Thistle Down

Sixteen

CHASE WANDERED DOWN the marble halls of City Hall just after dawn on Monday morning. Designed and built before air-conditioning, the one-hundred-fifteen-year-old building held the cold, making it the most comfortable structure in the downtown area during the summer months. Especially this summer.

The more modern police headquarters tacked on behind the City Hall was less substantial and the meager air-conditioning strained to meet the demands of the weather.

Just as Thistle had predicted, today the outside temperatures would only reach the mid eighties. That made the interior of the old building almost cold.

Chase yawned as he approached the clerk of the court’s office with his sheaf of citations and warrant requests. She opened her office before anyone else, preferring to work in the morning coolness.

He hated paperwork. He’d much rather be out on patrol, even on a hot day. Saturday night, after the parade and the adventure with Thistle and Mrs. Spencer, he hadn’t been able to sleep. The vision of Thistle and her purple skin and Pixie wings haunted him, and then Dick told him Dusty had a date with Haywood Wheatland.

Dusty didn’t date. She barely knew how to look a stranger in the eye. So what made the newcomer so special?

Maybe because he was a newcomer and didn’t know everything about her, like most folks in town.

Maybe because her mother hadn’t arranged the date. Then last night, Sunday, she’d gone to a movie with Joe Newberry without his daughters. A romantic movie.

Two dates in a row after years of none.

So Chase had sat up all night polishing off two weeks’ worth of overdue paperwork to keep from wondering whether Dusty had kissed Haywood or not. Then he’d fretted all day and night on Sunday because he couldn’t turn in the reports.

He’d pulled appliances at the family diner and scrubbed grease out of the traps behind them.

He’d heard nothing from Dick about the success or failure of Dusty’s dates.

He’d resorted to painting the picket fence around his folks’ house to burn off frustration. The lavender paint didn’t look right. It reminded him too much of Thistle, or purple dragonflies. But that’s what his mom wanted.

Ginny had painted the ladies restroom in the diner the same color. Mom needed to do something with the leftover paint. Practical. Ordinary chores. Home, an anchor without questions. But it was mindless work that allowed him to think too vividly of Dusty dating both Haywood Wheatland and her boss.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob to the clerk’s office. Raised voices within the series of rooms inside caught his attention.

“We can’t sell the timber in The Ten Acre Wood,” City Councilman George Pepperidge nearly shouted. “It’s a city park.”

Chase grew rigid in fear. Log off the woods? How could they destroy the haven of every child in Skene Falls for the last six generations? The town would react as if the City Council desecrated holy ground.

Dusty would be devastated. The Ten Acre Wood abutted museum grounds. Her whole life centered on that museum.

Except Saturday night she’d gone out with a stranger who had no interest in her museum.

He could almost understand a date with Joe. They could bore each other all day and half the night arguing about historical trivia.

Chase burst into the office ready to cite ordinances against cutting timber in city parks.

The room was empty. Not even the clerk plucked away at her keyboard. Had everyone gone for coffee at the same time? Before starting work?

The soft susurration of distant voices led him to a heating grate set high against the corridor wall.

A trick of the acoustics with all the echoey marble had channeled a private conversation directly to him.

“I don’t care how badly the city needs the money. An offer from an anonymous buyer through a third party, out-of-town lawyer shouldn’t even be considered,” George Pepperidge continued in outraged tones.

Hmmm, where in the building could the councilman be having this conversation?

Chase threw the stack of papers on the clerk’s desk and set off to track him down.

“I’ll get this tour group, you finish your lunch, Meggie,” Dusty said, swallowing the last of her spinach and feta cheese salad with pita bread.

“Huh?” Meggie dropped forward; the front legs of her chair thudded sharply. “Are you okay, Ms. Carrick? You’ve been smiling all morning and you haven’t retreated to the basement once.”

“We’re busy. I’m needed up here.” She moved into the front room to greet the group of two adults, five teens, and three grade-schoolers. A family with friends. Kids these days rarely went anywhere without friends. Their companions rated higher on their priorities than family.

She remembered when Thistle was her best friend and how special she felt to have the tiny Pixie hide in her hair when Mom and Dad took her places.

Except the hospital for blood tests and scans to make sure the cancer had gone away. Thistle couldn’t stand the smell of the place. She acted as if ignoring the possibility of Dusty getting sick again kept it from coming true.

Dusty started the tour with the memorized portion of local history that led to the building of the house. Then she noticed the gazes of the teens glazing over and wandering toward the long rifle on the wall. In three sentences she transitioned to a discussion of the early weapons industry and how each gun was individually made.

“With so many variations in muzzle sizes, the gun owners pretty much had to make their own bullets.” She indicated the paraphernalia required to keep the gun cleaned and armed.

“How come the muzzle’s so big?” one of the girls asked. “Dad’s hunting rifle is about half that size.”

Dusty could see in her posture how she imagined holding the weapon and aiming it.

“Buffalo,” she answered promptly. “We had buffalo in eastern Oregon in the early years, but they were hunted out quite quickly. With a bore this large, a pioneer could be pretty sure of taking down an angry bear or cougar on the rampage with one shot. If he wanted to put meat on the table, though, he’d use a smaller gauge as the large balls damage too much muscle.”

“Wow!” The girls leaned over the ropes separating them from the gun, eager to learn more.

The girls? Usually the guns fascinated the boys. But they were bent over the spinning wheel trying to figure out how it worked. If Dusty wasn’t careful, they’d probably try to dismantle it.

“At the end of September we have a black powder rendezvous over at the community college with demonstrations and lessons in loading and shooting these weapons. They also have spinning and weaving and other pioneer crafts…”

By the time she concluded the tour in the upstairs bedrooms, she realized she’d actually had fun with the kids. The father had been just as eager. The mother, however, failed to show a spark of interest at anything other than her perfect manicure.

“You are free to wander the grounds. The outside exhibits are well signed. But if you’d like, I can accompany you. Perhaps the boys would like to see what an early jail cell was really like.”

She’d never offered to continue a tour beyond the indoor requirements.

Happily, she led the group outside and headed toward the knot garden. Three men standing behind the carriage barn at the edge of the woods caught her attention. She saw their bright yellow hard hats first.

These men weren’t interested in the exhibits. They’d set up survey equipment with sighting devices on tripods and were carrying industrial-length tape measures and clipboards.

Dusty stood at the edge of the herb garden, shivering in the heat. The floaty feeling she’d had since Hay had called her this morning before work just to say “hello” sank to her heels, forming a huge magnet that kept her rooted to the ground. She couldn’t flee, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer the question about the silver plant at the center of the garden.

“Are you all right, Miss?” the father asked.

“Please, call the curator,” Dusty choked out.

Seconds later, Joe marched out of the museum toward the three interlopers. When he passed Dusty, she gathered enough momentum to creep after him. “What’s going on here?” Joe asked authoritatively. His slender stature seemed to expand with righteous indignation.

“Just doin’ my job, buddy,” the man with the clipboard said with a shrug. “This is a city park. Unless you have authorization signed by the parks commissioner…”

“I got a work order signed by my boss. That’s all I need. These days work is work, I’ll take what I can get paid for.”

“May I see this supposed work order?” Joe held out his hand.

“Sure, buddy. But don’t stand there very long. You’re in my way, and I gotta start cutting this timber on Friday.”

“Th… that’s the day before the Masque Ball. It will be ruined! ” Dusty found her voice. “We’ll have to cancel and give back all the money we’ve already raised. But we’ve spent most of it setting up the party.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I see nothing official from the city on this paper,” Joe said, handing back the ordinary looking memo.

“Talk to my boss about that.”

“And who is your boss?”

“A voice on the phone from Pixel Industries, Ltd. I’m independent, subcontract out to the big guys.” He waved at his assistant at the other end of the tape measure to move slightly to the left.

“I’ve never heard of Pixel Industries, Ltd.”

“Neither had I. But I got a fax with the work order and an advance wired to my bank. Now get out of the way.”

“Dusty, go call the police. And the mayor’s office,” Joe ordered. “We’ll find out who and what is behind this. As far as I know there’s a law against cutting timber in city parks except for removal of dangerous and damaged trees.”

“I’m from Portland. Don’t know about your city laws. I just know I got work after a long dry spell of no work.” The hard-hatted man returned to his equipment, clearly dismissing Joe and his protests.

He took a sheet of notepaper from one of his compatriots, started recording the figures, paused, and pushed his hard hat to the back of his head. Then he peered closer at the paper, over the tops of his glasses and loosed a long low whistle.

“Holy ef… cow! That big oak alone has enough timber to make up for the purchase price. Can’t get old growth oak like that anymore. Surprised it’s not on the list of heritage trees.”

“The Patriarch Oak! No. No. No.” Dusty picked up her long costume skirts and ran back inside the museum.

She paused at the head of the stairs to the basement and made the two calls. Then she retreated to the sorting of potsherds she should have been doing instead of gleefully giving tours.