Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (36 page)
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.
“The speed and the secrecy involved. Pixel Industries, Ltd is offering about ten times the amount of money they can get back from selling the timber, including the massive amount of old growth oak from the Patriarch Oak by the pond. Which should have been designated a heritage tree long ago but wasn’t, because people were afraid they wouldn’t be allowed to climb it or dig around it for pirate treasure. The money made me wonder why they wanted the timber so badly and why in such a hurry.”
“Cutting those trees will make a huge mess of the Masque Ball Saturday night if they start cutting on Friday,” Pepperidge mused.
“Precisely, sir. That led me to believe the entire operation was aimed at ruining the Ball, the fund-raiser for the museum. The timber has been there for a long time. Why this year? Why this week?”
“Isn’t this the first year Dusty Carrick has taken over the organization from her mother?”
“Yes, sir. And there is only one person in town who might have a grudge against her.”
“Phelma Jo Nelson. Wow, that feud goes back a few years.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I thought the girls were friends before that. It turned out well afterward since it forced the school authorities to investigate accusations of abuse in Phelma Jo’s home. She went into foster care within hours of the incident.”
“Because Dusty’s injuries got infected and wouldn’t heal, she got an early diagnosis of leukemia and was able to have complete remission,” Chase added.
“Good outcome all around, and yet the feud persists. Who knows what trauma dominated their minds at the age of nine and ten.”
“Yes, sir. I thought Phelma Jo would have forgotten it, especially since she has made such a success of her life, starting from that moment. She has no reason to be jealous of Dusty anymore. But that’s her name and her signature on the incorporation papers, which are dated only a few days before the offer to the city was issued to the mayor.”
“And it went to the mayor privately, not through regular channels and the City Council. I wonder if Seth would have even told the City Council about it until after the fact.”
“I don’t know, sir. You know him better than I do. The fact is, this operation does not look aboveboard and should be investigated fully. There isn’t time to do that before they start cutting timber unless you issue the injunction.” Chase held his breath, hoping he hadn’t been too pushy.
“I agree. That’s what I told Bill Tremaine a few minutes ago when he called. He’s married to Pam Shiregrove, you know.”
“Wait a minute, Bill Tremaine? As in William Tremaine, tall guy, white hair, very distinguished, anchors the local news on KRVR?” Chase gulped. Then he had to swallow a couple of times to get around the lump in his throat.
“Go it in one,” Judge Pepperidge chuckled. “If anyone could get recalcitrant politicians to act on the threat of negative publicity, he can. Seth will be lucky if he’s not run out of town on a rail when Bill gets done with this story. I’m signing this cease and desist order right now, and calling the DA. There may not be anything criminal going on, but I want to find out.” He selected a wooden fountain pen from a cup full of similar writing instruments and signed three copies of a form already prepared.
Chase’s heart soared. He’d done it. At least he and Bill Tremaine had done it. They’d saved The Ten Acre Wood. Surely Dusty would forgive him for accusing Haywood Wheatland of skullduggery. Especially since it looked like he was guilty.
“I’ll let you serve this on Phelma Jo personally. And deal with any reporters hanging around her office. I’ll make sure the DA gets a copy, and I’m keeping one locked in my safe to make sure the mayor—or Phelma Jo—doesn’t steal it.” Judge Pepperidge turned his chair around so the back of it blocked Chase’s view of what he did at the credenza beneath the window.
“Thank you, sir. I hope to see you Saturday night at the Ball.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I presume you are escorting Dusty Carrick?” He turned back around, hands now empty, and peered at Chase over the top of his glasses.
“I hope so, sir.”
“Good luck with that. She’s worth waiting for.”
“Does everyone in town know my business before I do?”
“That about sums it up. Now get going and deliver that injunction before Phelma Jo gets impatient and starts cutting timber before her own deadline.”
Thirty
T
HISTLE TOOK A BREAK from her duties with the old ones who should be revered instead of cast off. Dusty had gone up the hill to visit Mrs. Shiregrove. Dick had appointments in the city. Chase had answered a summons to the courthouse.
HISTLE TOOK A BREAK from her duties with the old ones who should be revered instead of cast off. Dusty had gone up the hill to visit Mrs. Shiregrove. Dick had appointments in the city. Chase had answered a summons to the courthouse.
She was alone. Time to find some answers. She needed to talk to Alder, who seemed to be at the heart of all the problems besetting her friends.
From Mrs. Jennings’ house, she walked two blocks north and then another three west until she faced a seemingly impenetrable wall of trees and undergrowth. The bracken and sword ferns had grown so intertwined they obscured any path that might lurk beneath them. Even the narrow drainage ditch between the graveled shoulder of the rotting road and the ferns looked solidly overgrown.
They drooped with dry dust, looking tired and extremely thirsty. All the life and luster had drained out of them.
No matter. She could find the path. She’d flown along the narrow opening dozens of times a day for as long as she had sought friends among the children playing in the forest.
One step in the center of the ditch and her foot sank deep among the tall grasses, thistles, tansy, and Queen Anne’s lace. Most of the plant tops tickled her knees. Except the thistles. Her namesake. Those prickled her arms all the way up to her elbows. She scratched the irritating dots.
Then she paused, wondering if she scratched and annoyed people the way the spines of the plant did. Even as she thought about it, some of the stickers worked their way under her skin, persistent, incapable of being ignored.
She giggled at the thought of how she had worked her way into the lives of Dick and Dusty. Unrelentingly.
But she couldn’t let laughter and fun deter her from her task.
She took another step, up this time into the first thicket of bracken and more grass going to seed and thistles flowering, brilliant purple and delicately fragrant. A few of those had begun to fluff white as the seeds worked their way outward from the center. The season marched toward autumn. The days grew shorter.
Surely rain and cooler temperatures had to come soon to give the humans and the plants some relief.
Pixies thrived in summer heat and the cool spring and autumn. Only in deepest winter did they seek shelter, huddling together and sleeping most of the day and night until the days brightened again.
“I must be truly human now if I’m uncomfortable,” she mused as perspiration trickled down her back and between her breasts. “The time is long past for me to return to Pixie. Maybe then I won’t hurt so bad because I can’t let Dick love me.”
She took one more step and . . . flew backward, landing on her butt in the rough gravel.
Her hands stung and her back ached. Her senses reeled and darkness crowded in from the sides. She desperately needed to put her head down.
Nothing soft and comfortable showed itself within reach.
“What?” Tears flowed down her cheeks in pain and disappointment. This was the second time she’d been thrown out of Pixie and landed in a humiliating lump.
“You’re an exile. You can’t go back until Alder says you can go back,” a man laughed from behind her.
She twisted around to see who mocked her.
“Haywood Wheatland.”
He bowed formally, like a proper Pixie. He stayed a good twenty feet away. Not proper Pixie protocol. He should come to arm’s length and wait for an invitation to rub wings.
“Who are you?” she asked, scrambling upward, desperately seeking balance and dignity. Her head took a few heartbeats to catch up with the rest of her. She stumbled and had to plant her feet in a wide stance to stay upright.
“Look closer at your precious Ten Acre Wood, Thistle Down. Look and see what rejects you.”
She peered at the line of trees marking the boundary of her tribe’s territory. A wall of shimmering energy, much like the aura around frantically flapping Pixie wings swam into view.
“You and only you are the reason for that wall. Now no Pixie can enter or leave The Ten Acre Wood until Alder takes it down. And he won’t. Not until Milkweed agrees to a mating flight.”
“Maybe he’s trying to keep Milkweed from returning to her valley home?”
Haywood gulped, then paused in thought. He finally nodded agreement.
“She’s both smart and stupid,” Thistle spat.
Haywood cocked his head in question.
“She’s smart not to trust Alder. Trusting him to a mating flight is no guarantee he’ll be faithful to her afterward.”
“You should know.”
“Yes. He betrayed me, and probably others.”
“Then why is she stupid?”
“If she took the mating flight, the treaty between her tribe and Alder’s would stand. She would be queen. A powerful leader of the most important Pixie territory. She could wrest control from him as soon as she exposed his underhanded manipulation of his tribe. Then she could dictate who could use the Patriarch Oak and when.”
Thistle vented her anger by brushing dirt and gravel off her skirt and legs. Jagged bits of rock clung to her, stinging worse than thistle spines. Scrapes burned, and she ached all over. Long scratches and drops of blood trickled down her arms and legs, like the stream trying to gain enough momentum to plunge over the cliff in high summer.
“Granted. Milkweed needs to control the situation,” Haywood mused. “That doesn’t change anything, though. You are still exiled and powerless. Soon the chain saws will bring down Alder and the Patriarch Oak. Soon he’ll have no power, no prestige, no queen, and no territory.” He smiled, showing too many pointed yellow teeth the same color as his hair. In the slanted afternoon light he looked like sun-ripened hay ready to ignite into flames if the temperature increased one degree.
Hay? Haywood?
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