Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  “Fine. I’ll grant insignificant Miss Carrick her moment at the Ball in the park. But I will have those trees. The profit from selling the lumber to Japanese markets should fund my mayoral campaign.” She scanned the document.

  “What’s this?” She placed her finger on a huge number with a dollar sign in front of it.

  “I believe Judge Pepperidge has put your deposit on the purchase of the timber into an escrow account until the matter is fully investigated. If the city finds against Mayor Seth Johansen for unauthorized sale of the timber, the money will be refunded to you without penalty.”

  “I know that, you idiot. I mean the amount. I never authorized that much. If I fork over that much, I’ll make no profit. I’ll end up in the hole.”

  Chase blinked several times. “Let me see that.” He turned the paper so he could read it right side up. “That is a chunk of money. One of the reasons the City Council has second thoughts about this is that the money will rehire two teachers and fund the free clinic for another year.”

  “But I only offered ten percent of that. What you are holding as a deposit was the full amount I offered—the salary of one teacher. Not two, let alone funding that stupid clinic for freeloaders, deadbeats, and welfare moms.” She lumped together all the people who might turn into her mother.

  “That amount of money does sound more reasonable coming from you.” He scowled. “It appears that someone added an extra zero to the amounts you authorized. Any idea who? Your new assistant, perhaps?” He smiled, baring his teeth like a predatory animal.

  “Who else? I’m in the middle of firing the thieving bastard except I can’t find his personnel file.”

  “Makes you wonder who he truly is. And what else he’s stolen, besides his file.” Chase continued grinning. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was getting ready to humiliate her. Again.

  “I can’t trust any man, it seems. Especially those who have had their hearts stolen by the likes of Dusty Carrick,” she grumbled.

  “I’ll leave you with that thought. In the meantime, I’m going looking for Mr. Haywood Wheatland, if that truly is his name. Seems I’ve got a case for bringing him in for questioning. He’s altered official documents. Maybe embezzled. I’ll think of something appropriate.”

  “Do that. Don’t let the door smack you in the butt on your way out.”

  Fuming, Phelma Jo printed out the termination document and began filling in the blanks by hand. She wanted this official and legal, so the conniving thief of a con man couldn’t come back at her for anything.

  “I wouldn’t sign that if I were you, Phelma Jo,” Hay said, quite suddenly appearing at her elbow, as if he’d secretly flown in on silent Pixie wings and grown to human size, unseen. God, she was starting to sound as delusional as Dusty Carrick. Or Haywood Wheatland.

  “You can’t stop me.” She poised her pen over the line at the bottom of the page. The nib bounced up the instant she pressed it to paper. Then it slipped away, leaving a smudge on the pristine mahogany of her desktop.

  “Oh, but I can.”

  “Well, you won’t get away with cutting down The Ten Acre Wood.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that. By now, our friend Sergeant Norton has served cease and desist papers to the work crew. So you are going to have to help me cut down the Patriarch Oak.”

  “You are out of your freaking mind if you think I will do anything illegal. Underhanded and sneaky maybe. But not illegal.” She pushed harder trying to get the pen to follow her orders.

  “We’ll see about that.” Brightly colored sparkles filled the room like a myriad shattering rainbows.

  Thirty-one

  DUSTY SPENT MOST OF Wednesday night and Thursday morning composing a ream of emails to various committee chairs about a possible change of venue for the Ball. Then she set Meggie and M’Velle to making signs to put in the park that would direct guests to the new address. She’d seen the news crews around town interviewing everyone, from the mayor to the street vendors.

  Her stomach still roiled at the assault from half a hot dog on a white bread bun that Hay had bought for her.

  Funny, she hadn’t seen or heard from him in several days. After that wonderful, sparkling kiss, she thought he’d at least call.

  “Dusty, I’m going up to the community college for a meeting,” Joe called into the lounge as he headed toward the front door of the museum at noon. “The place is yours for the rest of the day.”

  “When will you be back?” She ceased typing and pulled a pencil out of her mouth long enough to spit out the words. Her gaze barely shifted from the computer screen to Joe’s back.

  “Late. Maybe not until closing.” He waved casually and disappeared.

  For her next chore, Dusty needed privacy. She waited until the girls were elsewhere on the grounds or upstairs with tours. Then she slipped into Joe’s office, and closed the door. She’d lock it if she dared.

  In a matter of moments she had the complete accounting spreadsheet and her handwritten ledger in front of her. The receipts from the computerized cash register in the gift shop fed all its data from sales and admissions directly to her programs. It printed tickets along with sales receipts.

  Item by item, she checked and double-checked, finding redundancy reassuring. Everything matched.

  She went through it all again, adding things up on a printing calculator to give her yet another record.

  If any money was missing, it hadn’t disappeared between the museum and the bank.

  She pulled up the banking history via the Internet. All the deposits totaled up correctly. What about debits? Only the treasurer and the president of the Board of Directors had access to the checkbook and each check required both signatures. They kept a separate accounting for expenditures. She recognized the amounts for payroll, insurance, alarm permits, and utilities. They were the same most every month. But the other checks? What were they for?

  She’d turned in requisition forms for advertising, decorations, catering, and music for the Ball. Those numbers looked familiar, but she couldn’t match them to the penny.

  “Well, it looks like you’re innocent, Joe. Haywood Wheatland was just stirring up trouble.”

  “I’m glad you recognize that,” Joe said, leaning against the doorjamb.

  Dusty jumped in her seat. She’d been so deep in numbers, reality looked a little too bright and, well, real for a moment.

  “Sorry to startle you, Dusty. But if you can’t find anything wrong with our accounting, then no one can. Because there isn’t anything wrong,” he said moving into the small room.

  “You look tired, Joe.” She closed out the computer programs and scooted out of his chair.

  “It’s a good kind of tired. I convinced the college to offer teacher continuing education classes centered around the museum, taught by you and me, tuition and fees to be split between the college and the museum. We’re looking at a decent source of funds to help us over the hump from losing the grant.” He remained where he was, blocking her exit.

  “That is good news.” Hope brightened inside her that everything could continue on the same even keel. She didn’t like the idea of teaching, but she was sure she could push Joe into taking the classes if she did the prep work and designed handouts.

  “Now all we have to do is find a way to stop the clear cut of The Ten Acre Wood and all will be well,” he sighed. After a moment he reached out and took Dusty’s hands. “We will make it all right, Dusty. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Joe. You know that I only checked the books to prove you innocent.”

  “Yes, I know. I trust you, too. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  She ducked her head, afraid of where this was going.

  “Don’t hide from me, Dusty.” He lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “Our friendship is important. More important than that pretty boy, Haywood. I don’t want to see you throw your life away on his lies and con games.”

  “I know that now, Joe. He was a tempo
rary delusion. He lied to me, and I was just too naïve to recognize it.”

  “I’ve never lied to you. And I never will. Because I love you as more than a friend. I need you by my side. The girls love you, too.”

  “Joe, I . . .”

  “Think about it, Dusty. Think about me. About us. We make a good team. Who else do you know you can trust as completely as you do me?”

  “I will think about that.” Joe was a friend. Chase was a friend, too. Her mother hadn’t set up either relationship. Joe was safe. No surprises. Chase was . . . Chase’s kiss was magic. Real magic, not the artificial Pixie sparkles that Hay had employed. Chase was volatile.

  Chase was real.

  She edged past Joe. Her instincts made her want to head for the basement. She mastered her fear and swallowed deeply to remain calm. With hope in her heart, she plastered a smile on her face to greet the last tour group of the afternoon.

  Late Thursday afternoon, Chase faced the oncoming CAT-tracked vehicle with front loader forks fully extended. He hoped—prayed—that the driver chickened out before running him down. Steadfastly, he held up the court-ordered cease and desist papers.

  A TV camera crew with a satellite truck to back them up and send their footage directly to the station, recorded everything. Chase did his best to ignore them. The court order and his own courage were all that mattered here.

  He hoped they were enough.

  The driver in the bright yellow hard hat with a discreet F painted on the front, to indicate he was the foreman, glared at him. He kept coming, aiming his CAT for the first line of trees at the edge of the park. He drove over the lawns, heedless of the small circles of shrubs and flowers in his way.

  Three uniformed officers held back the five other timbermen bearing chain saws and climbing hooks, by the simple expedient of placing hands on their holstered weapons.

  The CAT kept coming.

  The camera followed every move, captured every facial expression.

  Chase gulped but didn’t move.

  With a tine of the loading fork on either side of him, the CAT finally stopped a hand’s breath from Chase’s chest.

  “Get out of the way!” the driver yelled over the noise of the diesel engine. A note of desperation crept into his voice.

  “I have a court order for you to pack up your gear and vacate the premises for a minimum of two weeks or until the conclusion of the investigation into the illegal sale of this timber,” Chase recited in his deepest, most authoritative voice.

  With profound determination he kept his hand away from his weapon. He really didn’t want this confrontation to turn violent.

  “No one said anything about cutting wood being illegal,” the foreman returned. He idled the engine down so he could be heard over it, but he didn’t turn it off.

  Maybe he was hoping the camera couldn’t make sense of his words.

  “Cutting this wood is illegal until determined by the City Council, the DA, and a judge,” Chase kept his voice firm. He hadn’t realized how powerful the little CAT machine was, or how big “little” was. He hated to think about facing down a full-sized bulldozer.

  “I’ve got a properly signed work order,” the driver insisted.

  “This court order supersedes that.” Chase waved the papers again.

  “You’re taking bread out of the mouths of our children!” The foreman yelled that directly toward the cameraman.

  “Sorry about that. Times are hard for a lot of people. Jobs are scarce. I understand that. This parkland is more valuable than just the price of the timber. It benefits the entire town, not just a couple of politicians and developers.”

  “Fuck you! I’m calling my boss.” The foreman flung off his seat belt harness and jumped clear of the machine.

  Had he set the brake? Sweat popped out on Chase’s brow, more than the heat could account for.

  “Go right ahead. But I need you and your crew to clear off and take all your equipment with you by five o’clock. That’s thirty minutes.”

  “We’re supposed to finish the survey tonight and start cutting at eight AM tomorrow. If we take everything off site, we’ll be hours late starting, and my work order says I lose dollars for every hour of delay.”

  “My court order says this park is to be cleared and returned to pre-work order condition by five.” Chase looked pointedly at the CAT tracks gouged in the grass and the broken rhododendrons.

  A crowd gathered from the neighborhood, milling around, coming closer. The cameras added them to their growing mass of footage.

  The afternoon heat intensified. Chase’s temper rose closer to the surface. He struggled to keep it in check.

  The crowd grew noisier, nerves frayed by tension, uncertainty, and the damned heat.

  Sweat coated Chase’s back, like an extra clammy skin.

  “Ain’t fair to tempt a man with work and a good paycheck and then yank it out from under him!” one of the crew called, stepping forward and brandishing his chain saw. Dense perspiration stains showed on his shirt beneath his safety vest.

  An officer moved to block his path, weapon half out of the holster. He looked as nervous and frayed as the rest of them.

  Please don’t draw that, Chase silently pleaded with his patrolman. Do you know how much paperwork has to be filed if the muzzle clears the holster? How many people get involved in reviewing that paperwork?

  How many thousands would watch it on the evening news?

  “I can’t afford to not cut this timber,” the foreman said, stepping around the CAT to face Chase.

  “I’m sorry about that. I do understand. My men and I each took a twelve percent pay cut so we didn’t have to lay anyone off or have him go part time and lose his benefits. But the order to cut this timber came through illegal channels. It has to be investigated.”

  “Who defines illegal?” the crewman with the chain saw shouted. He pulled the rip cord.

  A gun fired. The man went down. His chain saw spun across the pavement. Bystanders yelped and jumped back, knocking into others.

  More shouts and shoves.

  The foreman’s fist flew at Chase’s jaw. He ducked and slammed an elbow in the man’s gut.

  People cried out in pain and anger. Fists smacked and thudded. The chain saw continued to spin and roar.

  The cameras rolled.

  “I have had enough of this,” Chase ground out. He grabbed the foreman’s arm and twisted it up and back. With his other hand he reached for his cuffs. “You are under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent.”

  “I got the right to work, dammit!”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  The foreman twisted and squirmed.

  “Excessive force!” he screamed and dropped to his knees.

  Just then, Dusty appeared across the lawn with Joe hovering behind her shoulder.

  All the blaring noise faded from Chase’s awareness. He clearly heard Joe say, “Can you call a man that violent a friend? Can you trust him not to turn on you next time he loses his temper?” He took Dusty by the elbow and led her back inside the museum.

  “Do you have anything to say for our viewers at home?” A reporter shoved a microphone beneath Chase’s nose.

  Fuck off!

  “No comment.”

  Thirty-two

  THE HOT AND HUMID NIGHT AIR pressed upon Dusty like a thick wet blanket, robbing her of breath and will. Few would sleep tonight in this uncomfortable, swampy air. She fought to take a deep breath before kneeling beside the broken rhododendron.

  With all the timbermen in jail after this afternoon’s brawl, she had little hope of them restoring the damage their machines had caused. Someone had to fix as much as possible.

  At least she’d gotten her park back for the Ball.

  Carefully, she trimmed a bent branch, then sat back on her heels to see if she’d cut enough or too much.

  The shrub seemed to bounce back and shiver
, almost as if it felt a relief with the amputation.

  “Wish I could recover so quickly,” she murmured.

  “Why can’t you?” Thistle asked from behind her. Dusty didn’t bother to turn around. She couldn’t face her friend with tears streaking her cheeks and turning her eyes a miserable red. “Violence has never been a part of my life. It defines Chase’s job. Joe made me think about having to get used to that,” she admitted.

  Thistle sat cross-legged on the grass on the other side of the rhodie. She trimmed the ragged end of a branch that had broken off. “Since Pixies set up marriage treaties and made the Patriarch Oak neutral ground, we haven’t seen much violence either.”

  “But now Alder has closed off the Patriarch,” Dusty said. “A war could develop if he doesn’t come to his senses soon.”

  “Yeah. He’s stupid. A great lover, but stupid, untrustworthy, a liar, and a cheat. Unless . . . Maybe he has a motive he’s keeping secret.” Thistle bent her head, hiding her face behind her hair.

  “Do you still love him?”

  Thistle studied the grass in silence for a long moment. “Sort of. I mean that mating flight was fantastic. Not just because of the best sex ever. Because of the mutual trust. We had a glowing aura. Everyone saw it and was amazed. That rarely happens.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Dusty asked. She moved over to a patch of mums just coming into bloom. Half of them lay dead, their promise of autumnal rust-and-orange blossoms stripped away.

  If the fall flowers died, did that mean summer would never end? She hoped not. She’d had enough of the heat.

  “I don’t know what to do about Alder. I have to think about Dick, too. I think if he and I ever had a mating flight, it would be even more spectacular. That’s not likely to happen. There isn’t a lot I can do about Alder in this big body,” Thistle said quietly. She looked longingly at the twilight shadows at the edge of The Ten Acre Wood. So close and yet so far away.