If Bread Could Rise to the Occasion Read online

  “I won’t tell him. No, to our knowledge, none of our students have ever been incarcerated. We’ll take a closer look at Freddie, though.”

  “We will, too.”

  Cliff plopped his hands on his hips and looked toward the road. I watched him and a zing of hope tightened my chest. Did he see Gent? My best friend since high school, Jake, knew about the ghosts but couldn’t see them. I’d felt somewhat disloyal to Cliff that Jake and I discussed our spectral visitors, but I hadn’t been able to find a way to tell Cliff about them yet.

  Gent noticed Cliff looking his direction, too. He stood a little straighter and waved hesitantly. Cliff looked back at me.

  “You know, we found some blood. Just a small amount, but enough for us to notice that it wasn’t old. We think it must have come from either the victim or the killer—if there was a killer—and the victim didn’t show signs of an injury that would bleed. At least that’s something else for Morris to process.”

  Morris Dunsany was the county coroner. Considering the big influx of tourists during the summer and Broken Rope’s reputation, county officials thought it would be best to place Morris’s office in Broken Rope. His white SUV hadn’t made it to the scene yet.

  “Where was the blood?” I asked.

  “On the rope between the parking lot and the cemetery. It was just a small amount, but it hadn’t dried all the way to a flakey brown, which means it’s somewhat fresh.”

  “Uh . . .” I began. I looked down at my flip-flop-clad feet as well as at the Band-Aid covering the tip of my right big toe. “Cliff.” I pointed.

  He looked down, too. “That’s your blood on the rope?”

  “Maybe. I guess I’d have to see the spot. Gram and I were . . . We didn’t leave until late last night. I caught my toe on the rope. I didn’t notice that I’d scraped it enough to have bled until I got home, but I bet it’s mine.”

  “Roger’s body is still there. Do you want to wait until Morris comes for it before we go take a look?”

  I shook my head. “No, let’s look now. It might save some time for everyone.”

  Cliff stepped forward and signaled a couple different directions. My attention was on Gent again, who even more urgently than before signaled me to go to him. I shot him another wide-eyed look and held up the give me a second finger. That didn’t satisfy him, so along with a number of other people, he moved around the fire truck and Gram’s Volvo and toward Roger’s body.

  I tried to keep my eyes away from Roger, but I got a good enough glimpse to feel a well of fear and sadness build in my chest. I didn’t know and I couldn’t remember if he had a family, but this was a terrible way to go.

  I thought back to the night before. At first, I’d only pretended to leave but I walked toward the cemetery from my Nova, so I couldn’t really estimate where I’d stepped over the rope based upon the spot Gram had dropped me off. The rope was close to the ground and had about ten sections, or ten lengths, in between short wooden posts stuck into the ground.

  Once the group—me, Cliff, Jim, Gram, another officer I knew only as “one of the Rasson family boys,” and Gent—was gathered, Cliff said, “Betts thinks the blood we found on the rope might be hers.”

  “How’s that, Betts?” Jim asked. I’d known Jim Morrison for years. He’d been the police chief since I was little and he and my parents were friends. I’d been to weddings and barbeques that he’d attended, but I’d also gotten to know the police officer side of him much better lately. I liked both Jims, but I preferred the one at social events over the official one.

  “Gram and I left the school late last night.” I didn’t need to look at her to see if she’d go along with the story. She would. Explaining that we’d gone to the old bakery first would cause more questions than offer answers, so I left that part out for now. “Gram left first. As I was leaving, I thought I saw something in the cemetery. I got out of the Nova to take a closer look. As I stepped over the rope, it caught my toe. I didn’t know it had bled until I got home. I’m pretty sure it was right in the middle of that section.” I pointed to the portion of rope next to the one that was taken up by Roger’s body.”

  “You were alone, saw something in the cemetery late at night, when it’s really dark, and you got out to look at it?” Jim asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That sound like a smart thing to do, Betts?”

  I shrugged. “It was one of those horror movie moments maybe. I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “Did you call anyone, maybe Cliff first?”

  “No. But, Jim, I’m used to this cemetery. It doesn’t freak me out,” I said. That wasn’t altogether true, but I thought it sounded good.

  I heard Gram make some sort of noise, but I couldn’t be sure if it was surprise or irritation.

  “You see her do this, Miz?” Jim asked.

  “No, I left,” she said. “But she’s right. We’re not all that scared by this place. We’ve been here long enough. If there are ghosts or spooky things, we’d’ve seen them by now, surely.” She looked at Gent, who smiled satisfactorily.

  “I suppose,” Jim said. “You did the right thing by telling us, Betts. That is, in fact, the area with the blood. I need to get a full and official statement from you. Cliff can’t do that. Let’s move away from here.”

  “Sure. I’ll be there in a second,” I said. “May I have a moment alone with Roger?”

  I was sure that Gram, Cliff, and Jim all wondered why I’d requested such a thing. I hadn’t known Roger all that long—what could I possibly hope to achieve?

  “Okay, but step back from the body. I’ll give you some space, but I’ll be watching. I don’t want you to touch him at all,” Jim said.

  I was sure that he would have denied the request completely if he didn’t know me so well.

  “Thank you.”

  Everyone but Gent moved away. I didn’t look at her, but I sensed that Gram shot him some sort of irritated glance. I kept my back to everyone, put my hands on my hips, and then pretended to look down at Roger, though I kept my eyes on only his dress-shoe-clad feet.

  “What do you need, Gent?” I said without moving my lips much.

  “I really need to talk to you. I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Should Gram and I come back to the bakery tonight?”

  “No! Not Miz, just you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have to talk to you alone.”

  “Why?”

  Gent looked around me and said, “Miz is on her way over. Just come talk to me. I think I have a clue that will lead to the killer.”

  He disappeared and I tried to look unbothered by his surprising statement.

  “Damn ghosts,” I muttered.

  “See, they can be challenging,” Gram said as she joined me. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing really. He just wondered what was going on.”

  “Really?” Gram said.

  Morris’s SUV pulled into the lot, giving me the perfect excuse to end the conversation.

  “Oh, good, Morris is here,” I said before I turned and walked away from both Gram and Roger.

  Gram knew something was up, though. I’d have to find a way to get to the bakery without her. I knew her well. It wouldn’t be easy.

  Chapter 7

  “That’s horrible!” Jake said. I’d been sharing details about Roger.

  “He seemed like such a great guy. It’s terrible news for everyone,” I said.

  We were sitting on stools in Jake’s archive room, which was the space behind his main office, the town’s fake sheriff’s office. Jake was a self-made millionaire who loved acting the part of Broken Rope’s poetry-reciting fake sheriff. Four times a day, every day during the summer, he’d recite a cowboy poem that he’d written. He’d become one of the town’s main attractions, and he was proud of his reputation.

  He and I had been best friends since high school. Actually, Cliff, Jake, and I had been close during those younger years, but Jake’s lo
yalty had remained with me during the years that Cliff had led another type of life outside of Broken Rope. They got along just fine again, and Jake was happy we were all back together. But lending me his ear to bend and his shoulder to lean on had gotten me through more than a few tough moments.

  “What do they think happened?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think they have any idea. He was found dead, foaming at the mouth, but no other apparent injuries. Morris will have to do an autopsy, until then ‘no one is to leave town.’”

  “That’s a common phrase around this place. Well, I’m so sorry. It’s sad for everyone.”

  “It is. Oh, they did find blood, but it was mine.”

  “Uh-oh, how’d that go?”

  “Fine. I explained that I had been there late the night before and stubbed my toe as I was going into the cemetery.”

  Jake blinked and sat up straighter. “Why were you going into the cemetery late at night? Do we have another visitor?”

  “We do, but that’s not why I was exploring. Actually, I thought I’d seen Jerome earlier, but now I don’t think so.”

  “The plot thickens. Details, please.”

  I told Jake the story of Gent Cylas and his connection to Gram. I told him about the strange experience at the bakery as well as meeting the rest of Gent’s family. I shared what Gram had told me about the Cylas family dying in the fire even though I knew that wasn’t the way history had recorded the event. I mentioned how weird Gram was about me talking to Gent about it. Jake wasn’t doubtful about anything I said until I mentioned the cowboy shadow.

  “That part’s just wishful thinking,” he said. “You would have smelled him if he was back. You said his scent was like wood smoke, right?” I nodded. “You smell that?”

  “Nope.”

  “There you have it; wishful thinking.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Later, we’ll go into this a little deeper. There are some good reasons you need to quit hoping for and now imagining Jerome Cowbender, Betts. Right now, we need to figure out more about Gent. May I come with you tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt you’ll see things the same way I do. It might be more dangerous for you, in fact. If you can even get into the bakery building, it’ll probably be in the shape it’s really in, and that’s pretty scary. Now, I mean. Yikes, this is enormously weird.”

  “I’ll wait in the car?”

  “Sure, if you really want to.”

  “I would love to.”

  Jake scooted off the stool. He was wearing his fake sheriff’s costume even though his shows were over for the season. We still had a few visitors passing through, and Jake had become popular enough that many people stopped by just to meet him and his palomino stick pony, Patches. He didn’t like to disappoint.

  “Now, you say that this young man, Gent Cylas, and his family died in the bakery fire?”

  “Well, according to Gram, yes, but even I know the history better.”

  “I think I do, too, but, Betts, I have learned that Broken Rope’s history is frequently manipulated for the benefit of . . . well, something economic, I suppose, though saying that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Let’s see if we can find anything suspicious. I have a few things on the fire. It was a terrible tragedy, that much I’m sure of.”

  The archive room was purely Jake’s creation. It was high-ceilinged, with plastic-folder-filled shelves that covered the back and one of the side walls. There were two windows at the top of the back wall, but they were sealed shut for fear of a weather or dust-related tragedy. I didn’t understand what he’d done to keep the room under air and temperature control, but it was scientifically beyond simple heating and air-conditioning and created a low hypnotic hum that seemed to come from everywhere. An old chandelier that had originally hung in the town saloon was now wired for modern easy-on-the-eyes light and hung from the middle of the archive room ceiling; it was the exclamation mark on the entire space’s atmosphere. Even those who knew about the room’s existence didn’t know all the technology that Jake had put into it. We Broken Ropers were good at hiding modern amenities.

  Jake pulled a stepladder to the side wall, hoisted himself to the top rung, and then pulled a small plastic folder from the highest shelf. He rejoined me at the custom-made enormous table that took up the middle of the space.

  “That’s not a very big folder,” I said.

  “There wasn’t much news about the fire. After it happened, the building was rebuilt, but then it closed shortly thereafter. I do think there were haunted and jinxed sorts of rumors but I’m not sure if they were ever written about. Business just died off. The Puff Pocket, the sugary, creamy concoction that had taken the world’s taste buds by storm suddenly became less yummy. It was a truly baffling mystery. I think of all the strange Broken Rope stories, the bakery fire was one of the least bizarre—it was just a boring old fire. But the aftermath, the real death of the bakery, is still beyond comprehension.”

  Jake pulled the small stack of papers from the folder and placed it on the table.

  “I made copies of the articles from the time. Oh, and I have this, and it’s authentic. It’s the original business license; actually it was called a certificate back then.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “I have no idea. Someone sent it to me or I found it in a stack of stuff in someone’s attic—no, no, I would have marked it if that was where I got it. Someone must have sent it to me.”

  I reached for the articles that had come from the Noose and read, “‘Kennington Bakery Fire Kills Two.’” I read it again, silently, and then looked at Jake. “Well, right there, there’s something wrong with someone’s story. There are four Cylas family members.”

  Jake nodded thoughtfully. “Keep reading. Let’s see if we can learn more.” He moved behind me to peer over my shoulder.

  I continued:

  The two founders and owners of the Kennington Bakery Co., William Kennington and Howard Knapp, were both killed in a fire at their bakery’s building Saturday night. The fire, still under investigation, was said to have most likely started because of something faulty with one or more of the massive ovens. The bakery was not operating at the time, but both Kennington and Knapp were said to have spent many of their free hours in their place of business. Per wishes expressed in their wills, a new management team will be formed to continue operations as soon as the building is repaired.

  That was the end of the short article.

  I looked at Jake. “There has to be more. Perhaps they found the Cylas bodies later as they investigated.”

  “I really don’t think so. Let me see if I have anything else.” Jake moved back to the articles. He mumbled as he thumbed through the few remaining pieces of paper. Then he went through them again. Finally, he handed them to me. “No other bodies are mentioned, but services for Kennington and Knapp are noted. They are both buried in your cemetery—well, the one next to the school.”

  “That’s interesting. I don’t really know how, but maybe that’s something important. Now that I think about it, I have seen those names on tombstones, but I don’t know what else they say. I’ll look again.”

  “I don’t think that the Cylas family was killed in the fire.”

  “I wonder why Gram told me that, or rather why she believed Gent when he told her as much.”

  Jake shrugged. “If Miz was holding you back from talking about it, you can ask Gent for details tonight.”

  “Can you look up obituary information regarding the Cylas family?”

  “Sure, I’ve gotten pretty far on that database.” He sat in a low chair and rolled it to the desk with his computer. He moved busy fingers over the keyboard.

  “This is odd,” he finally said after much longer than I expected.

  “What?”

  “I know my obits are updated through 1960. The fire was 1951. I should have their information.”

  “Nothing on the Cylas family?”

  “No Cylases at all.�
��

  “This is really strange, right?”

  “Possibly. I will concede that I might have missed a death or two, but it’s unlikely. Let me check cemetery records.” His fingers worked the keyboard again. Only a few seconds later he said, “Betts, there’s not one Cylas buried in any nearby cemeteries. So, yes, this is getting stranger. Maybe they moved. Let me do some more research and I’ll get back to you later.”

  “Thank you. May I make copies of the articles?”

  “Help yourself.”

  School was, of course, canceled for the day as Roger’s death was investigated, so I left Jake’s office with no real destination in mind. As I stood on the front boardwalk, I thought about visiting Cliff at the jail across the street, but I knew he’d be busy for the time being. I thought about heading down to Bunny’s for some coffee and pie, but I wasn’t even close to hungry, and oddly enough, I didn’t want or need coffee. Finally, I spotted someone who might give me further diversion.

  Evan Mason was Broken Rope’s fire marshal. He’d come to town via St. Louis. He’d lost his family—I’d heard a wife and a daughter, but I wasn’t sure—to a tragic car accident and he’d been looking for a new start when the marshal position opened up. I hadn’t seen him at the school this morning and, considering one of his fire trucks and at least two of his firemen were there, I was suddenly curious. I also had some fire-related questions that he might be able to answer.

  “Evan!” I called from across the street.

  He smiled and waved my direction and then seemed surprised when I signaled for him to wait a second. I hurried across the street and to the boardwalk on the other side.

  “Hi, I’m not sure if you remember but I’m Betts Winston,” I said as I offered my hand.

  “Of course. I remember you,” he said with a tentative smile. He exuded sadness but who wouldn’t after such a tragedy. I’d heard he was extraordinarily good at his job and had already intervened on some construction projects to make them much safer. He’d created a respectful following around the entire county. He was tall, trim but not thin, in shape but not muscular, with gray green eyes and a head full of blond unruly curls. More than once I’d wondered why he wore his hair the way he did since I thought there might be some short-hair regulation for firefighters, but I didn’t know him well enough to ask.