“You remember where it is?” Gram said.
“It’s buried with me, I’m almost sure. Betts said she’d dig it up.”
“No, I said I’d think about it,” I said.
Gram looked at me with wide panicked eyes. I shook my head.
“You’ll do it, I just know,” Sally said.
“Maybe it would be best if we did other things to jog your memory about what’s in the diary, Sally,” Gram said. “Our friend Jake has been gathering and collecting Broken Rope historical memorabilia. He might know something more about your story. Just in case Betts decides not to dig up your body.” Gram looked at me again.
“That’s a great idea, Gram. Jake loves the history of Broken Rope. I bet he can find some interesting facts that will help you remember,” I said.
“Do you think he has my diary? I mean, if it isn’t buried with me.”
“I don’t know,” I said. In fact, I didn’t think Jake had Sally’s diary. The diary of an ax murderer would be something he would probably mention to me even though I was a less than stellar student of Broken Rope history. I had become slightly more interested in our past after Jerome, but not as interested as Jake would have liked.
“I suppose that might be a good place to start,” Sally said.
“A great place,” Gram agreed as she parked the Volvo in front of what looked more like a construction zone than a place for guests to get some rest.
The Anderson farm had been a working farm at one time, but not for many decades. Over the years its acreage had been sold, bit by bit, and other houses had been built on the land, the most modern of which was completed around 1990. The neighborhood’s style was eclectic, offering everything from a fairly modern two-story to the big old Anderson country place that had sported two porch swings, one on each end of the wide porch. At the moment the porch swings weren’t anywhere to be seen; the front door and the two big front windows that normally flanked it were missing as well, leaving black gaping holes. There was a large pile of lumber in the ignored front yard and a quiet power-saw table. I hoped the dormitory behind the building was in better shape, lots better actually.
Fortunately, the dormitory was done and ready for occupants, though probably not the type of occupants it was going to see this evening. It was set up more like a lodge where a family or a group of kids might stay. But it was the best we had, so we cheerfully helped carry in luggage and assign beds. Unless they were willing to be crowded, couples would not be comfortable sleeping together. Cece seemed happy about that plan; everyone else took it in stride.
Suzi Warton was as close to a ball of fire as I’d ever met. She was just under five feet tall and athletic. Her short black hair matched her eyes, and I suspected she saw the world through silly-colored glasses because no matter what anyone said or did, she had a playful smile quirking her mouth.
Just standing next to her, I could feel the energy course through her body, as though she was in a continual state of being ready to pounce or strike. She had good things to say about Teddy’s construction skills, but she didn’t gush over him or ask me about his personal life like almost every other female, dead or alive, did. That made me like her immediately.
The single beds, separated by half walls, lined the perimeter of the large space. A kitchenette filled one wall, and on the opposite end, a hallway led to the four bathrooms. Two large tables surrounded by chairs sat in the middle of the room. The chairs were so neatly tucked in, it was evident that no one had stayed there yet. The realization that they’d be “christening” the space, as Suzi called it, made the visitors go from hesitant to kind of jovial about the circumstances. Suzi took a picture of the group and promised she’d frame it and put it on the wall to let all future visitors know who had been there first.
Suzi, it seemed, had been created to have guests. She knew exactly what to do and what to say to make them comfortable.
No one was hungry, but Teddy had stocked the kitchenette with snacks and sodas. Even though the food tour group would be staying at the dormitory only one night, I thought we’d all done whatever we could to make sure they felt welcome.
When it seemed that Gram and I had hung around long enough to be polite but not so long that we felt the need to tuck everyone in, and Sally had disappeared claiming we were more boring than the dead people she knew, we excused ourselves and made our way back to the school. I didn’t say it out loud on the ride, but it was a huge relief not to feel responsible for the retired foodies. I was grateful for Suzi Warton and her dormitory.
“Let’s get the dishes soaking, but I suppose we can clean most of this up tomorrow,” Gram said. We stood at one end of the kitchen as she looked at her watch. “I can’t believe it’s already after nine. It’s as if we took one step forward on the cleaning but two steps backward.”
Pots, pans, dishes, utensils littered the kitchen. A cheesy potato aroma had knocked out the earlier scents of pine cleanser and fresh air. It had been a matter of switching gears. We switched again. Once we fell into auto-clean, we went way past soaking the dishes. All dishes and available surfaces were spotless by the time we left. I even ran a broom over the floor but left the mopping to the hired night crew that would show up later, sometime after midnight.
Gram’s yearly cleaning obsession was more for her than for the school. We or our students cleaned up every day, and the nightly group did the rest. But Gram’s cleaning week was tradition and had become somewhat of a superstition. I could tell that the interruption didn’t sit right with her even if she might have thought it was silly to say it out loud. There was something about the squint of her eyes and the tightness of her mouth that made me know she wasn’t happy with the surprises we’d had to deal with today.
But I knew she was also resilient enough to move forward. By the time we switched off the lights and I was waving at the back end of the Volvo, I was sure that all would be fine tomorrow.
It was late but I wasn’t ready to go home. I thought about my options and decided to see if Jake was awake.
When he was acting as the town’s fake sheriff, Jake performed cowboy poetry for our tourists. He enjoyed the “part,” but since he was so wealthy I often wondered why he chose to stay in Broken Rope. I was glad he did. He was my touchstone, my sanity, and didn’t let me get away with much of anything. He was also the town’s self-proclaimed historian, and as Gram had told Sally he’d collected a cache of Broken Rope archives in the back of his downtown building.
It was late, but when he was awake and available, he kept his cell phone on. I took the chance that he’d answer.
“I’m so glad you called,” he said halfway through the first ring.
“Why?”
“I feel a disturbance in the force. How did things go with the tour group? Is something else going on?”
I summarized the tour group details, concluding with the good fortune of Suzi Warton’s dormitory and Gram and my late-night recleaning.
“Oh dear, I should have thought through all the obstacles before I called you. Of course, it didn’t make sense to have them stay at the school, but their bus driver, Leroy, I think his name is, was so desperate to have something in place. I think I understand better now. They’d already delayed their trip. I probably should have just told them there were no options, but you and Miz are troopers to do all you did. I speak for the town of Broken Rope when I say ‘thank you.’”
“No problem. It worked out,” I said.
“What about you? Something else is going on. I can sense it. Betts, is Jerome back?”
“No, Jerome isn’t back, but another ghost has arrived,” I said as I leaned against my old blue Nova; it was in great shape and its engine still purred beautifully.
“I knew something was up.” I heard a snap and suspected Jake had slapped his leg to emphasize his point.
Jake was the only person I’d told about Jerome. I’d needed him, not to mention his historical archives, to help solve a murder. I didn’t have to tell him, but it had
made dealing with the arrival of ghosts in my life easier. Even if it hadn’t made it easier, we were best friends; I wanted to share almost everything with Jake. He had taken it well, and not too surprisingly he was envious. He’d often thought there were ghosts in Broken Rope; it seemed only fair that he, with his love of Broken Rope’s past, should be able to communicate with them instead of me.
“You’re intuitive,” I said.
“Maybe.” I heard a shrug. “Tell me the details.”
“Any chance you could meet at the archives? I’d love to see what you have on our newest visitor.”
“You’re teasing me. Tell me who and I’ll get things ready.”
“We’ll be there at about the same time. See you in a few?”
Jake sighed. “On my way.”
Nothing was far away from anything else in Broken Rope. The cooking school was on the edge of the town limits, high on a hill and surrounded by the parking lot, the cemetery, and some thick woods. When the tourist traffic wasn’t at its worst, the town itself was a quick five-minute drive down the state highway and around a tight curve. Jake’s house was on the other side of town, but when I told him that I’d see him in a few, I’d been correct. From either direction, it took only a few minutes to get to the boardwalk-lined downtown area, the main thoroughfare of our tourist attractions. Jake’s fake sheriff’s office was his stage for performing as well as the front for the archive room. Behind the old-fashioned law office space decorated with old WANTED posters and Jake’s stick pony, Patches, was the meat of the matter. The archive room was big, with a high ceiling, an old chandelier, the biggest worktable I’d ever seen, and shelves full of plastic folders that held a treasure trove of the history of Broken Rope.
Jake had taken it upon himself to start the archives, and he took his self-imposed job seriously. He organized documents and artifacts by date and/or person and/or strange death, or in ways that were secretive and mysterious to the rest of us. He was a one-person operation, though, so there was always more work to do.
During the summer, Broken Rope’s busy tourist season, Jake would don the sheriff’s uniform, stand with his trusty stick horse at his side, and recite the cowboy poetry he’d written, four times a day, rain or shine. He wasn’t a big man but he was handsome, and his deep, confident voice sometimes made him seem larger than life.
We did arrive almost simultaneously, and I told him who the newest ghost visitor was as he flipped on the electric lights he’d wired into the old chandelier attached to the archive room ceiling.
“Sally Swarthmore?” he said, his voice full of admiration. “She’s one of our most famous, Betts.”
“I know. She’s a character, let me tell you.”
“Is she here? In this room now?”
“No. I don’t know where she went.”
Jake’s eyes pinched. “I am so jealous that you can see these ghosts. You know that, don’t you?”
“You mentioned it. I’m not saying it isn’t interesting, but I’m beginning to wonder how much fun it really is,” I said as I looked around. I didn’t want to insult Sally if she had, in fact, shown up. “When Sally’s around, she lets it be known that she’d like for me or Gram to entertain her. She’s a little more high maintenance than Jerome.”
Jake laughed. “She’s more work than the ghost you still have a crush on? What a surprise.”
I ignored the comment. “Anyway, what do you have on Sally? She’s insisting she might have been buried with a diary that wouldn’t clear her of the murders but would show that she was justified in committing them. She wants me to have her coffin dug up just so her reputation can be restored.”
Jake blinked and then was still as he thought a moment. He finally said, “Oh, wouldn’t that be something? Digging up an old killer’s grave. I might just mention it to the tourism bureau. Can’t you see how big it could be?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I don’t want to try to get Sally’s body exhumed. I can’t even imagine the legal issues involved, or how we could possibly explain why we want to do this—mentioning that her ghost would like her reputation less sullied probably wouldn’t work.” I might know some of the legal issues if I’d finished law school, but I was trying not to beat myself up so much over that anymore, so I didn’t say it out loud.
Jake nodded. “I have some information on Sally, but no diary. I don’t even think I have a mention of a diary.”
He walked to a spot in front of the shelves, reached in and pulled out a large plastic folder, and placed it on the center worktable. The folder was too big for the small number of items it held. His archive collection was a constant work in progress, and the folders were big enough so they could hold more as time went on.
“Oh wait. I guess I kind of take that back. There is a diary of sorts,” he said. “But not Sally’s diary. Sally died in jail at the age of thirty-three in 1893. At the time, there was a reporter at the Noose who kept his own diary—again, of sorts. He kept notes. I have his book. It’s in Sally’s file because most of it is filled with notes of her crime and her trial. I haven’t looked at it in a while. It takes some deciphering and I haven’t had the time. I would like to really study it. In fact, I haven’t looked at this entire file in some time; until you mentioned her diary, I didn’t remember his notes.”
Jake pulled out a small leather-bound book. It looked old, old enough that I was surprised it wasn’t in a special case of its own. He set it on the table and opened it carefully but not gingerly.
“The reporter’s name was Edgar O’Brien. Speaking of characters, he was one. Along with his notes, I’ve read some articles that were written about him. His smarts are kind of legendary; it’s my hope to create something that honors him better. He deserves some recognition, I think. I’ll have to find his obituary. Anyway, I think he moved to Broken Rope from Virginia. No one knows why he came here. He worked for the Noose for twenty-six years, until he was in his midsixties. He liked to claim that he worked the ‘dead beat.’ There was always a mysterious death or two, of course, and he liked the challenge of investigating them and then reporting what he found. However, the Sally Swarthmore event shook him. From what I’ve read, he was unshakable until then.
“Here. Read this.” Jake scooted the book in front of me.
I deciphered the haphazard chicken scratches: “Snuck in house. Easy. Found something and wonder why the defense attorney hasn’t used it. Ax handle without blade in the basement. Clean.”
I looked up at Jake. “That’s weird, and curious. But it could mean nothing at all.”
“I know. I think there’s a pretty full account of Sally, her crime, and her trial in there, obtuse though his notes may be. Take it and read at your leisure, with or without Sally.”
“Really? You’re okay with me taking this? Why?”
Jake smiled slyly. “That’s not the original. It’s just a duplicate that I made. I sewed the binding and everything.”
“You are amazing!” I held the solid, well-put-together book. It looked worn and aged, but not as if it was falling apart. Jake must have made an almost perfect replica.
“Well…what can I say.”
I ran my finger over the binding as something else occurred to me. “You don’t know where Sally lived, do you? Is her house still standing?”
“I have a general idea of where her family’s house was. It was more a shack than a house and it’s long gone, though I don’t know if it burned down like so many other houses or if time just whittled it away. It was about two football fields back from the old Monroe House. There’s not much of anything out there now—well, a small, newly developed area with a few homes—but there used to be a big neighborhood there, not a great neighborhood, less than ideal houses, but Sally’s family did have a big storage building in their backyard; that building is gone except for some old boards. Trees and weeds have grown up around them, and you can’t see them unless you really look. I don’t think anyone knows they were part of the Swarthmores’ prop
erty, and I haven’t wanted to share that news. The area would become a tourist attraction just because Sally once lived there, and it’s not safe.”
“Behind the Monroe House. The haunted house?” I said, an involuntary shiver shaking my shoulders slightly. I’d spent a number of Halloween evenings with friends in the Monroe House, scared out of my skin by things I saw and heard: shadows, funny moving lights, moans. Long ago I chalked those experiences up to my teenage imagination, but knowing what I know now—that I could see and talk to ghosts—I wondered if it hadn’t been something more. I hadn’t been back to that house in years.
“The one and only and it’s set to be torn down in a week. That house was built by one of the town founders—Abel Monroe—and meetings were allegedly held there regarding Civil War matters. Missouri—the state, not your gram—played a pretty bloody part in that battle. Abel Monroe hid and helped transport slaves from that home. It was said that he was killed, poisoned, in his sleep because of his abolitionist leanings. That house should remain standing, in my opinion.”
“I had no idea it was supposed to be torn down. Are there any Monroes left?”
Jake sighed. “You’ve got to start reading your emails. I’ve been sending out information about it for weeks. I’m trying to stage a protest. That house should be on the historical register. It should be restored to its former glory. No, there are no family members left. The last one, Havilda, died ten years ago, but no one has been living there for almost fifteen. Keeping and restoring the house is a cause I think worthy.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been checking email. I usually talk to everyone I need to talk to in person, every day.” I thought Jake was probably right about the house being a good candidate for the historical register, but I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it preserved. It wasn’t just its spookiness, really; it couldn’t be safe. We’d roamed through it when we were kids. I knew the same sort of activity went on today, and the old place had to be even more dangerous now than it was then. It needed to be either torn down or renovated quickly. I wasn’t as sentimental as Jake was about the old places that had seen important events, but I’d do whatever he wanted me to do to support his cause.
If Mashed Potatoes Could Dance Page 4