Thistle Down

Eleven

THISTLE GRABBED A PAPER CUP full of water off one of the long tables set up along the street side of the park. She downed it in one gulp and immediately felt better. She reached for a second cup.

“Hey, those are for the parade participants,” an older woman with a bad perm in her black-and-gray hair yelled from the other end of the table.

Thistle wandered through the increasing bustle and chaos of the parade preparations toward the museum. Maybe Dusty would have more water. Halfway to the deep porch, she heard the distinctive wail of a frightened child. She followed her instincts to befriend the little one and push away the fears. That’s all children needed at times like these, a friend to remind them they weren’t alone.

She halted when she spotted Joe Newberry crouching in front of his two daughters. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie. Other than that, he looked entirely too modern for the costumes worn by most of the parade participants-which seemed to be most of the town. What was the point of a parade if there was no one left to watch?

Both girls wore long dresses with cloth bonnets, like most of the women gathering around the assembly of horse-drawn wagons, and flatbed trucks, all decorated and signed with various organizations.

“Now, girls, we talked about this. Mrs. Ledbetter, the story lady from the library, is going to walk with you in the parade. You’ll be right beside the horses pulling the covered wagon. You like horses.”

Thistle glanced back at the huge brown beasts flicking their ears in curiosity and apprehension at the noise, the heat, and the bugs-actually a large swarm of yellow Pixies. Must be Dandelions. She’d be scared of those horses, too, with their huge stamping feet and long snapping teeth. The flowers decorating their collars and harness didn’t make them any less scary.

“I like ponies, not horses. Pink ponies with wings,” Sharon, the older of Joe’s daughters, whined. She thrust out her lower lip in a pout.

“I never heard of a pink pony before,” Thistle said, approaching the girls cautiously. She hummed a bright tune in the back of her throat, dum dee dee do dum dum. No need to add to their upset. “But I’ve seen a couple with wings.” Not really a lie if you considered robins and varied thrushes as Pixie ponies.

“You haven’t?” Both girls stared up at her in wonder.

“Nope. Never.” Thistle shook her head. She increased the volume and speed of her tune.

“Don’t you watch cartoons?” Sharon asked, more boldly than before.

“Not lately.”

“Um, girls, you could tell Miss Thistle about the pink ponies while you walk in the parade,” Joe suggested cautiously as he stood back up and turned to face her. “I’m sure Mrs. Ledbetter would like to hear about it, too.”

Please help, he mouthed to Thistle when his back was turned to the girls.

“Don’t wanna walk. It’s too hot!” Suzie protested. Her chin quivered in preparation for more tears.

“Could we ride in the wagon?” Thistle asked.

“Historically, very few people, even small children, rode in covered wagons on the Oregon Trail…” Joe said. It sounded like the automatic response of a teacher.

“But this is ‘Pioneer Days Festival’ not the Oregon Trail. Let’s see if your Auntie Dusty will let us ride in the front of the wagon. We can wave to all the people, and you can tell me about the pink ponies with wings.” Thistle offered her hands to the girls. Dum dee dee do dum dum.

They each slipped hot and sweaty palms into her own, already trusting her as a friend who would never harm them. They began humming along with her.

“You’ll need a costume, Miss Thistle,” Joe called after them.

“Auntie Dusty will take care of it,” Sharon replied, keeping her hand in Thistle’s.

Twenty minutes later, the covered wagon lurched forward to lead the parade. A big white ribbon with a pleated rosette at the top proclaimed third prize.

“We should have won first place,” Thistle grumbled as she plucked the calico gown away from her sweating body. At least the cloth bonnet shaded her eyes. Dusty had given her several bottles of water to carry in the wagon with the girls.

“I bet we would have won if they’d let us have pink ponies instead of big brown horses,” Sharon said. She leaned forward on the plank seat to better see the horses.

Thistle settled more comfortably on the seat. She half turned to the right and waved at Dusty where she stood on the museum porch. The girls waved, too.

The horses settled into a smoother gait as they rounded a corner on the long winding pathway through the residences and then toward downtown. “Look! There’s Mrs. Swenson, my teacher,” Sharon called, waving wildly. Her sister joined her as they enthusiastically found more and more people they recognized. Thistle waved, too, enjoying the party atmosphere that had taken over the town.

Normally, when the parade filled the town with noise and strange people, Thistle’s tribe of Pixies took refuge in the shady secret places within The Ten Acre Wood. They had plenty of work to do blurring paths and snapping ferns against the shins of all the extra children who sought treasures there. Thistle had even switched some of the signs identifying plants for the nature trail showing a lowly dandelion as a towering giant cedar.

She giggled and waved some more.

A blur of movement whizzed around the horses’ heads and zoomed up and over the top of the canvas wagon cover. She squinted against the sun glare to pick out details. A jaunty blue Pixie led a ragged group of mixed followers, some Dandelions, of course, with a Daisy and an Aster and some other pinks and yellows that spread out too far away to identify.

“Chicory!” she called to the leader of the mob.

He and his followers kept right on flying past her. They hadn’t seen her at all. They hadn’t heard her.

The Pixies were as blind and deaf to her as most adults were to Pixies. To them, she didn’t exist at all.

Her music died in her throat.

Chase paced the blocks around the museum, trying to look like a cop on patrol. The parade had come and gone with minimal traffic snarls and only a few pranks-though he’d like to know where those eighth-grade boys got illegal fireworks. The carnival rides were now in full swing up at the community college. That’s where he should be right now.

He wasn’t sure why he needed to keep an eye on Dusty and Thistle. He just didn’t like that Haywood Wheatland fellow sniffing around. He was back, after an early morning visit.

Chase watched as Dusty escorted him out of the building and stood a moment conversing on the long shady porch. Chase heard snatches of conversation about the parade and which businesses stayed open during Festival.

Chase’s gut twisted as Dusty flashed the newcomer a smile bright enough to rival the blazing sun on this heatdrenched day.

When had Dusty ever smiled at a virtual stranger? She barely raised her eyes to people she knew!

Haywood Wheatland was trouble. Chase knew it. Why didn’t anyone else see it?

But if Wheatland drew Dusty out of her shyness, gave her someone to trust, someone who wouldn’t belittle and judge her… maybe he was a good guy.

But if he broke her heart, he’d drive her deeper into her basement solitude.

“If you hurt my friends, Mr. Smooth and Handsome, I’ll see you rot in a hell of your own making,” he swore.

Then Chase paced some more, looking at houses for signs of something off kilter.

All he could think about was Dusty and that man.

“Dispatch, this is Sergeant Norton, patch me through to records,” he said quietly into his shoulder radio.

“Sure, sweetie, what’s you need?” Mabel asked. “You know that I know more about this town than what’s in the official papers.” Anyone but the seventy-something, supposedly-retired dispatcher would get into deep trouble for gossiping and calling everyone by suggestive endearments. Trouble was, she’d been around so long the department wasn’t sure they could operate without her.

She’d anchored the police department since God was a pup. He guessed that by now she didn’t know what to do with herself anywhere but anchoring reception and dispatch. Except putter in her garden growing the most magnificent roses in the county.

Funny, he’d never actually seen Mabel Gardiner work in her garden. She was always down at the police station behind City Hall.

And she knew where all the bodies were buried, who had secrets, and where everyone was at any given time. She had to have a legion of spies.

“I know, Mabel. But this is about that new guy working for Phelma Jo.” Chase had to smile at finally coming up with a question she couldn’t answer.

“Haywood Wheatland. Heard about him. Not much on his resume, but he knows how to make Phelma Jo smile. That’s a wonder in itself,” she came back at him. “That child was born angry.”

Damn, the woman did know something records couldn’t tell him.

No wonder Haywood Wheatland could charm Dusty, easy pickings compared to dragging a smile out of Phelma Jo.

“How’d you know about his résumé?”

“I have my ways, boy. Phelma Jo keeps her private files private, but I know a few tricks she doesn’t. He claims he graduated from that tech college in Portland and knows tricks with office management software. Saw his handle on a search of some city rules and regs regarding parks and recreation this morning, so I guess he knows his way around the Internet. What else you need?”

“Have the interns in records come up with anything on that full background check? I want to know everything about him right down to his shoe size.” Judging by the scruffy loafers the man wore this morning, Chase guessed a nine narrow. Haywood looked big and impressive, but standing next to petite Dusty as he exited the museum, he stood only half a head taller than her. That put him about five-nine. Five-ten tops.

What kind of wiry muscles did he hide under that thrift-store-reject tweed sport jacket?

A flicker of purple near the first rank of trees in The Ten Acre Wood drew Chase’s attention.

“Mabel?” Chase opened his radio again. “Anything show up on that deep background on Thistle Down?”

Mabel coughed long and hard. “Sorry, sweetie, I swallowed down the wrong throat. Who’d you say?”

“Thistle Down. The woman I brought in yesterday morning for dancing naked in Memorial Fountain.”

“Um, Thistle… Thistle… Thistle. Oh, yes, the darkhaired lady with purple eyes. Nope, nothing on her. No driver’s license or Social Security number under that name. No hits on three fingerprint databases. Signing off until I hear from records on that other check.”

No comments, no speculation, nothing. Very unusual for Mabel to cut him off rather than gossip a bit.

Chase’s shoulder mike crackled. “That high school gal summering down in records says she should have something for you by twoish,” Mabel said. She sounded wary, almost uncertain.

Definitely unusual.

“I’m walking a sweep of the neighborhood on the ridge, Mabel, checking on some of the elderly, make sure they’ve got fans and water. Not all of them got to their porches to watch the parade. I’ll make sure they’re okay. Don’t want to have any of them succumb to heat stroke.” Chase turned his back on the museum.

Dusty retreated inside, and Haywood walked off whistling something jaunty and hauntingly familiar.

Damn, now Chase had an earworm of that tune, and he couldn’t remember the words.

Dum dee dee do dum dum.

A burst of static on his shoulder mike interrupted the almost combination of three words in the song.

“Sergeant Norton. What do you have for me, Mabel?” That was quick.

“Get over to Mrs. Spencer’s on Fifth and Oak. Just got word of a break-in in progress.”

“On my way.” Chase ran like he had a football under his arm, the goal post in sight, and fullbacks closing in from each side.

Mrs. Spencer hadn’t watched the parade.