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  If Fried Chicken Could Fly

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  “A juicy mystery that’s deep-fried fun.”

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  Praise for Paige Shelton’s

  Farmers’ Market Mysteries

  “[A] puzzling and satisfying whodunit.”

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  “[An] absolute delight…A feast of a mystery.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Each page leads to more intrigue and surprise.”

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  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 MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE

  eSpecial

  RED HOT DEADLY PEPPERS

  If Mashed Potatoes

  Could Dance

  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

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  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 MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE

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

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Paige Shelton-Ferrell.

  Cover illustration by Robert T. Barrett.

  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: 978-1-101-61153-1

  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

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For my grams, Ruth Grzyb and Daisy Shelton

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks to:

  Every time I write a book I hope I’m getting better at doing it on my own, but I’ve decided that it must be impossible for me to write a book on my own, one that’s coherent at least. There are still so many people I consult, so many people I like to bounce things off of, and a few people who really do the dirty work. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those people, the dirty work people, the ones who take what I write and fix it. I’m sure I’m not one of their easier cases. So, thank you to copyeditors Caroline Duffy and Jude Grant who worked so hard on both this book and If Fried Chicken Could Fly. Seriously, you are amazing! Any remaining mistakes are solely mine.

  The cover artist for the Country Cooking School Mysteries, Dan Andreasen, and the interior design artist, Laura K. Corless. I love the way you both “see.”

  Jessica Faust and Michelle Vega. You are simply the best.

  Matthew Barney of Seiren Hair Salon who helped me get the Funeral Potatoes recipe just right. For years we’ve talked about food and recipes. Thank you for all your fun and interesting ideas and for never chemically burning off a big chunk of my hair like that other stylist did.

  Sabrina Ogden, Leah Anderson, and Ginger Beck who have not only helped me with legal terminology but have also become great friends.

  My sister-in-law Fran McCorkel for making the best twice-baked potatoes ever.

  The late actress Elizabeth Montgomery who truly bewitched me when she portrayed Lizzie Borden.

  My parents and my fellas—always and forever.

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

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sp; Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Afterword

  Recipes

  Chapter 1

  “They want us to keep them all here?” Gram said. “Where in the Sam Hill do they expect everyone to sleep?”

  “On the floor, I guess,” I said.

  “On the floor? In the kitchen? I don’t understand, Isabelle. How in the world did they even think to ask us? This is a cooking school, not a hotel, for Jack’s sake.”

  Gram had been cleaning. Her short gray hair was hidden by a red bandana, and her Harvard T–shirt had a giant wet spot right in the middle. She wore bright yellow rubber gloves and smelled of bleach. We were conducting our annual midsummer ritual of scrubbing every single spot of her cooking school. Midsummer was the perfect time. We were on a one-week hiatus from our nighttime classes, and our daytime classes weren’t set to begin for another month and a half. We’d already sent out acceptance letters to our fall students, and we had this small break before our night class on everything potatoes, “Mash Away, but Respect Me in the Morning,” was to begin.

  “I believe it was Jake’s idea,” I said.

  Jake was my best friend and Broken Rope’s fake sheriff and town historian. He was very active with the tourism bureau as well. When you’re a self-made millionaire you can do pretty much whatever you want.

  “Jake? What was he thinking?” Gram said as she snapped off one of the gloves.

  “He thought it would be bad business to turn away a tour bus. It’s only for one night and then the hotel will have the rooms available. Someone messed up the reservations. The tour group was going to cancel their stop, but Jake heard they were a bunch of foodies on a trip across country. He told them your school was here and thought we might work in a free lesson of some sort and have a sleepover.”

  Gram blinked. “I’ll ask again, what was he thinking? Sleeping on the floor and offering a lesson? Won’t we be breaking about a thousand food safety regulations? Come on, Isabelle, you should know this stuff.”

  Gram was referring to my short and incomplete time in law school.

  “I didn’t make it to the food safety stuff,” I said. Food safety wasn’t a part of law school, so even if I hadn’t dropped out I wouldn’t have been any better versed in the ins and outs of slumber parties held in cooking schools, but I didn’t want to go into detail when she was so riled up.

  Gram sighed. “What kind of lesson?”

  Maybe she was warming to the idea.

  “Don’t know. I was thinking something slumber-party-like. Fondue, dips, twice-baked bacony potatoes. We’ll be teaching all things potatoes in a week anyway. We could practice a little,” I said.

  “Well.” She hesitated a long time. I’m sure she was turning it every which direction in her mind, but bottom line, Gram liked to be cooperative, in a stubborn Gram way, but cooperative nonetheless. “I guess that might work. Foodies, huh?”

  “That’s what Jake said.” It was my turn to pause. “You haven’t mentioned how you feel about the free part.”

  “Oh, I’ll make Jake pay. He’s got plenty of money. He can buy the supplies. I’ll happily provide the lessons free of charge, but he can buy the groceries.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do that.”

  Jake’s fortune had been obtained via the stock market. While most of the rest of his friends, me included, were off at college, Jake was mastering things like calls and puts and annual reports. I was sure he would have bought the groceries anyway. He would probably also want to pay Gram, but we hadn’t gotten that far in our earlier quick but succinct phone conversation.

  “Yes, he will. Now, we can’t allow people to sleep on the floor. We’ll have to gather some cots. Call Teddy, get him on the job,” Gram instructed.

  “That’s a good plan.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  Teddy was my younger and much wilder brother. His reputation as Broken Rope’s Don Juan had mellowed slightly this summer, but finding him might still be difficult. He sometimes answered his phone, he sometimes didn’t. His reasons for not answering were as simple as the phone was turned off to the too-often-used he was no longer in possession of it because some woman threw it out a window, or into a pool, or ran over it, or stomped it to death. Teddy’s ways as a lothario were embarrassing, but at least he never pretended to be something he wasn’t.

  My call attempt was halted by a big gust of wind that blew through the kitchen’s open windows. It was so strong that it rattled the glass and knocked a couple pots off a shelf, the metallic crash as loud as a gun.

  The wind brought a scent with it. The distinct smell of lavender filled the long room. I looked at Gram, who looked back at me with a tight mouth.

  The last time I’d experienced a gust of wind and a distinct smell, I’d been visited by the ghost of Jerome Cowbender, one of Broken Rope’s long-dead historical figures. Jerome’s appearance had caused a number of problems, the biggest one being that I’d developed an unhealthy crush on him. He’d been gone for a month and a half and I still missed him, though I tried to hide it. Missing a ghost was not a good way to live life. I knew this. I hoped my emotions would catch up with my intellect soon.

  That wasn’t going to happen today, though, because as the wind brought in the lavender, the first thing I said was, “Jerome?” And the first thing I did was run to the window and look out at the neighboring cemetery. I saw green, mostly trimmed grass, a few old trees, and a number of tombstones, some of them still upright, some of them not so upright, some of them carved with serious and sad words, and others with funny ones. However, there was no sign of the dead cowboy. Anywhere.

  “Betts, dear, I told you that he probably won’t be back for some time. You need to get over him.” Gram stood behind me and put her hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded. “I know.” I’d developed a habit of touching the very small scar on my neck that I’d received as the result of being grazed by a bullet when Jerome and I fought off a killer, someone who’d fooled us all and murdered Broken Rope’s historical theater owner, Everett Morningside. I touched it now with the fingers on one hand as I reached into my pocket with the other and twirled the coin that had come from Jerome’s long-ago buried treasure. If Gram knew I kept it with me and considered it a good luck charm of sorts, she’d probably just tell me again to get a grip and get over him.

  “Besides, the only smell Jerome brings is wood smoke. This is flowery—lavender, I think,” Gram said. “I’m trying to remember who brings lavender.”

  Since Jerome left, Gram had tried to explain the ghosts of Broken Rope. She told me they come and go, they couldn’t be controlled, they were mostly not dangerous, but some of them could cause “a whole bushel of trouble.” She also mentioned that I should never, ever get attached to any of them. They weren’t alive and never would be again. They come and they go, she’d repeated a few times. They didn’t have free will. They had no will. They were the remnants of dead people.

  I understood this all, and yet I still wished for the time when Jerome might come back.

  “I know, Gram, but something just happened, didn’t it?” I looked out the window again.

  “Yes, someone’s here, but I can’t remember who. They’ll show themselves soon enough, I suppose. Shoot, there are so many.”

  “You’ve mentioned that, but you haven’t told me how many yet.”

  Gram had been torn about my introduction to the Broken Rope ghosts. She was glad to have someone to share her haunted experiences with. But she also thought the ghosts were sometimes a nuisance, and she didn’t want me to have to deal with any nuisances. I was just curious enough that I didn’t see the harm. Maybe someday, after I’d gotten to know a few more, I’d feel differently, but not now.

  “Let’s not worry about that until we really have to,” Gram said. “Come along. Let’s check the cemetery and see what we’re up against.”

  I didn’t follow her right away, but watched the doors swing closed behind her. I was curious, of course, but I wasn’t rea
dy. I’d been telling myself that if I ever again had dealings with a ghost, I would do exactly as she had been telling me to do—not get attached. I would let them be what they were: stuff left over from life, stuff that’s dead, stuff that our unusual town of Broken Rope somehow held on to. I knew it would be difficult, though. There was something inherently appealing about being able to communicate with a ghost.

  Gram had been dealing with the ghosts all her life. She knew nothing different. If she thought it was amazing to be able to see and talk to them, she didn’t show it. She was pretty matter–of–fact about the whole thing.

  It was still all new to me. I needed to be able to accept this gift or talent or perhaps even curse and make it work for me. I took a steadying breath, ignored my drying mouth, and followed her path through the kitchen and out the front doors of the school.

  I had to put my hand up to shade my eyes from the bright sun, so I didn’t immediately see why Gram exclaimed, “Don’t worry, you won’t feel it!” as I joined her in front of the school.

  It took me only a second, though, to see the ax being swung in my direction, at my head more specifically. I was too stunned to do much of anything, so it was a good thing I wouldn’t feel it. The ax landed right on my neck. And then went right through it.

  “Betts, meet Sally Swarthmore. She’s harmless now—even her ax isn’t real any longer—but she was one wicked woman in her time.”

  Sally Swarthmore was blond and top-heavy. She was also strikingly pretty, even in the bright sunlight that caused the ghosts to be a slightly faded version of what they were in the dark.

  My heart had taken an express route to my throat, but now it began to sink back down to the right spot. I wondered if Ms. Swarthmore would have liked nothing more than for the ax to still be sharp and lethal.

  “Sally,” I said cautiously. No matter what Gram said about the ghosts being harmless, I had learned something about them during Jerome’s visit that made me ponder just how harmful they could be if they really wanted to. I still hadn’t told Gram what I knew. I wasn’t sure I ever would. If, in fact, she didn’t know what could happen to the ghosts when they were surrounded by the dark, that lack of knowledge might be the very thing keeping her peace of mind intact. At the moment, I didn’t want to be the one to shake her sense of security.