If Catfish Had Nine Lives(24)

            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, people would just leave. He didn’t want anyone to leave yet. I didn’t envy the position he’d been put in.

            Orly steered the truck to the far end of the field, to the back corner that was almost directly across the old stagecoach tracks from the Express station. He’d set up his tent on a corner patch, where anyone who might need him could find him easily.

            He parked and said, “In my tent.”

            “Orly, you need to tell me what’s in there. I’m concerned, and I don’t know if I want to see what you think I need to see.”

            He chewed on the inside of his cheek a second and then said, “Well, I got you this far, so I guess it’s okay to tell you now that there’s a fella inside my tent. He asked me specifically to come find you and get you out here without telling you what was going on first. He thought you’d be so upset or concerned that you wouldn’t come alone, and he didn’t want anyone but you here.”

            “What fella? Who?”

            “Claims to be your brother. I already told him that I’d shoot him if he’s lying or tries anything funny.”

            I was suddenly wedged in between shock and humor; shocked that Teddy might be in Orly’s tent, humor because of Orly’s dry delivery of his threat; but then I realized he meant what he was saying. Teddy really was in his tent, and Orly probably truly would shoot him if he deemed it necessary.

            “Oh, no,” I said. “What’d he get himself into this time?”

            “Your question makes me think he’s exactly the type of young man I suspected him to be. Should we go see?”

            I hopped out of the truck and trudged over and around camping accessories to get to Orly’s tent. I was concerned about what might be going on, but I did experience a small sense of reluctant déjà vu. I’d been summoned a few times to surprising and sometimes mysterious places at often unusual hours to retrieve my brother. He was an adorable, sweet man who attracted women simply by existing, and his judgment when it came to his love life hadn’t been good. Recently, the woman I thought might actually make an honest man out of him dumped him. Ophelia Buford, Opie, a lifelong thorn in my side, had claimed to be head over heels for my untamed brother and, much to my disappointment, he claimed the same for her. And then one day, she just decided that she no longer wanted to be a couple. It had broken his heart, and I’d expected his ways of coping would result in bad behavior, but so far I’d been pleasantly surprised.

            Of course, our quiet and peaceful existence wasn’t destined to last. It was probably almost over; it would probably end when I stepped into the tent.

            Orly reached for the front flap of his very modern tent. “If he’s not who he says he is or if he acts squirrelly, just give me the signal. I’ll take care of him.”