Read Online If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery) by Paige Shelton - Free Book Online

throttle. “Wait, Orly, is this something that has to do with the murder?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe.”
    I sat up straighter. “I think you should definitely show it to the police, then.”
    “I’d like you to see it first.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know who to trust, ’cept for you, your gram, and that Jake fella.”
    “You can trust the police. They’re the best.”
    “Maybe, but this place—Broken Rope—has quite a reputation. I just dunno.”
    “I promise. They can be trusted. Do you want me to call them?” I fished my phone out of my overalls pocket.
    “Hang on. We’re almost there. You look at it first and then we’ll call them if you think it’s necessary. If you say it’s okay to trust them, then I will, but like I said, we’re almost there.”
    I was silent, a million questions and scary scenarios going through my mind.
    Orly glanced over at me. “It’s nothing to worry about. I just want you to see it.”
    I nodded without looking at him.
    When we passed the football stadium and I could get an even better look at the campsite, my discomfort got replaced by surprise.
    “More people came today?” I said, noticing the larger number of tents and campers.
    “Sure. Not everybody likes all the early events, but everyone loves the late nights; the party. Lots of the new arrivals weren’t even at the show this morning. I had a good chat with Jim, that police fella, about keeping things moving along. He thought the rest of the convention should be canceled, but I told him lots of people were still on their way and letting all of them know about any change of plans would be impossible. I don’t think he wanted to let us go on, but he did. And here we all are.”
    I suspected that was why Orly didn’t
trust
the police.
    “Should Gram and I continue to plan on the Dutch oven and fish frying demonstrations tomorrow?”
    “Absolutely.”
    The culmination of the cowboy poetry convention was a huge dinner, with most of the food cooked outside over campfires. The finalists for the poetry contests were announced, the poems read and voted upon (the volume of whoops and hollers was used to tally votes, Orly had told me), and prizes doled out. The rest of the evening, and most of the night (again, from what Orly had told me), was spent in celebration. A band that was heavy on fiddle and banjo music would play, and people would dance and sing and probably drink too much. No one was allowed to drive any sort of vehicle anywhere until they were cleared as ready and able and sober the next day.
    I knew there were restrictions on the placement and the number of campfires that could be active at the campsite. Only two fires were allowed, and they had to be placed on opposite sides of the site, as well as a certain distance from any of the camping structures—the tents and trailers. We’d be able to do the fish fry at the campsite, but the number of fires needed for the Dutch oven demonstrations dictated that we do those somewhere else. We decided the cooking school parking lot would be perfect. It was a place that could safely handle the fire and heat of a number of cooking stations without much concern for a spark hitting the neighboring woods or school structure. Evan, the fire marshal, had assured us that representatives from the fire department would be on-site to monitor and help with any issues. The fire restrictions were obviously being respected, but I wondered if there was a law regarding restrictions on the number of campers allowed on an open field behind a high school. Even if there wasn’t a law, it was clear that there were just too many people in one space, too many tents, and campers, too. I didn’t know the exact dangers that went along with poor crowd management, but I was sure that Jim was losing his mind regarding the campsite, and even more so with a murder. I suspected he hadn’t just shut everything down because he still wanted to investigate, and if the convention were shut down,