Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  “Not to worry. I’ve got the mayor under my thumb. My name will never come up in an investigation. If there is one. I’m running for office because I can’t be bribed or blackmailed. All my misdeeds are common gossip. Only half the gossip is true.”

  “In the meantime, the City Council is restless and in a mood to override the mayor. Let’s see if we can divide and conquer a committee of five. I’ll just work on the wording of our filing until the museum opens.”

  “Haywood,” Phelma Jo said softly.

  “Yes?” He turned half his attention back to her, still typing, still keeping one eye on his screen. “Yes?”

  “Look at me when I talk to you!”

  “So you can intimidate me into adoring you?” This time he turned his smile on her full force. His gaze locked onto hers.

  Phelma Jo read his admiration in his expression and knew it was all fake. He loved only himself and his agenda. She was his tool.

  Life in Phelma Jo’s world wasn’t supposed to work that way. Her employees needed to obey her agenda.

  So why couldn’t she bring herself to fire him on the spot?

  “Don’t worry, Phelma Jo. We’ll bring Desdemona Carrick and her brother down in a wave of humiliation so deep they’ll never show their faces in your town again.”

  “You promised to break her heart.”

  “Winning Dusty’s heart is extra fragrance in the flowers, or a twist to the mushroom high. Or a twist to the mushroom high.”

  Odd phrase, that. And why did he keep repeating himself?

  She smiled to herself. A flaw. She didn’t know what it meant or why he did that, but it was a flaw she could exploit to deepen her control over him.

  “There is a weed in the knot garden, Mr. Newberry,” Samuel Johnson-Butler, PhD said, looking over his half glasses toward Joe.

  Dusty’s face flamed. The herb garden was her responsibility. She should have seen the weed before the grant committee could find fault with the management of the museum grounds. Especially since the committee was chaired by Dr. Johnson-Butler, the head of the Business Department at the local community college.

  “The city landscape department is responsible for mowing the lawns and policing the grounds for out-of-place plants and litter,” Joe replied with firm calmness. “I shall call it to their attention.”

  He flicked his head toward Dusty. She took the hint and withdrew from the pack of three committee members to inspect the garden. Joe led them from the neatly labeled plants to the long barn housing antique carriages and wagons. The potting shed, moved here from one of the first farms in the region, stood between her and the committee. The original county jail, a single-room shed sunk three feet down with only one tiny window in its uninsulated plank walls was next on the agenda. That favorite children’s attraction (topping even the replica covered wagon they could climb on) had a clear view of the knot garden. She needed to work fast.

  At a first cursory glance, nothing looked out of place along the neat serpentine paths around bunches of medicinal and flavorful herbs. Then she spotted the obnoxious intruder. A single blade of grass poked one half inch above the freshly turned dirt around the lemon basil.

  Dusty stooped to yank it out by the roots, careful not to trip in her heels. “That’s it? A single blade of grass?” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken until she heard her own words.

  “From a single blade of grass comes a forest of uncontrolled weeds,” Dr. Johnson-Butler admonished her from halfway across the grounds and behind the wagon barn.

  Couldn’t the committee content themselves with a tour of the inside of the museum and gift shop? A full two acres of grounds and he found one blade of grass out of place.

  A clatter of iron-shod horseshoes and wooden wheels on the blacktop announced the arrival of the first of the parade floats. She checked her watch, half an hour early and the grant committee was still here. She didn’t dare divert to show the Historical Society where they should place their covered wagon.

  Cursing under her breath, Dusty rushed to catch up with Joe.

  Thistle emerged from nowhere, right in front of her. “Want me to teach him a lesson?” she giggled. Chiming music seemed to enhance her words. She looked neater and fresher than when Dusty had first found her. But dark smudges hollowed her eyes. They seemed nearly cadaverous and empty.

  “No,” Dusty whispered. “We need him happy and appreciative.”

  “He doesn’t appreciate anything he doesn’t initiate himself,” Thistle said, watching the man carefully.

  “The jail is a favorite exhibit with the children,” Joe said, continuing his tour as if he’d never been interrupted by a weed. “As you can see, we have a modern padlock on the door for when the museum is closed, to discourage vandals and vagrants. During open hours, we remove the lock to make sure an overly enthusiastic game doesn’t result in someone getting locked in.”

  “I see you have removable chain link in front of the wagons,” Mrs. Shiregrove said, with more enthusiasm than the committee chair. She had always supported the museum, buying two dozen Masque Ball tickets each year and doling them out as special favors. She also wrote large checks at Christmas. Her family money had seeded the grant fund.

  Later today, she’d ride in a flower-filled open carriage representing the Garden Club in the parade.

  The president of the Garden Club was the third member of the committee. She (Dusty could never remember her name) echoed Mrs. Shiregrove in everything.

  “Yes. We bring out some of the less fragile exhibits for special events, like the parade today. Your carriage, Mrs. Shiregrove, is usually housed here but is now being cleaned and decorated for the festivities. Children especially love the replica covered wagon. They learn more about life in pioneer times crawling over it, becoming involved in the exhibits, than simply reading about it in textbooks,” Joe replied. He looked a little sweaty in his good suit. More from nerves than the mild early morning temperatures.

  Dusty longed to exchange her professional garb for a sundress like Thistle’s and retreat to her dim basement where even above normal mid-August temperatures rarely penetrated.

  In ten minutes she’d have to change to a calico gown,petticoats, and a clean apron. But she wouldn’t wear a corset.

  And she wouldn’t have to deal with outsiders who judged her. Like Dr. Johnson-Butler.

  Thistle beckoned urgently from the far side of the barn. She looked a bit angry, with determined mischief in the set of her chin and the flow of her hair as she flung her head back. Dusty faded out of view of the grant committee . . . again. Joe didn’t really need her. He dealt with the business side of managing the museum all the time. Dusty’s job as assistant curator was to take notes and keep her mouth shut.

  “You have a visitor.” Thistle pointed toward a tall, blond man standing on the porch reading a bronze plaque with details of the house’s construction and historical significance.

  “Isn’t that Phelma Jo’s new assistant?” Dusty asked, adjusting her glasses upward. She watched the man carefully, admiring the fluid grace of his hands as he caressed the doorknob.

  “Yeah. He reminds me of someone,” Thistle replied. Her gaze remained fixed on the man.

  “Maybe you saw someone like him on TV.”

  “No. I don’t watch TV. I’ve seen him before. I just can’t seem to flutter my wings right to trigger a memory.”

  “I’ll go see what he wants. M’Velle and Meggie aren’t here yet.” Dusty checked her watch. Still ten minutes to official parade gathering and another two hours to opening the museum. The girls weren’t late. He was very early.

  “Let me get that for you,” Dusty called as she hastened over to the main building. And, gratefully, away from the grant committee.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you opened at nine thirty instead of ten,” Haywood said. He stepped away from the door just enough to let Dusty get to the lock.

  She fumbled her wad of keys out of her pocket, dropped them, bent to pick them up, bumped heads wi
th Haywood, who also reached to retrieve them, and they both came up laughing. She held the end of one key. He clutched the covered wagon medallion keychain.

  “I . . . I . . . I’m sorry.” Dusty dropped her eyes as a blush spread across her neck and face. “Actually, we’re opening late today because of the parade.” She gestured toward the horse-drawn pumper wagon pulling into line. The volunteer fire department manned the antique, all dressed in old-fashioned uniforms of blue shirts, buff knickers, tall boots, suspenders, and huge hats.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he whispered. “You’re too pretty to be sorry about anything.”

  “Huh?”

  “May I?” he asked, nodding toward the disputed keys.

  “Um . . . I really should. My responsibility,” Dusty stammered, wishing she could look away from his charming smile and the brightness of his golden-brown eyes.

  Finally, she forced herself to unlock the front door and step into the crowded parlor—at least that’s what the first curator had named the front room. Originally, it had been the only room in the log cabin. A century of occupation had led to expansion up and out. The loft became a full second story within twenty years of construction, then multiple additions to the back and sides—also two stories signified growing prosperity. But the original log walls remained in the parlor. The restoration committee had stripped off the half-rotten paneling and wallpaper to reveal the sturdy logs when they moved the house before World War II.

  “This is really interesting,” Haywood said stooping to examine the workings of a spinning wheel. “Can you work this?” he asked, straightening up.

  “Not well. I know the principles, but I’ve never taken the time to really learn spinning or any of the needle crafts so popular and necessary in previous centuries.”

  “Too bad. I find the process fascinating to watch. From a tangle of fiber comes the thread that makes a garment. Sort of like a spider spinning a web of silk.”

  Something about his phrasing sounded odd, and oddly familiar at the same time.

  “A spider spinning a web of silk,” he repeated.

  “I presume you’ve come about tickets for the Masque Ball?” Dusty said.

  “Tickets? Ms. Nelson told me I should fetch an official invitation.” A frown creased his brow.

  “Apparently Phelma Jo doesn’t realize this is our largest fund-raiser of the year. We sell tickets to anyone who will buy them. Our email invitations are really just a reminder of the date of the Ball and that preorders help us pay for music, food, and advertising.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. How much are the tickets?” He pulled an oxblood leather checkbook out of his breast pocket.”

  “Fifty dollars per couple,” she said flatly. As nice as this man looked, his tweed sport coat, that fit him beautifully, looked a bit dated and his shoes were worn and scuffed. He might not have enough money to pay for the tickets, and Phelma Jo wasn’t likely to reimburse him. Everyone in town knew that she collected money and property, rarely parting with it; a legacy from her childhood.

  And now that she had money, she didn’t fix her rabbity overbite. Keeping her teeth flawed reminded one and all of how she’d been mistreated as a child and why the world owed her. What they owed her, Dusty could never figure out, just that she and Dick were expected to feel less than human because their parents could afford braces for both of them. And they had two parents.

  No one had ever heard what happened to Phelma Jo’s father. Her mother had moved to town, a single, teenaged mother, when still pregnant with Phelma Jo.

  “Any single tickets available?” Haywood asked, his smile returning and aimed right at Dusty.

  “Um. Not usually. Surely you can come up with a date for the evening.”

  “I’m new in town. Don’t know many people outside the office. I suppose you’ve had a date booked up for months.”

  “Ah, not really. I’m usually so busy organizing I don’t think about a date.”

  His smile blazed brighter. “Good, then I’ll take three couples’ tickets and you can be my date. And you can be my date. That is if you want to go with me?” His smile fell just a bit.

  “I . . . we don’t know each other . . .” Dusty’s face flamed, and the pressure in her chest squeezed the breath out of her. She couldn’t look at him. And she couldn’t look away.

  His eyes captured her gaze. She thought she saw sparkles around the edges of him.

  “Miss Carrick, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight? That new Greek place on Main Street looks interesting, and I hate dining alone. We can get to know each other better before the Ball.”

  “That would be nice.” Did she honestly say that? Her heart beat so loudly she couldn’t hear her own thoughts, let alone her words.

  Could this be the date that would really work because she’d accepted it herself without someone arranging it for her?

  “Pick you up at six thirty?” He tilted his head so that a stray shaft of sunlight struck his hair and turned it to molten gold.

  “Six thirty is good. Meet me here?”

  “You’re reluctant to tell me where you live.”

  “Um . . . I get off at six thirty.” Finally, she broke eye contact and stared at her shoes. The dried water droplets marring the black polish appeared to fascinate her.

  He lifted her chin with a finger and smiled. The entire room seemed brighter, full of life and color. “Six thirty,” he whispered, almost conspiratorially.

  “Come into the office, and I’ll get you those tickets.” Reluctantly, she turned away to lead him through the maze of rooms to the last addition on the house.

  “Here,” she handed him the three tickets a few moments later. The close confines of Joe’s office suddenly felt too small and private. Airless.

  Haywood curled his fingers around her hand instead of taking the three heavy card stock tickets with a unique art deco logo and embossed and gilded printing; collectors’ items in themselves.

  “I look forward to tonight,” he whispered.

  The sound of voices and footsteps in the front room startled Dusty away from his mesmerizing eyes.

  “I’ll see you out front at six thirty,” she replied, pressing her behind into the sharp edge of the desk.

  “Yes. You got the check?”

  She nodded, holding up the flimsy paper.

  “Good. Who are those people anyway? Important, I’m guessing.”

  “Grant committee. We desperately need a heat pump to keep the artifacts at a constant temperature and humidity.”

  “Oh. Well, then. I guess I’d best get out of your way. Ms. Nelson is expecting me back at the office.”

  “Don’t let her work you too hard. It’s Saturday.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” He paused a moment, gazing into the near distance at something only he could see. “I won’t. I know when she’s trying to take advantage of my good humor.” He backed out of the room, blowing her a kiss at the last moment.

  Eleven

  THISTLE GRABBED A PAPER CUP full of water off one of the long tables set up along the street side of the park. She downed it in one gulp and immediately felt better. She reached for a second cup.

  “Hey, those are for the parade participants,” an older woman with a bad perm in her black-and-gray hair yelled from the other end of the table.

  Thistle wandered through the increasing bustle and chaos of the parade preparations toward the museum. Maybe Dusty would have more water. Halfway to the deep porch, she heard the distinctive wail of a frightened child. She followed her instincts to befriend the little one and push away the fears. That’s all children needed at times like these, a friend to remind them they weren’t alone.

  She halted when she spotted Joe Newberry crouching in front of his two daughters. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie. Other than that, he looked entirely too modern for the costumes worn by most of the parade participants—which seemed to be most of the town. What was the point of a parade if there was
no one left to watch?

  Both girls wore long dresses with cloth bonnets, like most of the women gathering around the assembly of horse-drawn wagons, and flatbed trucks, all decorated and signed with various organizations.

  “Now, girls, we talked about this. Mrs. Ledbetter, the story lady from the library, is going to walk with you in the parade. You’ll be right beside the horses pulling the covered wagon. You like horses.”

  Thistle glanced back at the huge brown beasts flicking their ears in curiosity and apprehension at the noise, the heat, and the bugs—actually a large swarm of yellow Pixies. Must be Dandelions. She’d be scared of those horses, too, with their huge stamping feet and long snapping teeth. The flowers decorating their collars and harness didn’t make them any less scary.

  “I like ponies, not horses. Pink ponies with wings,” Sharon, the older of Joe’s daughters, whined. She thrust out her lower lip in a pout.

  “I never heard of a pink pony before,” Thistle said, approaching the girls cautiously. She hummed a bright tune in the back of her throat, dum dee dee do dum dum. No need to add to their upset. “But I’ve seen a couple with wings.” Not really a lie if you considered robins and varied thrushes as Pixie ponies.

  “You haven’t?” Both girls stared up at her in wonder.

  “Nope. Never.” Thistle shook her head. She increased the volume and speed of her tune.

  “Don’t you watch cartoons?” Sharon asked, more boldly than before.

  “Not lately.”

  “Um, girls, you could tell Miss Thistle about the pink ponies while you walk in the parade,” Joe suggested cautiously as he stood back up and turned to face her. “I’m sure Mrs. Ledbetter would like to hear about it, too.”

  Please help, he mouthed to Thistle when his back was turned to the girls.

  “Don’t wanna walk. It’s too hot!” Suzie protested. Her chin quivered in preparation for more tears.

  “Could we ride in the wagon?” Thistle asked.