Or the Chamber of Commerce’s guide to selling tourism after two murders in two months
Everyone here knows I left and came back to Middle Valley, that my teeth were cut on the banks of this Chickotee River, muddy as they are, and that my life was nearly ruined by the hen parties and gossip circles that ensconced this beautiful, peaceful community at that time. (RIP, my darling Stu.)
Not that they aren’t still in business, those hen parties – no, of course, they are, and given the events of the past few weeks, they’ve kicked back up into high gear.
Madam McMurtry is at the fore, of that I am certain. She and her day-drinking book club with its standing reservation at the Riverside, mere steps from her own door on River Road. Still stumbling after all these years.
I’m sure it thrills poor Cassie to the core, having to wait on old biddies well past their prime, not one doing a lick of reading. Not when there’s a pitcher of margaritas on the table and the “Hits of the 40s and 50s” in the juke.
There is, quite frankly, quite a lot to talk about around here.
Cassie, poor dear Cassie.
I fear for her reputation. I fear for Riverside and all the people who enjoy an innocent, cold beer every evening after an honest day’s work.
I fear for all the success and all the money and all the newcomers – many of whom have chosen to retire here from downstate.
I fear the lies the hen parties tell day in and day out will destroy all that we’ve built.
Or, more accurately, all that I have built.
Not that the Dispatch has paid a blink of attention to any of it. Bernie has never considered us “newsworthy” and more than likely he never will.
I believe that will be top-of-mind when I sit down with that Susan girl from New York next week. She wants to know what this place is really like. I believe I am just the person to tell her.