Don’t you dare say “you’re a peach” to me today! LOLOLOL. Why, I’m pretty sure I’d take that as a sincere knock!
Friends, neighbors, readers, all my loves … Well, it has been a day or two since our Peach Festival and our LOVELY new mayor’s announcement that, in fact, our scrumptious valley is about to play host to rock ‘n’ roll history! A statue of the great MICK RIGHTEOUS, in our midst! THINK OF IT!
You know, as one who deals as I do, I declared the day a holiday the very second the words dripped out of Miss Charlotte’s mouth.
I gotta tell you, I love this woman. She is smart, sharp, and she had this whole ‘berg figured out the minute she set foot here a year ago. Kept to herself, kept quiet, threw her hat in the ring against that abhorrent incumbent Miller Oslo. Pity he hadn’t taken care of that little gambling addiction. At least his wife had the sense to put him into rehab before any of us elected him. (The horses at Tioga Downs miss you, Miller! Get better!)
Back to the matter at hand, my dear reader. How the peach fuzz is flying …
BERNIE, ever the nerdy newsman, believed this was a REAL press conference, so of course raised his hand. “Who is paying for it, where on these banks can we support the fans who will, no doubt, come to pay homage, and don’t you think we should have a say in all of it in the first place?” he shouted. Mayor: “No comment, and no comment. NEXT!”
ELYSE, salt of the earth and saint that she is (yes, it’s Matthew 5:13, dear reader), felt compelled to raise her hand. Shocked, I was, when the Mayor motioned toward her. “You, yes, Elyse is it? I remember from Human Services, yes?”
I could feel Elyse blushing from the bleachers.
“Yes, yes, Mayor Charlotte … I just feel the need to ask you, you know, we had our funding cut this year, and for this to be happening … well, it’s a little hard to take.”
Charlotte nodded heartily and gripped her hands behind her back as she approached the microphone. “Hmm … yes, I hear you Elyse. I can call you Elyse, right? … Yes, well, your funding will be restored, I promise. We have a plan as to how to fund the statue. Not to worry, but I appreciate the question. NEXT?”
Elyse cowered from the front of the crowd as our dear tourism head WANDA (who I understand had a little one-on-one time with the mayor just the day before) elbowed her way to the fore. She seemed to find forming words to be a challenge.
The blood drained from her face as she spoke. “So … how are we, I mean, not that I’m not on board or anything Madam Mayor … I mean, I guess I just need to process … I mean, this changes a LOT.”
Charlotte winked in her direction. “We’ll be fine, Ms. Moreno. We need to take some risks! WHO ELSE?”
“I have a question.” MERCURY raised her hand, waving toward the podium. I had forgotten she was back in town caring for Madam McMurtry now that her house was ashes. There she was, in all of her Euro-trash glory.
“Do we even know who killed this man?”
Charlotte smirked in her direction. “We have an idea.” She glanced in the direction of SHERIFF PAUL, standing on the peripheral, silent, in uniform, hat in hand. Literally. “Right Sheriff?”
He nodded tentatively in her direction. “Um, sure, of course. Thank you, Mayor.”
I was puzzled by his reaction. I mean a shout-out to law enforcement in this town was a keen recognition and I had always thought ole Paul craved that sort of thing. But my contemplation was interrupted by the sight of the Riverside’s own proprietor, CASSIE – Mick’s ex-friend, ex-wife, ex-partner – stepping away from the hubbub.
I had no choice, dear reader, but to chase her – leading, of course, with the microphone. (Nearly lost my new tunic in the crowd, I’ll have you know.)
“Cassie … Cassie, dear Cassie … how does this make you feel? How do you feel, dear? What can I do for you? Care to comment?”
Cassie stood, frozen. In fact, she herself could have been a statue at that moment.
“No,” she said, somberly. “I don’t.”
Gunnar Olafsson