“If we start at seven, we only have about an hour of daylight.”
“Oh. Well, then, we’ll just have to finish off the tour another night. I really want to see you again. As often as you’ll put up with me.”
“I’d like that.”
“Idiot,” Chase admonished himself. “I could have walked Dusty back to the museum, maybe held her hand the whole way. Maybe asked her out.” A couple of weeks ago that might have felt like a strange thing to want to do: date his best friend’s sister. Not today.
What had changed?
When had he begun to love her as more than his best friend’s sister?
He knew the instant. After nearly a year of treatment and isolation, the doctors declared Dusty cured. But her parents, and Dick, had the ingrained habit of obsessive hygiene and natural diet. Chase was allowed into the house, but only after removing shoes and washing his hands thoroughly. His sisters had given up trying to meet Mrs. Carrick’s exacting specifications. Chase still tried. He and Dick were in the living room . . . excuse me, parlor . . . horsing around, practicing wrestling moves.
Dusty sat in the bowed window seat beneath the turret. She stared emptily out the rain-streaked panes of glass holding a pink jewelry box with a ballerina that twirled to a tinny and repetitive bit of music. She wound it up again and again until the noise grated on Chase’s nerves and made him angry.
He grabbed the box from her. She lunged to regain it, lost her balance, and fell.
Chase dropped the box to catch her. His stockinged feet slid on the hardwood floor, and he missed. A bruise appeared on her knees almost immediately. Guilt flashed through him. Tenderly he picked her up and carried her to the kitchen so that Dick could apply ice and treat her like a precious jewel.
That’s what she was, a precious jewel who needed protection.
But, dammit, she also needed to learn to stand up for herself. If she’d yelled at him or cried that he’d destroyed her treasured music box, he’d have gotten over it. But no, she forgave him and tucked the box away beneath the window seat, never to be taken out again.
Chase paced the police department offices, avoiding the ubiquitous paperwork and the ache in his chest for depriving Dusty of something special.
Through the high window of his own cubicle, he caught a glimpse of Haywood Wheatland. The blond stranger walked rapidly away from the City Hall portion of the antique courthouse building along Main Street toward First Avenue, all the while talking into a cell phone. Phelma Jo, his boss, had her offices on the river side of First near the Amtrak station. A big glass-andsteel, ostentatiously modern building shaped like the prow of a ship thrusting its nose, or snubbing it, into downtown. The first four floors of the monstrosity held offices for a dozen or more high-end businesses. Phelma Jo had the entire fifth floor. Then four floors of pricey condos with Phelma Jo’s penthouse on the tenth.
Her errand boy undoubtedly ran back and forth between the office and the courthouse a dozen times a day, keenly observing everything for Phelma Jo. Gathering gossip like Mabel’s Pixies?
Jealousy raged in Chase’s chest, as if a vacuum sucked all the air out of him and left the heavy machine pressing against his rib cage.
“You’re why I’m suddenly obsessed with Dusty. I always thought she’d be there waiting for me when she was ready to notice me. Now I’m not so sure.”
Chase dropped so heavily into his swivel chair it spun around to face the whiteboard covered in notes and profiles of recent unsolved crimes. The only thing that caught his attention was a checklist of places he’d looked at to determine ownership of Pixel Industries, Ltd.
In the hasty scrawl he liked to call handwriting, the word Pixel looked like a misspelling of Pixie.
A vivid image of Haywood Wheatland calling a pink bug “sweetheart” and “beloved” flashed before his mind’s eye.
Haywood Wheatland worked for Phelma Jo.
Phelma Jo had a reputation for underhanded, borderline illegal real estate transactions. Chase had never dug up evidence of blackmail when people sold prime properties to her at about half market value and hightailed it out of town. Lack of evidence didn’t mean she was innocent. Lack of evidence didn’t remove suspicion.
He logged on to the Internet and started searching some databases. He had three days to get a court order to stop the logging. He hoped it was enough time.
Phelma Jo tapped her foot, waiting for Haywood Wheatland to return from the courthouse. He’d dashed back there seconds after Ms. Boland left with her donation check. Something about following up with the mayor . . . ?
Damn, the man couldn’t sit still. He flitted about with an intense urgency that left Phelma Jo unsettled and irritated.
Why couldn’t she control him? She’d already divorced two men who slipped through her net of seduction, lies, and manipulation designed to keep them firmly under her thumb. If Hay continued on this course of independence, she’d have to fire him.
Never again would she allow any man to hurt her like her mother’s boyfriend had. He was bigger and stronger than Phelma Jo. She was just a child. Automatic obedience was expected of her. Disobedience was met with punishment: either the back of her mother’s hand across her face, or the boyfriend touching her in ways no adult man should touch a child.
The day the school counselor had called the police and children’s services, she’d vowed that never again would any man of her acquaintance do anything she did not dictate.
“Well?” she asked when Haywood finally returned during the lunch hour. He happily whistled a tune she almost remembered.
Damn. Now she’d have an earworm of that tune until she figured out where she’d heard it before.
Dum dee dee do dum dum.
“Well what?” he returned, acting surprised she had questions about the morning’s proceedings.
“What happened at the City Council meeting?” She hadn’t dared show up.
“The mayor dismissed the challenge to his authority to sign work orders.”
“Sit down and stop pacing. I’m getting whiplash trying to follow you.”
He perched on the edge of a chair, ready to bounce up again as soon as he could. “Dick and Dusty had prepared statements. Thistle said something meaningless. That policeman was hanging around. I need to spend more time with Dusty to counter his influence.” He looked entirely too happy.
“You are supposed to break Dusty’s heart, not fall in love with her.” Phelma Jo narrowed her focus, watching for any telltale signs that her new employee defied her.
“The only way for me to get to Thistle is through Dusty,” he said nonchalantly while surreptitiously checking his watch. His glance barely lingered on the timepiece long enough to register the numbers on the display. He bounced up and began circling the room like a demented collie trying to herd her into the center.
“As long as we get what I want.”
“You want to run for mayor in November. Don’t worry. I’ll put you in a favorable position.”
“I hired you because you guaranteed me I’d win the election.”
“I guaranteed I’d remove your primary opposition, Dick and Dusty Carrick. If they campaign against you, you don’t have a chance. Don’t worry, they won’t be able to say a word against you come November.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“The demise of my enemies. Same as you.”
Twenty-three
DUSTY STARED AT HER computer screen until her vision blurred and doubled. Without really thinking about it, she closed her eyes and dropped her head onto her crossed arms.
Suddenly she was ten years old again and bouncing around the backyard, running from rose to dahlia to lavender, smelling deeply of their fresh fragrance. Her legs stretched and her feet landed lightly. She pushed herself harder, taking longer strides, twirling with joy. She panted and a stitch grabbed her side. She didn’t care.
She danced outside for the glory of dancing again.
The doctors had told her and Mom t
hat the cancer was in remission. With care, she could grow up normal. No reason now to sit quietly while everyone at school played and ran and danced. Dick didn’t need to hang around her all the time protecting and taking care of her as if he was a nurse or something. She’d had enough of nurses and uniformed aides wearing face masks during the months and months of chemo.
A flurry of movement among the herbs around the big old maple tree alerted her that she was no longer alone.
“Thistle?” she called into the trees, pausing to catch her breath. “Thistle, where are you?”
Dusty took one cautious step toward the shadows cast by the maple’s interlaced branches. A stray shaft of sunlight shone brightly like an amethyst glinting in the shop window down on Main Street. Mom had promised her a gem like that when she was old enough. Whenever that was. Dusty wanted it now because it reminded her of the tiny Pixie who flitted in through the hole in the screen of her bedroom window, who sat with her and told her all the neighborhood gossip when she was too exhausted to read, or play computer games, or . . . move.
Dusty followed the flicker of purple-and-green motion. She walked slowly, careful not to trip on the garden hose Dick had left out, or sudden dips in the lawn. Mom would kill her if she fell and got bruised or scraped again. Or if she stained her new skirt. Why did moms always make you dress up to go to the doctor?
“Thistle?” Dusty called again. She’d lost track of the purple flashes as clouds covered the weak sunshine.
Raindrops evaporated from the leaves as the sun peaked out again, making the air shimmer.
Dusty tasted the word. Evaporated. She liked the sound of it. Vapor, at the center. Mysterious mists. Hints of menace. But Thistle would protect her.
At last she found a frond of a silver fern bouncing as happily as she was.
A bright giggle enticed Dusty to take a few more steps among the silvery plants of Mom’s special garden. She watched very carefully to make sure she avoided the muddy spots. The giggle came again, a little closer.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Thistle. I know your tricks. I’m not getting muddy today.”
“Spoilsport.” Thistle landed on Dusty’s shoulder. “You went away in the car this morning. You never leave the house unless it’s something special. And now you are dancing in the backyard. What’s up?”
“Do you remember that I’ve been really, really sick?” Thistle forgot a lot of things and Dusty had to remind her often.
Thistle frowned and cocked her head a moment. Then she flashed a smile and ruffled her wings. “Of course I remember. I’m not like other Pixies who forget a friend. I’ve stayed by you the whole time, keeping you company.”
“The cancer is gone. The bone marrow transplant from Dick worked. It’s like a miracle. I can run and dance and play as much as I want.” Dusty spread her arms and spun in place. She loved the way the trees seemed to twist with her. The world titled and looked different. Awesome.
Her left foot caught on something. The world swung the opposite way as the ground came rushing up to meet her, face first.
Sharp pain spread through her chest and stole her breath.
Tears came to Dusty’s eyes. “Ouch!” she cried. A scrape on her knee started bleeding. A lot.
“Don’t cry, Dusty. I hate it when you cry. It makes me feel horrible, too.”
“It’s bleeding. Worse than when Phelma Jo pushed me down and I got an infection and then I got cancer.”
“Phelma Jo didn’t give you the infection, the cancer did. Dick told me so.”
“But she was so dirty and smelly. She hadn’t had a bath in like weeks!”
“Silly, you did her a favor by calling her Stinky Butt. The counselor called her in, and now she’s with a foster family who are taking good care of her.” Thistle erupted in laughter, flying complicated swirls and loops. “I made you trip because you really didn’t want to. I figured you needed some fun.”
“You needed fun. Not me. Now my new skirt is all dirty.” Dusty pulled her knees under her and slowly got up, checking for any signs of infection or bruising. The blood on her knee had already turned into sticky blobs that didn’t drip. She’d need a good wash and a Band-Aid to cover the bruise. But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t get sick again.
“See? No damage. The skirt will wash. I wouldn’t hurt you. You’re my best friend.” Thistle giggled like delicate Christmas bells. “Maybe your mom will let you have one of those bandages with pink hearts on them.”
“Is that why you haven’t played tricks on me for so long? You were afraid of hurting me?”
“Yes.” Thistle quieted and sat still on the bow of her fern frond. “Pixie tricks are supposed to teach people not to take themselves so seriously. We don’t hurt people on purpose.” She bounced up, wings beating furiously as she darted around the backyard. “What game shall we play? You haven’t forgotten how to play games, have you?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve made up lots of new games and written stories about them. Mom says they are really good stories.”
“Baseball games and tag are so lame,” Thistle said.
“Let’s pretend I’m a princess and you’ve come to rescue me from a dragon.”
“After you wash your knee.”
“As soon as Mom sees it, she’ll make me go to bed and drink that awful herb tea.”
“Then we won’t tell her. We’ll sneak in and take care of it ourselves.”
Voices intruded on Dusty’s memory dream. For a minute she thought Dick and Chase had invaded her private game in the backyard. Not as good as The Ten Acre Wood, but better than alone in her bedroom.
Then she recognized the voice of the grant committee chairman. “I’m sorry, Mr. Newberry. I really can’t justify signing off on your grant application. There are just too many unknowns with the parkland. Who knows if the city and county will allow this museum to exist with the budget crunch and the logging off of the park. The money they spend on this place will be much better used by the clinic and the school district.”
The dragon of her games had captured her before Thistle could rescue her.
No grant. No Ball. The museum would go bankrupt within six months. A year at most. Her heart sank. She needed to curl in on herself in a fetal ball and hide again.
No. She was done hiding. She had to do something.
Who was the dragon out to destroy the museum?
She had to find out and soon.
The museum and The Ten Acre Wood were treasured by nearly everyone in town. A lot of community activities centered around the park and pioneer buildings.
Maybe she should start looking at people who had moved here recently.
Her fingers froze on the keyboard.
Thistle bounced up the stairs of her friend Mrs. Jennings’ house feeling as if her wings were back, helping her float several toe lengths above the sagging wooden risers.
She touched her mouth delicately with one fingertip, awestruck with the tenderness that lingered from Dick’s kiss. As she brushed their swollen fullness, she lived again the wonder of his heartfelt caress.
In her mind’s eye, she saw herself flitting from branch to branch up to the top of the Patriarch Oak. Bright green leaves and budding acorns trembled in anticipation with her as she followed her mate upward. Her heart felt too big for her chest, and her eyes watered with joy. This was what true love felt like. Not the momentary passion with Alder. Not the broken promises of a Pixie with delusions of grandeur.
In a daze of wonder, she joined Mrs. Jennings in her living room, noting the comfortable temperature and the whir of an air conditioner. “Did you eat your lunch?” she asked brightly.
“It doesn’t taste right. I think them folks what brings it are trying to poison me,” the old woman said. She pushed aside her walker with the lunch tray set across the top. Her water glass jiggled and tilted.
Thistle dashed to catch it before it spilled. “Now, now, Mrs. Jennings, no one wants to hurt you. We want to help you so that you can stay in your
home rather than go to a care center,” Thistle parroted the words the nice lady from the clinic had told her to say.
“Hmf, if you send me there, you might as well take me out and shoot me. That’s where old folks go to die.”
Thistle couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You aren’t old, and you aren’t about to die.” She sniffed just to make sure. She found no trace of Death in or around the house.
“Damn straight I ain’t old. Not yet leastways. My daddy didn’t kick the bucket till he was ninety-three. And he didn’t go easy. He fought and wrestled with Death for nigh on three years.”
Thistle busied herself picking up stray pieces of paper where the woman had dropped them on the floor. She stacked them neatly on the coffee table for Mrs. Jennings’ son to sort through when he came tomorrow or the next day.
“And how old was your mother when she passed?” Thistle asked idly. She frowned at the congealed mass of the meal on the tray. Could she make the microwave work to reheat it?
“Mama only made it to ninety-two. Her heart gave out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must have been heartbroken to lose her.” Thistle picked up the tray with the meal. What could she do to make it taste better?
“Turn on the TV, girl. It’s time for my game shows. I’m ninety-five, you know, and not as spry as I used to be.”
“Ninety-five? Is that all?” Thistle fished the TV remote out of a side pouch on Mrs. Jennings’ chair and handed the gadget to the feisty woman. It wouldn’t work if Thistle hit the power button.
“Just dump that awful mess in the garbage and make me an egg salad sandwich.” The old woman’s gaze riveted on the bright colors, spinning wheel, and applause on the television.
“You remind me of someone,” Mrs. Jennings said absently as Thistle made her way toward the kitchen.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I had an invisible playmate when I was a kid. I called her Thistle ’cause she had purple skin and barbed green wings, just like a thistle. Never had the heart to pull thistles out of my garden even though everyone told me they were weeds.”
Thistle Down Page 18
