If Catfish Had Nine Lives(23)

            Orly turned the truck onto the road next to the school, steering us past the adobe structure.

            “I found something, and I wanted you to see it,” he said. He hadn’t had much to say since we’d left Main Street, but I’d asked him if he was okay, considering the brutal turn of the morning. He assured me that he was fine, though understandably shaken up. He asked me the same question. I promised him I’d be okay, too. He also noted that no matter what the reality was, and even though the police had questioned everyone, it might not have soaked in totally with convention attendees that what they’d seen had been real and as awful as anything could be. There might be more trauma to come for some. I didn’t know what I could do to help with that, but I decided I’d talk to Cliff about it later.

            “What did you find?” I asked.

            “I’ll show you when we get there. You can tell me if you think I should show it to the police.”

            I blinked as the gears in my head starting spinning up to full 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.