I closed the book, keeping my thumb in the spot I’d been reading. “Do you remember burning a blue dress, or do you remember her saying you did?”
“At this moment, only that she said I did.”
The long-abandoned attorney wannabe in me stirred again. I might have dropped out of law school, but, still, sometimes the truth needed to be uncovered.
From somewhere at the front of the small house, my cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” I swung my legs off the bed. I’d been so tired the night before, I’d just dropped everything in the front room, my cell phone included. Usually it was plugged into a socket behind my nightstand.
“Will you go into the Monroe House?” Sally asked as I hurried to the phone.
“Hang on a second, Sally.”
It was on the coffee table, surprisingly still charged enough to ring. “Jake, hey, what’s up?”
“Meet me at my office?”
“Sure, but what’s up? You okay?”
“Fine, fine. I just need to show you something in between shows. Gotta go.” He clicked off.
Sally was standing in the doorway. “You’re not going to go to the Monroe House, are you?”
“Not right this minute. I have to meet Jake, but I’d love to go over this book again later. How’s that for now?”
Sally sighed and gave me a strained, impatient look before she disappeared.
In truth, I had no desire or time to be roaming around condemned haunted houses. I didn’t really have the time to be reviewing the life of Sally Swarthmore either. If I’d learned anything from Jerome’s visit, it was that I had to remember there wasn’t much I could do for these ghosts. Dead was going to stay dead. Gram just continued on with her life when one of them visited. She knew better. I wasn’t there yet and was curious enough about them and their lives to take a deeper interest.
I got ready in record time, not even bothering to blow-dry my hair but just pulling it into a wet ponytail, and then steered my Nova downtown.
Chapter 7
The weather still wasn’t miserable. It was just cool enough that the humidity wasn’t as much of a burden as it could be. It was a rare southern Missouri July when being outside wasn’t torturous.
Of course, the payoff was that the streets and boardwalk were extra crowded with foot traffic. I didn’t know if the news of the previous evening’s murder had spread and if we would soon see a bump or a decline in visitors. Considering our history, we’d probably see a bump. A new and mysterious death in Broken Rope was not good news, of course, but it was always morbidly interesting.
Main Street had been blocked off to cars since the Southern Missouri Showdown, the cooking contest that the cooking school students competed in to kick off the summer tourist season. As per summer-usual, I had to get creative in parking. I searched for a place behind Jake’s building, but all those secret spots were taken. The tourists were catching on.
I finally found an open spot right off Main and in front of the old courthouse. I was a few blocks from Jake’s, but they were short blocks. Having now made Sally’s acquaintance, I looked at the courthouse differently. It was just an old brick building, yet it had seen the likes of Sally Swarthmore, a person who, if she was anything in life like she was in death, could be somewhat annoying but genial. I’d never been like Jake; I’d never “felt” the history of the town in its buildings. Jake could walk into some place and need a moment to soak in the atmosphere, soak in the memories that the old bricks and mortar surely held.
It really was unfair that he couldn’t see the ghosts and I could.
But the courthouse, and all its bricks and mortar, did seem more interesting. And though I didn’t sense history seeping into my very self, I had a new respect for it—the building had seen Sally’s last days before she’d been locked up and then had died.
“Isabelle Winston,” a voice said.
I knew the voice and wasn’t in the mood to be friendly to the person attached to it, but I smiled and turned nonetheless.
“Hey, Opie,” I said to the approaching figure. I had a moment of déjà vu. With her time-correct dress and the big blond wig, Opie looked like a duplicate of the real Sally Swarthmore. I was impressed and would have complimented her if she’d been anyone else.
“Betts,” she said with a friendly tone to her voice. Something was up.
“Well, look at that, I thought I’d visit the old courthouse and not only do I find you again, Betts, but it looks like another me is here, too. Am I really that…uh…that built?” Sally had appeared and was pointing at Opie’s pushed–up chest.
On second thought, the dresses weren’t as close a match as I’d thought. Sally’s dress covered all parts of her; Opie’s, not so much.
“What’s up, Opie?” I said, trying not to smile at Sally, who was posing like Opie and comparing herself to her impersonator.
“I’ve been thinking,” Opie said as she put her finger to the side of her head. “We should have lunch.”
We hadn’t had lunch together since elementary school. We used to throw food at each other.
“Why?” I said. I hadn’t meant to be rude, but it was a legitimate question. Sally laughed.
“Because,” Opie peered at me under a serious forehead, “we should try to become closer.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You know, since Teddy and I are—”
“Oh!” I interrupted. “That’s…” I wanted to say that it was okay that she and I weren’t friends, that I wasn’t accepting the fact that my brother would remain serious about her. He wasn’t serious about anyone. He went through women like Gram and I went through bacon grease. But that suddenly seemed too cruel even to say to her. I didn’t know if it was because she was dressed as Sally, the convicted ax murderer I was getting to know, or if on some level I thought she was right. Maybe since she was seeing Teddy, we should play nice. “A good idea,” I continued, sounding like I was trying to convince myself. “I’m so busy right now, though. Maybe in a few weeks?”
“Sure,” she said after a brief pause.
“She’s pretty,” Sally said. “Am I that pretty?”
I smiled at Sally, making Opie think I was smiling at someone to her side. She turned to see who was approaching. She smiled at a small group of tourists as they passed us.
“Very good. In a few weeks, then,” Opie said.
I took a step around her. “Great. We’ll talk.”
“Betts,” she added, “you are one of the few people I know who can mostly pull off the wet-hair, no makeup look, but Cliff’s back in town. You might want to put on a little lip gloss.”
“Thanks, Opie,” I said with a sigh. I really didn’t have the energy for this to become a heated discussion.
It would be different if I thought she didn’t know better, thought she was just being helpful. But I knew Opie, and I knew she’d just pulled off her favorite kind of dig—one that she delivered right after being mostly human.
Sally laughed again. “She’s interesting.”
“Gotta go,” I said.
“Hey, I’m going in to catch the show. I want to see how well she portrays me,” Sally said. “Please think about the Monroe House.”
I waved as I hurried toward Jake. Two Sallys at one time were really more than anyone should have to put up with.
Chapter 8
During the summer tourist season, Jake performed seven days a week, every hour on the hour from 10:00 A.M. until 3:00 P.M. He welcomed tourists into his fake sheriff’s office, and with his stick palomino pony, Patches, by his side, he would recite a cowboy poem he’d written, his baritone voice drawing bigger and bigger crowds as the summer went on.
I arrived at his sheriff’s office right before the 10:00 show. Jim must have released the scene so the performances could continue, and no matter how upset Jake might have been, he was a big believer in the show must go on. It was probably a good thing, too; the small room, decorated with only a desk and podium and western art over the w
alls, was packed. Jake stood at the back behind the podium, the horse in his hand. Without breaking character he sent me a private nod before he broke into the poem of the year. Every poem was original, but they all paid tribute in one way or another to the Old West, the cowboys, and their way of life. I never found the idea of traveling around on a horse, not having baths and air-conditioning readily available, et cetera, all that appealing, but getting to know the ghost of Jerome Cowbender had given me a new appreciation for that way of life.
“A wink from a star, a campfire lullaby…” Jake began, hushing the crowd.
I found a good spot to stand right outside the door and had settled in to enjoy the show when someone lightly touched my arm.
“You have a minute, Betts?”
“Cliff, sure,” I said.
He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, almost as deep as the worry lines around his mouth. He signaled me to walk with him. We moved down the boardwalk about half a block, away from the crowd, and sat down on an old bench outside a currently quiet shop, where tourists could buy everything from noose key chains to diapers printed with hanging platforms. No one was around to eavesdrop, and I was glad to find a place for Cliff to sit.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’m sure you’re aware that we’re still missing two members of the tourist group.”
“I hadn’t heard that they’d been found, dead or alive.” I swallowed.
“Right. Would you go over the events of your day yesterday one more time?”
“Here?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” It didn’t take long to tell Cliff the events of the day beginning with the phone call I’d received from Jake asking me about the sleepover cooking class idea. Once I finished, he backtracked to the beginning.
“Why did the tourists call Jake?” he asked.
I couldn’t remember why Jake had been the one to call me, or if he’d even told me why he was handling things for the foodie group. After thinking about it a long minute, I said, “He’s with the Historical Society. I think that somehow the call got routed to him. Maybe.” But I wasn’t totally sure, and I wondered why Cliff needed to know.
“From the hotel?” Cliff said
“I don’t know.”
That didn’t make sense, at least not without having all the other details, details that probably only Jake could add. Why would the hotel have called him? There would have been no reason for Jake to receive such a call unless there was other information we didn’t know. And it didn’t seem possible that a call would be routed to Jake from the hotel switchboard.
“I think you’ll have to ask him,” I said.
“I will.” Cliff looked around. He was serious and thoughtful at the same time. It was a side of him that I had rarely seen. He’d been the backup quarterback on our high school football team. I’d seen the same sort of mood during the few moments he’d gotten into a game. This wasn’t the right time to reminisce, and football was far less important than what was happening now, but still, the look took me back.
“What is it?” I asked.
Cliff shook his head and glanced out to the street. He wasn’t focusing on anything in particular except maybe his own troubling thoughts.
“Cliff, what’s going on?” I pushed.
“Do you remember Damon Rim, from high school?”
“Of course. How could I forget him?” I said. Damon Rim was our class bully. He was a fairly standard bully, mean to everyone and every creature. No one liked him. After about eighth grade no one wanted to have anything to do with him. Even parents got tired of telling their kids to give Damon a chance.
“Do you remember how he treated Jake?”
“How could I not?” I said. “Horribly.”
Jake had always been a small person, extraordinarily small in high school. He was smart and dramatic and almost seemed fragile at times. These qualities, though adorable to some, made him Damon Rim’s prime target. Damon’s treatment of Jake went beyond putting him in a locker or throwing food at him. In fact, Damon was kicked out of school his senior year for a prank he played on Jake that included deadly threats and a dangerous move around a busy railroad track. Damon had held Jake down on the track as a train approached. It wasn’t until the last second when Damon lifted his knee from Jake’s chest that they both escaped their sure deaths. We all thought Damon might be thrown in jail for that one or put into some deep psychotherapy, but instead he just disappeared; at least that’s what I thought happened.
“Remember our senior year and the thing he did to Jake?”
“Yes.”
“We thought he just left, but that’s not what occurred,” Cliff said as he rubbed his hand over his chin.
“What, then?”
“He moved to Kansas somewhere. Later, he was arrested for…well, all kinds of things. He’s still in jail.”
“I hate to say it, but that’s where he was headed, it seemed.”
“No doubt,” Cliff agreed. “But do you remember his family circumstance? Damon was a later–in–life child. His parents were in their late forties when he was born.”
“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember his parents at all.”
“Right, they left with him, but they had another child who was older.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me who that older child was?”
“I am. Damon’s older sister is Georgina Rim Carlisle, Greg Carlisle’s wife. Georgina is now, of course, the widow of the man who was killed last night.”
I thought about the overlapping and crossing family ties. “Stuart’s her cousin? So, Stuart is also Damon’s cousin?”
“That’s right. How did you know about Stuart being her cousin?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied. It was better than telling him Sally told me.
“What a bizarre coincidence,” I said a beat later, but I knew what Cliff was trying to tell me. The police don’t usually consider coincidences coincidental. “What are you getting at? Are you saying something about Jake or Georgina or who?”
Cliff seemed genuinely perplexed. “I have no idea, but these are the sorts of connections we look for, that give us leads, that we follow up on. I didn’t know if you…or…”
I blinked. “You want to know if Jake has told me something about the kidnappings or murder?”
Cliff’s eyes were steady on mine. “Betts, come on, you know I’m not accusing Jake of anything. You know me better than that, a lot better.”
“Then, what?”
“Look, kidnapping and murder don’t leave room for politeness or friendship or loyalty. We have to explore every angle. The fact that Georgina Carlisle is related to the guy who bullied Jake for years has caught our attention, that’s all. I need you to tell me if you know anything; maybe you’ve seen something or heard something or Jake said something—please, stop shooting the daggers from your eyes—something that doesn’t even necessarily mean that Jake might be guilty. Maybe you’ve seen or heard something that might be a red flag that he’s in danger, too. This isn’t about accusing him. This is about trying to find two more people alive before we find them dead.”
I took a deep breath and thought about the last few days. I’d seen Jake here and there, but we hadn’t spent a lot of time together. We did have coffee two or three—I couldn’t immediately remember—days ago, and he had seemed tired, but he’d said he’d been working in his archive room late the night before; that was nothing new. His call to meet with him today was something I wasn’t ready to share with Cliff. If Jake confessed that he’d committed a crime when I talked to him, I’d think about telling Cliff and Jim, but there was a chance I’d try to find a way to get him out of trouble, too.
Jake was the world’s best best friend, and if he’d done something unthinkable, I was willing to listen to his side of the story before making any quick judgments, particularly if somehow, someway Damon Rim had been involved.
&n
bsp; “I get what you’re saying, Cliff, but I have nothing else to tell you at this point,” I finally said.
He studied my face for a good moment before he said, “Will you let me know if something comes to mind?”
“Of course.”
“I hope so.” He paused a moment and the air around us seemed to settle slightly. “You on your way to see him now?”
“I just came down to hear the poem,” I lied.
He tried to switch gears as he forced a smile and said, “It’s a good one. You’ll enjoy it.” He paused again and then asked, “Are we still on for dinner tonight at Bunny’s?”
In fact, I had totally forgotten about dinner. “I thought you might be busy, but I’m still available if you are.”
“Can I be a bad date and call you in a couple hours if I think I need to cancel?”
“You can call me right before you’re supposed to pick me up, or we can just meet there. No problem.”
Redating was so different from the original go–around. Dating as an adult was also different than dating as a hormone-crazed teenager. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me that Cliff’s job as a police officer might sometimes have to take priority over time we planned to spend together, but of course it would. I could handle it.
He smiled again. “You’re the best, Betts. Really the best.”
“I am? For saying you may cancel our date at the last minute if you need to. I think you’re just too easy to please.” I smiled, too.
“Actually, that’s not even close to the truth.”
The air had settled all the way now. Whatever tense moment we’d had was quickly being replaced by our old-fashioned attraction to each other.
He kissed me quickly but not without a hint of passion. Jim would probably frown on one of his officers kissing in public, especially during tourist season, but that made it even better.
“Oh,” I said. “That was interesting.”
If Mashed Potatoes Could Dance Page 8