If Fried Chicken Could Fly

by Paige Shelton

  “Why does a jail have a cuckoo clock?” I asked Jim, who was sitting behind his desk, across from me.

  Jim looked at the fowl and shrugged. “Dunno, never noticed it really.”

  “You never noticed it?” I said. But I remembered that though Jim was a friend, he was also the top lawman in town. Since Gram was sleeping in one of the two small holding cells, it would be best not to antagonize him by questioning his powers of observation.

  The jail was a mix of the old and the new. It was the official law enforcement office of Broken Rope and not meant to be a tour stop, but inevitably a few visitors would open the door and at least peer in. They’d see a couple small but clean holding cells in the back of the deep space, a few old desks topped off with modern computers—large flat-screen monitors and all—in front of the cells, polished wood railings, the obligatory stacks of paperwork, and a front wall decorated with old handcuffs. Somewhere along the way, someone started hanging the cuffs on the wall and the tradition continued. The wall gave the impression of both a law office and a kinky brothel. Truthfully, while I was well aware of the wall of handcuffs, I’d never noticed the cuckoo clock either, but then I hadn’t spent a lot of time in the jail.

  When he wasn’t too busy, Jim was good-natured enough to wave in some of the tourists and give them a quick history of handcuffs and how important the ratchet mechanism had been for bigger-wristed lawbreakers.

  To avoid confusion, we called the fake law office the Sheriff’s Office. It was across the street and was manned by Jake Swanson, a law officer wannabe who’d not been able to pass the physical examination because of something with his feet. Jake was also my best friend. He was available to be the town’s fake sheriff because he’d made a fortune in the stock market. He was officially richer than any higher power one could think of. He was short and thin, and as a poet he had become a tourist attraction in his own rights.

  “Not many places could boast they have a poetry-recitin’ sheriff,” he often said. He had a way with words that defied his short stature and after spending any time around him, people mostly recalled his deep baritone voice and his handsome face. They usually forgot he was height-challenged the moment he opened his mouth.

  Tonight Jim’s good and patient nature was wearing on me. Gram and I had come with him directly from the school. We’d been trying to contact Verna Oldenmeyer, so Gram could be questioned with her attorney present. Verna and her husband were somewhere in the Ozarks, camping and fishing, and their cell phone coverage was spotty. My last conversation with her had been wrought with missing words and a funny buzzing in the background, but I thought I’d managed to convey a plea to come back to town as quickly as possible. I thought she said she’d be there in about an hour, but two had passed and still no Verna.

  Jim seemed unconcerned and went about paperwork as we waited. He’d left Cliff at the school to attend to Mrs. Morningside, further question the students, and secure the scene until the techs arrived and he was certain that all evidence was being collected properly.

  I still hadn’t called my parents or my brother because I didn’t want to wake and concern them yet. The daytimers still needed to be notified, but I kept hoping that Verna would show up, Gram would be questioned, all this would be cleared up in a quick manner, and we could leave. If I could get Gram home soon, maybe I could just grab a few hours’ sleep and get up and handle all the calls myself.

  But every fifteen minutes the cuckoo clock kept reminding me that we were still there: Coo-coo, coo-coo.

  “Jim, you know Gram isn’t going anywhere. Let me take her home so she can get some decent rest. When Verna gets back, we’ll come in again.”

  Jim leaned back in his chair, turned his neck so he could more easily peer at Gram.

  “She’s sleeping just fine, Betts. I think waking her might be the worst idea.”

  I looked over Jim’s shoulder. Gram was fast asleep on her back with her mouth open. Her lips moved with a gentle snore. He was probably right; she seemed to be resting comfortably.

  “I’m tired, Jim,” I said. “I’d love to get some rest.”

  “Go on home, Betts. We just need Verna. I haven’t locked Miz up, and I’m sure I’ll let her go after I question her. If you’d just let me question her now, we could get this over with.”

  “I’m not an attorney,” I said.

  “Shoot, you spent two years learning all that stuff. You’ll do just fine.”

  “Well, I certainly remember enough to know that it would be illegal to act as her legal representation. Wouldn’t want any of your questioning thrown out because of that,” I said sweetly.

  Jim smiled slowly. “No, probably not.”

  “Come on, Jim, you know Gram didn’t kill Everett Morningside. She’s strong but not that strong.”

  “I don’t know who killed Mr. Morningside, but he is, most definitely, dead. He was killed in your gram’s cooking school. He was a married man who seems to have been dating Miz. These sorts of things make me itchy to ask important questions and such.”

  “Allegedly—to everything you just said, except the dead part. He’s definitely dead.”

  “Allegedly—everyone’s favorite word nowadays. They were planning on going out for dinner, weren’t they?”

  “As far as I know, yes, but they might have just been friends,” I said.

  “Miz could answer that if we asked her,” Jim said.

  I sighed. “She’s not answering anything without her attorney present.”

  “You sound like a broken record. Or an attorney.”

  I sighed again.

  “We can go around all night long, Betts. I’m content with letting Miz rest. She looks like she needs it.” He glanced back at Gram again, who was deeply and peacefully asleep.

  “If she’d killed him, I don’t think she could sleep so soundly,” I said.

  “Some might say that they wouldn’t sleep so soundly after finding a dead body in their business. She’s—pardon the expression—dead to the world, seemingly without a care.” Jim’s eyebrows rose.

  He was right, but she’d always been a quick and deep sleeper.

  “Yeah, but she’s old, Jim. She needs to rest in her own bed.”

  Jim smiled. “Your gram is the youngest old person I know.”

  “Jim, come on.”

  His face sobered. “Look, Betts, I don’t think she killed Mr. Morningside either, but there are proper procedures to follow. I need to question Miz and I’d like to ask you some more questions, too, but I’m going to wait until Verna shows up because I respect the right to counsel. I got nothin’, kiddo. Broken Rope might have a lot of mysterious deaths, but it is rare that we have a murder without any sort of indication who might have been the killer. The cell door’s not locked, Miz is resting, and you’re the only who seems to be having a problem. There’s a top bunk in there. It’s clean. Hop in and get some rest. I’m going to run down to Bunny’s for some coffee and pastries for everyone. Verna will be here soon and she’ll be bellowing about being hungry. Do not take Miz out of here or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation—bet you got far enough in law school to know what that means.”

  I blinked. Despite the fact that he was leaving the cell door open, Jim was doing almost everything exactly like a police officer should. I was impressed. Other than the teenage accidental gas theft, I’d only known him as a friend. Being a police officer in Broken Rope, Missouri, had its share of challenges, but I was suddenly pleased to think that we were, as a community, probably in good hands even if it meant Gram and I had to suffer his propriety.

  “Yes, I know what that means.”

  “Good. If Cliff gets back before I do, tell him I need a report before he goes home for the night, or day at this point, I guess. Got it?”

  “Yes,” I said, dreading the thought of being in the same room with Cliff without any supervision other than my sleeping gram.

  Jim stood, unconsciously touched the gun at his waist, and then put on a bri
mmed official police hat that I rarely saw him wear. He made his way out around the desk and then out of the jail building. For a moment, I sat and wondered if he’d been trying to tell me that it was okay to take Gram and go home—like I’d seen in movies when someone left out a crucial piece of evidence that they couldn’t legally hand over but knew would be looked at if they left the room.

  That thought fizzled quickly. Jim’s instructions were clear: I wasn’t to take Gram anywhere. He trusted that I’d listen to his orders and do as he said. He’d only left the cell door unlocked to be polite to Gram.

  I sighed.

  I stood and stretched as I walked back to the cell for a closer look at her. She was definitely sleeping deeply, seemingly not a care in the world, as Jim had already observed. The top bunk, though maybe clean, didn’t look inviting at all, mostly because the only way to get to it was to hoist oneself up; there was no ladder or a bottom bunk head- or footboard to climb. I couldn’t see pulling off such a maneuver without tipping the entire bed or smushing Gram.

  I often wondered how Gram did everything she did. I’d never really seen her run out of energy. She never complained about being tired or of body aches from working too hard. She never needed a day off.

  She would probably attribute her energy to her uncanny ability to fall asleep on command, but I thought it was just the way she was put together, the way she was hardwired, something genetic that I wasn’t sure had been passed down to me. Though I hid it from her, there were days that I was tired and felt that my energy had been depleted. I loved working with her and never didn’t want to be at the school, but I’d had moments when I thought about asking for an extra day off here and there. I never had, though, and never would. Gram knew my obvious faults; she didn’t need to know about the ones I tried to hide.

  “What happened, Gram?” I asked quietly as I leaned against the cell door.

  Something made a loud rattled bang somewhere behind me.

  I gasped and turned quickly. “Who’s there?”

  There was no one else in the jail. I knew there was a bathroom around the opposite wall. Even though it didn’t sound like the noise had come from that direction, I hurried to see if someone was there.

  The bathroom was empty. And clean, I noted.

  But the sound had been real.

  I glanced around the space with my best critical eye. The only thing I’d really paid attention to was the cuckoo clock. But from what I could tell, the bird was still in place, perched at the ready to extend from its hole and squawk again in about six minutes. And the clamor had had a metallic and heavy tone to it.

  The two desks seemed no more disturbed than they already had looked: messy paperwork but organized, shiny, and new computer equipment. The chair I’d sat in was still in the same spot. Jim’s chair hadn’t moved from where he’d left it. The other desk’s chairs seemed to be in their right spots, too.

  I walked to the front of the room and found what I thought could have made the noise.

  A pair of handcuffs, an old antique pair was on the floor. I was almost, but not one hundred percent, certain they hadn’t been on the floor before.

  “Huh,” I said as I crouched to gather the cuffs. They were old and very heavy. I didn’t know what sort of metals had been used over the years to create handcuffs, but these were solid and would be a burden to someone’s wrists and shoulders if they had to wear them for too long.

  They must have fallen off the wall because of a vibration caused when Jim closed the door, I reasoned. But they hadn’t fallen off the wall until a few minutes after he left, I thought to myself.

  “Delayed reaction?” I said quietly as I stood to place them back where they had come from.

  They were rusted and had thick and wicked bars that closed around the wrists of captured criminals. The curved parts where wrists were placed seemed small and tight. I couldn’t help but slip one of my own into the curve. There was nothing unusual about the size of my wrists, but the cuffs were tight and painful against the wrist bone. Time had certainly made handcuffs more comfortable and a better fit for different sizes.

  As I studied the cuffs and contemplated whether or not more comfortable versions were deserved, Cliff came through the door, holding folders and a big black bag that resembled the one that Jim had used for the fingerprint equipment.

  He paused when he saw me, glanced at my hands and said, “Jim told me I wasn’t supposed to ever touch the cuffs.”

  “These fell. I was just putting them back,” I said as I pulled my wrist from the loop. Even that maneuver squeezed the bone and sent a twinge of pain up to my elbow. I wouldn’t show it, though. In fact, I was going to concentrate on not showing anything except a cool detachment. Who cared if Cliff Sebastian was back in town? Besides, I had bigger concerns than the ghost of my previous love life coming back to haunt me.

  Cliff raised an eyebrow but then turned and took the bag and folders to his desk. He looked at Gram before turning back toward me.

  “How’s she doing, B…etts,” he said, as though he’d remembered that he was the only one who called me B and it might now be an inappropriate familiarity.

  “She’s been asleep since we got here.” I looked for an empty hook or nail, but there were so many cuffs it wasn’t an easy task.

  “That’s probably good. She needs her rest. We need her alert so she can help us find who killed Everett Morningside.”

  I found a nail, but I had to maneuver the cuffs in between a bunch of others. I was sure I’d cause more to fall. “You don’t think Gram was the killer, then?”

  He hesitated. “I hope not.”

  He wasn’t totally schooled in police-talk; he wanted to be careful with what he said and not commit to a particular conclusion.

  I made sure the cuffs were stable before I turned again and looked at Cliff. His concentration was focused on a manila folder that he held like an open prayer book. I hoped he wouldn’t look up for a second so I could get a good, critical, well-lit look at him.

  There was no question that he wasn’t a ghost. He was real, as real as Cliff had ever been. I wished that when he’d left Broken Rope all those years ago, he hadn’t stayed so firmly in my heart. As I inspected him, it was as if something woke up in my chest, something opened and breathed for the first time in years.

  Oh crap, I was in trouble. I put my hand on my chest and told my thawing heart to freeze right back up, because falling for a married man was not only a mistake, it was a huge mistake and could mess up lots of lives.

  I didn’t know this Cliff any more than he knew this Betts. We were over ten years older and had both traveled through our twenties, the time when you’re supposed to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. It was interesting to see that he’d changed paths just like I had. Being a police officer in Broken Rope was far from the world of architecture. My position as a cooking school teacher was pretty far from law school, too. Had we found our callings, or were we two of those people who can’t ever find what they really want out of life so they keep trying different jobs and careers? I hoped for the former.

  Cliff looked up suddenly and was surprised at my intense stare.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  He put the folder down and cleared his throat. “I suppose I owe you some sort of explanation for returning to Broken Rope.”

  “No, not at all. It’s none of my business.” I regretted the words immediately. Darn straight he owed me an explanation. I should have stomped my foot and said as much.

  “Well, nonetheless, I do want to talk to you at some point. I have some things…things I should tell you, but now’s not a good time.”

  “Sure, we’ll talk.”

  Cliff nodded and looked as though he was about to say something else when the door flew open with a gust of personality and the distinct smell of fish.

  “Verna, thanks for coming,” I said as I hugged her, fish smell and all.

  “I didn’t have a
ny choice, young’un. I was summoned, even if it wasn’t by a summons.” Verna laughed at her own jokes all the time. Usually it was because she was the only one who thought they were funny, but sometimes it was because everyone else listening was still adjusting to the volume and tone of her deep loud voice.

  Verna Oldenmeyer was the woman who’d originally been the inspiration for my wanting to become an attorney. She was smart, big, brash, never bothered with her short red hair and never wore a stitch of makeup. The smart part was what inspired me. When I was a young girl, I’d listen to her banter with anyone who was in her space. She’d win every time. I liked the idea of winning and had decided that it was because she was so smart that she won. When I learned she was an attorney, I wanted to be one, too. It was the dream, the career ideal, that I held on to for years.

  When I dropped out, I thought Verna would be more disappointed than my parents, but she hadn’t been disappointed in the least. Instead, she hugged me tightly the day after I got home and told me that her biggest secret was that she sometimes wished she’d dropped out of law school, too.

  I didn’t believe her, but I appreciated the lie.

  When she wasn’t practicing law, Verna was all about fishing or genealogy. If she didn’t have a worm in the water, she was in front of the computer looking for direct links between someone from Broken Rope’s past to someone who was currently alive. She came upon dead ends more often than not though. Since so many infamous Broken Rope characters lived on the wrong side of the law, they frequently died young or without family that would claim them. More than direct lineages, she’d find cousins-by-marriage or similar non-blood relations, but finding those connections had become one of her passions.

  “We took you away from camping,” I said.

  “Yep. Left Ben snoring on the air mattress. Good grief, is that Cliff Sebastian?” she said to me as though he couldn’t hear.