“Looks like we’re going to have some company,” Gram said.
“Should I leave?” Jerome said.
“No, it’s fine, but . . .” I hesitated, but I didn’t see any other way around it. “Gram, there’s something you should know. Teddy got into a fight and Orly helped him.” I didn’t need hindsight to know that the way I’d just handled giving her the news was cowardly and badly done.
“Uh,” Gram said.
“Betts, Missouri,” Orly said as he approached the table. “How are you lovely ladies? I must tell you that the Dutch oven event was a huge success. Everyone is buzzing about it.”
“That’s great to hear. We’re fine, Orly,” I said as Gram continued to digest the news. “Would you like to join us?” I scooted over so he wouldn’t try to sit on Jerome.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” he said.
“Not at all,” I said. “We’d love for you to join us.”
“I can’t imagine better company. Thank you.”
Orly sat next to me, which meant he was catty-corner from Jerome and directly across from Gram. We were two Winston women and two cowboys. Despite the slight transparency and different time periods, it was difficult not to notice the similarities between Jerome and Orly. The obvious one, of course, was that they were both cowboys, which I suspected made them somehow soul-brothers of sorts. The cowboy lifestyle had modernized over the years between their two lives, but nonetheless, they were the stuff of ruggedness, the type of people who lived outside more than inside. Ruddy skin and big shoulders were more their trademarks than mere aspects of their physical descriptions.
Orly was older than Jerome had been when he’d died, but there was a congruity in the set of their jaws and—I peered at the table to confirm—strong similarities in their calloused hands and marred fingers—none were perfectly straight. I’d liked Orly immediately, but now I hoped my initial instincts hadn’t been off.
“How’s everything at camp?” I asked Orly.
“All right. A little subdued, but the Dutch oven cooking demonstrations were enjoyed by everyone. Thank you both for your kind hospitality this morning.”
I nodded. “Our pleasure.”
Gram kind of nodded, too, but I could tell she wished for a chance to talk to me without Orly present.
Orly cleared his throat. “We’re trying to continue on without being disrespectful. It’s a difficult balance.”
“Did you know the man who was killed?” Gram asked.
“Just from the convention this year,” Orly said. “But I’m learning more and more about him every minute.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“He was interesting. He asked a lot about writing poetry. And, apparently, he asked a lot of questions about me, even though the two of us only had a couple brief conversations that were so unimportant I don’t remember them at all.”
“Did you have any arguments or discussions with him?”
“Not that I remember.”
“You might need to be careful, Orly,” Gram said. “Remember, the killer hasn’t been found yet.”
“Certainly, Missouri, but I’m pretty convinced that the killer was only planning on killing one person. I’ve been thinking about it. Almost everyone who was at the convention was there and watching the skit. The killer could have killed anyone, or more than just one person. None of us were prepared to shoot back, defend ourselves. I know that eventually the police would have figured out what was going on, but even a few moments of chaos . . . well, I don’t even want to think about it.”