If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery)

by Paige Shelton

  “Oh. Where is it?”

  “Just outside the other end of town. You can’t get there by any modern, newfangled road, but there used to be a dirt road coming in and out of it. It’s all covered over with brush and weeds now.”

  “What made you want to see it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jerome said as he looked back out through the windshield again.

  I tried to inspect his profile, but between the side view, all the sunlight, the cowboy hat, and the facial hair, it became difficult to read his expression.

  “Jerome?”

  He seemed to try to shake himself out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. He looked at me again and smiled. “I’m sorry, Isabelle, but for some reason this time back I’ve been overwhelmed with a whole barn full of memories from my life. They’ve come at me so fast that I’m having a hard time putting them all in a respectful order in my head.”

  “Are they painful memories?”

  “No, not like that. There are some good ones, some bad ones, too, but the good ones break my heart a little and I’ve never experienced that before. It’s unsettling and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And.” He paused a long moment. “It’s like this, Isabelle—I can’t figure out why I’m remembering. I can’t understand the point of it all. I’m gone. Everyone from then is gone, too. There’s nothing I can do about any of it.”

  “Tell me a memory,” I said.

  He exhaled through his nose. There was no air, but the sound was distinct. “Well, all right, I will, I suppose.”

  I waited silently while he either sifted through the memories or worked up the guts to talk about one of them.

  “Elsa.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Well, we were never married,” he said quietly, as if it was something to be ashamed of.

  “That’s right. I forgot. That’s not as unusual nowadays as it was back then, Jerome. Lots of couples simply live together; even have kids together.”

  “I wish we’d married, but . . . well, the circumstances were beyond our control. Anyway, she saved me from a snake once.” He laughed. “I’d been working the small herd of cattle I had and was exhausted, almost passed-out asleep in the small cabin we lived in. I was awakened by a scream and the vision of Elsa coming at me with a shovel. She brought the shovel down on a rattler that was about to bite into my foot that was hanging over the edge of the bed. I was shocked into silence as my brain figured out that she was saving my life, not killing me. I remember as clear as day—she held the shovel with one hand, wiped her forehead with the other, and said, ‘Saved your hide, old man.’” He smiled into the past.

  “That’s not a bad memory, Jerome. That’s a great memory,” I said. I was touched by his story, and hearing it only made me care for him more.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that seeing her so clear brings back so much.”

  “I understand. Some people would say that’s a blessing.”

  Jerome looked at me. “I don’t know, Isabelle. For years I’d come back to visit Miz and I’d pick up on a memory or two as time went on, but it’s all so different now.”

  My heart sank. “I’m sorry.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant. I don’t know if I can say this right, so bear with me a minute.”

  “All right.” I swallowed hard.

  “Those memories, those feelings, I suppose, are all wonderful, but I’m afraid . . . well, I’m afraid I’m building an even bigger bank of memories with you. I cherish our strange time together, Isabelle, but someday, you’ll only be a memory, too.”

  “Someday, when I die?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  This conversation was not something anyone could prepare for. No matter what experiences one had already had in life, this one wasn’t in manuals or books, or “Dear Abby” articles, but two things occurred to me.

  “I suppose that’s a risk we all take, Jerome. People we care for die. It stinks, but that’s the way it is. I’d like to propose an idea, though—you come back as a ghost. Who’s to say that I won’t come back, too? Maybe there’s a ghostly future for us after all.”

  Jerome blinked and half smiled.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “Gram has a saying whenever I or Teddy get melancholy about her being so old. She says, ‘Dadnabit, I’m not dead yet, so save your down-in-the-dumps attitude for later.’ So, Jerome, I’m not dead yet, which frankly, might end up to be a positive or a negative. I guess we’ll see—hopefully not any time soon.”

  “You’re as right as you can be. I’m sorry for my down-in-the-dumps attitude.”

  I laughed. “Oh, you haven’t seen down-in-the-dumps until you’ve seen Teddy pull it off. He’s an expert.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good, now, speaking of Teddy, I need to tell you what happened to him.”

  Jerome listened intently as I told him about Teddy’s beating and the fact that we thought Norman Bytheway could have been involved, but we couldn’t be sure. I told him about Orly and the three women I was curious about. I described the new ghost, Joe, and how I didn’t think he was who he said he was. I asked if Jerome would nose around and see what he could overhear or find out. He was more than willing to jump aboard and be the invisible cowboy detective.

  “How’s Teddy today?” he asked.

  “Fine. Well, he still looks pretty bad, but he’ll be okay.”

  “Something’s not right, Isabelle. If a man wants to fight, he doesn’t lead another man out into the woods for the battle. He fights him straight up.”

  I didn’t know the etiquette of “man fights,” but Jerome had been alive when they were all too common—and all too often solved with guns.

  “I’m not sure that’s the code anymore, Jerome, but do you think someone else hit him, or more than one someone elses?”

  “I think it’s possible, and from what you said about the state he’s in, I also think they most likely wanted to kill him.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that. I don’t think they wanted or expected him to live.” I shivered.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have had it out for your brother?”

  This list of people who had said the words “I’m going to kill you” to Teddy was long, and mostly populated by female names. But the threat had never been much more than vocalized frustration at Teddy’s typical inability to care for a woman the way she wanted to be cared for.

  “I’m not sure I’d know where to begin, except with women he’s . . . dated.”

  “Cliff might already be on that trail,” Jerome said.

  Cliff. I still hadn’t spoken to him. I really needed to track him down.

  “I’ll ask,” I said. He was probably more interested in who killed Norman Bytheway, which was how it should be. But maybe the killer and the person or persons who beat Teddy were somehow tied together.

  “Good. Now, this ghost, this Pony Express rider. You said he doesn’t know what happened to him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Believe it or not, I remember hearing a story about a missing rider who was from Broken Rope. They never found him. I can’t remember his name offhand, but I remember something about his story. His wife abandoned their small family and spent the rest of her short life looking for him.”

  “Astin Reagal?” I said.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Jerome said. “You’ve heard of him? Is that your ghost?”

  “Only recently. And he’s claiming not to be the same one.”

  I gave Jerome more details regarding the two Pony Express riders who had simultaneously entered my life.

  A cloud rolled over the sun as I finished sharing the information, and Jerome was momentarily shadowed in a little darkness. Even that small amount caused him to become more real and I caught an expression that surprised me: an intense focus. On me, on my words, perhaps.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but there’s something more
I know about Astin Reagal. I can’t quite seem to remember it at the moment.”

  “You said memories are coming back right now. Maybe it’ll become clearer.”

  “I hope so,” Jerome said as the cloud moved on and the sun came back.

  “You don’t by chance know what he looked like?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Let me know.” My phone buzzed. “It’s Jake. He has some more information for me. He obviously doesn’t know we’re right outside his back door.”

  “I like Jake. Let’s go talk to him.”

  • • •

  “Hi, Jerome!” Jake said to the space beside me. He cleared his throat and looked at me. “Is it okay to be happy he’s back?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “I saw you,” Jake said to the space. “I recorded your image.”

  “How’s that?” Jerome asked.

  “Jake has a camera that’s meant to pick up ethereal signals. I thought it was a gimmick, something fake, but he got a picture of you,” I said.

  “That seems impossible,” Jerome said.

  “Maybe, but it certainly helped me,” I said. “Trust me, Jerome, there are moments I feel like maybe I’m a little off my rocker because I can see you ghosts. The pictures of you confirmed for me that I’m just weird, not weird and crazy.”

  “I’d like to see the pictures.”

  “He’d like to see the pictures someday, Jake.”

  “I can do that,” Jake said. “But for now, I have some information.” He smiled coyly. “And a picture. Let’s start there.”

  Jake’s enthusiasm for his research was contagious, and Jerome and I followed him eagerly around the table to the far corner, where a stack of files and papers sat. He lifted the top item from the pile.

  “This is Astin Reagal,” he said.

  The picture was beyond grainy; white blobs and spaces were scattered throughout. But there was no doubt that this was not the Pony Express rider that was presumably still hanging around with Gram and waiting to deliver a letter.

  The young man in this picture had a full face and distinct features; a large nose that fit well between wide-set eyes, a crooked mouth, and thick stubble while still looking very young. I was disappointed, but I moved that to the back of my mind for the time being.

  “I remember this picture,” Jerome said. “Jake must have found this in an article in the Noose. Back in my day, they did a story about the long-missing rider. Seeing this now brings back the exact moment I read the article. Another strong memory.”

  “Did you find this in an old Noose?” I asked Jake.

  “I did.”

  “Jerome remembers this. It must have been published when he was alive.”

  “Hang on. Let me look.” Jake rummaged through the stack again. “Yes, right here’s the article, which I haven’t been able to clean up enough to read, but the date is pretty clear. July 9, 1918.”

  “I was killed a week later,” Jerome said.

  “He died a week later, Jake,” I said.

  “And another weird coincidence,” Jake said.

  “Not really,” Jerome said.

  “Why not? What’s up?” I asked.

  Jerome focused on the picture a long moment.

  “What’s going on, Betts?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Jerome’s remembering something.”

  Finally, Jerome looked up and smiled.

  “Betts, I don’t think I’m here for you this time,” he said.

  “No?”

  “No. I found him. I found Astin’s body—well, his skeleton at least. I think I must have been killed before I was able to tell anyone.”

  “Plus you were plotting a bank robbery,” I said.

  “Yes, that, too. But no wonder I don’t have any sense that you’re in big danger. That’s not it at all. I’m here this time to rediscover Astin.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  Jerome scratched at the side of his head, knocking his hat off-kilter. “I think somewhere close to my property, but I’m not exactly sure at the moment. I bet it comes back to me.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I wish I knew what you two were talking about,” Jake said.

  “Jerome discovered Astin’s remains when he was alive—when Jerome was alive,” I said.

  Jake’s eyes opened so widely and lit so brightly that I almost thought Santa himself had come into the room.

  “Well,” I amended, “he’s not exactly sure where they are. He’s trying to remember the details.”

  “Oh.” Jake deflated.

  “Excuse me, Isabelle. I need to go,” Jerome said before he disappeared.

  “Uh,” I said, but he left so quickly. “He’s gone.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll get more details, but he left right before I could get to the good stuff.”

  “So far, you’ve had some pretty good stuff. I’m ready for more,” I said.

  “Happy to oblige. It’s about the other ghost and the letter you need to deliver.”

  He rummaged around some more and pulled out two small pieces of paper.

  “I took some notes to better explain this,” he said as he laid the papers out on the table in front of me. “It’s not much, but it’ll take you right to the person I think you need to see.”

  “Great. Show me.”

  “Okay, the letter was to Elaine and Frederick Morrison, from her brother, Isaac.”

  “Right.”

  “Elaine and Frederick were both killed in a house fire when they were very old—that’s just an interesting tidbit and has nothing to do with the letter. Anyway, they had three children, two of whom died in childbirth.”

  “Good grief,” I said.

  “I know, but that’s what people did back then—lots of dying.”

  I’d heard that recently.

  “But one child must have lived if you have something.”

  “Yes, their daughter Ashley lived to be very old; died in her sleep. She had twelve children. All of them lived to be pretty old, too.”

  “See, not everybody died all the time.”

  “With those twelve, I had twelve avenues to search, but I chose to start with only a couple. Her son Elroy didn’t take me anywhere; not much of a record of his life. But her daughter Jenny took me to something pretty good.”

  I nodded to prod him along.

  “I’ll skip over her kids’ names and go right to her grandson. It’s Jim. Jim Morrison.”

  “The police chief?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Cliff’s boss?”

  “Yep. Why? Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know. It might be. Probably not. The ghosts have caused him more trouble than he’ll ever realize, of course. I’ll just have to figure out how to handle it appropriately.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got me.” He tapped his chest. “I’ll do it.”

  I hadn’t even thought of asking Jake to be our messenger, but it made sense. Jake could say or do anything regarding a historical aspect of Broken Rope, and he’d be quickly and easily believed.

  “That’s a great idea. Let me call Gram,” I said as I pulled out my cell and dialed.

  Chapter 14

  The crowd inside the jail was an eclectic one, though two of the members were invisible to everyone but me and Gram.

  Jim and Cliff were both there, each of them seated in their own desk chairs. I didn’t recognize the person who was lounging in the back cell, but a quick tête-à-tête with Cliff assured me that the old man had nothing to do with the murder.

  The two police officers had been surprised to see Jake and me enter the building. They’d both been huddled over something on their desks, and seemed hesitant about a conversation regarding something other than the police matters they were investigating, but we told them we could be brief.

  Gram joined us a few minutes later. So di
d Joe and his horse. Gram had explained to me that the two ghosts had wanted to be present when the messages were delivered, no matter how or where they were delivered. She claimed they’d been in even more cramped locations than the jail lobby.

  Of course, Jim, Cliff, and Jake couldn’t see Joe and his horse, but Gram and I could. They didn’t seem to bother her at all as they filled up the space in the front of the jail, the area with a wall covered in handcuffs and a cuckoo clock that chirped every fifteen minutes. They couldn’t cause any trouble, but their presence made me slightly claustrophobic.

  “Miz, what’re you doing here?” Jim asked when she came in. “I thought this was just about something Jake found.”

  “I was curious.” Gram shrugged. She sounded fairly convincing as she smoothed her NC State T-shirt.

  “Okay,” Jim said, not as convincingly.

  “Thanks for taking the time,” Jake said as he scooted a chair to the other side of Jim’s desk.

  Jim scratched his head and pasted patience onto his face.

  “What do you have, Jake?”

  “Well, every now and then I come across something that turns out to be such a gem. I can’t help but research everything to death, you know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, my research led me to you this time, and I thought you might want to know about it.”

  Jake unfolded a piece of parchment paper. He, Joe, and I had done what Gram told me that she had done—reconstructed the letter. Jake had the parchment and he was quick with calligraphy-like writing, so it was easy for him to create a quick and dirty forgery. He didn’t think Jim would pay the least bit of attention to its validity. He seemed to be right. Jim sent the paper only a cursory glance. He might ask to look at it more closely after it was read, but Jake was ready with a lie if need be. He’d tell Jim that his documents were too delicate for more than him to touch them, but he’d be happy to get him a copy later.

  “Oh . . .” I said as the horse’s head came over the low gate that bordered the front lobby. The animal sniffed at Jim’s head. I had the urge to apologize for its intrusive behavior, but of course Jim had no idea that a horse’s nose was next to his ear. Could the ghost horse smell things?