If Fried Chicken Could Fly (5 page)

The swinging doors boomed open, startling both me and Jim. Gram came through the opening first. She was followed by Cliff and Everett’s body on a stretcher. I didn’t know the two EMTs pushing the stretcher, but I suspected one was from the Bennigan family—his big blue eyes gave him away. The other one was probably a Stover, or at least he reminded me of Bud Stover, the overseer of the other cemetery in town—the bigger one, which had its own share of famous dead people.

The group was rolling toward the front door and to the ambulance, I assumed to transport Everett to Morris’s office, when the sheet they’d used to cover the body somehow slid off and onto the floor. Those Bennigan blue eyes got bigger and he and the other EMT tried to hurry and cover poor Everett again. An instant later, the crowded reception area became even more crowded as the front glass door also flew open.

A woman I’d never seen before looked at everyone, her eyes finally landing on Everett’s still-uncovered body.

She was short and comfortably round. Her face was older but not very wrinkled, and her short gray hair was fine and almost fluffy as it danced on her head.

“Everett!” she exclaimed as she hurried to the stretcher and hugged his neck, plastic bag and all.

“Ma’am, can I help you?” Jim said as he took her arm and gently pulled her away from potential evidence.

“My Everett! He’s dead! Someone killed him! Who?” She stood up straight suddenly and looked directly at Gram. “Are you Missouri Anna Winston?”

Gram nodded, confusion wrinkling her forehead.

“You did it. I know you killed him.”

Gram suddenly looked more concerned than confused. “Ma’am, like Officer Morrison said, can we help you with something?”

“Who are you?” Jim asked.

“I’m his wife! And she…she’s the one! She must have killed him!” The woman pointed at Gram.

Gram looked like she was going to say something else, but I hurried to her side and whispered something in her ear. She stopped talking and blinked at Jim.

I said, “Gram won’t be saying anything else without an attorney present.” I might have been a law school dropout, but I knew when it was time for someone to quit talking. “I’m sure you understand.” I looked at Jim and Cliff as they looked at Gram.

They nodded as if they understood far too well.

I’d ridden a stomach-roiling wave all evening. The horrible discovery of Everett’s body, the shocking reappearance of Cliff, and now the frightening accusation from Everett’s wife that Gram was a killer—all unexpected, all shocking, all quite horrible. By the time the cuckoo clock on the wall cuckoo’d that it was two in the morning, I wanted to punch Jim, smack Cliff, scold Gram for dating a married man, and rip the small wooden bird out of the clock.

“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 brimmed 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.