Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (4 page)
“Your job,” Dusty reminded them. “Remember the internship credit, and recommendations you’d
like
to get for your college applications?”
like
to get for your college applications?”
Meggie, the willowy blonde who looked too much like Phelma Jo Nelson for Dusty’s comfort, dropped her feet to the floor and stood as if the action took every bit of energy she possessed. “I guess.” She heaved a sigh, letting Dusty know how much of a burden work was. “I haven’t given a tour to a cute boy in like ages.”
Unlike Phelma Jo, Meggie was unmotivated, and not a bully.
“Pioneer Days officially starts with the parade at ten AM tomorrow. Traffic all over town will pick up any minute now. And you’ll have to wear costumes all week. The volunteers delivered a whole stack of them yesterday, cleaned and pressed. Now, I have an appointment in,” Dusty looked at the watch pinned to her bodice with an antique enameled bow brooch, “fifteen minutes. I’ll need this office since Mr. Newberry locked his and hasn’t returned from his appointment. You girls need to be elsewhere before then. Now get to work.”
Dusty escaped to the cool depths of the basement and the broken crockery from a tribal archaeological dig performed by the community college. The artifacts needed cleaning and piecing together. The crockery dated the dig to post-European contact. The remnants of shell beads and leatherwork suggested an earlier time. An interesting puzzle.
Artifacts didn’t judge a person unfairly on first impressions.
Two
“L
IFE’S A BITCH AND THEN YOU DIE,” Phelma Jo Nelson spat at the stooped man. She leaned back in his comfortable office chair and propped her feet on his massive desk. Once tall and robust, her opponent now sagged and wavered.
IFE’S A BITCH AND THEN YOU DIE,” Phelma Jo Nelson spat at the stooped man. She leaned back in his comfortable office chair and propped her feet on his massive desk. Once tall and robust, her opponent now sagged and wavered.
Vulnerable. She could make some money off his new fragility. A more attractive prospect was that, in replacing him, she would be in a position of power to close down Dusty Carrick’s precious museum. The collapsing pile of lumber without plumbing or electricity had no place in this modern town. Phelma Jo had managed to acquire the lot where her mother’s shack had stood. It hadn’t had plumbing or electricity either, only empty booze bottles. The lot now held her modern offices and condos.
She needed to be in a position to control growth in this town, control crime by ridding it of hiding places for criminals—like The Ten Acre Wood—and control her own life.
“So you have to retire,” she reminded the man.
“You’ve had a good run, honey. Now it’s time to step aside for a younger and more aggressive generation.”
“I have no intention of allowing my failing body to dictate . . .”
“You don’t. But I do. Now sign this press release, and I’ll make sure it gets to the proper reporter. Not that Digger fellow. Someone who will show respect for you and your position in this town and know that I am the only person you trust to continue your good works.” She slid the single sheet of paper across his desk.
He made no move toward acquiescence.
She selected an antique fountain pen from the leather cup holding several fine writing instruments and rolled it onto the paper.
“Sign it.”
“PJ . . .”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Phelma Jo, surely we can work something out. I’ll appoint you to any position you want, name you my heir. But I am not retiring.”
“Yes, you are.” She retrieved a fat file from her soft leather document satchel and waved it at him.
He blanched. “You wouldn’t release that information. You’re in as deep in the land deal as I am.”
“Yes, but then I’m a real estate developer. Everyone expects me to push a slightly shady deal. You’ve cooked the town’s books and skimmed taxes,
my taxes
, into your own pocket. I’ve never done anything overtly illegal.”
my taxes
, into your own pocket. I’ve never done anything overtly illegal.”
“Yet.”
Dick Carrick bounced up the steps of the Skene County Historical Museum. He stepped into the deep shade of the long porch across the front of the pioneer house, then paused and blinked a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the shadows.
Only eleven o’clock and already the summer sunshine beat hot and heavy upon his back. He whipped a silvercolored silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his face clear of perspiration. His custom-made gray silk suit, a shade darker than the handkerchief and his tie, rode easily on his shoulders. Nothing on the front porch or inside the museum seemed to match. It was all a mash-up of odds and ends collected over decades.
The scientist in him screamed for order in the semichaos. The chaos and disorder of childhood games and magical imaginings beckoned to him from The Ten Acre Wood at the far end of the museum grounds.
Strange, he never noticed the heat back when his days were full of imagination.
He shook his head to clear it. Time to relinquish the treasure of the wood to a new generation of children. Big brothers had been introducing their younger siblings to the wood, and its inhabitants for generations.
But a guy could grow up too much. His job as a representative of a major pharmaceutical company suited him much more than his original career in medicine. He could be flamboyant and glib and not have to worry about studying.
“Dusty!” he called, as he breezed into the museum lobby—just a narrow space between two velvet robes that led past the parlor toward the offices at the rear. He was surprised at the emptiness.
The blonde teenager who worked summers poked her head out of the back room. “Oh, it’s you. Ms. Carrick is in the basement. As usual.” Then she disappeared again.
Dick heard the dulcet tones of the other girl, the African-American one with her beautiful, thick hair, done up in beaded cornrows, upstairs giving a tour.
Down, boy
, he reminded himself.
They’re both jailbait
.
, he reminded himself.
They’re both jailbait
.
The roar of the air conditioner in the office beckoned him with the promise of coolness. The only concessions to modern conveniences in the museum proper were a few carefully disguised safety lights. In winter, Dusty turned on gas log fires in every hearth and free-standing iron stove.
He didn’t expect to find Dusty anywhere except the basement at any time of year. When tourists abounded, Dusty hid.
“Hey, Dusty, you down there?” he asked at the top of the staircase. A shiver of disgust ran the length of his spine at the thought of actually having to touch the filthy railing beside the steep descent. He didn’t dare use his handkerchief to protect his hands. The accumulated grime would ruin the silk.
Instead, he turned slightly sideways so that his feet fit nicely along the length of each narrow step.
“What’s up, Dick?” Dusty’s voice drifted upward, as if it came from a long, long way away.
“You aren’t. Can’t you come up to the light of day for a change? I’m beginning to think you’re a vampire or a werewolf or something equally hideous that can’t stand daylight hours.” He backed up two steps to the landing and the security of the doorway.
“Oh, all right,” Dusty grumbled.
Dick retreated another two steps and waited for her.
“Do you need Dad’s pickup on Saturday? I promised to help the guys at the firehouse haul flowers for the parade,” he said to fill the time she needed to climb. “I can march with the volunteers, but I’ll have to duck the reception afterward and work.”
“Let me look at the calendar. I might have to help haul tables and chairs from the library for registration and refreshments.”
“I can do that while I’m bringing tubs of flowers from the nursery.” He spotted his sister on the landing, in her dull green calico pioneer dress and filthy apron.
The front door banged. It sounded as if someone had shoved it with a good deal of anger behind the thrust. Muted grumbles followed the reverberations.
“Um, Dusty, sounds as if trouble is brewing up front.”
“What time is it?” she asked, wiping her hands on her work apron. It had been white once but never would be again; no amount of chlorine bleach would get out the ingrained dirt. She negotiated the steps confidently, without using the railing. But her petite feet fit perfectly on the steps.
“It’s, uh, eleven o seven.” Dick checked his cell phone. He wore a watch, an expensive one, but never thought to look at it now that he had access to everything on the phone.
“That will be Chase Norton, then,” Dusty said. She paused, one foot hovering above the next step like she didn’t want to proceed any further, but had to.
“Is something wrong?” Dick asked. “Can I field the interrogation for you?”
“Thanks, anyway. But this is something I’ve got to do myself.” She shoved her glasses back up her nose and settled her shoulders, bracing to face conflict as if approaching the guillotine.
When she reached the doorway, though, her shoulders slumped and she didn’t seem capable of lifting her gaze above the baseboard. The thick lenses of her glasses distorted any possibility of reading her expression.
Dick threaded her arm through his and flashed her a big smile. The top of her head only reached his shoulder, emphasizing to him just how fragile she was. Chemo at age nine had stunted her growth and left her vulnerable to fatigue at odd moments. She was an inch shorter than their mother. Chemo had also destroyed her appetite. She never ate enough to put some meat on her bones. She looked as frail as a Faery from underhill. Or underground, considering her time in the basement.
“Okay, Sis, I’m right here to help.”
She looked up at him with the same look of grateful admiration she’d used when she was eight and a half and he’d rescued her from Phelma Jo kicking dirt in her face after knocking Dusty over in a rough game of tag in the schoolyard.
The scrapes on her knees and arms had gotten infected and not healed. That was the first sign of the leukemia that had almost killed her.
He held that look in his mind and let it swell his chest with pride. He took care of his baby sister, protected her when no one else would. His bone marrow, no one else’s, had saved her life.
Together, they walked through the antique kitchen to the parlor and lobby. Chase Norton stood before the reception desk, bulky in his uniform with a light Kevlar vest beneath his shirt, loaded utility belt and a thigh holster for his Taser. Dick knew the bulk was artificial. Beneath the equipment, Chase Norton was as lean and strong as he’d been when playing college quarterback. A chick magnet. A great companion for picking up girls in bars. Sweat darkened his light Nordic-blond hair to sand.
The heat . . . or extreme anger?
Dick was betting on anger.
Behind Chase stood the most beautiful woman Dick had ever seen, wearing one of Chase’s black T-shirts. Long legs stretched below the hem, giving hints of more lovely curves beneath the thin fabric. From the shape of her ample breasts, and the puckering of her nipples, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Blue-black hair gleamed against her milky white skin.
He licked his lips, anxious to get to know this lady. Then she turned and lifted her deep purple eyes to his face. Laughter sparkled just beneath the surface.
He forgot to breathe. Thistle looked a little different from the last time he’d seen her. But he’d never forgotten those eyes. The eyes of the first girl he’d kissed. The eyes of the woman who haunted, or was that taunted, his dreams every night.
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