Thistle Down

she’d given him about her source of gossip.

That hit home. Mabel reared back in her chair startled. Her mouth gaped. “How’d you know?”

She must be tired not to have a fast comeback cloaked in endearments.

“You told me.”

“But no one believes. Not anymore.”

“I didn’t used to. But I saw some things that have no other explanation. And I believe.” He did. Strangely he did.

A huge weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, leaving him light and free and full of renewed energy.

“Bless you, boy. I’m glad. So, when I die, you can have the house and the yard and the Pixies. Someone needs to take care of them. Don’t trust the Parks Department since the hullabaloo over The Ten Acre Wood.” Her words came slower and sort of blended into each other.

“You’re never going to die, Mabel. I don’t think this town can run on its own without you.” He scanned her for signs of illness. Skin a little pale but not gray, no blue tinge on her lips or fingernails, so her heart still beat strongly. Her curls were crisp and freshly washed. Maybe she was just a little tired.

“You’d be surprised.” Mabel yawned hugely. “I’m going to switch everything over to the county dispatch now. They’ll ring me at home, as well as the chief, if anything important goes down between now and the morning crew.”

“Want me to drive you home, Mabel?” Chase didn’t like the way she gave in to the idea of going home so easily.

“That would be lovely, sweetheart. Mind if I play with the radio on the drive? I’ve got this annoyingly vague tune running through my head, and I’m trying to figure out what it is.” She hummed a phrase. Dum dee dee do, dum dum. It was the same tune he had been hearing. Now it ran through his head louder and more persistent than ever. Something about honey sweeter than wine? No, that was something else. Similar, not the same. Spring flowers and May wine. That was it.

“It sounds sort of like the tune you get from one of those musical jewelry boxes; you know, the kind with the twirling ballerina,” Mabel mused, still slurring her words a bit.

That thought almost stabbed Chase in the heart.

Dusty’s music box, the one he’d broken so long ago. The doctors had made her give up the ballet lessons she loved. She’d had to miss her first solo in the dance recital, never got to wear the silly little pink tutu and tiara. She played the music box over and over and over until it near drove him crazy.

And he broke it.

Dick said she still had the box.

That tune, something with delicate chimes? Dum dee dee do dum dum,” he hummed the phrase again. “I can almost hear tiny voices singing in the distance…”

Maybe Dusty had never quite forgiven him for the broken music box. Maybe that was why she was dating Haywood Wheatland. She couldn’t see Chase as anything but the bully who’d broken her favorite treasure.

“Let me grab some papers out of my office. Then I’ll drive you home,” he said, urging Mabel to close down her desk. He had an idea and wanted to get started immediately.

“Papers that print out might make it easier to request an injunction against the loggers?” Mabel gathered her purse and sweater. “Heard the mayor stonewalled Joe Newberry’s request.”

“Yeah.” If he saved Dusty’s Masque Ball, the first one she’d organized by herself and, in doing so, saved The Ten Acre Wood and Thistle’s homeland, maybe Dusty would forgive him for that damn music box. What if he bought her a new one?

Nope. He needed to do something better to prove he had always been Dusty’s friend and wanted to be more.

“I’ve also got to find a way to right some old wrongs.”

“Here’s Judge Pepperidge’s home phone number. My spies tell me he’s a night owl and never goes to bed before midnight.” Mabel handed him a small piece of paper she’d already written out.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your spies.”

“Oh, you will, sooner than you think. Bring honey to my little tea party Saturday afternoon before the Ball. They’ll love you forever, and that’s an honor and a tremendous responsibility.”

“The responsibility of friendship.”

“Glad to know you recognize that. Not everyone does these days.”

Twenty-five

CHASE SAT STIFFLY in a straight-backed maple chair at Mabel’s kitchen table. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” he asked nervously.

“It was your idea. Run with your first instinct,” she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on pouring two fingers of scotch into a cut-glass tumbler. No more, no less. She lifted the glass to the light and gazed into the amber liquid with fondness, or admiration, or possibly lust. While the scotch captured her attention, Chase examined the label on the bottle.

He let loose a low whistle. “Twenty-year-old single malt. What’s the occasion?”

“Drink this,” Mabel ordered, plunking the tumbler on her round kitchen table in front of Chase. “You’re going to need it.”

“I’m tired, it’s late. I think I need coffee more than booze.”

“Drink it. It will help. I promise.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chase lifted the glass, passing it slowly beneath his nose. The bouquet wafted upward, caressing his senses and inviting him to partake. He sipped just enough to coat his tongue, holding the precious liquid in his mouth a moment, letting the peaty smoke fill him. Then he swallowed, appreciating the burn and the rebound that smelled of thistle blossoms, heather, and cold ocean waters.

He had to open his mouth to let the heat escape.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.” He savored the flavors bursting through his senses a moment. “Like I said, what’s the occasion? Must be something special,” he said when he regained control over his voice.

“Just drink it down.”

No one in Skene Falls dared say “no” to Mabel when she planted her hands on her hips and stuck her chin out like a pugnacious pit bull.

Chase had an instant flashback to Julia, the big red mastiff he’d raised as a child. The dog whose drool provided the ropey glue he used to stick a dragonfly’s wings together. Only it wasn’t a dragonfly.

By all accounts, he was supposed to believe the purple bug was actually Thistle in Pixie form.

He didn’t want to examine that thought too closely. He downed another slug of the scotch.

“Good. You’re ready.” Mabel nodded once, then she walked quietly over to the window on the other side of the nook. The sash window was already open to catch any stray breeze in the hot, humid night. She pushed the bottom of the screen out a bit and whistled three quick notes.

Seconds later a blue blob crawled under the frame and wriggled onto the sill.

“I’m drunk,” Chase murmured, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

“You didn’t have enough scotch to get drunk,” a tiny voice said. Or did it sing? Definitely a hint of jingle bells underneath the words. Dum dum do do dee dee dum.

A different blasted earworm tune.

“Yeah, I’m real, all right, and we’ve got to put up with each other ’cause Mabel says so.”

“I do not see a little man four inches tall wearing blue breeches and a hat made of blue blossoms.”

“The name’s Chicory. And the flower’s as much a part of me as your badge and gun are to you.”

That made Chase pause a moment and look more closely at the Pixie standing in front of him, hands on hips, glowering disapproval. Chicory fluttered his green wings and rose above the table a few inches.

“Why am I not running away and screaming in disbelief?”