Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  Chase shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.

  Then he opened the door of his tiny apartment. The heavenly aroma of garlic and tomatoes with herbs and stuff he never bothered to use when he cooked for himself greeted him. The chill faded, his stomach woke up, and his mind began to work again. Sort of.

  “Dusty, is that you?” It had to be. No one else had a key to his apartment.

  “Supper’s ready. Get washed up while I put everything on the table,” she called back from the galley kitchen that flowed into his dining/living room space.

  “What kind of organic concoction that tastes like cardboard has she thrown together?” he asked himself as he splashed cool water on his face. Then he stumbled to the small round table that separated the kitchen from the living room. He only had two chairs. She occupied one. He took the other, eyeing the pile of whole wheat pasta and tomato sauce with some kind of ground meat—organic turkey he’d bet—on his garage sale china plates. He’d bet the parmesan was a variation of soy cheese, too. More cardboard.

  “Eat this,” Dusty said gently, shoving the plate closer to him. “You’ll feel better.”

  “I’m too tired to eat,” he mumbled. Dusty’s healthy, organic diet—ingrained while she endured chemo as a child—had looked and smelled better than he thought it would. As tired as he was, he just couldn’t summon a bit of appetite for the food he suspected would be tasteless.

  “Why don’t we run down to the café. My sister will fix us dinner. She’s changed the menu. There’s Desdemona’s Delight, a veggie sandwich on whole wheat bread with soy cream cheese. And she added some gluten-free stuff. She wants to broaden the customer base to include people who think they can’t eat out.”

  “No. You need to eat now, not an hour from now when we get served at Norton’s.”

  Dusty had come to take care of him. He couldn’t ever remember her doing that. The Universe needed to take care of Dusty.

  “You’ll sleep better if you eat something and take a shower,” she coaxed.

  “One bite,” he agreed, too tired to fight her. When had the shy little girl he’d teased unmercifully become so strong?

  Last summer when Thistle had begun working her magic on the town. What would happen to them all if malevolent magic and mayhem from the yellow Pixie with gold-and-red wings replaced the gentle, good-humored nurturing from Thistle Down?

  A second bite followed the first, then a third, and pretty soon he was soaking up the last of the sauce with a piece of garlic toast—whole grain bread with soy parmesan and, he was sure, organic butter.

  “This is really good. I never thought your natural diet would have any taste at all.”

  Dusty still picked at her meal. She’d never been a big eater.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t like your own cooking?” he asked, stealing her extra piece of bread.

  “No, I like my cooking. And I like to cook, when Mom will let me. I’m looking forward to having my own kitchen and someone to cook for.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?” Chase looked around for something to drink, something with more substance than the herbal tea she had prepared for herself. He pushed back his chair, intent on making coffee. The chair legs scraped loudly on the vinyl.

  Dusty looked up startled, almost like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.

  “Don’t bolt on me, Dusty.” He covered her hand with one of his own to reassure her. And just to hold her hand, a privilege he hadn’t gotten used to yet.

  “Chase, I read Mabel’s papers,” she said quietly.

  “And?”

  “Let me show you.” She dashed across the room and retrieved the manila envelope from the folding table beside his recliner.

  He guessed he’d have to get some better furniture when she moved in after the wedding. God, he wanted that to happen soon, not two months from now. With All Hallows approaching and an insane Pixie on the loose, he didn’t know when or if they’d get the time to elope.

  Dusty made a point of spreading the papers out on the table in neat piles. “Read them, starting with this while I clean up.” She tapped a single sheet with the Historical Preservation District letterhead.

  The homely sounds of Dusty moving around the kitchen, water running, and the refrigerator door opening and closing settled his mind. He could get used to hearing her hum in the background.

  Dum dee dee do dum dum.

  Thistle’s music.

  With a brighter frame of mind he turned to the second packet, and the third, and finally the will.

  He sat staring at it for a long time with his mouth hanging open. Finally, Dusty removed the papers from his hands and replaced them with a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Drink, then speak,” she directed.

  “She’s giving us the use of her house for ten years or until our family outgrows the place, whichever comes first.”

  “I gaped so long I caught three flies before I could think straight enough to call you. But you were busy with the accident on the freeway.”

  Chase followed directions, sipping the scalding coffee. He relished the first jolt of caffeine, then sipped again and again, feeling more alive with each mouthful. “The accident was caused by a Pixie. I’ve got three eyewitnesses, but they’ll probably claim it was post-traumatic stress that made them say it,” he choked out around a burning hot mouthful. After three long gulps of air, he sipped again. His brain churned and settled into almost recognizable patterns. “The trust agreement making the house and land into a city park and museum after we vacate is as convoluted as the city charter.”

  “More so. I’ve read every incarnation of the town charter up through incorporation of the city. I’ve kept up on all the changes the City Council has made over the last one hundred sixty-five years. Especially the parts the citizens didn’t get to vote on,” she mused, shuffling the papers around until the will sat in front of Chase.

  “Mabel is one savvy lady,” Chase admitted as he began plowing through the document again. After he’d made sense of the first paragraph, Dusty impatiently flipped over two pages and pointed to the bequests.

  “The nephew gets all the furniture and bric-a-brac, a lot of them antiques that have been in the family for generations, and quite valuable. He can’t contest the will on the grounds that he was left out,” she said to clarify the next paragraph.

  “And if he does contest it, he gets nothing,” Chase added, amazed at how quickly she absorbed the complex language.

  “But look at the house and gardens.”

  He did. That took another half mug of coffee to fully comprehend. “Am I just tired or does the language duplicate itself?”

  “You are tired, but yes, the language repeats in several permutations so there is little if any way to misinterpret it. No loopholes.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about this just yet. Have you heard anything about how Mabel is faring?” Chase pushed aside the papers and grabbed Dusty’s hands.

  “I’m not next of kin, the nephew is, so the hospital won’t tell me anything other than that she’s in guarded condition. Whatever that means.”

  “It means she won’t be coming home anytime soon. Can Dick weasel more information out of them?”

  “I haven’t asked. As long as Thistle resides in the house under Mabel’s direction, the nephew has to wait for Mabel to die to take any action.” Dusty bit her lip and looked over her shoulder for a place to hide, or run away. “That’s why she made you sign as witness to her wishes.”

  “I know that expression, my dear. What aren’t you saying?” Chase held onto her hands, not letting her slip away.

  “There’s one more piece of paper you need to see.”

  Chase held the envelope up so the opening faced the table. He shook it. Nothing more fell out.

  “I hid it.”

  “Dusty?”

  “In my purse. I really needed to think about it before I showed you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Power Of Attorney
for you and me over all decisions on Mabel’s house, property, and personal possessions. There is also a separate clause for a Medical Power of Attorney and a living will for no extreme measures to prolong her life. I think we need to go to the hospital first thing and present it to whoever has control over these things.” She looked away again. “Chase, that is a responsibility I don’t feel qualified to take on. It should go to her nephew.”

  “It should. But she obviously doesn’t trust him. I don’t even know if he lives in town. I think I’d remember a name like Ian McEwen, though I may have played Little League with him one summer. Haven’t seen him since. We’ll be better off filing all this with Mabel’s lawyer and having him contact the hospital with these directives.”

  “I’m all for historic preservation,” Ian McEwen told Phelma Jo over a glass of wine at the Greek restaurant on Main Street. “Some of these old buildings, like yours, and the block building housing this place, are architecturally significant. Modern developers could learn a lot from them. But some of the houses in this town are unsound, and unsafe.”

  Phelma Jo nodded rather than speak around a mouthful of dolmades—spiced, ground lamb wrapped in grape leaves and served with a heavenly tomato sauce.

  “Take my aunt’s house for example.”

  “And you said your aunt is Mabel Gardiner?” she asked cautiously.

  “Mabel Gardiner, on Tenth and Maple Drive. That’s right”

  “Mabel. The police dispatcher. I—um—know the house.”

  Phelma Jo had a client who wanted to buy it for the two-acre lot. Trouble was he’d have to bulldoze the house to get access to the long strip of land between backyards. The stubborn old lady wouldn’t listen to an offer, even one that would have set her up nicely in a river-view condo with housekeeping for the rest of her days.

  She had other reasons, very good reasons, other than stubbornness for keeping the house. Her belief in Pixies wasn’t the only one either.

  “Yes. She’s my aunt. My mother’s much older sister, who never married. She helped raise me after my dad died. Spent my summers here in Skene Falls. Did you know Mabel’s seventy-eight and still working?”

  “I’ve only guessed at her age. She keeps that as secret as the source of her inside information on everyone in town.”

  “Too stubborn to quit.”

  Phelma Jo could think of a dozen reasons to keep working. Topmost on the list was that Mabel knew where all the bodies were buried—literally—and who had which skeletons in their closet. Anyone with anything to hide was afraid to cross her. Including the mayor and the chief of police.

  “What about her house?” she prodded. Like it or not, Phelma Jo also had a vested interest in keeping that house intact. If it needed repair, she’d see to it. Tomorrow, bright and early.

  “Cracks in the foundation. I try to keep an eye on the place from a distance, so I can’t say for sure.”

  “Why the distance?” He’d said something about a disagreement when he was young, but surely they’d patched up their differences since then.

  “After my last summer here, she broke off all contact with my mother and me. When I finished college and moved out on my own, I tried calling and writing, but she never answered the phone or the notes. After a while, I gave up. But I still love her, worry about her.”

  “That’s too bad, losing your contact with family and all.” The right words to say, although Phelma Jo never regretted losing touch with her alcoholic mother and her mother’s abusive boyfriends. Phelma Jo had never known who her father was. Her birth certificate had a big blank spot where his name should be. All she did know of her past was that her mother had been sixteen, pregnant, and a runaway when she landed in Skene Falls.

  “Yeah. I’m Aunt Mabel’s only family. I hate to see her alone and lonely.”

  Phelma Jo covered up her anger by breaking off a forkful of baklava. He had a family, dammit. He should work harder at maintaining it. She envied him even this broken relationship with a woman who gave love right, left, and sideways to kids who desperately needed it.

  “This baklava is heavenly,” he said taking a cautious bite. “I’m glad this place doesn’t serve chocolate. I hate chocolate.”

  “Who doesn’t like chocolate?” Phelma Jo asked, truly surprised.

  “I don’t. Haven’t since I was a kid.” Something in his eyes hinted at an old pain. Maybe his childhood hadn’t been much happier than her own, except when he was with his aunt. Losing her might have led to disaster after disaster with his mother. Especially if his father went missing rather than died.

  “Too many calories in chocolate anyway. I was fat until I was ten or so. Soon as I gave up stuffing my face with chocolate because it was supposed to make me feel better, I lost weight and my skin cleared up. Except for these.” He pointed to the spray of freckles across his nose.

  “Then I guess we won’t order chocolate cake at the Old Mill when we go tomorrow night.” She shrugged. “And I like the freckles. They are distinctive.”

  “Thanks. I stand out in a crowd, that’s for sure.” They laughed together. “Though Aunt Mabel says that a face without freckles is like a sky without stars. Old Celtic blessing.” He grinned hugely.

  Phelma Jo returned his smile and wondered how long it had been since she’d truly laughed with someone.

  “I miss Aunt Mabel,” he said quietly.

  Phelma Jo reached across the table to touch his hand in sympathy. “Now that you’re back in town, I’m sure you can mend your relationship with her.”

  “She’s so lonely she makes up stories about a band of Pixies that live in her garden and how they need protection. I think she’s suffering from more than a bit of dementia,” Ian said quietly, as if afraid to admit to a weakness in his only relative.

  What was with this town and their obsession with Pixies? Haywood Wheatland, Thistle Down, Dick and Dusty Carrick, and venerable old Mabel. Must be something in the water.

  But it would explain a lot of things about Mabel and her spy network if it were true.

  “I’ve tried to get the city out to do a full inspection on Aunt Mabel’s house, but all I get is bureaucratic doublespeak,” Ian continued, seemingly without noticing Phelma Jo’s interest.

  “In this city you won’t get a better response. Everyone is afraid of her.”

  “That’s what I thought. And why I moved here from Portland last month; besides a lot of my work is gravitating here. I want to be closer to her. When we finish eating, I’m going up to the house. Try again to get her to listen to reason and have the house thoroughly inspected and either repaired or demolished.”

  “Do you want company?” Phelma Jo kept her hand atop his and squeezed gently. “I’ve known Mabel a long time. Maybe I can get her to stop and listen before throwing us both out.”

  “That’s very nice of you. And a good idea.”

  “Happy to help.” And she was. “Mabel is special. She deserves to have her family back.”

  Suddenly Phelma Jo realized that Mabel was her family, too. The only real family she’d ever had. Despite her self-serving, defensive mask, she needed Mabel in her life as much as Ian did.

  Nine

  “THISTLE, CAN WE TALK?” Dick asked over his cell phone. He sat in his car across the street from Mabel Gardiner’s driveway, the convertible roof pulled up to guard against the nighttime chill and drizzle.

  “Why, Dick?” Thistle replied.

  Through the windows, with the blinds open, he watched her move from the living room to the kitchen, carrying the old-fashioned rotary dial phone with her, tangling her feet in the long cord. Cell phones, computers, and remote controls went haywire when she was around. But she could manage the old-fashioned analog devices.

  She’d explained it once. Pixies were bound to Earth and Water. Modern digital technology was aligned with Air. Faeries could manipulate them because they were bound to Air and Fire.

  Half-breed mutants like Haywood Wheatland had access to all four elements. That was ho
w he’d recruited a gang of computer gamers and gotten them addicted to Fire and blowing things up, like carnival rides and cell phone towers.

  Dick shuddered with dread at the thought that Haywood Wheatland had come back into town.

  “Thistle, please, I’ve had an awful day helping with the accident on the freeway and I need to tell you some things. Some important things.”

  “Okay. You can come in. The front door is unlocked.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, Thistle. It’s not safe to leave blinds up after dark and doors unlocked,” he said as he got out of his car and hit the remote lock. When he heard the satisfying beep and click and saw the single flash of the headlights, he sprinted across the street.

  Thistle hung up before he reached the front walkway. But she was there, opening the front door, backlit by the hall light with an aura of gold. He closed his eyes a moment, wanting to fix the image in his mind before reality intruded and robbed him of this magical moment. His Thistle waiting for him at the end of the day.

  His Thistle.

  “That’s not safe either,” he said, not as sternly as he should. “Opening the door before you know it’s me waiting for you and not some thug.”

  “I knew it was you. You just called me. Besides, I always know when you are near.”

  “How…?”

  “I just know. It’s part of who you are and what I am.”

  “Like we’re bound together by magic?” he asked, stepping close, not quite daring to cross the threshold.

  “Something like that.” She looked up at him with those gorgeous violet eyes set deeply in her pale face, surrounded by a cloud of hair so dark it held purple highlights.

  “Thistle, I…”

  “Come in out of the chill,” she said, stepping back and looking at the dusty All Hallows decorations she’d piled in the hallway; resin grave markers, requisite scarecrows, a flying witch, and face pieces to tack onto a tree. She’d need help setting up the battery-operated movements of the mouth and eyebrows, and the motion sensor that triggered recorded spooky sentences. He almost laughed at how the sentences always seemed appropriate to the age of the trick-or-treaters who passed by the tree. Tots and grade schoolers got Mabel’s gentlest voice: “Do you want to play in my garden? Come and meet my Pixies. Pixies love to play tricks.” A semi-spooky chuckle followed that. Older kids got invitations to follow the ghosts into the grave and beware the vampire hiding among the roses.