Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  “How’d you know?”

  “You said you’d been betrayed and that your story was more embarrassing than mine.”

  “Alder,” Thistle choked out.

  “King of your tribe?”

  Thistle nodded.

  “But don’t your kings and queens have to marry outside the tribe to keep the peace?”

  “Yes. We hadn’t had a true king in our tribe for ever so long. The old Faery in the tree ruled us. So when he finally went away, we didn’t know for sure what to do about a treaty or electing a new king or anything. Alder knew. I think he knew the old guy was on the verge of going away and arranged the treaty and the election beforehand, without telling anyone. The Patriarch Oak is supposed to belong to all the tribes. Alder is now refusing to let anyone but himself use it. The other tribes have to make do with their own trees. I thought . . .” She swallowed her pain and blurted the rest. “I thought when he took me up to the top that he meant us to be together always. He took me all the way to the top of the tree at noon, proclaiming to one and all that we were mates. He didn’t mean it. He sent for a Princess from the valley tribes to be his mate the next day.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.” They sat in silence a moment, each wrapped deep in her own thoughts. The whir of the air conditioner and the soft murmur of voices barely intruded.

  “So why’d he exile you?” Dusty finally broke the silence.

  “Pixies have treaties with some of the bird flocks. Mostly robins and their cousins, the varied thrushes. We help them find the juiciest worms and they let us ride on them when we have to go long distances.”

  “And . . .?” Dusty prompted.

  “I bribed the varied thrush sent to carry Milkweed to The Ten Acre Wood. He flew the wrong way and led Milkweed and her whole family astray. They were two days late to the wedding.” Thistle giggled over that.

  “Oh, you are nasty.” Dusty smiled, a laugh twitching at the corners of her mouth.

  “Alder sure was mad. And I’m told that Milkweed hasn’t consented to a mating flight yet.”

  “Trouble in paradise. If I were Milkweed, I wouldn’t trust Alder either. I presume, like most men, you aren’t the only one he betrayed.”

  “Yes. But not all men are as selfish and greedy as he is. Dick . . .”

  “Dick is incapable of making a commitment. He hasn’t had a relationship last more than a month, ever. Chase isn’t much better.”

  “So what if Haywood is the rogue Pixie trying to cut down The Ten Acre Wood?” Thistle asked gently. She covered Dusty’s hand with her own. “I know he bribed a bunch of teens to blow up the cell tower, maybe some of the carnival rides tonight. He’s tying them to him with mushrooms.”

  “I refuse to believe that he could be that devious. He kissed me. And it was glorious. The world sparkled.”

  Uh-oh. Thistle didn’t know if she should suggest an alternative to those colored lights.

  “He said he loved me,” Dusty insisted.

  “Alder said he loved me.”

  Another long silence.

  “I don’t know whom to trust. A man I’m very attracted to who says he loves me, or the man I grew up with who has always been a friend. He fixed my music box.”

  “Don’t trust either of them,” a new voice said. A high chiming voice that came from the air somewhere close to Dusty’s ear.

  Thistle searched wildly for the source.

  Dusty batted at her ear as if at an annoying insect.

  “Hey, watch it, lady! I’m not going to sit around all day and get squashed just because you two are deep into crying over spilled milk. Though, if you spill it on a rhododendron, I’d enjoy lapping it up,” a little blue Pixie said.

  “Chicory,” Thistle said on a long exhale, not sure if she should be annoyed or relieved. “What are you doing here? This is still part of Alder’s territory.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, so I’m not sticking around long.”

  “Chicory.” Dusty choked on her tea. She looked pale and a little green around the edges. Her eyes lost focus and threatened to roll upward. As if her mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around the reality of the obnoxious blue boy with a cap that looked like an upside-down chicory blossom on his head, knickers and tunic the same shade, and darker blue skin and hair. His blue green wings stilled their constant flutter as he landed on the table, regarding Dusty with concern.

  “So what brings you into dangerous lands?” Thistle prodded the tiny man.

  “Mabel sent me.”

  “Mabel? As in police dispatch Mabel who has an army of Pixie spies?” A little color returned to Dusty’s face and her eyes focused firmly on the Pixie.

  “Yeah, that Mabel. She says I have to apologize to you, Miss Dusty, for some tricks we played on you, and for spying on you and your boyfriend last night down on the river walk.”

  “Was that you who made the air sparkle when he kissed me?”

  “No. Don’t know who threw the Pixie dust. Look, I’m not going to say any more than to warn you to be careful. There could’ve been some magic enthrallment in that dust. There is more, and less, to Mr. Haywood Wheatland than he says. And he’s been known to lie. True Pixies can’t lie. That’s what Faeries do. So just be careful. Chase is one of the good guys. You can trust him. And, again, I apologize on behalf of Mabel’s tribe.” He executed a formal bow from the waist and set his wings to sweeping rapidly. He rose straight up from the table and aimed for the closed door to the rest of the museum.

  Thistle figured he could crawl under the door or slip through the big old-fashioned lock.

  “Hey, don’t I get an apology?” she asked.

  “Mabel didn’t say anything about you, exiled one. I think growing big makes it possible for you to lie, too. Mabel just told us to consider Miss Dusty one of ours now. Oh, and I have it on good authority that Mrs. Shiregrove will be home for tea this afternoon and will talk to you.” He flitted out before Thistle could call him back again.

  Twenty-nine

  “THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME on such short notice, Mrs. Shiregrove,” Dusty said as she settled in a wicker lawn chair. A grape arbor behind her hostess’ imposing mansion shaded them from the grinding heat and humidity. The little bit of relief from stray river breezes didn’t reach up here on the third plateau above the Skene River.

  “No problem. I prefer to take my afternoon tea with company. What was so important that you left the basement of your precious museum to call on me?”

  Dusty blushed. It seemed everyone in town knew how she hid from people among her artifacts and catalogs. Then she mustered her courage to speak, wishing Joe had come to do it for her. “It’s about the Masque Ball, ma’am.”

  “I hope you make a lot of money this year. You’re going to need it.” Mrs. Shiregrove looked sharply at Dusty.

  “Yes, well, I was hoping you could influence the grant committee to match funds for us, since they’ve denied a flat-out grant.”

  “That’s a possibility.” The older woman took a sip of her iced tea, looking out over her extensive grounds rather than at Dusty. “Tell me why the Ball is so important to you. This is the first one you’ve organized by yourself.”

  “Only because Mom and Dad are in Stratford-upon-Avon for three months absorbing as much Shakespeare as they can.”

  “Your mother can be obsessive.”

  Dusty just smiled.

  “So why is the Ball so important to you?”

  “Because it gives us the funds to keep the museum open. We are an anchor to the community, an important part of our heritage, part of our identity as a city, and part of the state and region as a whole.”

  “Commendable. I see you are passionate about the museum.”

  “That and our local history. How can we possibly move forward if we don’t know where we’ve been?”

  “I agree. But I understand even the Ball is in jeopardy, what with the logging off of The Ten Acre Wood. Hate to see that go, but I don’t see how to stop a steamroller once it
gets started.” She paused, her eyes slightly glazed as if she thought long and hard on something important.

  “Yes, ma’am. Actually that’s why I’m here. We’re having trouble finding an alternative venue for the Ball on such short notice.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” she snorted.

  Dusty wondered if Mrs. Shiregrove knew more than she was saying about that.

  “Your estate would make a lovely background to the costumes and music and Pixie lights,” Dusty whispered, amazed at her audacity.

  Mrs. Shiregrove jerked her gaze back to Dusty, forcing her to look directly into her eyes and not the enticing depths of her amber tea. “That it would. Who put that idea into your head, Miss Carrick?”

  “I thought of it this morning about six, after the community college turned us down. They wanted seventyfive percent of our gross. We can’t afford that. I know it’s short notice and an imposition, but I was wondering if we could hold the Ball here? Please, it may be our only hope of saving the museum.” The last came out in a rush.

  “So you can speak at length about something near and dear to you,” Mrs. Shiregrove chuckled.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, don’t go all silent and polite on me. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to get angry enough to stand up for what you believe in.”

  “The Ball is our major source of funding. Tour admissions only make up a part of it, and those are down this year with the economic crunch. We only had about half as many school field trips this spring as usual, and our high school interns are working for class credit rather than money. The furnace truly needs replacing, or we’ll start losing fragile artifacts and artwork to the damp this winter.”

  “You’ve convinced me. Actually, some little friends convinced me of it last night. That’s why I asked who gave you the idea.” She beckoned toward the stand of variegated dahlias across a stretch of lawn. Then she held her palm out.

  Dusty didn’t see anyone.

  “Over here, blindy bat,” a tiny voice said.

  Dusty looked closely at the orange-and-yellow being standing on the flat of Mrs. Shiregrove’s hand.

  “You, too?” Dusty asked, feeling all the heat and color draining from her face. “First Mabel and then you?”

  “Anyone with an old garden who has been in this town for a long time has them. Only not everyone is willing to acknowledge them. I’ve known Dahlia here since my husband and I inherited this house from my parents almost forty years ago. She approached me about the Ball last night. Seems that Mabel’s friend Chicory mentioned it to her. He courted her for a while but decided he didn’t want to move away from all the gossip downtown.” She whispered the last in an aside.

  “I’m sorry that didn’t work out, Dahlia. Chicory is a nice fellow,” Dusty said formally.

  “Not to worry. I’ve recently become betrothed to Oregon Grape. But the marriage won’t happen unless that self-centered upstart Alder opens the Patriarch Oak to mating flights again. I’m not some frivolous girl who will mate with just anyone. Got to be someone I trust. Someone who’s already a friend.”

  Dusty nearly choked. “I understand, Dahlia. My friends and I are doing all we can to make sure the Patriarch Oak is safe. But we are running out of time.”

  “Good for you, Miss,” Dahlia said. She rose up with a clatter of long wings and lighted on Mrs. Shiregrove’s glass of iced tea. After a bit of contortion, she bent double over the rim and sipped at the cold liquid. “Nice and sweet with a hint of lemon. Just the way I like it.” She smacked her lips and bent for another sip.

  “I know, I do spoil my friends, but they are special.”

  “Yes, they are, Mrs. Shiregrove.”

  “So, now that you are properly approved of by the Pixies, I have no choice but to allow the Ball to take place here, if I can’t do something about halting or postponing the log off.”

  “The mayor refused to hear Joe Newberry’s petition to stop the logging.”

  “Seth is an idiot. He’s not running for reelection after his latest stroke, so he’s not worried about voter opinion.”

  “I saw in the paper this morning that he’s endorsed Phelma Jo Nelson to succeed him,” Dusty said quietly.

  “Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. She’s organized and efficient, doesn’t tolerate fools or liars. She’s the only one allowed to lie, cheat, and blackmail,” Mrs. Shiregrove snorted in disgust.

  Dusty nodded, not knowing how to respond.

  “Let me see if I can do something about the log off.” She pulled a cell phone from her skirt pocket, one of the smart phones that did everything but dry her hair.

  “How can you keep that thing working with Pixies nearby?” Dusty asked.

  “Compromise. I tell them everything said and they stay at the other end of the property while I talk.” Mrs. Shiregrove laughed as she punched in a number.

  “Bill, I’ve got a news story for you.” She listened for a moment.

  Dusty held her breath. Bill? As in William? The only William she could think of in the regional media was William Tremaine who anchored the news for a local affiliate of a major television network.

  Quickly, Mrs. Shiregrove outlined the situation with The Ten Acre Wood. “Yes, I know it’s too late to get a truck and a team out here before tonight’s broadcast, but surely you can get the ball rolling.”

  Another moment of listening.

  “Sure, you’ll need to talk to Joe Newberry at the museum.” She rattled off his cell phone number from memory, as well as Phelma Jo’s and the mayor’s. “That’s right. Call all of them. I love you. Dinner at seven. I’ve got lasagna in the oven.” She closed and pocketed the phone.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much. Um . . . was that William Tremaine?” Dusty said, eyes wide in wonder.

  Mrs. Shiregrove laughed. “Of course it was. I kept my birth name when we married, because he was only a cub reporter and didn’t want people thinking he married me for my money. Which he did, of course. But he makes up for it by loving me.” She laughed again.

  “I’m sure he does. Thank you again, for everything. We all appreciate your generosity. Is there anything I can do about the grant?”

  “Besides getting Joe Newberry to resign and taking over his job?”

  “What?” Dusty turned hot then cold. The top of her head felt as if it flew off with Dahlia to the other end of the estate. She wanted to flee back to her basement but couldn’t move her numb feet.

  “That nice Mr. Haywood Wheatland, you know, the young man who works for Phelma Jo now. He said something the other day to Dr. Johnson-Butler that made us ask the Board of Directors for an audit. We haven’t found any funds missing, but suspicion lingers. There are dozens of ways to cover up skimming. Has Mr. Newberry had any unusual expenses of late?”

  Dusty barely heard the last part for the roaring in her ears. “I assure you Joe Newberry is honest. I keep the books, not him, and if there is anything funny with the accounts, I suggest you look at the Board of Directors—or the accuser.” She gathered her purse and rose to her feet, as tall and as dignified as she knew how to be, not bothering to finish her tea. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Shiregrove, and all your help and consideration. I’ll have my decorating and catering committee chairs contact you directly, just in case we have to move the Ball.”

  She marched back to her car by way of the gravel path around the side of the home. Her chin wavered, but she wouldn’t give in to her emotions. Not yet.

  First, she had to find out why Haywood Wheatland would make such a suggestion. Phelma Jo had to have put him up to it. He hadn’t been in town long enough to know anything about the museum operation.

  Then she was going to spend as much time as necessary going over all the books and the bank statements herself.

  “I have reviewed the material you brought me,” Judge Pepperidge intoned slowly, never taking his eyes off the sheaf of papers he held. Even with his tie loose and the top button of his dress shirt undone, the
white streaks at his temples in sharp contrast to his dark hair, aquiline nose, and chiseled cheeks made him look authoritative and important.

  Chase stood at attention in front of the judge’s massive desk, designed to clearly separate His Honor from the great unwashed, and lawyers. Chase didn’t dare unbend even the slightest. Buck privates in the army facing a wrathful drill sergeant couldn’t be more uncomfortable than Chase Norton at that moment. The air-conditioning set at Arctic didn’t cool the sweat running down his back.

  Tuesday had come and gone before he got this appointment on Wednesday during the lunch hour. He wasn’t going to blow it with the slightest unbending that might be interpreted as disrespect.

  “You realize that seeking an injunction against a city work order should have come from the DA or at least a City Council member.” The judge peered over the top of his reading glasses, making eye contact with Chase for the first time since he’d been summoned to explain himself.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Honor, City Ordinance SFCO8795678, November 12, 1932, clearly states that any concerned citizen may seek an injunction against an action they deem harmful or dangerous to their neighborhood,” Chase recited.

  “I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant Norton.” The judge rattled the papers as he sat back in his big comfortable chair and swiveled a bit. “We could use more people like you on the force.”

  “I hope you found my petition interesting and worthy of consideration, sir.” Chase’s lower back protested his stiff posture. He shuffled his feet, hoping not to draw attention to his discomfort.

  “Oh, sit down, Chase. We’ve known each other since I coached your peewee football team while I was in college.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Chase eased into the closest chair, a straight-backed and uncomfortable one designed to keep petitioners from lingering. The only other option was to drag a softer piece of furniture over to the desk from the far wall. If the judge wanted him to linger, he’d have provided the good chair before Chase got there.

  “What made you go looking so closely into this matter, Chase?” the judge asked.