If Fried Chicken Could Fly

by Paige Shelton

  “Huh,” Missy sighed. She pulled at one of her tight blond curls. When she first arrived, I thought she was adorable. It didn’t take long for her attitude to change my mind.

  “Miz, do they think one of us could have killed Mr. Morningside?” Jordan Kingsley asked. Jordan was the quietest person I’d ever met. He was from Connecticut and had signed up for classes mostly to learn how to be a better baker. He and his brother owned a small coffee shop in Wolcott and wanted to start adding their own baked items, instead of ordering them from elsewhere, to their menu. He dressed like Mr. Rogers but looked like Mr. Magoo. I thought I liked him, but it was hard to tell because he was so difficult to talk to. It was as if it was painful for him to have a conversation with anyone—except Myron. The two of them had hit it off and spent lots of time together at the school and with Myron’s family.

  “I think you’d be arrested by now if they thought that, Jordan. They locked me up so fast I didn’t have time to plan an escape,” Gram said.

  The class laughed, a little, but it was enough to be encouraging.

  “Well, there’s a lot to do today. I think we should get started on the cookies. Ready? Okay,” Teddy said, sounding like the cheerleader he never was.

  “Who would like to pop the corks?” Gram added cheerily.

  It was the slight nudge the students needed. Once one of them volunteered, others seemed to think it was okay to jump in, too.

  As the bottles of pink champagne were opened and other ingredients passed around and smelled, I secretly gave my brother a thumbs-up and made a quick exit out the front doors. He would be fine. Gram would be fine. And the students were in good hands.

  I glanced at my watch as I pulled out of the parking lot. I was going to be a few minutes late, but at least I was back in my own car.

  As it was with every year, suddenly things were picking up in Broken Rope. RVs and other vehicles were snaking down the state highway, causing my trip to be at least three minutes longer than it was the day before. Foot traffic had picked up, too, and where there had been no one the day before, there were suddenly pockets of people peering in windows or taking pictures.

  Cliff was waiting outside the theater, but I didn’t see Jerome anywhere.

  “Sorry I’m late. Had to help Gram.”

  “No problem. I’m glad Jim set her free.” Cliff unlocked one of the front doors and held it open. “It’ll be dark, no windows past the entrance. The main lights are off, but there are a couple emergency lights in the lobby. Go on in and wait for me while I go back and flip the breaker.”

  I’d spent many evenings at the Jasper when I was younger and still attended a few movies. But I was too busy anymore for it to be more than an infrequent visit. I didn’t know how authentic the items in the lobby were, but I knew the pictures on the wall were of real performers from the past.

  The emergency lights were dim. As I waited for Cliff, I stepped close enough to the pictures so I could see some of the details. Elsa McMacenroe, with a tall blond wig and heavily made-up eyes, teased the camera with discreetly placed large feathers. Just the scandalous parts were covered, but everything else was well-exposed, proving that curvy women were once thought of as sexy. I’d stared at this picture when I was younger, wondering if I’d have such a body when I grew up. It didn’t look like it was ever going to happen. I still found Elsa beautiful, though, and loved thinking of her on the stage, teasing the audience with her fanning feathers.

  “Ah, Elsa. Sweet, sweet Elsa,” Jerome said from beside me.

  I jumped a little, but I was beginning to get used to his sudden appearances. “You knew her?”

  “Everyone knew Elsa. She was famous and people would come from all over Missouri to see her perform. She was amazing on stage but as quiet as quiet could be when she was off stage. She liked to perform but I don’t think she liked people all that much.”

  “You remember her?”

  “Yes, clearly for some reason, but she was famous. I’m always surprised when a clear memory comes.”

  “Did she have a family?” I asked. I wondered if Jake or Verna had found any descendants.

  “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t have been respectable for her to have a family and do what she did. I know, I know, that’s not the way it is nowadays. I suppose I think that’s a good thing. The times have changed since Elsa was dancing on that stage.”

  “That’s very true.”

  I moved to the next picture. Orville and Coco were the human/puppet ventriloquism team that had worked at the Jasper the same time Elsa had. Jerome said he didn’t remember them or the Siamese twins who’d been joined at their hips.

  He did think he had some memories of Belinda, the human contortionist, who’d died in one of Broken Rope’s freak accidents. The details were quite gory, but the gist was that one of her tricks went wrong and she somehow fell off the stage, breaking her neck and dying instantly.

  “I look at the picture and I sense that I was fond of her, but I can’t be sure. I’m drawn to it, though,” Jerome said.

  “Fond of her? In what way? More than friends?”

  In the picture, Belinda faced forward and so did the bottoms of her feet that were riding on the top of her shoulders. She was an exotic brunette, with a heart-shaped face and big dark eyes.

  “Maybe.”

  “Keep trying to remember, Jerome.”

  “I will.”

  I looked at him, and my breath suddenly caught in my throat.

  “What is it, Isabelle?”

  In the dark and with only the emergency lights, Jerome looked different. He looked almost real in a glowing sort of way. Though he’d seemed three-dimensional before, he was more so now. His face was both fuller and lined more heavily. The hair on his head and mustache seemed more textured, as though it could move better.

  “You look so different,” I said. I couldn’t help myself as I reached forward to touch him. He seemed so substantial. But just as my finger almost reached his arm, the lights came on and Jerome went back to his dimmer, less-detailed self. My finger went right through his elbow.

  “Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t sure why.

  “No need to be.”

  The rest of the lobby was filled with typical movie theater paraphernalia; a counter displayed candy and an old cash register. The wall behind the counter was mirrored, and a chill took my breath for an instant when I realized I was the only person reflected in the murky light of the lobby. I wondered curiously if he’d had a reflection in the dark. The big popcorn machine was off, but the scent of butter still hung in the air.

  “Does it look anything like it used to?” I asked.

  “I doubt it, but I’m not sure. I do remember that it was rough-and-tumble in here. Lots of drinking, lots of cigar smoke, lots of fights, particularly when it came to the ladies. We were a much rowdier bunch. The more time I spend in here, the more images come back to me.”

  “Maybe Everett was onto something. Maybe you were tied to something here.”

  Jerome turned and looked at the picture of Belinda. “Maybe.”

  “Do you want to start in here or behind the stage? Everett had an office back there,” Cliff said as he came through the old doors that separated the lobby from the auditorium.

  “Let’s start back there, I guess,” I said. I ventured a look at Jerome who nodded and shrugged.

  I knew the mosaics on the auditorium walls were original. The town had spent a fortune keeping the tiles in reasonably good condition. The mosaics were elaborate, detailed, and abstract designs. The mostly warm-toned art was an important part of the town’s history.

  The chairs looked old-fashioned but were in pretty good condition, and I thought I remembered hearing that the previous owner had replaced all the seating with designs approved by the Historical Society. They were covered in red velvet, reclined a little, and were wider and softer than the previous versions.

  The seating area swooped slightly downhill toward the stage, and the two aisles in betw
een the three sections of seats were carpeted in a red color that matched the seats.

  “We turned off the heating and air-conditioning, but I’m wondering if we should turn it back on. It isn’t uncomfortable in here, but it is kind of stuffy,” Cliff said.

  “Who’s going to run it?” I asked.

  “We’re not sure, yet. Evan, the new fire marshal, has expressed interest, but we’re still not sure who’re the bad guys and who’re the good guys. Evan called us the day after the murder saying he’d like to consider buying it. We were curious about his motives for wanting to volunteer so quickly.”

  “Does he seem suspicious?” I asked.

  “Not in the least. He lost his family in a terrible tragedy. We can’t find anything suspicious, but we just have to make sure.”

  Cliff gave me a hand as we climbed up to the stage. It was larger than any recent audiences would ever know. The movie screen had been installed for many years and sat more toward the front than the back of the large area.

  Cliff guided us behind the screen. Our new view revealed the real stuff of the theater, the inner workings, the guts. Ropes, pulleys, and levers were everywhere. If I looked closely I could see that very little was probably in working order but instead frozen, suspended in time. It was as if the theater ran one last burlesque show and then tied the ropes, secured the pulleys, and left the levers where they were before they turned out the lights one last time and went home.

  There was also a distinct smell at the back of the stage. It was the same smell that I noticed in many Broken Rope locations. I also smelled it in Gram’s house. I always referred to it as “antique stink.” It didn’t smell bad; it was just the smell of time, perhaps moisture that had been trapped in old wood crevices, perhaps dust that hadn’t been swept away. I always found it comforting and a reminder of the history I constantly lived around.

  “Look at this,” Cliff said as he pointed at the floor.

  The stage floor was made of old wood planks that had stood the test of time. Amid the planks and in a space well behind the screen and in the smack-dab center of everything was an ornate J done in lighter wood than the rest of the floor. It was as artistic as the mosaics but not nearly as well taken care of. The entire stage floor could have used a sanding and new varnish coating. But, nonetheless, it was still beautiful.

  “Has the Jasper always been the Jasper?” I asked.

  “I don’t have any idea, Betts. You should ask Jake,” Cliff said.

  “I will,” I said, but I looked at Jerome who suddenly seemed lost in thought as he walked around the J and rubbed at his chin. I wanted to ask what was on his mind. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

  “You okay?” Cliff asked.

  “Fine.”

  Jerome looked at me and his eyebrows came together. He shook his head as if to tell me that he couldn’t quite capture the memory that seemed to be teasing him.

  “Everett’s office is back this way.” Cliff turned and stepped around two pulley ropes. I didn’t watch what Jerome did but followed Cliff. He had his hand on a doorknob. “There are a whole bunch of rooms back here. They must have been dressing rooms in the old days, but this one—the one with the big gold star—is the one Everett used as an office. I’d be happy to show you all the rooms, but I promise they’re empty.”

  Everett’s office was large and cluttered. It looked just like a movie theater manager’s office should look. Movie posters, stacks of paperwork, even a couple rolls of “admit one” tickets.

  I put my hands on my hips. “You okay if I look through things?”

  Cliff didn’t want to tell me yes, but technically the office wasn’t a crime scene. Everett had been killed at the school.

  “We’ve gone through everything,” Cliff said. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Good. You’ve gone through it. What would it hurt if I looked, too? I won’t make a mess, well, not a bigger mess than it already is.”

  Cliff’s cell phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his pocket, looked at it and said, “I need to take this. I’ll be out here.”

  Code for “go ahead, but don’t disturb anything too much.” That was convenient.

  As Cliff left the office, Jerome joined me in it.

  “Point me a direction, Jerome. Where’s the paper? What should I look for?”

  I hurried to the other side of the desk and started opening drawers. Pens, pencils, Sharpies, staples, files, none of which were interesting.

  “It was on top of everything. I don’t see it now. Maybe it fell or got moved. Look for anything, though.”

  I was disappointed there was no paper mentioning Jerome and the treasure, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to search for other things, so I trudged forward.

  Nothing grabbed my attention. Additionally, there wasn’t anything personal in the office. There were no pictures, crayon drawings, greeting cards. Even I had a funny birthday card from Teddy in my office, a space I rarely visited. Everett had spent more time in his office in one day than I probably did in a week.

  Out of frustration, I opened the wide-top pens-and-pencils drawer again. The muscle I put into the maneuver shifted the drawer’s contents my direction. If it hadn’t been so lightweight, I doubt the small piece of paper would have come into view. I didn’t think it was much of anything anyway, but since I hadn’t found anything else, I plucked it from in between a No. 2 pencil and a blue ink pen. It was about two inches by two inches, roughly bordered as if it had been torn from a larger piece of paper and folded in half. I unfolded it.

  “This might be something,” I said.

  I’d hidden the piece of paper I found in the tombstone in the glove box of my car so I couldn’t compare side by side, but from what I remembered, this new find looked like a copy of the first find. A copy made from a copy machine. The paper said Jasper.

  “Hmm,” Jerome said.

  “What?”

  “It seems so…”

  “Convenient?”

  “Something like that. In the tombstone and now in the desk drawer. We found them both within just a few hours. Where else should we look? If we find another one, I might think we’re being set up.”

  I got what Jerome was saying. It was strange to find two of the same thing, two pieces of paper with the same word in such different places. Were they metaphorical bread crumbs? Was someone leading us a certain direction? Was it the right direction or was someone trying to throw us off?

  I stared at the piece of paper and hoped my brain would grab onto something that told me what I’d found.

  My brain got nothing.

  Finally I did exactly what I’d done with the first Jasper I’d found; I put it in my pocket.

  “Yeah, if we find one on my porch, I’ll wonder, too. For now, we’ll keep them both and compare,” I said.

  All I knew was at the moment the small pieces of paper meant absolutely nothing.

  “Anything good?” Cliff peered into the office.

  “Not a thing,” I said.

  “Want to look around some more?”

  “Actually, I’d like to go onto the roof.”

  “Uh, well…”

  “Is it easy to get to?”

  “Not bad. Why do you want to go up there?”

  “Jake and I were shot at from someone up there.” I pointed. “I’d like to look around.”

  Cliff thought a moment and then said, “Sure. It’s not too precarious. This way.”

  Cliff led the way down the back hallway, past the old empty dressing rooms.

  “Hang on tight. The stairs aren’t bad, but they’re a little wobbly,” he said as we approached a set of thin, short steel stairs. They were steep and seemed more precarious to me than they were to Cliff, but I was curious enough to make the climb.

  “Careful there, Isabelle,” Jerome said from behind me.

  I nodded.

  “A little wobbly” was an understatement, but we made it to the top of the twenty (I counted) steps and Cliff opened a doo
r which took us directly to the roof.

  The view from the roof was great. I could see all the way past Bunny’s and to the RV park where traffic was still building. I could also see that the hanging platform was beginning to be assembled.

  The roof’s floor was made of rocky asphalt and was warm enough that I felt a little heat through my shoes. There was a large HVAC unit to one side of the space, but nothing else anywhere.

  Jerome stood in the corner he spoke about and said, “It’s still here, Isabelle.”

  I nodded. “Well, there’s not much to see up here, is there?” I said to Cliff.

  “Nice view,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll just walk up and down the back ledge.” My words sounded too forced.

  I started in the opposite corner from Jerome. “Interesting view from this side, too.”

  The alley, with props, Dumpsters, and storage sheds backed up to Missouri woods. I could see trees that seemed to go on forever, but there wasn’t time to enjoy all the greenery. I turned my attention to the banister around the ledge. As I made my way toward Jerome, he kept saying, “Right here, right here.” I looked up quickly to let him know that I knew, but he didn’t get the hint and kept repeating himself.

  Cliff followed behind me. He looked at the ledge, too. Finally, I reached Jerome and studied his discovery.

  There was something on the ledge that looked like a couple drips of something. The spots were more brown than red and blended in with all the other pocks in the concrete banister, even though a close look showed they were different. Jerome must have good eyes.

  “Cliff, what do you think this is?” I asked as I pointed.

  “Good job,” Jerome said.

  Cliff crouched and looked at the spots. “Huh.” He pulled out what looked like a pocketknife and extended a small magnifying glass and held it over the spots. “I’m not sure, but it might be blood.”

  “That could be important, right?”

  Jerome nodded.

  “Sure. It could be very important. The shooter could have cut him- or herself. I don’t remember seeing it before, but maybe I missed it. I need to process it, but I didn’t bring the equipment in.”