stirred from his perch at the bar, turned back to his drink. Kate looked at Jim with a bewildered expression.
Bauer lowered the volume on his belt radio. He stepped over to the stranger, thumbs hooked into his belt and suggested to Mr. Corrigan that he play nice with his neighbours if he was to make a place for himself in the community. “Pennyluck is a nice little town,” he said. Then he leaned in and lowered his tone. “Big city assholes don’t fit in so well, so do like Darwin suggests. Adapt or get the hell out of Dodge. You understand me?”
Corrigan gave back a showy salute. “Loud and clear. Thank you, Constable.”
Bauer nodded to Kate on his way out the door and then it was quiet. Audrey drifted back from her thirty- minute smoke break, having missed the fracas entirely. Looking over the sullen faces, she asked who died.
“Mister Puddycombe!” Corrigan bellowed across the bar like it was New Years Eve. “A round of drinks for everyone please. My apologies for the shenanigans.”
No one even looked at the man. Hitchens spoke, speaking for all. “No one wants your drink, Corrigan.”
Puddycombe squared his palms on the bar. “Best you took your business elsewhere.”
“What kind of man refuses a friendly drink?” Corrigan mocked a gaudy display of shock, like it was all good fun.
Puddycombe plugged the jukebox back in and music filtered over the speakers. Some old George Jones tune about drinking his woman away. Puddy went back to wiping the bar and people drank. The show over.
“I’ll take that drink.”
Jim looked up, surprised to see it was Kate who had spoken. She looked at Corrigan. “Whiskey, is it?”
Corrigan, surprised as anyone, raised his empty rock glass and gave it a tinkle. “Can you convince mister Puddycombe to break out the good stuff he’s hiding behind the counter?”
Kate winked at the pub owner. Puddy tossed his towel down and reached under the bar, shaking his head in schoolmarm disapproval.
A table in the back near the billiards. Three clean tumblers and a pint glass of ice cubes. Puddycombe had taken Kate’s hint and set a bottle of Midleton on their table. He fired a dirty look at Corrigan and shuffled off, hoping they wouldn’t drain the bottle.
Corrigan beamed at the two people joining his table. Kate seemed impatient but remained polite. Jim, no poker player, looked downright wary.
“May I?” Corrigan took the bottle and carelessly splashed whiskey into the glasses and over the tabletop. Jim reached for the glass of ice cubes but Corrigan covered it with his hand. “You’ll not profane the whiskey with frozen wellwater, Jim. What would your granddad say?”
“Why do you go out of your way to be a dick?” Jim scooped two cubes and plopped them in his glass. Corrigan flung the rest into the cold fireplace and clinked his glass against Jim’s and Kate’s. “Cheers.”
Jim was no connoisseur of whiskey. Blue collar Ontario boy that he was, he was raised on beer and rarely deviated from that. He expected a bite but it was all buttery gold gliding past his gullet. The surprise registered on his face and Corrigan smiled at that.
Kate gave away no such territory. She drank and cut to the chase. “You’ve caused quite a stir here, Mister Corrigan.”
“Will, to my friends,” he said. “We missed you at the inaugural tour, Kate. May I call you Kate? I trust we’ll see you at the next one.”
“I’m not big on cheap carny rides.”
“Ah Kate, that’s an unjust comparison. You need to see it with your own eyes before passing judgement. You might enjoy it.”
“The only thing I like about carny outfits,” she said, “is their fly-by-night operation. They throw up a tent one day, make a buck and then they’re gone by morning. Off to some other town.”
Corrigan winked at Jim as if they shared some secret. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Kate pushed her glass away. “Then you have to give up this nonsense. You want to settle down, you have to fit in. Be part of the community. That’s the way it is here.”
“You want me to fit in?”
“At the very least,” Jim broke in, “stop trying to make enemies everywhere.”
“I’m not looking for enemies, Jim. I’m a friend to all.” Corrigan straightened up and hollered at the bar. “Mr. Puddycombe! Another drink for my friend Hitchens over there.”
Hitchens sat hunkered over the bar, his back to the room. “Piss off,” he sneered to Corrigan but he winked at Puddy to pour him a drink anyway.
“Let’s cut the nonsense, Mister Corrigan.” It was late, Kate felt her patience running thin. “What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“How noble.”
Corrigan leaned forward. “This little festival you’re throwing. The Heritage Festival? That’s your idea, yes? Don’t you want to know the truth about your heritage or did you prefer fairy tales?”
She wouldn’t be baited. “Is it money you’re after?”
“Some restitution would be nice. My family owned a lot of land in this town before they were butchered, all of which was divvied up after their murder.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I believe some ‘pain and suffering’ is due.”
Jim leaned back. “Pain and suffering? Gimme a frigging break.”
“Not mine. I want this town to feel pain. I want everyone to suffer.” He leered up at Kate. “And nothing hurts more than a kick to the wallet, does it Kate?”
Jim blanched but Kate looked relieved. At least they were getting somewhere, some solid ground she could negotiate from. “Look around you, Corrigan. This isn’t a rich town. If you’re looking to blackmail someone, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Kate, Kate, Kate. I’m not here for something so sordid as blackmail. I just want to pull all the skeletons from the closet. Dance them around the square.”
Jim rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t going anywhere. “There’s no way to prove your accusation. There’s no mention of any of it in the local history books.”
“I know. I looked,” Corrigan said. “But there’s proof somewhere. You’re just not looking hard enough.”
Kate studied the man, looking for the con, the ‘
“That would be a good start.”
“Nothing grand.” She raised a hand in caution. “Not a trial, just a public inquiry into the Corrigan tragedy. And in return, you’ll end this ‘tour’ of yours.”
Corrigan raised his glass, waiting for his guests to raise theirs. “I’ll drink to that.”
Kate clinked her glass to his and Corrigan looked to Jim. Jim balked, reluctant to agree to anything with his new neighbour.
“Jim?” Kate prompted him out of his rudeness.
Clink.
11
THE TOWN COUNCIL sat Tuesday mornings in the old building it shared with the library and the municipal county office. A clock tower topped the limestone edifice but the clock had stopped working the summer of 1916. Local folklore held that the cessation of the timepiece was in mourning for the large number of local boys shipped to the battlefields of Europe and slaughtered wholesale at the Somme.
The restoration and repair of the old town clock was one of the items on the agenda for today’s council meeting. Kate had initiated the project with the help of Mrs. Cogburn, the librarian, and Ford Toohey of the Knights of Columbus. Fundraising plans withered and died when the estimate for restoration came in at $78,000.
Kate would bring it up in council this morning, if only to keep the idea alive. But her main focus was the
