“TO THE FIRST Pennyluck Heritage Festival!”
The cork popped and flew off into the grass. Flutes were filled and passed around. Kate sipped her glass and leaned back in her chair. Not champagne but a provincial equivalent thereof, a sparkling wine from the Niagara region. It went down like liquid sunshine and Kate told herself to savour the moment. Drink it in and roll it over the tongue for all its worth. By the fourth sip, she could have happily closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep in her patio chair.
She shook it off. There was a ways to go yet.
A little pre-festival shindig she had arranged for the council before the official kickoff to the Heritage Festival tomorrow. Larmet’s Chick’n and Rib House had provided the barbecue, Larmet himself holding court over a bank of coals in a steel drum. After the ribs and wings would come the steak and roast potatoes. The case of the sparkling wine finagled from Stonehouse Winery in Lincoln County. A bathtub of galvanized tin held beer smothered in ice chips. Best bitters from a microbrew in Perth alongside hoser safe bets like Blue and Canadian. The obligatory yet loathsome Bud.
The table and patio chairs were set up under a shade tree in the fair grounds. Kate wanted the council members to see the transformation of the bandstand and park. A way to say thanks and show the council that their decision to fund the festival was not a waste. A bit of an extravagance but it greased the wheels of the old boy’s club. Two guitar players and a fiddler were set up on the bandstand, strumming up a mix of Irish folk tunes and country weepers.
Reeve Thompson toasted the band while Keefe assaulted the rib platter. Gene Ripley salted corn on the cob. McGrath plucked a bottle of bitter from the ice and nodded to Kate. “You’ve outdone yourself, Kate. I’ve never seen the park look so good.”
Thompson, sucking rib sauce off his thumb. “Is this where the bagpipers end up?”
“The parade comes down Newcastle, then through the gates to here,” Kate said. “Then we have a short speech to start the festival.”
“When’s the fireworks?”
“About ten that night. Then again on Saturday night.”
“Mitch Connelly tells me his campground is booked solid,” McGrath said. “He’s even got people pitching tents in his backyard.”
“The motels are booked too.” Clifton Murdy licked his fingers. “From here to Exford.”
The councilmen grunted their approval through full mouths and slippery hands.
“You’ve done well, Kate.” McGrath raised his beer to her. “I know we took some convincing but well, we’re eating our words now.”
The men laughed. High praise, thought Kate. McGrath drove her crazy with his smug condescension, acting the wise old grandfather to everyone. He and the rest would be eating a lot more words when she tallied the revenue boom once the festival was over. For now she accepted it with a smile and helped herself to another flute of bubbly wine. Tonight she would sleep like a stone.
It was serene. The guitar picking from the bandstand and the smell of woodsmoke. The sun going down and a breeze riffling the crepe paper. Picture perfect, but perfection is illusory. Between the clatter of plates and board stomping on the bandstand, no one noticed the interloper come to crash the party. He strode down the path, following the sound of banter.
“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here.”
Corrigan seemed to materialize from thin air at the head of the table. Murdy would later claim that a tang of brimstone overpowered the aroma from the barbecue.
Forks clattered to plates. Mouths stopped chewing, hung open. The band, sensing something was amiss, stopped playing.
“You gotta be kidding me,” McGrath burst the silence. “You got about two seconds to get outta my sight before we run you out of this park, mister.”
“That I would like to see,” Corrigan helped himself to the ribs. “The councilmen wobbling through the grass at a dead run. Pass me a beer, would you, Mister Thompson.”
Thompson did no such thing. Aside from Kate, few of the council had seen Corrigan in person but his name went hissing round the table. Corrigan held a roll of paper under his arm, like a poster, and this he put down and helped himself to the beer tub. Biting into the ribs, he turned to the man at the grill. “Mr. Larmet, these are delicious.”
Larmet stood over the fire, heavy tongs at the ready like he was about to pummel the crasher. Kate got out of her chair. “This is a private party Mister Corrigan,” she said. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Mmm, I have some interesting developments I wanted to share with the group.” He wiped his hands, took a slug on the bottle. “Since you lied to me about the inquiry, I’ve had to do the digging myself.”
Joe Keefe looked around the park. “Where’s security?”
Corrigan unravelled the roll of paper. “This won’t take a minute. Have a look at this.” The map was old, brittle. Squinting, one could just make out the date in the corner. 1894. The town of Pennyluck, the main road and a few streets. Property drafted into a grid of narrow rectangles, names written inside each lot. “This is a map of our town, dated four years before the massacre of the Corrigan clan. Properties are clearly marked out and identified. If we look closely, we can see some familiar names.” He pointed to various plots within the grid. “Here’s McGrath’s family property. Over here are lots owned by the Keefes, the Thompson family. Ripley’s funeral parlour, still in existence today. Murdy, Berryhill and so on.”
Each man leaned forward upon hearing his name, squinting at the script inside those little rectangles. Rib sauce splattered one corner. Corrigan pointed to a larger patch of land outside of town, leading off the map.
“Over here is the Corrigan farm but down here in town, there are four lots owned in title and deed to the Corrigans.” His finger traced through two lots on Galway Road, another off Chestnut and a fourth on King Street. All smack dab in the center of town. “Now that’s some sweet real estate, eh boys? The Corrigans owned a saloon and a harness shop on Galway and boarding house on Chestnut. The last one was an empty lot at the time, the previous house having been burned down by some feckless bastards in the winter of eighty-eight.
“After the shoddy police investigation into my family’s murder, these properties were held in trust to the town. A year later, the lots were sold off for a pennies on the dollar to prominent families. The McGrath’s bought the tack shop, James Hitchens purchased the boarding house to expand his hotel next door. The saloon was snatched up by Roger Jamesons for a steal. The vacant lot sold two years later to the Murdy’s, purchase price unknown. Maybe a dirty handjob to the mayor.”
Pat McGrath leaned back, smelling a sting was coming after the set-up. He pushed back his chair. “I’m not listening to anymore of this horseshit.”
“It is appalling, isn’t it?” Corrigan chucked up a hearty laugh. “The brazenness of it all. The same men who slaughtered my family snatch up their land at a cut rate not a year after they’re in the ground. Proof of their bloodied hands, clear as day.”
Joe Keefe told him to go to Hell and stood, ready to follow McGrath.
“Oh come on, boys. You haven’t even heard the best part.” Corrigan held up the map again. “Look at these lots. Primo real estate, making the wrong people rich for a hundred years. I want them back.”
The sting. The racket of crickets filled the silence. Thompson declared him a crazy son of a bitch and a fraud to boot. All agreed.
“That’s my counter offer,” said Corrigan. “Take it or leave it.”
McGrath was incredulous. The stupid bastard was bargaining from no position. “Counter offer? To what?”
“Your clumsy attempt to buy me off, using old Jim Hawkshaw as your puppet.” Corrigan gauged their confused looks correctly. Shot back. “I assume the right honourable mayor told you of her manoeuvre?”
Kate shrank under the weight of all those eyeballs. She held her head high and utilized the same tactics of any tyrant big or small. Denial and bluff. Brinkmanship. “That’s enough of your conspiracy theories, Mister Corrigan. Take your paranoia elsewhere.”
The councilmen grumbled in agreement, grunting support for their mayor.
Corrigan feigned a look of martyrdom, all forlorn suffering not dissimilar to Joan in the flames. “I tried, I really did. But since you won’t listen to reason or morality, we can fight it out the old fashioned way. In the courts.”
McGrath laughed at him. “You’re suing us?”
“For the return of stolen lands. For conspiracy to profit from a crime. And the aggregate revenues lost during the last hundred years.”
“Then we’ll see you in court. Goodnight Kate.” McGrath tossed his glass on the table and huffed away. The other councilmen followed. The cook doused a pitcher of water on the grill and the coals hissed up foul and cruel.
The trio on the bandstand held their instruments still. Stranded on the old gazebo, unsure of what the hell was happening. One of them flipped open his guitar case, ready to pack it in.
“Dirty old town!” Corrigan stomped up the steps of the bandstand, champagne bottle in hand. “That old Pogues tune. You know the one.” He dug into a pocket and tossed a bill into the open guitar case. A C note. “Play it!”
One picker eyed the other, neither remembering the song too well. The fiddle player struck it out on her chords, doing her best but all she could remember was the chorus. The pickers followed her lead, the melody recalling only the chorus so they sang that.
Kate rose and followed the council up the path. Camaraderie in her bones. She couldn’t remember the last time all of them had been agreement. It felt good.
Corrigan struck up the tune, adding his voice, bellicose and out of key, to the harmonies of the trio.
Dirty old town!
Dirty old town!
Bill Berryhill was not an advocate of the festival. Just the thought of a bunch of tourists plodding around town in their Crocs and yoga pants made him sick. Taking pictures and gawking, driving slow in their SUV’s. And now this, clogging the bar at the Dublin. The damn festival hadn’t even started and they were already here, wasting oxygen in his refuge.
“The hell are you doing, Pudsy?” He elbowed his way in and leaned over the bar. “Giving the drinks away?”
Puddycombe was hustling to keep up, even with Jeanine winging behind the bar with him and two girls on the floor. Smiling through it all, like only Puddy could. Eating it all up, playing the host and ringing the till. “Not bad, huh?”
Bill sneered. “Can’t these rubes go someplace else? Like Gator Bob’s?”
“You be nice, Billy. It all trickles down, son. You’ll see.”
Bill waved a dead pitcher over the bartop. “Well if you’re not too busy, can you see to the regulars who keep you open in the winter months?”
The bar owner hooked the pitcher under the spigot and let it fill while he poured a row of shooters. Berryhill watched the Kahlua and Baileys pour into the shot glasses and shook his head. Christ on a popsicle stick.
He felt an elbow in his ribs and snapped around, ready to lay into some tourist. Hitchens, squeezing his way through the mob. “Bill, where the hell did all these people come from?”
“Dunno but looking at all the faggot-ass hair and stupid clothes, my guess is Toronto.”
“Could be worse, I suppose.” Hitchens winked at Puddycombe. “We may yet get some Quebekers.”
When Puddy set down the fresh pitcher and pint of his usual, Hitchens waved at them to lean in. “You hear what happened down at the fair grounds? About Corrigan’s latest stunt?”
“What’s the bastard done now?”
“According to Thompson, the son of a bitch laid claim to half a dozen properties in town. Says the land used to belong to his family and was sold off illegally or some shit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Puddycombe shouted back. “You can’t cry foul a hundred years after the fact.”
“He said it’s proof of the conspiracy. The land sold off cheap to the men who killed his family.”
Berryhill dug into a basket of pretzels. “What land is he talking about?”
“McGrath’s hardware. Murdy’s shop. Doug’s car dealership.”
“Doug’s place?” Bill’s employer, Doug Murdoch. Bill spent three days of the week there as an unlicensed mechanic and tow truck driver. Occasional repo man. “Dude’s crazy, thinks he can swindle that horseshit.”
“Ballsy, huh?” Hitchens sipped his pint. “The sonovabitch just keeps upping the ante, cranking us up. I mean, what the hell is he after?”
“Gotta be a payoff,” Puddy said. “He’s extorting us to make him go away.”
Hitchens winked. “I think they tried. On the sly like. Guess it didn’t work.”
“Fuck the town,” Berryhill said. “We need to do what we planned. Only thing that’s gonna work.”
“That’ll have to wait.” Puddycombe set pints down, poured more. “Until the festival’s over. Too many people around.”
“Why? So you can sell more to these stupid rubes?”
“Would you hush your gob?”
“He’s got a point,” Hitchens said.
“That prick ain’t waiting.” Pretzel crumbs flew from Bill’s maw. “He’s doing more of his bullshit tours this weekend. Haven’t you seen the flyers?”
“Leave it. We’ll deal with it Monday.”
Bill dismissed them both as pussies and took his pitcher out to the patio. Combat Kyle sat at a picnic table, blowing smoke out his nose and playing with his Zippo. Flicking it open and snapping his fingers to light it, all in one smooth motion. Something he’d seen Steven Seagal do once in a movie.
“Pour.” Bill set the pitcher down and helped himself to the cigarette pack on the table. Kyle refilled their glasses and took up the Zippo again. Bill watched his mute friend snap the old lighter and stare at the flame like some bewitched Neanderthal.
“Fucking firebug.”
Kate steered for home, her eyes flitting between the street ahead of her and the phone in her hand. Scrolling through her contact list for Hugo’s number. His report about Corrigan’s past, added to his crashing her party, had her worried.
Maybe Hugo could help. Effectiveness and discretion were his calling cards. Especially in tricky spots. He could come up here, deal with Corrigan as only Hugo could, and she’d be free of his nonsense.
She hit dial and then panicked and killed the call. Dropping the phone onto the passenger seat. She didn’t need Hugo to come out here to solve her problems for her.
She pulled to the curb and looked out over the street, decorated as it was with flowers and sparkling lights. She’d worked so hard to put all of this together and now this cretin was trying to drag it all down into the gutter. What galled the most was how he’d planned to co-opt her festival to promote his gruesome little sideshow.
Corrigan didn’t care about the new bylaw nor the hefty fines he would incur by going ahead with his tour. Maybe she could shut him down some other way, if only for this weekend. She scrolled through the names on her phone and called Joe Keefe. His crew was doing road work just south of town.
Keefe answered on the third ring. “Kate? What can I do you for?”
“Joe, where’s your crew working tomorrow?”
“The Orange Line. Just a half day, though. The boys are looking forward to the festival.”
“I see. Listen, how hard would it be to move your crew to another location? There’s another road that needs work immediately.”
“That’s news to me. What road?”
“The Roman Line,” she said. “Starting at Clapton Road, then moving west about two, three miles.”
“You mean right near what his name’s place?”
“That stretch of road is terrible, don’t you think?”
Keefe was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “I’d say you’re dead right. In fact, we might have to close off that whole stretch all weekend.”
“Better safe than sorry. You’ll get on that?”
“Right away.”
Driving west on the old Roman Line, the only streetlights are posted at the crossroads. A black pickup truck barrelled under the last one, leaving a mushroom cloud of dust under the amber glow. The unpaved surface turned to washboard in spots, hard-packed ripples that will shake a vehicle apart if taken too fast. The black pickup trundled slow over the ripples, picked up speed coming uphill from a low valley. Cresting the rise, the headlights winked out and the pickup ran sleek and invisible in the night.
The truck hewed to the shoulder and stopped. The interior dome light was switched off before opening the doors. Two figures slid out of the cab; one tall and thick, the other short and slight. A nocturnal Laurel and Hardy, up to no bloody good. The tall one reached into the box and came away with a red gas can. The lid was spun off, the spout fixed and reattached. The two figures climbed down the ditch and pitched drunkenly up the other bank.
Fifteen paces through the brittle stalks of mown hay to a wooden signboard hung on a frame of two-by-fours. The hated name painted in simple black against a white background. Further south, at the end of the rutted driveway, stood the haunted house.
The can tilted up and gasoline splashed over the wooden beams. The click-clack of a Zippo and a little flame. Laurel and Hardy giggled and shushed each other to be quiet. Fire leapt from the wick and chased around the base of the sign. The arsons howled and ran headlong back to the ditch, falling and clawing back up to the road.
The pickup spun back the way it came, tires skirting the opposite ditch. The engine gunned and the headlights popped back on. Red taillights fading away.
Inside of a heartbeat, the signboard was a bonfire, all Halloween orange against the black night. The paint blistered in the flames, warping and withering the neatly stencilled name.
The house at the end of the driveway remained dark, the windows reflecting the roiling bonfire in the distance. The only other light was a pinprick of orange glowing from the end of a cigar. Over the pop and snap of the fire, was a rhythmic tack of a rocking chair creaking the floorboards.
William Corrigan rocked slow on his veranda and watched the fire burn. No rush for the hose, no call to the firehouse. He puffed on his cigar and rocked and rocked.