If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery) Page 4

  “I’m happy to hear that,” I said.

  She smiled and winced at the same time. “Look, I know it’s been beyond a terrible day so far, and I’m upset, of course, but I have an ulterior motive for coming to the cowboy poetry convention, and I’m afraid we’ll all be asked to leave soon or something now because of the . . . Well, I would understand and all, but I’d really like to try to do what I came here to do before heading back home.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I was hoping to find some record of one of my ancestors, my great-great-grandfather. He lived here at one time.”

  “We’re pretty good at that sort of thing. Can you tell me anything else about him? Do you know where he’s buried?”

  She shook her head. “No one knows where he’s buried. He became a Pony Express rider and disappeared on the trail. I know he grew up here. His name was Astin Reagal.”

  I’d never heard of Astin or his disappearance, but that wasn’t too surprising; I wasn’t nearly as on top of our history as Jake was. However, a ding of sudden awareness chimed in my head when she described her ancestor. The Pony Express was pretty big around these parts. The route had originated in St. Joseph, Missouri, and then snaked through the western United States all the way to California. Even I had been to see the stable tourist attraction in St. Joseph. And there was a replica of one of the Express stations right in Broken Rope. The ding of awareness had rung because of Joe, the newest visiting ghost, with whom I had only become briefly acquainted. He was a young man, like most of the riders had been, and he had a satchel of sorts over his saddle. At one time I knew the name of the satchel that fit over the Express riders’ saddles, but at the moment I was at a loss. That satchel; did people other than the Express riders use something like it? I didn’t know, but I suddenly wondered if by some crazy chance Joe actually was Astin Reagal, Esther’s long-lost relative. It seemed like the perfect coincidence. It also seemed like a wonderfully easy way to perhaps resolve whatever issues the ghost might have, and I was sure he had an issue or two. They all did.

  Even more coincidentally, the Broken Rope Pony Express stop was right across from the field behind the high school, which was also the spot for the poets’ campsite. It was set back in an area that had once been considered out in the middle of nowhere. I wondered if all the elements of whatever was going on would come together that easily, even though past experience told me nothing was quite that simple with the ghosts.

  “The best place to start is with Jake,” I said. “He knows the history of Broken Rope and its citizens more than anyone. His office is right there.” I signaled with a nod. “Come on. I’ll be happy to introduce you if he’s in.”

  “Do you think it’s a bad time?”

  “I guess I’m not sure. He might not even be there, but if he was excused from the jail, I’m sure he went back to his building. He’ll tell us if we need to come back later.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jake’s fake sheriff’s costume was cleaned, pressed, and put away until the summer tourist season, but in deference to the poets and their garb, he’d been trying to follow the same request he’d made to the actors and police officers. He’d been wearing mostly Western shirts, cowboy boots, and jeans. But today he was completely civilian in jeans and a nice blue pinstriped button-up shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows. He wasn’t a big man, but he was surely one of the most handsome guys in town—maybe in the whole county. He’d been my best friend since high school, and I hoped we’d be friends forever. He sat on a stool behind the raised podium that was in the front room of his building. During the summer, he’d stand behind the podium as he recited his original Western-themed poem with his deep baritone voice. At the moment, he was somber and seemed to be concentrating on something on the podium.

  “Betts,” he said as he raised his head. When he noticed it wasn’t just me, he stood and tried to erase the sadness from his demeanor. He stepped toward us.

  “Hey, Jake, this is Esther . . .”

  “Oh,” she said. “Reagal. It’s Reagal.”

  “Esther Reagal. She’s in town with the poets, but is looking for some information regarding her great-great-grandfather.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Esther said to Jake. “The timing is awful and probably rude and wrong, but I don’t know what might happen now and I don’t want to leave town without trying.”

  “I understand,” Jake said. “It’s fine. What was his name?”

  “Astin Reagal.”

  “Hmmm, there’s something familiar about that, but maybe it’s just because it’s such a great name.” Jake smiled a friendly smile.

  Ester smiled, too, and her cheeks blushed lightly. I was caught off guard for a moment. Jake wasn’t much of a flirt, but that had definitely been flirting. Should I stay or should I go?

  “He was a Pony Express rider,” I interjected. I looked at Esther. “He disappeared on the trail. His body wasn’t found, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’ve heard that story, of course.” Jake looked at Esther and then at me. “I’m sure I have some information, though I’m not sure how much.” He hesitated. I realized he was silently debating whether or not to share the location of his secret room with an outsider. Ultimately, he probably concluded that Esther was harmless enough, or maybe just cute enough to want to spend more time with. “I have an archive room in the back. Would the two of you like to join me?”

  I didn’t really want to. I would have rather left to go about my own business, but I was suddenly under the impression that I was being asked for the purpose of either witnessing or chaperoning. Jake had done as much for me a time or two.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “That’d be great,” Esther said.

  Jake led us through the door on the back wall. I’d become used to the transformation from the front office to the back room. The front room was decorated with remnants from an Old West sheriff’s office, but the spacious back archive room had tall, packed shelves, a large worktable, and the old saloon chandelier that had been wired for our century. I was one of the lucky few who got to frequent the room. Jake didn’t like to share his archive space with lots of people.

  “Wow,” Esther said as she glanced around and then behind us to the door we’d come through. “It’s like magic.”

  Jake laughed lightly. “Our storefronts are very much for decoration and entertainment, but some of our back rooms are taller than the front rooms’ short ceilings, and they’re built for business. It’s an illusion, and we’re pretty good at illusion.”

  “No kidding,” Esther said.

  “Have a seat,” Jake said as he pulled two stools out from under one side of the large worktable. “I have a file on things pertinent to the Pony Express and Broken Rope. It’s not thick, but I’m pretty sure it has some information regarding your ancestor.”

  “Really?” Esther said.

  “Jake’s done an amazing job of keeping a living record of our history. He’s the best,” I said, though I cleared my throat immediately after—I’d sounded like I was trying to sell him. He didn’t need selling. He blinked at me and then moved on.

  “Let’s see.” He ran his fingers over some of the big archival folders, stopping at one almost directly in the middle of a set of shelves. “Here it is.”

  The file was neither thick nor tall, and my heart sunk a little. Jake was right, he didn’t have much information.

  “You know,” Jake said as he reached into the folder and pulled out a short stack of items, “many people think that the Pony Express existed for a long time. Not true. In fact,” he lifted a small piece of paper from the top of the stack and inspected it, “it was in existence only from 1860 to 1861. Let’s see, yes, April to the following October, eighteen months. Before the telegraph was completed, the country needed a way to get communication—mostly government papers and such—across to California, so some freighting businessmen founded t
he Pony Express. There were stops for the riders to change horses or riders or both, drop off things, and pick up things, about every ten miles. The trail originated up in St. Joseph. The stable’s still there, but I haven’t been there for years.”

  “How long did it take them to get from Missouri to California?” I asked.

  “I think they got it down to about ten days to make the trip.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Esther said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, shiny object. “I have this. I guess it was my great-great-grandfather’s, but no one has been able to tell me for sure. This is the item that sparked my curiosity, and it made me want to study both my past and the history of the Pony Express. And that’s why I came to Broken Rope.”

  “Oh, my, is that a real badge?” Jake said as he reached for the item that reminded me somewhat of his fake sheriff’s badge, and unquestionably of the badge I’d seen on Joe’s chest. Jake pulled his hand back, but Esther smiled and handed it to him.

  “Yes, I think so. I think it’s a real one,” she said.

  “But your great-great-grandfather disappeared. Wouldn’t his badge have disappeared with him?” I said.

  Esther shrugged. “He must have had more than one.”

  Jake held the item so I could look at it, too. An eagle rode the top of the badge, which was emblazoned with a rider on a horse and the words Pony Express Messenger. I was never as touched or affected by items from the past as Jake was, but I thought this was a pretty interesting artifact, and it was clear that it was working its magic on him. One side of his mouth smiled as he gently held the old, tarnished item.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said as he handed it back to Esther. He cringed slightly when she simply put it back into her pocket. “Oh! Wait, I have something else, something other than the information in the file. I can’t believe I forgot about it. Hang on a second,” he added.

  Esther and I watched as Jake pulled a good-sized box from a bottom shelf and placed it on the table.

  “I wrapped it and then put it in this box, but it’s quite valuable, and I’ve considered talking to a preservationist to see what else I could do to keep it as intact as possible.”

  He lifted the lid and pulled out the one item inside.

  “I don’t even think it should be out of the wrapping much, but it might be kind of fun for you to see this, Esther.” Jake looked at me. “Don’t tell anyone I have it.”

  I nodded.

  It was a saddle. Kind of. It was a duplicate of the satchel I’d seen over Joe’s saddle.

  “This is called . . .” Jake began.

  “A mochila,” Esther interrupted. “It’s how they carried the mail.”

  Mochila! That’s it.

  The item looked kind of like saddlebags, but it was made to ride over the saddle, so it had its own formed seat cover. Its pockets weren’t baglike, but more boxy and with flaps; one of the flaps was still secured with an old metal latch. The leather was mostly tan, but time had worn it darker in spots. The letters SP CA had been tooled into it. The other flap was decorated with XP. It also looked as though a number of different words had been inscribed on its surface.

  “Are those names?” Esther asked as she peered closely at the mochila.

  “I think so. I think riders signed the mochilas. They didn’t have their own because whenever the riders changed at the stops, the mochila with the mail went with the new rider. It was a pretty efficient system.”

  “Wow, so this is an original?” I asked.

  “I think so,” Jake said as he nodded.

  “May I touch it?” Esther asked.

  “Sure. Gently.”

  “Of course.”

  Esther inspected every inch of the mochila. Once she’d memorized one side, she turned it over and did the same on the other side.

  “Wait. What do you suppose this is?” she asked.

  Jake and I leaned in to look at letters, which were small and had become dark with time and air and simple grime.

  “Well, I think . . .” Jake began. He stood straight and raised his eyebrows. “Esther, I can’t be completely sure, but look closely. Tell me if you don’t think that says Astin Reag. I can’t make out the other letters, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were A–L. We might be just wishing. But how amazing would that be?”

  Esther blinked and then bent to look again. She gasped as she re-straightened.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “I . . . I don’t feel so well.”

  Somehow, an instant later, both Jake and I were holding on to Esther’s slack body.

  “Did she faint?” I asked.

  “I hope it’s nothing more serious.”

  “You have quite an effect on women, my friend,” I said.

  “History—it’ll take you to your knees if you ever start to really pay attention to it, Betts.”

  “Right.”

  “For now, lean her on me, and grab a glass of water.”

  I did as Jake asked, and we hoped it wouldn’t take more than that to revive our visitor.

  Chapter 6

  “Oh, my, I am so embarrassed,” Esther said as she sat up straight on the stool. Jake and I were on either side of her, at the ready in case she went down again. “I don’t think I’ve ever fainted. Ever. It was just so strange to maybe suddenly be connected to a family member, someone dead for so long but whose existence was partially responsible for mine. It was like . . . well, like his ghost was in the room with us for a minute.”

  Jake looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head. No, the ghost of Astin Reagal wasn’t in the vicinity, but I was really beginning to think he’d ridden into town earlier. I wanted to confirm before I got Jake’s hopes up too high, though. Disappointment flickered over his face, but he normalized quickly. He loved the entire idea of our historical ghosts, and he knew about their visits with me and Gram. Much to his chagrin, he wasn’t able to see them—well, he’d had a brief glimpse of Sally Swarthmore, but that was a planned and rare moment.

  “It’s okay,” I said to Esther, “if you’re okay.”

  She waved away my concern. “Fine.” She blinked and then looked at Jake. “May I look closely at the mochila again?”

  “Of course,” Jake said hesitantly.

  Esther laughed. “I’m so sorry, Jake. I won’t faint again, I promise. I was just momentarily overwhelmed.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, Esther batted her eyelashes at him.

  “Sure. I know,” Jake said as the two of them smiled at each other a beat too long.

  Esther looked away first and then sat even straighter.

  I relaxed back onto my own stool, and Jake scooted the mochila closer to Esther.

  “Go ahead, touch it all you want,” he said. “I keep it wrapped up most of the time; but if anyone has the right to look it over closely, it’s you.”

  “Well, if that really is Astin’s signature, I guess.”

  “Let’s go with that being the truth. If we need to rethink later, we can.”

  “Thank you.” Esther smiled at him again.

  “For a minute I thought it was truly amazing that Jake might have a mochila with Astin Reagal’s signature, but it kind of makes sense, too,” I said, interrupting all the smiling and reminding them I was there. “Since Astin was from Broken Rope, and historical items tend to be left in attics and closets around here for a long time, maybe it’s not so strange after all.”

  Esther nodded. “You know,” her fingers rode over the tooled letters of, presumably, her ancestor’s name, “apparently his disappearance was a huge mystery, and it broke up his family.”

  “Hang on,” Jake said. “I’d love to hear everything you have to say, but would you mind if I recorded it?”

  “As I mentioned earlier, Jake keeps track of our history better than anyone,” I said. “He likes to make sure he’s as accurate as possible.”

  Jake laughed. “Truthfully, accuracy isn’t always the point. Stories are passed down and passed around. I just like to mak
e sure I have as many versions of the stories as possible. I suspect there is some truth, some fabrication, in them all, but I think it’s important. History is important. If I record, I’ll transcribe what you say and make a file. I hope to open a museum someday. I would use your story—and make sure everyone knew that it came from you—for some sort of display.”

  Esther thought a second, and then said, “Certainly.”

  Jake pulled out his phone and moved his finger over the screen a couple times. “This is Esther Reagal, great-great-granddaughter of Astin Reagal. She’s visiting Broken Rope and is looking at the mochila that I had in storage. There is evidence in the form of a partial tooled name that Astin might have used it when he was a Pony Express rider. He died on the trail and his body was never found. Go ahead, Esther, tell us whatever you’d like to share.”

  Esther cleared her throat. “Well, Astin was young, only eighteen when he signed on with the Express. I think eighteen was the oldest they’d consider for riders. It was a job meant for young bodies. It was an exciting time, and the riders were young men who loved what they did, loved the adventure of it all. They’d ride like the wind for about ten miles, and then change horses.”

  “Or change riders, too? Like if their—what—shift was over?” I said.

  “Yes,” Jake said.

  Esther bit her bottom lip and looked off into the imagined distance before she continued. “It was about the riders and the horses. The riders were amazing, but so were the horses. They were fast and apparently very smart. They were chosen for their speed and endurance. It’s said that the one that Astin was on when he was on his way to Broken Rope and disappeared tried to lead my great-great-grandmother back to Astin, but no one ever found him. My great-great-grandmother searched and searched for him, for years, even abandoning her own son because of her heartbreak. They were young; so young. I think she was only seventeen, and with a new baby.”