“And . . .” Joe added quickly.
“What?” I said.
“It’s something I have to do. Have to do. If I don’t . . . well, I’m not sure, but it’s something I can’t ignore.”
There was something off about this ghost. He was less aware, even while seeming to know more about his purpose for being here. The other ghosts I’d met all wanted answers to something, but there was more to them than just their ultimate goals. Events from their lives came back to them as they visited. They seemed to blossom a little. I didn’t think Joe would. I suspected his singular focus was all he could handle.
I was suddenly tired. It had been one of the most emotionally taxing days I could remember. Beyond tired—I was on sensory overload. I hadn’t told Gram that Teddy was hurt or that Jerome was back, and I didn’t have the energy to do so at the moment. However, I had no doubt that I would help Joe. But not right this second.
“I promise I’ll work on this. Starting tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Joe said.
Gram smiled.
Chapter 10
“The show must go on, I guess,” I said as I looked out over the cooking school’s parking lot. The six Dutch oven stations were perfectly spaced, and from all indications, the cooking lessons were going to be as popular as Orly had predicted. Three large busses had brought the poets to the cooking school from the campsite right after sunrise. Though I didn’t think everyone who had come for the convention was attending the Dutch oven extravaganza, the vast majority certainly were.
Gram and I had thought long and hard about the six recipes to use. We hoped one wouldn’t be lots more popular than the others. We wanted a fairly equal distribution of observers at each station. It looked like we’d achieved our goal with our variety of both sweet and savory options. The six recipes were monkey bread, cowboy stew, apple crisp, chili mac, breakfast cornbread, and Dutch oven pizza. Some of the recipes required the Dutch ovens only to be set on hot coals, but others required heat from both above and below, so they would have some coals on top, too.
Orly had told us that most of the poets already knew their way around a Dutch oven, but that pretty much all of them would nevertheless be interested in demonstrations because their techniques might need tweaking, everyone enjoyed taste-testing, or you could never have too many recipes. He was right.
The stations were manned by some of our nighttime students. We offered a variety of night classes to Broken Rope locals. The Dutch oven night class had taken three weeks, and six of our students were more than happy to dress the part and show off their Gram’s Country Cooking School–acquired Dutch oven skills. Gram and I would be free to roam from fire to fire and offer help or suggestions, or answer any questions that the night students couldn’t answer.
“The turnout is a little surprising,” Gram said. “I guess I’m glad Orly wanted to keep this on the schedule.”
“I think he feels like he owes it to them, the attendees. Many traveled far to get to the convention, and some were still on their way when Norman was killed. I’m sure he’s worried about anyone else getting hurt, but the police are doing a good job.”
They were. No more blending with the crowd for Jim’s crew. Every police officer was now dressed in his or her official uniform, and not one of them was cracking anything close to a smile. I didn’t know them all; our police force just wasn’t big enough to handle emergency situations that require lots of manpower. Fortunately, neighboring communities were more than willing to share some of their forces. A number of the tough-looking officers were currently roaming the parking lot and would stay through the demonstrations.
Gram sighed and glanced back toward the cemetery. Joe and the horse were weaving their way up and down it, looking at the tombstones.