PUDDYCOMBE SLOTTED HIS Cherokee into the spot behind the pub and scanned the parking lot. Two vehicles left overnight. Ryder’s pickup and Murdy’s Subaru. Both men showing enough sense to leave their vehicles here and catch a ride home. The mess wasn’t too bad either, a few beer bottles and a rock glass perched on the picnic table.
Into the gloom of the bar and the familiar tang of spilled beer and deep fryer. The trays of lime wedges had been left out to spoil. Again. Leaving his keys on the bar, he crossed the room and propped open the front door to air the place out.
The sun was slanting over the storefronts on the north side of Galway Road, steaming off the dew. The strip had been transformed for the festival, turned out in bright colours and fresh flowers. New flowerpots adorned the sidewalks, overflowing with lilies and asters. More wildflowers swayed from hangers, orange milkweed and purple bellflower. Suspended over the street was an enormous banner, crinkling in the breeze as it welcomed all to the Pennyluck Heritage Festival.
Kate’s crews had gone all out for this shindig and he was glad for it. A weekend of tourists strolling downtown and filling up his tables inside, spilling out into the back patio. A much welcome shot in the arm to the slumping summer sales. When Kate had first initiated her plan for the festival, Puddy had lobbied hard to get it approved. Why the town council fought it at first was beyond him. Stupid old farts.
The morning’s mess outside the front door wasn’t too bad. Two pint glasses and a champagne flute left on the window sill. Who the hell was drinking champagne last night?
“Morning.” Jenny Malone, his mail carrier, came speedwalking up behind him, two heavy bags balanced under a harness on her shoulders. He never understood the speedwalking thing, to him it always looked like someone hurrying to find a bathroom.
“Hi Jenny. Running late today?”
“Got held up at Mrs. Ferrera’s.” Her face pink, cheeks blowing. “You know how she likes to chitchat.” She handed over a wad of envelopes and pointed to the new flowerpots. “Don’t you love all those hydrangeas?”
“Why do you bring me this stuff, Jenny? It’s all bad news.”
“Not all of it.” She picked out a sliver of junk mail, held it up. Sweepstakes. “You may already be a winner.” She waved goodbye and speedwalked away, her bum cheeks pistoning up and down.
A flyer was folded over the stack of envelopes. A photocopied handbill, bold print over a photo of a familiar looking house. Puddycombe damn near dropped his coffee as he read the details.
The Corrigan Horrorshow
Historical tours and Attractions
Come celebrate the Heritage Festival of Pennyluck in true historical fashion. Proprietor William Corrigan invites you to a special tour of the ancestral Corrigan home to uncover the bloody secrets behind the 1898 massacre of the Corrigan clan in all its horrific detail. Discover the details behind this heinous act and learn the names of the murderers within your midst.
Learn the true heritage of our bucolic little community!
He balled up the flyer and pitched it into the nearest bin.
The paint on the bandstand was still tacky. Situated in the fair grounds off Newcastle Road, the bandstand teetered in its dry rot frame and bent railings. Not a line of timber standing plumb. What it needed was to be bulldozed and built from the ground up but Kate had neither the budget nor the time for that. She stepped back, taking in the glossy white and trim of picnic table red. A fresh coat of paint would have to do. The heritage festival that she had initiated two years ago and steered past one pitfall after another was finally here.
The kickoff event was a marching band, the Black Guard Pipes from nearby Prescott, starting at the war memorial on the eastern entrance to town. The bagpipers would lead the parade over the bridge, down Galway then south onto Newcastle and conclude here at the bandstand in the old fair grounds. It was going to be glorious.
At the moment, it was a disaster. The landscaping crew were still laying sod and setting up planters. The paint crew still had to finish the bandstand and where the hell were the dozen Johnny-on-the-Spots she had ordered?
“They’re late,” said Charlie. Charlie’s wife, Melissa nodded and added: “Their last event ran late so they won’t be delivered until tomorrow. Oh, and there’s only eight now available. Four of the porta-potty things were destroyed at the last venue.”
Charlie and Melissa were Kate’s event planners. Pathologically chipper, their personal mantra could be found on a bumpersticker on their Volvo. Get ‘er done!
“I was lowballing it an even dozen. Eight won’t be enough.” Kate tried to still the frustration in her voice. Frustration only egged the pair on. The more angry she grew, the more earnest and caring Charlie and Melissa became.
“We’ll figure it out, Kate.” Charlie’s face pouted, as if talking to a toddler. “We’ll talk to Keefe’s Construction, they’ve got two. Maybe we can rent them.”
“Fantastic idea!” Melissa rabbit-punched her husband’s shoulder.
Kate choked back the bile, watching her event planners high-five. “You said there was two bits of bad news. What’s the rest?”
The pair reflexed back into their pensive expressions. Melissa chewed her lip and pulled a flyer from her clipboard. “It’s this. I’m sorry.”
Kate took the sheet of paper, recognizing Corrigan’s latest handbill. She had found one in her mailbox at six-thirty this morning, two hours before the mail arrived. Which meant that Corrigan had hand delivered it himself. The thought of that man creeping onto her doorstep in the middle of the night raised gooseflesh down her arms.
The nerve of it, ramping up his gruesome sideshow during her festival. He’d already been served notice of the new bylaw prohibiting any tourist attraction in his residence. She’d have a violation written up and served before the day was out. If Corrigan went ahead with his tour, she’d slap him with a $3000 fine. Hell, if the man kept it up maybe she could bankrupt him in fines and send him packing.
“What are we going to do about it?” Charles looked at her expectantly.
“I’ll handle it.” Kate handed the flyer back. “Call Joe Keefe about his facilities. And then find out if Gator Bob’s still setting up his corn roast stand. He seemed to dither about it last time we spoke.”
Kate’s phone was ringing inside her bag. She walked back to her car, digging for the damn thing. “Hello?”
“Katie,” the caller said. “how’s life in bumpkinville?”
She smiled at the sound of his voice. “Insane at the moment, Hugo. This festival is going to bury me.”
“I’m sure it will all come together without a hitch. Is that this weekend?”
“Tomorrow. And a million things left to do before we’re ready. What’s up?”
“Been looking up your boyfriend there,” Hugo said. “Found some real dirt on Mr. Corrigan. Katie, I think you should be careful around this creep.”
“What kind of dirt?”
Kate stopped cold, listening to Hugo. The back of her arms prickled up at what she heard. She asked him to repeat it, wanting to get the details right. He told her again to be careful, even offering to send one of his associates to Pennyluck if she wanted.
She said that was unnecessary but thanked him all the same. Before she hung up, she urged him again to come up and visit sometime. She could use the distraction. She ended the call and then scrolled through her contacts. Found Jim’s number and dialled.
“Prison?”
“Six years.”
“For what?”
“Manslaughter.”
Jim had been out in the barn when Travis ran out with the phone. It was Kate. She needed to talk to him right away. He climbed into his truck and drove out to the fairgrounds. The two of them sat on a picnic table watching the crew of volunteers string crepe paper over the old bandstand.
Jim felt the blood drain out of his face. “Are you sure your friend’s got his facts right?”
“Hugo’s extremely thorough,” Kate said. “He wouldn’t have called unless he was sure.”
Jim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When was this?”
“The incident happened in oh-two. Corrigan was convicted and sent to prison in oh-four.”
“Six years? That means he’s been outta jail a year.”
“Roughly.”
“Christ on a pogo stick.” Jim’s reserved profanity, inherited from his old man. “What the hell did he do?”
“Killed a man in a bar fight,” Kate said. “Corrigan claimed self-defence. Pled down to a manslaughter charge.”
“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? The same way he claimed self-defence when he scrapped with Bill.”
“That’s what I thought too.” Kate’s phone chirped an alert but she ignored it. “It gets worse. According to Hugo’s sources, Corrigan had ties to organized crime.”
“Christ.”
“I don’t know what we’re dealing with anymore,” said Kate. “And I’m a little concerned.”
“We should call Ray at the police station. He should know about this.”
“I did. He’s going to look into Corrigan’s release but he said that unless he’s breaking probation, there’s nothing he can do.” Her Blackberry chimed again. She dropped it into her bag. “Let me ask you something. Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I don’t know.” His voice quiet. “To be honest, it’s not him I’m worried about. If Berryhill and the others find out about this, it’s just gonna feed the fire and then somebody’s gonna do something stupid.”
Neither spoke for a moment. They watched a stream of crepe paper flapping loose in the wind. It broke off and slithered away on the breeze.
“I’ve been thinking about your idea,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Are you sure?”
Kate eased off the picnic table and brushed the flaking paint chips from her pants. “Make the offer to Corrigan. I’ll shift around some budgets so we can use the slush fund for a deposit. If Corrigan bites, then we’ll be rid of him.”
Jim got to his feet. “Done.”
“Just make sure he understands the conditions of the offer. You buy only if he leaves town for good.”
He picked up her bag and held it out for her. The damn phone just kept chirping. “If this blows up in our faces, just how much trouble are we gonna be in?”
“I don’t want to even think about it.”
Another tentacle of crepe paper tore away from the bandstand and tumbled crazily across the grass.