Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“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.”