping things moving along. He thought the rest of the convention should be canceled, but I told him lots of people were still on their way and letting all of them know about any change of plans would be impossible. I don’t think he wanted to let us go on, but he did. And here we all are.”

  I suspected that was why Orly didn’t trust the police.

  “Should Gram and I continue to plan on the Dutch oven and fish frying demonstrations tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The culmination of the cowboy poetry convention was a huge dinner, with most of the food cooked outside over campfires. The finalists for the poetry contests were announced, the poems read and voted upon (the volume of whoops and hollers was used to tally votes, Orly had told me), and prizes doled out. The rest of the evening, and most of the night (again, from what Orly had told me), was spent in celebration. A band that was heavy on fiddle and banjo music would play, and people would dance and sing and probably drink too much. No one was allowed to drive any sort of vehicle anywhere until they were cleared as ready and able and sober the next day.