Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (14 page)
“What?” Phelma Jo demanded.
“Just a law we’ll have to get the City Council to override. I’d rather manipulate the mayor into signing off on the project before taking it to the City Council. But his authority may not extend to this.”
“The self-serving bastard is retiring. Our less-than-illustrious mayor is always vulnerable to bribes. I’ll take care of the override.”
“If anyone finds out what you did, you could be vulnerable to fines and possible jail time. That would make you ineligible to run for mayor.”
“Not to worry. I’ve got the mayor under my thumb. My name will never come up in an investigation. If there is one. I’m running for office because I can’t be bribed or blackmailed. All my misdeeds are common gossip. Only half the gossip is true.”
“In the meantime, the City Council is restless and in a mood to override the mayor. Let’s see if we can divide and conquer a committee of five. I’ll just work on the wording of our filing until the museum opens.”
“Haywood,” Phelma Jo said softly.
“Yes?” He turned half his attention back to her, still typing, still keeping one eye on his screen. “Yes?”
“Look at me when I talk to you!”
“So you can intimidate me into adoring you?” This time he turned his smile on her full force. His gaze locked onto hers.
Phelma Jo read his admiration in his expression and knew it was all fake. He loved only himself and his agenda. She was his tool.
Life in Phelma Jo’s world wasn’t supposed to work that way. Her employees needed to obey
her
agenda.
her
agenda.
So why couldn’t she bring herself to fire him on the spot?
“Don’t worry, Phelma Jo. We’ll bring Desdemona Carrick and her brother down in a wave of humiliation so deep they’ll never show their faces in your town again.”
“You promised to break her heart.”
“Winning Dusty’s heart is extra fragrance in the flowers, or a twist to the mushroom high. Or a twist to the mushroom high.”
Odd phrase, that. And why did he keep repeating himself?
She smiled to herself. A flaw. She didn’t know what it meant or why he did that, but it was a flaw she could exploit to deepen her control over him.
“There is a weed in the knot garden, Mr. Newberry,” Samuel Johnson-Butler, PhD said, looking over his half glasses toward Joe.
Dusty’s face flamed. The herb garden was her responsibility. She should have seen the weed before the grant committee could find fault with the management of the museum grounds. Especially since the committee was chaired by Dr. Johnson-Butler, the head of the Business Department at the local community college.
“The city landscape department is responsible for mowing the lawns and policing the grounds for out-of-place plants and litter,” Joe replied with firm calmness. “I shall call it to their attention.”
He flicked his head toward Dusty. She took the hint and withdrew from the pack of three committee members to inspect the garden. Joe led them from the neatly labeled plants to the long barn housing antique carriages and wagons. The potting shed, moved here from one of the first farms in the region, stood between her and the committee. The original county jail, a single-room shed sunk three feet down with only one tiny window in its uninsulated plank walls was next on the agenda. That favorite children’s attraction (topping even the replica covered wagon they could climb on) had a clear view of the knot garden. She needed to work fast.
At a first cursory glance, nothing looked out of place along the neat serpentine paths around bunches of medicinal and flavorful herbs. Then she spotted the obnoxious intruder. A single blade of grass poked one half inch above the freshly turned dirt around the lemon basil.
Dusty stooped to yank it out by the roots, careful not to trip in her heels. “That’s it? A single blade of grass?” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken until she heard her own words.
“From a single blade of grass comes a forest of uncontrolled weeds,” Dr. Johnson-Butler admonished her from halfway across the grounds and behind the wagon barn.
Couldn’t the committee content themselves with a tour of the inside of the museum and gift shop? A full two acres of grounds and he found one blade of grass out of place.
A clatter of iron-shod horseshoes and wooden wheels on the blacktop announced the arrival of the first of the parade floats. She checked her watch, half an hour early and the grant committee was still here. She didn’t dare divert to show the Historical Society where they should place their covered wagon.
Cursing under her breath, Dusty rushed to catch up with Joe.
Thistle emerged from nowhere, right in front of her. “Want me to teach him a lesson?” she giggled. Chiming music seemed to enhance her words. She looked neater and fresher than when Dusty had first found her. But dark smudges hollowed her eyes. They seemed nearly cadaverous and empty.
“No,” Dusty whispered. “We need him happy and appreciative.”
“He doesn’t appreciate anything he doesn’t initiate himself,” Thistle said, watching the man carefully.
“The jail is a favorite exhibit with the children,” Joe said, continuing his tour as if he’d never been interrupted by a weed. “As you can see, we have a modern padlock on the door for when the museum is closed, to discourage vandals and vagrants. During open hours, we remove the lock to make sure an overly enthusiastic game doesn’t result in someone getting locked in.”
“I see you have removable chain link in front of the wagons,” Mrs. Shiregrove said, with more enthusiasm than the committee chair. She had always supported the museum, buying two dozen Masque Ball tickets each year and doling them out as special favors. She also wrote large checks at Christmas. Her family money had seeded the grant fund.
Later today, she’d ride in a flower-filled open carriage representing the Garden Club in the parade.
The president of the Garden Club was the third member of the committee. She (Dusty could never remember her name) echoed Mrs. Shiregrove in everything.
“Yes. We bring out some of the less fragile exhibits for special events, like the parade today. Your carriage, Mrs. Shiregrove, is usually housed here but is now being cleaned and decorated for the festivities. Children especially love the replica covered wagon. They learn more about life in pioneer times crawling over it, becoming involved in the exhibits, than simply reading about it in textbooks,” Joe replied. He looked a little sweaty in his good suit. More from nerves than the mild early morning temperatures.
Dusty longed to exchange her professional garb for a sundress like Thistle’s and retreat to her dim basement where even above normal mid-August temperatures rarely penetrated.
In ten minutes she’d have to change to a calico gown,petticoats, and a clean apron. But she wouldn’t wear a corset.
And she wouldn’t have to deal with outsiders who judged her. Like Dr. Johnson-Butler.
Thistle beckoned urgently from the far side of the barn. She looked a bit angry, with determined mischief in the set of her chin and the flow of her hair as she flung her head back. Dusty faded out of view of the grant committee . . . again. Joe didn’t really need her. He dealt with the business side of managing the museum all the time. Dusty’s job as assistant curator was to take notes and keep her mouth shut.
“You have a visitor.” Thistle pointed toward a tall, blond man standing on the porch reading a bronze plaque with details of the house’s construction and historical significance.
“Isn’t that Phelma Jo’s new assistant?” Dusty asked, adjusting her glasses upward. She watched the man carefully, admiring the fluid grace of his hands as he caressed the doorknob.
“Yeah. He reminds me of someone,” Thistle replied. Her gaze remained fixed on the man.
“Maybe you saw someone like him on TV.”
“No. I don’t watch TV. I’ve seen him before. I just can’t seem to flutter my wings right to trigger a memory.”
“I’ll go see what he wants. M’Velle and Meggie aren’t here yet.” Dusty checked her watch. Still ten minutes to official parade gathering and another two hours to opening the museum. The girls weren’t late. He was very early.
“Let me get that for you,” Dusty called as she hastened over to the main building. And, gratefully, away from the grant committee.
“I’m sorry, I thought you opened at nine thirty instead of ten,” Haywood said. He stepped away from the door just enough to let Dusty get to the lock.
She fumbled her wad of keys out of her pocket, dropped them, bent to pick them up, bumped heads with Haywood, who also reached to retrieve them, and they both came up laughing. She held the end of one key. He clutched the covered wagon medallion keychain.
“I . . . I . . . I’m sorry.” Dusty dropped her eyes as a blush spread across her neck and face. “Actually, we’re opening late today because of the parade.” She gestured toward the horse-drawn pumper wagon pulling into line. The volunteer fire department manned the antique, all dressed in old-fashioned uniforms of blue shirts, buff knickers, tall boots, suspenders, and huge hats.
“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered. “You’re too pretty to be sorry about anything.”
“Huh?”
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the disputed keys.
“Um . . . I really should. My responsibility,” Dusty stammered, wishing she could look away from his charming smile and the brightness of his golden-brown eyes.
Finally, she forced herself to unlock the front door and step into the crowded parlor—at least that’s what the first curator had named the front room. Originally, it had been the only room in the log cabin. A century of occupation had led to expansion up and out. The loft became a full second story within twenty years of construction, then multiple additions to the back and sides—also two stories signified growing prosperity. But the original log walls remained in the parlor. The restoration committee had stripped off the half-rotten paneling and wallpaper to reveal the sturdy logs when they moved the house before World War II.
“This is really interesting,” Haywood said stooping to examine the workings of a spinning wheel. “Can you work this?” he asked, straightening up.
“Not well. I know the principles, but I’ve never taken the time to really learn spinning or any of the needle crafts so popular and necessary in previous centuries.”
“Too bad. I find the process fascinating to watch. From a tangle of fiber comes the thread that makes a garment. Sort of like a spider spinning a web of silk.”
Something about his phrasing sounded odd, and oddly familiar at the same time.
“A spider spinning a web of silk,” he repeated.
“I presume you’ve come about tickets for the Masque Ball?” Dusty said.
“Tickets? Ms. Nelson told me I should fetch an official invitation.” A frown creased his brow.
“Apparently Phelma Jo doesn’t realize this is our largest fund-raiser of the year. We sell tickets to anyone who will buy them. Our email invitations are really just a reminder of the date of the Ball and that preorders help us pay for music, food, and advertising.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. How much are the tickets?” He pulled an oxblood leather checkbook out of his breast pocket.”
“Fifty dollars per couple,” she said flatly. As nice as this man looked, his tweed sport coat, that fit him beautifully, looked a bit dated and his shoes were worn and scuffed. He might not have enough money to pay for the tickets, and Phelma Jo wasn’t likely to reimburse him. Everyone in town knew that she collected money and property, rarely parting with it; a legacy from her childhood.
And now that she had money, she didn’t fix her rabbity overbite. Keeping her teeth flawed reminded one and all of how she’d been mistreated as a child and why the world owed her. What they owed her, Dusty could never figure out, just that she and Dick were expected to feel less than human because their parents could afford braces for both of them. And they had two parents.
No one had ever heard what happened to Phelma Jo’s father. Her mother had moved to town, a single, teenaged mother, when still pregnant with Phelma Jo.
“Any single tickets available?” Haywood asked, his smile returning and aimed right at Dusty.
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