If Fried Chicken Could Fly Read online

  Kicked the Bucket

  “Aw, Betts, what do you suppose happened in here? When did the cleaning people start just doing this?” Gram put her fists on her skinny hips.

  It looked as though someone had just thrown, willy-nilly, mops, towels, sponges, and buckets to the floor. Where once there had been an organized room full of supplies, there was now a disaster.

  “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen it like this. Do you suppose they were in a hurry last night?”

  “This is worse than a hurry; it’s destructive,” Gram said.

  I gently toed an overturned white bucket.

  Gram gasped. “Betts! Is that a hand?”

  I looked at the spot where the bucket had just been.

  “Oh, Gram!” Yes, it was a hand.

  Gram and I dove in and cleared the mess, throwing towels, brushes, and bottles full of cleaners every which direction. Seconds later, we uncovered the body of one Everett Morningside. We knew who he was because he had been Gram’s newest suitor and they’d planned on a late-night dinner that evening. A dinner that clearly wasn’t going to happen, because there was no doubt that Everett Morningside was no longer in any condition to eat.

  • • •

  Praise for Paige Shelton’s Farmers’ Market Mysteries

  “Each page leads to more intrigue and surprise.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “A breath of summer freshness that is an absolute delight to read and savo….A feast of a mystery.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton

  Farmers’ Market Mysteries

  FARM FRESH MURDER

  FRUIT OF ALL EVIL

  CROPS AND ROBBERS

  Country Cooking School Mysteries

  IF FRIED CHICKEN COULD FLY

  If Fried Chicken Could Fly

  PAIGE SHELTON

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  IF FRIED CHICKEN COULD FLY

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Paige Shelton-Ferrell.

  Cover illustration by Dan Andreasen.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-425-24585-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my wonderful editor, Michelle Vega.

  I’m so glad you aren’t afraid of ghosts.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to:

  My agent, Jessica Faust. I still pinch myself sometimes just to be sure.

  Michael Kennedy-Yoon and Katherine Kennedy, who baked my son the most delicious red velvet cake and then were willing to share the recipe.

  Charlie and Tyler, my favorite guys. Our trip to Tombstone was a blast!

  Fellow authors Riley Adams, E. J. Copperman, and Jenn McKinlay. I tip my hat to you.

  When I was a little girl my parents made sure we frequently visited our relatives in Rolla, Missouri. There’s something about a place with family that sticks with you forever. The cooking school building in this series is based on a church building on the outskirts of Rolla. A few years ago my son and I were trudging through the cemetery next to it looking for my great-grandmother who died a tragic and gruesome death. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re getting ideas for books.

  So, thank you Mom and Dad, the Grzybs, the Rothwells, the Lights, the Roaches, and the Sheltons. I love you all!

  And an extraspecial thanks to Mrs. Lois Bowen, who many years ago made sure I had my great-great-grandmother’s funeral program and a picture of her on her eighty-second birthday. She was known as Missouri Anna and I hear she was pretty amazing.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Recipes

  CHAPTER 1

  If the items in the cast-iron skillet hadn’t burst into flames just as Gram was dunking the coated chicken breast into the hot bubbling grease, we might not have found the dead body so soon.

  As it was, we were in the middle of our evening class—Chicken: Sometimes You Gotta Keep That Skin on, Baby!—when the fire, with flames that licked the ceiling, lit fast and hot. Gram yanked her arm out of harm’s way and exclaimed, “Hells bells a-ringin’!” as the singed breast flew through the air and landed at the feet of one of our students, Mabel Randall, who stamped on it with her bright pink sneaker–clad foot.

  Gram and I were coolheaded enough to reach
for a couple handy extinguishers and take care of the fire in a quick and professional manner. We’d practiced, after all. No matter how careful you were, you just couldn’t open a cooking school and not be prepared for such maneuvers.

  The chicken class was one of our part-time evening courses and had only five students, who ranged in age from fourteen to seventy. We offered the evening classes because, though everyone wanted to learn how to cook like Gram, not everyone wanted to take it as seriously as our daytime students. The fifteen “daytimers” were all working toward a much-coveted certificate that would assist them in gaining positions as chefs in some of the best restaurants in the country. Other than Mabel, the other four “nighters” in attendance froze in place and watched as Gram and I pulled the keys and then the triggers on the bright red extinguishers, and shot down the flames.

  Once the fire was out, replaced by white foamy powder and distinct stinky smells, we received a hearty and relieved round of applause.

  “You okay, Mabel, Gram?” I said.

  “I’m fine, Betts,” Mabel said as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Make sure your gram’s not toasted.”

  I stepped toward Gram and grabbed the arm I’d seen in the middle of the flames.

  “Oh, phoo, I’m fine. Didn’t even take the hair,” she said as I inspected her for harm. She seemed no worse for the wear.

  “That was amazing,” Stuart Benson said, his eyes big behind thick lenses. Stuart was short, bald, and practically blind, but none of that kept him from being the most adorable old guy I knew, and a pretty darn good cook, too. I didn’t know his exact age, but I thought he must be close to seventy.

  “Thank you, Stuart, but it should have never happened in the first place. I suppose that’s why you always have an extinguisher close by.” Gram inspected the mess. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel the rest of class. I’m sorry about the chicken disaster.”

  Grumbles of understanding spread through the long kitchen. Mabel and her fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Amy, offered to stay and help clean up, but we sent them on their way and promised Mabel we’d buy her some new pink shoes. The other students, Jenna Hopper, a local bartender, and Miles Street, owner of the town pool hall, had been flirting anyway; they could probably figure out something to do with the time.

  “Well, hang a hide, Betts. I don’t think there’s much permanent damage, but we’ll have to have the fire marshal come out and look at things tomorrow,” Gram said as the last of the students exited the kitchen through swinging doors that led to the reception area. “Come on, help me grab stuff to get started on cleaning it up.”

  Two ceiling tiles would have to be replaced, and grease seemed to be all over the range and the floor around it, but since everything else in the immediate area, including Gram’s favorite skillet, was covered in white powdery foam, we couldn’t be certain of the full extent of the damage. There were still plenty of cooking space and clean stovetops, but the sooner we got rid of the mess, the better.

  Gram’s Country Cooking School was located in an old bingo parlor that Gram had frequented back in the eighties with one of her boyfriends. I’d heard that before it was a bingo parlor it was a church, which I could easily picture. The building sat on a short hill; it was long and thin and had a peaked roof. It was also right next to an old cemetery. The cemetery was a big Broken Rope summer tourist attraction. Among others, Jerome Cowbender, famous southern Missouri outlaw, was buried there. So was Sally Swarthmore, famous Missourian who, in the late 1800s, took an ax to her parents.

  A small reception area was located in the front of the building. Full swinging double doors led from there into the long kitchen where eight large butcher block tables filled the center of the well-furnished space. At each end were an extralarge refrigerator, an extralarge freezer, and pantries. Against the walls were a total of six six-burner gas stoves; worktables; and shelves full of pots and pans and other utensils, such as spatulas, spoons, and Ginsu-like sharp knives. There was a seldom-used classroom with about a dozen desks and chairs at the other end of the kitchen. Farther along were Gram’s and my offices, followed by the non–food supply room, which held everything from aprons to every kind of kitchen cleaning supply known to man- and womankind.

  Though we had the supplies and always cleaned up after classes, we also had a full cleaning crew come in every night. It was this cleaning crew that Gram cussed as we opened the door of the supply room.

  “Aw, Betts, what do you suppose happened in here? When did the cleaning people start doing this?” Gram put her fists on her skinny hips and stood in the familiar stance that was all Gram—left toes forward, right toes pointed to the right.

  It looked as though someone had just thrown, willy-nilly, mops, towels, sponges, and buckets to the floor. Where once there had been an organized room full of supplies, there was now a disaster.

  “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen it like this. Do you suppose they were in a hurry last night?”

  “This is worse than a hurry; it’s destructive,” Gram said.

  I gently toed an overturned white bucket.

  Gram gasped. “Betts! Is that a hand?”

  I looked at the spot where the bucket had just been.

  “Oh, Gram!” Yes, it was a hand.

  Gram and I dove in and cleared the mess. Now we were throwing towels, brushes, and bottles full of cleaners every which direction. Seconds later we uncovered the body of one Everett Morningside. We knew who he was because he had been Gram’s newest suitor and they’d planned on a late-night dinner that evening. A dinner that clearly wasn’t going to happen, because there was no doubt that Everett Morningside was no longer in any condition to eat. He was dead, presumably killed by the plastic bag over his face and tied around his neck.

  “Oh, oh no!” Gram said as she reached for the bag.

  My mind was jumbled with fear and concern, but I still managed to grab her arm. “Don’t touch it, Gram. We’ve messed up the scene enough.”

  She looked at me with tears in her eyes and nodded. But then she pulled her arm from my grasp and hurried out of the room. I thought she might be calling the police, but she returned only a few seconds later.

  “Aw damn, Everett. What happened?” she said as we both stood over the body.

  The entire scene was surreal and bizarre, but I was suddenly more worried about Gram than poor Everett. I’d heard her described as “one tough cookie,” “a tough old broad,” and “tougher than nails,” but finding her date dead in the supply closet was bound to cause her some distress.

  “You okay?” I asked as I reached for her hand.

  She nodded.

  We looked at Everett for another long few seconds. It was difficult to process, difficult to stay in the room, and yet almost impossible to leave. We should have been screaming or freaking out or hyperventilating, but for those long seconds, I stared at Everett’s body and tried to understand how something so unreal could possibly fit with reality.

  He was a hefty man and his belly made a round even mound. He was also one of Gram’s youngest “friends,” and probably hadn’t been more than sixty years old. He wore a black suit with a buttoned-up vest, which was what he always wore. He was the newest owner of the Jasper Theater—Broken Rope’s one-auditorium theater that had been around for over a hundred years. It had seen burlesque and live-action shows, and now it played the current films, well, current to Broken Rope at least. The big cities were a few months ahead of us when it came to new releases. Fitting with the theme of the town, Everett dressed like a gentleman from times past.

  “When did you talk to him last?” I said.

  “We talked on the phone last night around nine to confirm the dinner date tonight. Who in the name of all things wicked and horrible do you think did this to him?”

  “I have no idea, but I think we’d better call the police.” I swallowed some fear. I’d inherited some of Gram’s unshakable demeanor, but Everett’s seemingly violent and intentional death was
finally beginning to rattle my nerves. Suddenly, my knees were shaking and I couldn’t quite catch a full breath.

  “Of course,” Gram said with a sigh. “Poor Everett.” Then, almost in a whisper, she added, “This won’t be good for business.”

  I was taken aback at her reaction, but I chalked it up to the stress. Plus that was the least of Gram’s worries. We had a waiting list of students for our numerous courses. Anyone who tasted her cooking, or talked to someone who tasted her cooking, or heard about her cooking, wanted to learn how she did what she did.

  She’d taught me, law school dropout and her only granddaughter, free of charge. Since law school hadn’t been all I’d wanted it to be, and she and my parents had decided I would wander aimlessly through life if I didn’t find something to do, she asked me to help her at the school. I have been trying to keep up ever since. As horrible as it was to even consider, the dead body was going to put a big kink in our routine but probably not our business.

  Broken Rope, Missouri, was full of gruesome stories and odd tales of death, after all. It was our history of knife battles, gunfights, hangings (it was when this method of death didn’t go quite as planned that the town got its name, but that’s another story), and homicidal scorned women that formed the base of our busy summer tourist economy. Even though at that moment I was more concerned about poor Everett than anything else, later I’d realize this would prove to be just another strange happening to add to the morbid charm that was Broken Rope.

  We bypassed the office phones and hurried back through the long building to use the phone in the reception area. The school was located in the country, right on the edge of Broken Rope, but Main Street and the jail where our local police had their small office were only a curve in the two-lane highway and about three minutes away. We could probably watch them drive up before we hung up the phone.

  “Yeah, we had a fire and we got a body here,” Gram said into the phone. “No, the body isn’t a result of the fire. They’re two different incidents. Yes, we’re pretty sure he’s dead. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. He’s in our supply room. No, the fire wasn’t in the supply room. Oh for goodness’ sake, just send some cops and firemen.” Gram slammed down the phone and looked at me as she put her hands on her hips again. “Sometimes I wonder if the fake cops have infiltrated the ranks of the real ones. What was with all the questions?”