Hamlet On A Budget Read online

Hamlet On A Budget

  K McConnell

  Copyright 2015 K McConnell

  Other titles by K McConnell:

  To Not Be In Hamlet (Hamlet Mystery Series, Book 1)

  The Art of Hamlet (Hamlet Mystery Series, Book 2)

  The Club of the Bombastic Few

  A Conspiracy of Blood

  Symbiotic Puppets

  The Plague

  Website: https://www.HamletMysteries.com

  mailto: [email protected]

  1

  “Why are you here?” Renee asked, walking down the bar to where I was just climbing on to a stool.

  “Uh...thirst.” I suggested. “It's...a bar.”

  Renee shook her head. Her short black hair swirled slightly. “No, you're supposed to be writing.”

  I shrugged. “Just taking a break.”

  Renee wiped the bar off with a towel, though there wasn't anything there to wipe. I suspected it was just habit from years of working at the Hamlet Pub.

  “Writer's block.” Renee said sadly. “I hear it happens to the best of them.”

  “Well, that would exempt me then.” I said. “Anyway, I don't have writer's block. Actually, there isn't such a thing. It's just an excuse.”

  Harry, the owner appeared from somewhere in the back. “Hey, Sammy. How are you doing? Oh, wait, you're here.” Harry shook his head sadly. “Writer's block, eh?”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Renee set a beer in front of me and leaned over the bar.

  “Did you hear?” She asked.

  I looked at her for a moment. I waved a hand towards Harry. “He's standing right here. How could I not hear? And, for the last time, I don't have---”

  Renee waved off my protest. “No, the town council's big announcement.”

  I took a drink of beer. “No, but I really don't---”

  “They say that they have made arrangements to solve the problem with stray dogs and cats.” Renee said.

  I shrugged. “I didn't know there was a problem with strays.”

  Renee nodded. “Oh yeah. They're everywhere. But at least they aren't emus.”

  “Ugh.” Harry said with a nod. “Emus.”

  “Emus?” I stared at the two of them.

  Renee shook her head as she swiped at another nonexistent stain on the bar. “Tom Crawley. Bought an old farm north of town. Was raising emus. Bad idea.”

  Harry pulled a rack of glasses out of the dishwasher. “It was pretty exciting at first, you know for the kids and all. Kept them entertained for while.”

  I nodded. “Parents taking their kids out to see them.”

  Harry shook his head. “No. The older kids. They do like challenges. You know you can't just go out and tip emus like you can cows.”

  “Uh...I suppose not.” I said.

  Renee nodded in agreement. “They don't like that much. And they can be very ornery.”

  “Anyway,” Harry continued, “kind of fun at first, but, later, well, who knew those things could jump a fence.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “How high was the fence?”

  Harry shrugged as he jammed glasses under the bar. “You know. Just regular fence. Cow pasture fence.”

  I looked skeptical. “What is that, about 3 or 4 feet? An emu is like 6 feet tall.”

  Harry waved a hand. “There you go. Who knew they could jump. Pretty fast buggers too.”

  “So what happened to them?” I asked, despite the fact that a voice in the back of my head implored me not to.

  “Well, we couldn't catch 'em. Too fast. So, we had to declare them in season.” Harry explained.

  “In season?” I asked, still ignoring that voice. “You have an emu season?”

  “Ha!” Renee said. “We have a season for everything.”

  I started to say something, but Harry cut me off.

  “Naturally. How do you know what might wander thru? You need to be ready.”

  “It's Michigan.” I said. “Other than being overrun with deer, there's not much in the way of exotic animals to hunt here.”

  “You'd be surprised.” Harry said.

  “Definitely.” Renee agreed.

  I was tempted to ask more about that, but, for the sake of my mental health, I left it alone. “So...hunters shot them all.”

  Harry nodded. “Most of them. Not just hunters. Everybody. It was kind of a festival. A lot of fun. Except for the property damage. Lot of that. Not everyone here is a good shot. Actually, hardly anybody is.”

  “Most of them?” I asked.

  “Well, there was the road kill.” Renee chipped in.

  “Ugh. That. They don't make good roadkill. Very messy.” Harry said, nodding solemnly.

  I tried picturing something, anything that looked good as roadkill. Nothing came to mind.

  “So you hunted them all down?” I asked.

  Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to be sure. Anyway, they're not in season now. Sure was a great festival. Couldn't stand to eat another piece of emu if you paid me, though. That stuff gets old after a couple weeks of eating it.” He stuffed the glasses rack behind the bar somewhere and headed over to the cash register.

  “Anyway,” Renee said, “the town council's taking care of the stray dog and cat issue.”

  I nodded. “They do tackle the big issues.”

  “Well they, wait, was that sarcasm?” Renee said frowning at me.

  I pointed to my beer. “Is that beer?”

  Renee looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. “Yes. Of course it is.”

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  I thought she might catch on that we were both asking a question with an obvious answer. I gave up. “Yes. That was sarcasm.”

  Renee shook her head. “Sammy, you should take more interest in the town you live in.”

  “I don't live here. I'm just house sitting. As soon as my gypsy parents return they can have their house back and I will be on my merry way.” I said, emphatically.

  Renee drew another beer and slid it over to Ben Sterling, a fixture in the bar. He once owned a print shop next door to the bar, but now only seemed to own a bar stool.

  “Nonsense.” Renee said.

  I sighed. “So, what is this 'arrangement'?”

  “Don't know.” Renee replied. “They didn't say.”

  Ben mumbled something. His speech was sufficiently slurred that only Renee seemed capable of understanding him.

  Renee flashed him a look and turned to me. “He says he doesn't read your stories because they're...horror stories.”

  “I don't write horror stories.” I said glancing over at Ben.

  Ben started to say something more, but Renee reached out and slid his beer away from him. He shut up and she slid it back.

  Harry looked up from the cash register. “Oh, Sammy, I was supposed to tell you that Becky wants you to meet her here at 6:30.”

  I nodded.

  Renee smiled. “Another reason you're not going anywhere.”

  I started to say something, but Ben mumbled something to Renee.

  “I know the difference between horror and horrible. Behave yourself.” Renee whispered harshly at Ben.

  I sighed, took a drink and headed for the door.

  “Don't forget. 6:30.” Renee called after me.

  I waved over my shoulder. “6:30.”

  .

  2

  “You're luscious.”

  I was half way across the parking lot. I stopped and turned. Billy Fallon. A ten year old pain in the---

  “What?” I asked.

  “My mom says you're luscious.” Billy said.

  “Uh, well, that's very kind of her, but I don't really know your mother.” I said.

  Billy
shook his head. “I don't think she meant it to be nice. She says all people who drink are luscious.”

  “You mean lushes.”

  Billy studied me. It was obvious he thought I was an idiot. “That's what I said. People like you are luscious.”

  A couple walked past and stared at the two of us, obviously overhearing the conversation. I didn't recognize them. If they were tourists and here in Hamlet, they were clearly lost.

  I shook my head. “I am not a lush.”

  “Everyone that goes in there are luscious. My mom says.” Billy said firmly.

  “Whatever.” I said and started to walk past Billy.

  “My mom says that drunks are luscious.” Billy said as I passed him.

  “I am not a drunk.” I said over my shoulder.

  “She says God doesn't like drunks. God thinks they are luscious too. God probably thinks you're luscious.” Billy said nodding.

  I stopped and turned slightly back towards Billy. “Well, God probably has many thoughts about me, but 'luscious' I'm sure is not one of them.”

  I climbed into my car and pulled out of the parking lot.

  The Hamlet Pub hung on the side of a hill overlooking two sets of railroad tracks separated by a slow flowing creek. Between the two tracks the main road heading south out of town and crossed the creek via a small bridge. At the bottom of the hill leading to the tracks on the left a vague gravel track ran parallel to the first set of tracks.

  As I reached the bottom of the hill something caught my eye. A sad suggestion of a truck was parked down along the gravel track. I recognized the truck, with a slight cringe. Wilson Daggot. An old scraggly jack-of-no-trades. If there was buck to be made at something Wilson Daggot was willing, but probably not very able.

  I spotted Wilson down along the bank of the creek. I couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, but, with Wilson, it was likely to be of a questionable nature. I hesitated, but the stupid side of my brain, which seemingly has far too much control over my actions, caused me to swerve down the gravel lane.

  I climbed