If Fried Chicken Could Fly (20 page)

“How’s the search for that horrible man’s killer going?” Mabel asked.

It was my turn to blink. “Do you mean Everett?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Mabel, I’ve never heard him described that way. I’ve only heard good and nice things about him. Why was he horrible?”

It was Amy’s turn to put her hand on her grandmother’s arm. Amy’s skin turned gray, and her eyes came together in concern. She shook her head ever so slightly.

“Never mind,” Mabel said.

Everyone was looking at Mabel with questioning curiosity.

“Mabel, I hope you’ve told the police why he was horrible. For the rest of us, well, it’s none of our business, I suppose.”

Unlike Stuart, Mabel wasn’t shy in the least. She was one of the town’s busybodies, but she was always friendly so no one minded her nosy ways. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew something about Everett that the rest of us didn’t. I was dying to know what that something was, but her mouth was now pinched tightly shut. She put her arm around her granddaughter and hugged her tightly. Amy leaned into the hug.

Of course, the worst possible thoughts ran through my mind, but that was bad form. It was wrong to assume the worst, no matter what. Maybe Gram would know something.

“Okay, then, shall we talk about the cook-off?”

The cook-off was held at the south end of Broken Rope’s downtown Main Street, which was right at the intersection in between Mabel’s cookie shop and the saloon, the same spot Jake and I had walked around to sneak behind the buildings. The cooks created their meals in the school’s kitchen and then took aluminum-foil-covered pans to the event. Mabel allowed the students to use her cookie shop ovens to keep things warm, and Miles would allow them to use his refrigerators. An old-fashioned hanging platform would be set up before tomorrow morning, and the judges would be seated on the platform as they sampled the dishes. It was tradition that whoever won the contest got to climb the stairs up to the platform, grab the noose, and ceremoniously cut it off, effectively beginning the Broken Rope tourist season. It was all very morbid but had become tradition, and the tourists looked forward to it, cheering and booing through the entire event.

Other people were in charge of setting up the tables and the hanging platform. We were only responsible for explaining to the judges what we were looking for from them, which was an honest and fair judgment based on their trying every single item that was put in front of them. We always screened for food allergies and always had a doctor on the premises just in case someone was allergic to something they weren’t aware of, but we hadn’t had any problems in the past.

Gram usually led these meetings, but I’d have to take over. I was up to the task. I knew the menus for each of the four students who had entered. I wouldn’t share specifically who was bringing what, but I did list off some of the items just to see if I got a sour reaction from anyone. It was a sour reaction that Gram looked for each year and used to emphasize how the judges must be fair.

There would be fried chicken, roast beef, pot roast, pork chops, collard greens, mashed potatoes, vegetable dishes that made vegetables taste like the most delicious foods ever created, and so much more.

The fried chicken was always a big hit. We’d thought of not allowing the contestants to add it to their menus because it was next to impossible to beat Gram’s recipe, but the mere mention of disqualifying it sent the students into loud vocal protest. And it had turned out to be a good thing that we kept it qualified. Sometimes students would try to perfect the simple recipe. They thought they’d found a way to make it better. They soon learned that messing with the simplicity was a bad plan. It was a good lesson for them to learn.

“Any questions?” I finally said after covering all that I thought needed to be covered.

“Can we discuss the food while we’re sitting at the judges’ table?” Mabel asked.

“Oh no. You can’t even discuss it with Amy. We want you to fill out the form using your opinion only,” I said.

“What if we really, really hate something?” Jenna asked.

“Then write that on the form along with a zero or whatever number you’d like to give the dish. We don’t show the forms to the students, but we do use the information to help them learn. We’re not going to hurt their feelings—at this point we have total confidence in their cooking skills. If you don’t like something, Gram and I would like to know. But give us specifics. Too salty, too bland, et cetera.”

“Will Miz be able to help this year?” Mabel asked.

Despite the fact that I’d led the meeting. Despite the shooting and visiting Gram in jail. Despite everything, I hadn’t accepted that Gram wouldn’t be helping with the cook-off. The judges faced me. I realized they’d been wondering about Gram’s status the entire time. Mabel had just been the first one brave enough to ask.

“You bet your sweet bippy I’m going to be able to help!” Gram burst through the swinging doors as if she’d been waiting for her cue. She’d somehow made it home and changed into a USC long-sleeved cotton shirt before her arrival.

“Gram!”

“Miz, you’ve been sprung,” Stuart said with a smile.

“Good to see you,” the others joined in.

“Good to be back. Now, I imagine Betts has covered everything, but are there any other questions?”

“How did you get out of jail?” I asked.

“Not enough evidence or some such thing that Verna beat into Jim. I’m not to leave town, though, and Jim threatened to put one of those ankle-cuff things on me that would make his computer beep if I took one step too many outside the town limits. If they find more evidence against me, I’m back in the slammer.” Gram waved away the thought.

Jim followed directly behind Gram. He gave us a few minutes to greet her and then signaled that he’d like me to join him outside.

“Not enough evidence?” I asked as I shaded my eyes from the warming sun.

“Just fingerprints on the bag. Since the bag was in a place that Missouri owns and we couldn’t find any other evidence, we thought it would be okay to release her on her own recognizance.”

“Verna worked her magic.”

“That part doesn’t matter right now, Betts.” Jim had been well handled by Verna, but he wouldn’t have released Gram if he thought she was guilty. He knew how important the cook-off was. “What’s with the coins?”

Teddy was still sitting beside the tombstone. He was either texting or playing a game on his cell phone.

“Right,” I said. “Over here.”

At first glance it didn’t look like Teddy had stolen anything.

“Do I have to teach since Gram is free?” he asked as we approached.

“Yes, she’ll need your help.”

“I’m at your beck and call,” he muttered as he stood and swiped grass pieces off his pants and sauntered back inside. There was a hint of delight in the tone of his voice.

“That certainly is interesting,” Jim said as he peered into the hole and at the coin on the top of the tombstone. “I think you
might
have found something of value, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with the murder. Cliff told me what you and Jake said about Jerome Cowbender’s treasure and that there might be a connection, but I just don’t know. Someone could have just put these here for the tourists. Sometimes, Betts, when we want to help a person we love, we make something out of nothing, you know what I mean?”

“I dunno, Jim. It’s all strange and unusual: Everett is murdered, Jake and I get shot at, Jake is attacked, his archives are stolen, and now this. Everett had been looking at Jerome’s archives. I think it’s worth looking at. Maybe fingerprints? What would it hurt? I’m glad Gram’s out of jail, but you still don’t have the real killer. I’d hate for this to go to trial and the only evidence you end up with is Gram’s fingerprints no matter how coincidental they might be.”

Jim inspected me from behind his glasses. “You have some good points, but you’re not telling me something, Isabelle Winston. I suspect it’s for a good reason. You’re protecting someone, probably your gram, but I understand that. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take these and find out what they are and have them fingerprinted. I doubt they’ll tell us much, but I guess I’m curious enough to want to know what they are anyway.”

“Thank you.” He was sort of right. I was protecting Gram. She wouldn’t admit that she and Everett had been looking for the treasure. He might already know that but if I reinforced it he might arrest her again, or at least call her back in for questioning. I’d work on getting her to talk to him but I didn’t want him to try to force her.

“Anything else that might help with the case, Isabelle?” Jim asked as we stood.

“What do you mean?”

“Just curious if there’s anything else you think you should share with me that might help. Nothing’s too small.”

“No, nothing else.”

“Be sure and let me know if that changes.”

“Will do.”

At first I thought he was being sarcastic, but I quickly realized he wasn’t. He was truly curious about what else I knew, or thought I knew. Unfortunately, all I was really sure of was that my world had grown to include a ghost, the ghost of an outlaw at that. I couldn’t tell him, or anyone but Jake, that bit of news. I nodded agreeably, but I still had a bad feeling. It seemed I was having lots of those lately.

Jim left with the coins, and Gram sent the judges away right before the daytimers showed up. We didn’t have any time to discuss anything between the two of us. And we were caught off guard when the daytimers proved to be an unhappy bunch.

The class was made up of fifteen students—fifteen wonderful and unique personalities. Gram knew how to teach. She knew how to read her students and get the most out of each and every one. Each student required something different; some were self-motivated, others needed a metaphorical kick in the butt. The daytimers had missed only one day of class, but it was an important day. They should have been taught the champagne cookie recipe yesterday and spent today practicing for tomorrow’s cook-off. Now they were going to have to combine the days.

The champagne cookies were more than just the ingredients they were made of; they were a symbol. When the students began their nine-month journey at Gram’s Country Cooking School, the cookies were the promise that was given. Complete the course and she’ll show you how to make her famous champagne cookies, cookies that, in some form or another, were served all over the country by cooks and chefs who’d worked hard to learn Gram’s ways. The congratulatory clinking of champagne glasses was replaced by the hum of mixers at work.

There was a general sense of crankiness throughout the kitchen, though no one would come out and say they were angry or irritated. Instead, they just acted it, which was worse.

I planned on meeting Cliff and hopefully Jerome at ten o’clock. Teddy was there to help Gram but since I still had an hour or so I stuck around to see if there was any way I could help.

Gram, aware of the discontent, began the meeting with an apology—she was sorry about the previous day’s cancellation, she was sorry about Everett, she was sorry she’d been thrown in jail, she was sorry that Jim and Cliff had contacted most of the students for a statement regarding the day of Everett’s death. She was actually more patient than I would have expected. I wanted to tell the students that it was normal for people to be questioned when a crime had been committed. They should have nothing to worry about if they were innocent.

The age range of the class was twenty-one to thirty-seven. This was one of the younger groups we’d taught, and they meshed pretty well, but Gram and I hadn’t thought about
the fact that not only would the students feel inconvenienced, they might be scared, too.

“They don’t have any clues at all?” Marie asked. She was tiny with closely cropped brown hair and big green eyes.

“Nothing substantial,” Gram said.

“Are you okay, Miz?” Myron Dillon asked. It was the first nonheated question. Myron was tall, thin, dark-skinned, and bald. He was planning on opening a restaurant in his hometown of New Orleans, which wouldn’t necessarily serve the type of food that Gram had taught him to cook, but Myron was a big believer in learning everything one could learn about preparing and cooking food. His wife and young daughter had come to Broken Rope with him, and we’d all fallen a little in love with Myron’s Creole accent and the way he worshiped his little girl.

“I’m fine,” Gram said.

“Should we arm ourselves, carry weapons, maybe?” Missy Landon asked. Missy had proved to be Gram’s biggest challenge this year. She’d received her PhD in economics from Georgetown and then immediately signed up to take Gram’s class. Previous professional baking or cooking experience wasn’t a prerequisite to be accepted into the class, but a passion for such things helped. Gram admitted that she’d mistaken Missy’s desire to put off joining the real world for a true passion. Frequently, Missy would complain about something and literally throw up her hands in defeat. Giving up wasn’t something Gram subscribed to and more than once I thought Missy might have pushed her too far. But Gram stuck with her, saying this class might end up being the best thing for Missy.