The murder of Mick Righteous is no longer a mystery. Sheriff Paul confessed.
Apparently, the ponies got the better of him – a bind that left him selling his services as a killer to a shady underworld type, who has since disappeared.
So goes the story here in Middle Valley for the past three years – entirely too long if you ask anyone that lives here.
Of course, then we have the mystery of the body parts, but that seems to be falling into place, as well.
I think I speak for everyone when I say that people have had enough of seeing our reputation sullied in the local and national press, for that matter.
Which brings us to Mick and his likeness that has been standing before us on the riverbank, open and available for all to see for reasons that still elude many.
The movement toward removal has not been subtle. The original thinking was to capitalize on his popularity as an artist, attracting new and different types of tourists to town, but that proved to be faulty logic leading the mayor, who spearheaded the project, to leave town. Its presence, in the end, drew young fans with little disposable income, and even less interest in our town, our history, or our businesses. There was no way to justify its existence and public support waned. One Town Hall later and it was over.
Which leads us here, to my doorstep, at the Riverside on this frigid January night.
The ballots had been quickly counted. It hadn’t been a contest – removal of the statue would happen post haste. My esteemed business partner, Bitsy, always attuned to the chance to make money, invited everyone to the bar before the meeting adjourned.
The place is packed. Cecil resembles a coo-coo clock, darting in and out of the kitchen. The walls are humming with fresh – and much-needed – warmth.
Music to this barmaid’s ears, and those of one Bitsy McMurtry, as well.
“Whatever you’re drinking, it’s on me,” I tell her as she steps up to the bar. “Thanks so much for funding this.”
An odd trio, folks even I don’t know, overhear me. I must speak louder than I realize.
“Bitsy for mayor!” they yell, cheeks flaming red and winter hats perched on their heads. They toast.
I am unclear as to how many here are aware of my connection to Mick, and that’s fine with me. Removal of the statue means I’ll be able to walk to work without being reminded of my past. I feel unexpectedly indebted to her.
She shoots a knowing glance in my direction, recognizing my happiness – at the brisk level of business and this distinct cultural development for Middle Valley.
“I’m sure your life will be a lot more enjoyable now, less stressful,” Bitsy says. “Now, gin and tonic, please. Join me?”
I pour each of us a drink and we toast. “To Mick,” I say, and she nods.
The crowd is getting louder and louder, and there is in the back.
“The truck is arriving next week,” she says. “Wanda has seen to that. And she’ll be seeing to a lot more than that once we get her up to the stump.”
“Is she ready to run?” I ask.
She nods. “Who should we draft to help her? I assume you’ll be in, right? But we’ll need a solid team.”
“I’m in,” I tell her. “Who’s she up against?”
Bitsy smiles and taps her glass on the bar as she pushes it toward me, requesting a refill. “We’ll get to that in the morning. I believe we have an announcement to make this evening first.”
Just as I fill her glass, Wanda steps between the ski-hat crowd and Bitsy.
“Well there she is, the next mayor of Middle Valley!” Bitsy says. “Let’s get you a beverage, and let’s get me a microphone.”