If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery)

by Paige Shelton

  “Okay,” I said, hoping she didn’t catch the forced enthusiasm in my voice.

  So Gram rode with me in the Nova, Joe and the horse again following behind as we left the country, drove through Broken Rope’s small downtown, exited on the other side of town back into the country, took that curve in the state highway, and returned to the cooking school.

  I had, however, called Jake over to join us. Though Gram had wanted to read the last letter in the cemetery, I knew I wouldn’t be able to clearly see it in the bright outside light so I had to ask for a small change of venue. We sat inside the school at a corner of one of the large center butcher blocks. Joe and Gram on one side. Jake and I on the other. We’d closed the blinds and turned off all the lights. I pointed out to Jake where Joe was sitting.

  “How was Opie?” Jake asked.

  “As expected. There might be some statue planning in your near future,” I said.

  Jake thought a moment and said, “I can handle that.”

  He could.

  “This will be a very heady experience for Ophelia, but she’ll be all right, and even though she’ll find a way to make it all about her, the town will somehow benefit, too. She’s good at making sure everyone gets included. Eventually,” Gram said. She turned to Joe. “Are you ready for the last letter?”

  “I am,” Joe said as he nodded.

  “You’re completely sure?” Gram said.

  “Yes.”

  The shoe was most definitely on the other foot with this ghost. It took almost all I had to hold back a sigh of impatience or tell him and Gram to hurry up. Normally, I was the patient, curious, and sympathetic one, and Gram was telling the ghosts to move it along, or perhaps to just go away for a while.

  It was more than plain impatience for me, though I wasn’t sure if I didn’t like Joe or didn’t trust him or didn’t . . . something. I had been sensing something was off from the beginning, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything, exactly. Whatever it was, it made me wary and suspicious and drove me a little crazy. I was usually on top of my instincts, and I didn’t like not understanding what I was feeling.

  “Shall we?” Jake prompted.

  “Okay, Joe, go ahead. We’re ready,” Gram said.

  “Miz, whatever it is, I just want to thank you for everything. All these years . . . thank you,” Joe said.

  “You, too. You’ve been a delight.”

  I blinked.

  “Here goes.” Joe lifted a flap on the side of the mochila.

  “He’s reaching in the mochila now,” I told Jake.

  “Excellent. I’m ready.” He held a pen poised over a brand-new, small notebook.

  Joe reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This one was off-white. But it also had dark edges, as if . . .

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “What?” Jake said.

  Gram had also said something similar to my “oh, no.”

  “There might be something wrong with the letter,” I said to Jake. “It looks like it’s been burned, around the edges at least, and the burns seem to be spreading as we’re looking at it.”

  “Not good,” Jake said.

  If the piece of paper had been real, not something from the world of the dead, or the unknown, or wherever it came from, I doubted that it could be unfolded without falling apart. Not only did it look like it was burned; it was thin and flimsy. I didn’t know whether to attribute its condition to its afterlife existence or if it had simply been delicate when it was real. The blackened marks extended toward the center—more of the letter had been burned than not burned.

  Joe did manage to unfold it, though he was slow, carefully holding the edges by his fingertips.

  Once it was open, he placed it on the table and carefully smoothed it mostly flat. He spent a long moment looking at the paper, his concentrated focus not giving away much of anything.

  I was peering at the letter, hoping something would become clear, but nothing happened quickly. I scooted off the stool and moved closer, to the spot behind Joe. He looked up and directly at Gram. I touched the paper just to see if I could feel it; I could.

  “It has only a few words,” he said.

  “I see the same thing,” I said, when I finally did.

  “Okay, what are they?” Gram asked.

  “Sure to die,” Joe said.

  “The paper only says: Sure to die,” I said to Jake.

  “Well, that’s interesting, in a scary way,” Jake said.

  “That’s all it says?” Gram moved next to me.

  “That’s all I can see,” Joe said.

  “Me too. That’s all I see,” I said. “No, wait, what’s down at the bottom? It looks like the letters . . . S-T-I-N.”

  “Is that in the signature spot?” Jake asked. “The spot where you’d sign off?”

  “It looks like it,” I said.

  “Could that be the last part of Astin’s first name?” Jake said.

  “I suppose it’s very possible. You think he wrote this letter?”

  “I don’t know, but it would fit with whatever seems to be going on.”

  I put the letter down and looked at Joe. “Seriously, it seems more and more like you are, in fact, Astin Reagal.”

  “Why? Because he might have been the person who signed this letter?” Gram said.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “No, Betts, I am not Astin Reagal. I am certain of that. I am certain that my name is Joe.”

  “Jake, what was Astin’s middle name?”

  “I have no idea, but I can try to find it.”

  “Please do. Something tells me it will be some form of Joe.”

  “But didn’t you say that Joe doesn’t look a thing like Astin’s picture?” Jake said.

  “I know, but there’s something about that, too. His face does strange things, like changes just a little bit for an instant and then changes back.”

  “Changes enough that it could look like Astin’s if it changed only a little more?”

  “Well, no, not really.”

  “Betts, I am not Astin Reagal, but I bet this letter was from him,” Joe said.

  “Why is it incomplete?” I asked.

  “The letter?” Jake asked. “Why is the letter incomplete?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I have a hunch. Maybe we have to find Astin’s remains first, before the letter will be able to be read all the way through,” Jake said.

  “Really?” I said, but then suddenly that idea somehow felt right.

  “It’s not an easy search,” Gram said, “but maybe Jerome did come back for that purpose. I hope he finds Astin soon.”

  Jake cocked his head as he fell into thought. “You know, maybe you’re doing exactly what you should be doing and you don’t even know it. Maybe those words wouldn’t have even appeared if Esther and Jerome hadn’t come to town. Or maybe I just need to keep researching and Jerome needs to remember where Astin’s remains are? How’s this—maybe the words on the paper will help Jerome in some weird way.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” I said. “Anything is.”

  “I think we need to go with Jerome. Or you do, or Miz does, or even Joe does. I know Jerome is searching but even he might need some help. Yes, I think this is unlike any letter you’ve dealt with before, and it is the last one. There are so many other strange things happening that perhaps the letter has to behave differently this time. Perhaps it can’t tell us everything because it’s important that other things happen first. Make sense?”

  I looked at Gram. “What do you think?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what to think,” Gram said. “But I suppose Jake might be on to something. Searching for Astin Reagal’s remains can’t hurt, I suppose. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Okay, I guess we’ll talk to Jerome next time we see him. I know he’s somewhere between here and Rolla, but I’m not sure exactly where. You know, Gram?”

  “I don’t think Jerome and I ever once talked about where his prop
erty was, but I know the general area. We can look.” She checked her watch. “Not today, though. Tomorrow maybe. We’ve got fish to fry today, but tomorrow for sure.” She smiled sympathetically at Joe.

  “It’s okay, Miz. It’s been a long time. I can wait a little longer.”

  I wondered if he could, though. The ghosts’ visits had expiration dates. Was Joe’s visit truly destined to be short? Was he going to get so close and yet not be able to finish what he and Gram had started all those years ago? The singed and incomplete letter made me think that Joe might not be destined to have all the answers. But I didn’t vocalize that thought. It wouldn’t have gone over well.

  Chapter 18

  I’d grown up in a family of fishermen. Both of my parents had instilled the ritual of waking me and Teddy up long before the crack of dawn to gather poles and worms—never anything but worms, back then, but I’d never tell Jerome that part—to take us out to a nearby crick, not creek, not pond, not lake, but crick. I’d never been all that thrilled to be awakened that early and dragged out of my comfortable bed for some family time, but I’d enjoyed it once we got there and dropped the lines. We’d always fished for catfish, and it was always an adventure.

  There were giant catfish in the waters of Missouri. Some were hundreds of pounds. Literally. But we never went for that variety. We just fished for some good-sized “catters” that we could fry up at home.

  This tradition had, however, begun with Gram when my dad was younger. Apparently, they spent many a morning drowning worms and catching those catters.

  But the best part of fishing for catfish is, without a doubt, eating them. According to Gram, there was truly only one real way to cook catters: Fry them up in a cast-iron skillet over an open flame. It isn’t a difficult process, but it does take a little practice to get it right. Gram has had plenty of practice.

  “Yeah, that’s the part I don’t like, the cleaning.” A gentleman in jeans, an embroidered red Western shirt, and an out-of-place light blue Bermuda hat stood closest to Gram, but the crowd was pretty big.

  There was no doubt that the cowboy poetry convention’s party atmosphere probably wasn’t up to par with the celebration-filled bash it had been in years past, but Orly and his crew had found a way to infuse some lively spirit that wasn’t disrespectful to the murder victim.

  One of the ways that he’d done this was to continue to spread excitement about Gram’s cooking demonstrations, about both the Dutch oven dishes and the frying demonstration. When the poets first heard that Gram was going to offer cooking lessons during the convention, enthusiasm built quickly. And after the success of the morning event, even if people weren’t interested in learning the techniques for frying the fish over a campfire, people were interested in seeing Missouri Anna in action, and they had gathered in appreciation.

  I was always a little surprised by her still-rising celebrity. It caught me off guard when a fan asked for her autograph or for a photograph with her. Her cooking school’s reputation had only grown. The building itself and the cemetery next to it (if only the tourists really knew what was going on there) had become bona fide Broken Rope attractions.

  “I agree. Tell me your name,” Gram said.

  “Jed,” he said.

  “I agree, Jed, but you get used to it after a while. And you get quick, too. You can clean and fillet a catter lickety-split, and you learn not to even pay attention to the cleaning part,” Gram said as she flung the catfish’s guts into a pail next to the small portable table and chair she was using.

  “Oh,” Jed said. He attempted to smile.

  “And then you slice here. Like that. And then here. Like that. And voilà, you have fish ready to fry.”

  “Can this apply to any fish, Missouri?” Esther asked. She was on the other side of the crowd, and I’d seen her there but hadn’t had a chance to talk to her. I thought Jake would be happy to see her when he arrived.

  I was again surprised by how the cowboy poetry crowd had continued to grow. Jim and Cliff had thought about not allowing any more visitors, but the logistics of such a ban were too difficult to seriously consider. They’d had Orly and a few of his crew keep track of names of new arrivals, and they checked with him constantly, apparently running names in their criminal databases to see if anyone suspicious joined the activities, or could no longer be found. It had to be a difficult task, added to all the other difficult tasks Orly was handling.

  “Sure, you can fry any fish, but it’s hard to beat a fried catfish. Its flavor works perfectly with the breading and the spices. Speaking of which, the breading is made up of buttermilk, and then cornmeal, corn flour, garlic powder, some peppers and a dash of hot sauce.”

  “Sounds too spicy,” Jed added.

  “Try it. If it’s too much, you can always mellow the hot stuff, but I don’t recommend it. A little kick to your catter is the only way to go.”

  “I see.”

  Esther caught my eye and smiled and waved. I waved back.

  “So there I’ve whisked together your buttermilk and hot sauce. That’s what’s in this bowl.” Gram pointed.

  Gram was set up pretty close to the west campfire, which blazed hot but still under control. Orly had lit the fire according to Gram’s specific directions. A grill had been placed above the flames, and a skillet with about a quarter inch of oil filling its bottom sat on the grill. Gram had fried catfish so many times in her life that she knew about how high the flames needed to be to keep the oil at the right temperature. I’d never attempted to fry anything outside, but I knew that the oil would be about 350 degrees, and would remain close to that as long as Gram was in charge of the show.

  Along with the small folding table in front of her where she’d displayed the proper way to clean and fillet the fish, there was also a cooler full of more fish being kept on ice. There’d be lots of fish fried this evening, but the duties would be turned over to a couple of the poets after Gram was done with her part of the demonstration. She’d watch everything else closely, though. If catfish were going to be fried by someone other than Gram, the cooks would at least be supervised by Ms. Missouri, Anna Winston, herself.

  She took the fillet she was working with and slapped it down on a couple paper towels.

  “You have to make sure the fillets are dry before you work with them,” she said as she wrapped and patted the fish. “And then drag the fillets through the buttermilk, and then the cornmeal and spices.” She dunked and then pulled the fillet through the buttermilk, lifting it when it was well covered and giving it a small shake to get rid of the excess, and then she dipped it in the cornmeal and spices, making sure both sides were coated. “Place it in the oil. Take care not to burn yourself. The oil can pop up and get you.”

  Somehow Gram never burned herself.

  “Hi,” a quiet voice said from behind me.

  “Hi, Esther,” I said as I turned. She’d snuck around the crowd. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. You have a minute?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  So we wouldn’t disturb Gram’s demonstration, we moved away from the crowd. We stood next to a tent that had peace sign patches sewn into it and had probably been made in the 1960s.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Sure, everything’s fine,” she said. “I just wanted to . . . gosh, I have no idea how I managed to maybe get in the middle of something, but I might have, and I wanted to tell someone. Honestly, Betts, this has been a strange and kind of awful trip, but kind of good, too. I’ve appreciated Jake’s research, and he’s such a sweetie, but the murder has made everything so scary, and I just heard that your brother was the one who got beaten up and I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  I was glad to be getting the information without having to be the one to ask the questions first. “Yes, his name is Teddy. Did you see what happened?”

  “Not really. No, not when he was being beaten, but I saw some other stuff before that that I’ve been thinking I should tell the police,
but I’m kind of scared.”

  “Are you scared of the police?” I asked. “You don’t need to be.”

  “No, I’m scared of what might happen to me if I talk to the police about what I saw. I was hoping to tell you and between the two of us we can figure out how to get the information to them.”

  I nodded. “Certainly.”

  “The night that your brother was beaten—as I already told you, I did see him. I’d seen him around for a couple days. He seemed to be having a good time. He’s quite adorable.” Esther smiled and blushed a little. I wanted to remind her of Jake, but again I just nodded. “Anyway, he obviously likes to have a good time, too, though I don’t think he was drinking much, just having fun. He seemed to enjoy the poetry and the music.”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t drinking, or acting drunk?”

  “Not when I saw him, no.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right. Well, there was a woman who seemed very interested in both him and Norman, and I feel kind of rotten for not telling you about her earlier, but she seemed pretty upset when neither of them returned the interest. I didn’t want to tell anyone about her anger that night after Norman was killed because I didn’t want to be the one to make someone else maybe look guilty of something so horrible, but then I heard about your brother and her anger at both of them suddenly seemed even worse than her anger with just one of them. Gosh, I’m not sure that makes any sense at all.”

  I’d had plenty of moments when something had suddenly become clear after only receiving a little more information. I got what she was saying. “Who?” Though I was pretty sure I knew who she was talking about.

  Esther looked around and then whispered, “Vivienne.”

  “I see.”

  Esther was claiming that Vivienne was doing what Teddy had claimed that Esther had done. Was Esther lying or was Teddy misremembering?

  “However, Betts, the thing about Vivienne that I think is more important than the fact that she hit on your brother and Norman is the fact that she’s been hitting on lots of guys. She’s pretty, but mostly she seems like she’s glad to be on vacation or something. You know, like what happens at the poetry convention stays at the poetry convention.”