If Catfish Had Nine Lives(14)
Chapter 5
Even for April, downtown Broken Rope was way too quiet. There were no tumbleweeds in the area, but I could picture one rolling down the empty unpaved road and stirring up the dry earth.
“Excuse me,” someone said from behind me.
“Yes?” I said as I turned. It was the redhead, Esther. “Hi again.”
“Hi.” Esther smiled. “Thanks for what you did back at the shoe repair place. You and your grandmother were great.”
“Our pleasure. Is your friend okay?”
“Vivienne is fine. We’re not really friends . . . oh, no matter. Yes, she’s fine.”
I had a few more questions for Esther, but it didn’t seem like the right moment to add on to the police’s interrogation, and without a little more information I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of whatever had happened between her, Vivienne, Teddy, and Norman. I’d have to ease into that conversation, considering that her personal life was truly none of my business.
“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.”