Irene Radford - Thistle Down

“Your mother can be obsessive.”

Dusty just smiled.

“So why is the Ball so important to you?”

“Because it gives us the funds to keep the museum open. We are an anchor to the community, an important part of our heritage, part of our identity as a city, and part of the state and region as a whole.”

“Commendable. I see you are passionate about the museum.”

“That and our local history. How can we possibly move forward if we don’t know where we’ve been?”

“I agree. But I understand even the Ball is in jeopardy, what with the logging off of The Ten Acre Wood. Hate to see that go, but I don’t see how to stop a steamroller once it gets started.” She paused, her eyes slightly glazed as if she thought long and hard on something important.

“Yes, ma’am. Actually that’s why I’m here. We’re having trouble finding an alternative venue for the Ball on such short notice.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” she snorted.

Dusty wondered if Mrs. Shiregrove knew more than she was saying about that.

“Your estate would make a lovely background to the costumes and music and Pixie lights,” Dusty whispered, amazed at her audacity.

Mrs. Shiregrove jerked her gaze back to Dusty, forcing her to look directly into her eyes and not the enticing depths of her amber tea. “That it would. Who put that idea into your head, Miss Carrick?”

“I thought of it this morning about six, after the community college turned us down. They wanted seventyfive percent of our gross. We can’t afford that. I know it’s short notice and an imposition, but I was wondering if we could hold the Ball here? Please, it may be our only hope of saving the museum.” The last came out in a rush.

“So you can speak at length about something near and dear to you,” Mrs. Shiregrove chuckled.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t go all silent and polite on me. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to get angry enough to stand up for what you believe in.”

“The Ball is our major source of funding. Tour admissions only make up a part of it, and those are down this year with the economic crunch. We only had about half as many school field trips this spring as usual, and our high school interns are working for class credit rather than money. The furnace truly needs replacing, or we’ll start losing fragile artifacts and artwork to the damp this winter.”

“You’ve convinced me. Actually, some little friends convinced me of it last night. That’s why I asked who gave you the idea.” She beckoned toward the stand of variegated dahlias across a stretch of lawn. Then she held her palm out.

Dusty didn’t see anyone.

“Over here, blindy bat,” a tiny voice said.

Dusty looked closely at the orange-and-yellow being standing on the flat of Mrs. Shiregrove’s hand.

“You, too?” Dusty asked, feeling all the heat and color draining from her face. “First Mabel and then you?”

“Anyone with an old garden who has been in this town for a long time has them. Only not everyone is willing to acknowledge them. I’ve known Dahlia here since my husband and I inherited this house from my parents almost forty years ago. She approached me about the Ball last night. Seems that Mabel’s friend Chicory mentioned it to her. He courted her for a while but decided he didn’t want to move away from all the gossip downtown.” She whispered the last in an aside.

“I’m sorry that didn’t work out, Dahlia. Chicory is a nice fellow,” Dusty said formally.

“Not to worry. I’ve recently become betrothed to Oregon Grape. But the marriage won’t happen unless that self-centered upstart Alder opens the Patriarch Oak to mating flights again. I’m not some frivolous girl who will mate with just anyone. Got to be someone I trust. Someone who’s already a friend.”

Dusty nearly choked. “I understand, Dahlia. My friends and I are doing all we can to make sure the Patriarch Oak is safe. But we are running out of time.”

“Good for you, Miss,” Dahlia said. She rose up with a clatter of long wings and lighted on Mrs. Shiregrove’s glass of iced tea. After a bit of contortion, she bent double over the rim and sipped at the cold liquid. “Nice and sweet with a hint of lemon. Just the way I like it.” She smacked her lips and bent for another sip.

“I know, I do spoil my friends, but they are special.”

“Yes, they are, Mrs. Shiregrove.”

“So, now that you are properly approved of by the Pixies, I have no choice but to allow the Ball to take place here, if I can’t do something about halting or postponing the log off.”

“The mayor refused to hear Joe Newberry’s petition to stop the logging.”

“Seth is an idiot. He’s not running for reelection after his latest stroke, so he’s not worried about voter opinion.”

“I saw in the paper this morning that he’s endorsed Phelma Jo Nelson to succeed him,” Dusty said quietly.

“Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. She’s organized and efficient, doesn’t tolerate fools or liars. She’s the only one allowed to lie, cheat, and blackmail,” Mrs. Shiregrove snorted in disgust.

Dusty nodded, not knowing how to respond.

“Let me see if I can do something about the log off.” She pulled a cell phone from her skirt pocket, one of the smart phones that did everything but dry her hair.

“How can you keep that thing working with Pixies nearby?” Dusty asked.

“Compromise. I tell them everything said and they stay at the other end of the property while I talk.” Mrs. Shiregrove laughed as she punched in a number.

“Bill, I’ve got a news story for you.” She listened for a moment.

Dusty held her breath. Bill? As in William? The only William she could think of in the regional media was William Tremaine who anchored the news for a local affiliate of a major television network.

Quickly, Mrs. Shiregrove outlined the situation with The Ten Acre Wood. “Yes, I know it’s too late to get a truck and a team out here before tonight’s broadcast, but surely you can get the ball rolling.”

Another moment of listening.

“Sure, you’ll need to talk to Joe Newberry at the museum.” She rattled off his cell phone number from memory, as well as Phelma Jo’s and the mayor’s. “That’s right. Call all of them. I love you. Dinner at seven. I’ve got lasagna in the oven.” She closed and pocketed the phone.

“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much. Um… was that William Tremaine?” Dusty said, eyes wide in wonder.

Mrs. Shiregrove laughed. “Of course it was. I kept my birth name when we married, because he was only a cub reporter and didn’t want people thinking he married me for my money. Which he did, of course. But he makes up for it by loving me.” She laughed again.

“I’m sure he does. Thank you again, for everything. We all appreciate your generosity. Is there anything I can do about the grant?”

“Besides getting Joe Newberry to resign and taking over his job?”

“What?” Dusty turned hot then cold. The top of her head felt as if it flew off with Dahlia to the other end of the estate. She wanted to flee back to her basement but couldn’t move her numb feet.

“That nice Mr. Haywood Wheatland, you know, the young man who works for Phelma Jo now. He said something the other day to Dr. Johnson-Butler that made us ask the Board of Directors for an audit. We haven’t found any funds missing, but suspicion lingers. There are dozens of ways to cover up skimming. Has Mr. Newberry had any unusual expenses of late?”

Dusty barely heard the last part for the roaring in her ears. “I assure you Joe Newberry is honest. I keep the books, not him, and if there is anything funny with the accounts, I suggest you look at the Board of Directors-or the accuser.” She gathered her purse and rose to her feet, as tall and as dignified as she knew how to be, not bothering to finish her tea. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Shiregrove, and all your help and consideration. I’ll have my decorating and catering committee chairs contact you directly, just in case we have to move the Ball.”